We stood just off the circular path around the Battle ground of Bosworth Field.
Another of the regularly placed information boards in multi-european languages was read with interest but importantly testified that we were looking over the spot where Richard the Third, King of England for only two short years from 1483 to 1485, is reputed to have been slain.
It was a poignant moment because only the evening before we had been to Stratford upon Avon to see a production of the Shakespeare Play about the very man. He was just 32 years old.
It is quite common and inevitable with the passage of time that the reputation of a single figure can fluctuate from a great and noble King to a calculating murderer. It is on the same theme as a terrorist in his own time being regarded as a freedom fighter by later generations.
Richard III was a fascinating character made both dramatic and sinister by his physical appearance caused by scoliosis of the spine depicting him as shuffling and stooping and with a crooked, shambling action in movement. He may have been confined to anonymity by these deformities but showed great fortitude, self belief, self preservation and ruthlessness through his achievements in his time.
He was the last Yorkist King of England and, in his demise on the battlefield, the last monarch since Harold at Hastings to die in such a way.
After the defeat of his army with his death his body was taken away for internment at the Church of The Greyfriars in the City of Leicester but the building and any memorial were lost either through conspiracy, carelessness or just through the relentless progress of urban redevelopment over the subsequent half a millennia.
The historic site of the Church became a surface car park in the 1960's and it was only until a couple of months ago that a determined and co-ordinated effort was made to excavate in the quest for his alleged resting place.
Just a few days ago the bones of an adult male were found under the position of the former church choir. The evidence to support that this is actually Richard III is either very coincidental or compelling.
The skull shows signs of impact damage. The removal of the body on horseback from Bosworth was reputed to have been rather haphazard and with reports of the trailing head striking the parapet of a bridge on its way from the killing fields.
The spine has an embedded arrowhead to a depth to cause immediate death which was a typical form of fatal injury in medieval warfare.
Interestingly the course of the skeletal spine shows distortion and curvature consistent with scoliosis.
The archaeological project has been wide ranging as befits the potentially momentous discovery of a key character in our nations history. Descendants, some sixteen generations down the line, have been forthcoming in providing swabs for DNA testing which will take place in the quiet, sombre and civilised environment of a laboratory.
If subsequently and irrefutably confirmed to be Richard the Third, I expect the debate will really begin about what to do with him and the measures of determining whether he was a good king or a psychopath will be applied in judgement.
Friday, 10 April 2015
Thursday, 9 April 2015
Medieval Village. Population 0
The directional road sign looked forlorn sticking up out of the verge.
We are well used to huge groupings of metal posts and signage in our towns and cities but coming across a sole example in the middle of rolling countryside can be quite startling.
The brown tourist information livery bore the words "Deserted Medieval Village", in itself enough of a curiosity to act as an incentive to divert traffic from their otherwise pre-planned and determined route towards the North Yorkshire Moors and Heritage Coast Resorts.
What to expect of a village from the middle ages and one that has been deserted for all that?
For those vaguely interested enough to take the narrow side lane there must be imaginings and expectations of what lies around the bend in the road. Most of us will have studied the period in junior or secondary school at least and I can still recall the illustrations in text books of mud and thatch huts, small wicker fenced livestock pens, a lot of folk milling around and a few industrious looking plumes of smoke from kiln, smelter and brewery.
Some confusion may arise in our thoughts from images of settlements depicted on the big screen representing either a Hollywood interpretation of the Middle Ages or that mythical Middle Earth.
The car park appears. Not very medieval looking in loose dressed granite chippings and a few dispersed waste bins. There is still nothing to be seen apart from a rustic wooden arrow pointing down another narrow way, this time only suitable for those on foot, mountain bike or horse. A few may just give up and return to their vehicles at this stage as actually reaching the elusive site involves a bit of physical effort albeit downhill.
After a 100 metres or so down the track there is a kissing gate and stile to negotiate and a shallow but sparklingly clear water stream is crossed by a Pooh-sticks bridge but still nothing at all ancient to gawp at.
Something is however changing in the natural landscape.
Beyond the watercourse the path rises again to a blind summit. This is the northern end of a high Wold valley in this part of East Yorkshire. It is a typical steep sided, "v" shaped valley common to the county but with three critically unique features, 1)It is not dry due to a continous source of water, 2) following a landslip in geologic time it has a plateau in the bottom and 3)a mainly north/south alignment before curving away and shallowing out to the west.
Unlike the other equally picturesque examples which characterise The Wolds the combination of these factors has permitted habitation by humans for millenia, at least from Neolithic times and followed by Iron Agers, Romans, Anglo Saxons , Saxon Normans and to the Middle Ages .
This is Wharram Percy.
The first part of the name is thought to have been derived from Scandinavian for "at the bends" and the second denoting ownership by the powerful Feudal Dukes of Northumberland who controlled and exacted wealth from huge tracts of North Eastern England.
Over the near horizon appears the tower of a church and in its shadow a low range pair of cottages.
A few modern information boards explain the just above ground footings of former peasant dwellings but most interesting of all is an artists impression of a thriving village with, verified by the Domesday Book, two manor houses, 35 other properties, a dam and fish pond with water mill, glebeland and other utility structures to meet the everyday needs of an estimated 150 strong community requiring self sufficiency and a means of sustenance and livelihood.
There was some value in all of this to a landowner and Lord of the Manor with, after the Percy domination control by, amongst others, an Archbishop of York and a Baron.
The depopulation in the fifteenth century was down to the wholesale eviction of the inhabitants to make way for sheep grazing.
The site remains as one of the most important of its type in the UK but yet only 6% by area has been archaeologically investigated and with the last dig and study being in 1991.
Without human attention the predominantly organic buildings rotted away or the materials were commandered and taken away by occupants of nearby hamlets and farmsteads. Part of the tower of St Martins Church fell down in 1959, some ten years after the last act of worship and the farm cottages were last lived in in the 1970's.
The church has many phases of masonry but with 10th century origins. The graveyard investigation revealed 700 skeletons and yielded much about the villagers, their physical stature, health and welfare. Unusually there was a higher than average rate of left handedness. The hard graft required to work the valley caused considerable erosion of cartilage in joints. A skull showed signs of skilful surgery to remove bone fragments from an impact injury.
Other aspects of daily life were reflected in excavated artefacts including candle holders to illuminate the hours of darkness, implements of spinning, recreational pastimes and pottery from as far away as France and the Mediterranean.
Remains of cattle and horses were plentiful for lugging heavy loads and with skeletal parts to show that dogs and cats were kept not so much for pets as usefulness for keeping vermin at bay.
To the visitor from the 21st Century it is a fascinating glimpse of the lifestyle of our distant ancestors.
It is also a beautiful place to just spend some time. Clambering past the pond and up the steep eastern slope gives an awe inspiring view to the soundtrack of meadow birds and under the shadow cast by the large wing span of a circling Red Kite.
You could easily lose a few hours if it were not for the thought of having to make the long return haul back up to the car park.
We are well used to huge groupings of metal posts and signage in our towns and cities but coming across a sole example in the middle of rolling countryside can be quite startling.
The brown tourist information livery bore the words "Deserted Medieval Village", in itself enough of a curiosity to act as an incentive to divert traffic from their otherwise pre-planned and determined route towards the North Yorkshire Moors and Heritage Coast Resorts.
What to expect of a village from the middle ages and one that has been deserted for all that?
For those vaguely interested enough to take the narrow side lane there must be imaginings and expectations of what lies around the bend in the road. Most of us will have studied the period in junior or secondary school at least and I can still recall the illustrations in text books of mud and thatch huts, small wicker fenced livestock pens, a lot of folk milling around and a few industrious looking plumes of smoke from kiln, smelter and brewery.
Some confusion may arise in our thoughts from images of settlements depicted on the big screen representing either a Hollywood interpretation of the Middle Ages or that mythical Middle Earth.
The car park appears. Not very medieval looking in loose dressed granite chippings and a few dispersed waste bins. There is still nothing to be seen apart from a rustic wooden arrow pointing down another narrow way, this time only suitable for those on foot, mountain bike or horse. A few may just give up and return to their vehicles at this stage as actually reaching the elusive site involves a bit of physical effort albeit downhill.
After a 100 metres or so down the track there is a kissing gate and stile to negotiate and a shallow but sparklingly clear water stream is crossed by a Pooh-sticks bridge but still nothing at all ancient to gawp at.
Something is however changing in the natural landscape.
Beyond the watercourse the path rises again to a blind summit. This is the northern end of a high Wold valley in this part of East Yorkshire. It is a typical steep sided, "v" shaped valley common to the county but with three critically unique features, 1)It is not dry due to a continous source of water, 2) following a landslip in geologic time it has a plateau in the bottom and 3)a mainly north/south alignment before curving away and shallowing out to the west.
Unlike the other equally picturesque examples which characterise The Wolds the combination of these factors has permitted habitation by humans for millenia, at least from Neolithic times and followed by Iron Agers, Romans, Anglo Saxons , Saxon Normans and to the Middle Ages .
This is Wharram Percy.
The first part of the name is thought to have been derived from Scandinavian for "at the bends" and the second denoting ownership by the powerful Feudal Dukes of Northumberland who controlled and exacted wealth from huge tracts of North Eastern England.
Over the near horizon appears the tower of a church and in its shadow a low range pair of cottages.
A few modern information boards explain the just above ground footings of former peasant dwellings but most interesting of all is an artists impression of a thriving village with, verified by the Domesday Book, two manor houses, 35 other properties, a dam and fish pond with water mill, glebeland and other utility structures to meet the everyday needs of an estimated 150 strong community requiring self sufficiency and a means of sustenance and livelihood.
There was some value in all of this to a landowner and Lord of the Manor with, after the Percy domination control by, amongst others, an Archbishop of York and a Baron.
The depopulation in the fifteenth century was down to the wholesale eviction of the inhabitants to make way for sheep grazing.
The site remains as one of the most important of its type in the UK but yet only 6% by area has been archaeologically investigated and with the last dig and study being in 1991.
Without human attention the predominantly organic buildings rotted away or the materials were commandered and taken away by occupants of nearby hamlets and farmsteads. Part of the tower of St Martins Church fell down in 1959, some ten years after the last act of worship and the farm cottages were last lived in in the 1970's.
The church has many phases of masonry but with 10th century origins. The graveyard investigation revealed 700 skeletons and yielded much about the villagers, their physical stature, health and welfare. Unusually there was a higher than average rate of left handedness. The hard graft required to work the valley caused considerable erosion of cartilage in joints. A skull showed signs of skilful surgery to remove bone fragments from an impact injury.
Other aspects of daily life were reflected in excavated artefacts including candle holders to illuminate the hours of darkness, implements of spinning, recreational pastimes and pottery from as far away as France and the Mediterranean.
Remains of cattle and horses were plentiful for lugging heavy loads and with skeletal parts to show that dogs and cats were kept not so much for pets as usefulness for keeping vermin at bay.
To the visitor from the 21st Century it is a fascinating glimpse of the lifestyle of our distant ancestors.
It is also a beautiful place to just spend some time. Clambering past the pond and up the steep eastern slope gives an awe inspiring view to the soundtrack of meadow birds and under the shadow cast by the large wing span of a circling Red Kite.
You could easily lose a few hours if it were not for the thought of having to make the long return haul back up to the car park.
Wednesday, 8 April 2015
How I first met your Mother
When a relationship gets serious the prospect of meeting folk who look likely to be future in-laws can be quite a milestone and immensely daunting.
My first ever introduction to and meeting with Allison's mother, Maureen was quite unusual.
She was crossing a deep trench on a plank at the back of her house.
It has always been a favourite double-entendre in the family that the first thing that Allison showed me on visiting her parents' home was her Father, George's ,back passage. It was a narrow, dark brick vaulted arrangement with lengthy ladders tidily stowed above head height behind secure outer and inner timber doors . What amazed me even more was that it was shared with the immediate neighbours with a reasonable right of way and use through it. That just about exhausts that line of humour.
As Allison led me into the walled yard beyond the passage I was faced with that deep trench. Being nervous I speculated to myself that it was perhaps one of a number of things;
1) An obstacle course to assess if I was good material for a son-in-law. A Brown family Krypton Factor.
2) An open grave as Maureen and George were very protective about their daughter.
3) A precaution against flooding in the pre-tidal barrier days
4) A Moat
As I approached the excavations Maureen came out from the back door and deftly negotiated a series of plank bridges over the trench to greet me. In a complete invasion of personal space and etiquette, for a first meeting, she grabbed me firmly by both cheeks (facial) pinching a good deal of puppy fat jowl between thumb and index finger. I cannot recall if she gave me a kiss because the constriction on my breathing from that particular style of welcome was making me feel a bit dizzy and I could have been a million miles away. I feared that this was the first stage of getting me into that large hole in the ground.
As my facial muscles regained their handsome, youthful composure Maureen looked at Allison and exclaimed that I looked just like Howard Keel. For a brief moment I had a picture in my mind's eye of the giant steel toothed assasin out of the Bond movies and felt that was a bit rude to draw attention to matters of an unfortunate bodily nature so early in the proceedings. The resemblance was because I was wearing a checked lumberjack shirt like one of the male cast of 'Seven Brides for Seven Brothers' which it turned out was one of the best known performances of that particular American actor and singer. I was a bit disappointed as I fancied myself as having a resemblance to Robin Williams or Harry Enfield. Thank goodness, Maureen was talking about my clothes rather than my physical attributes as in that particular year Mr Keel was approaching 70 years old.
I think that we were both pretty nervous at the first meeting but we did hit it off immediately as though we had known each other for many years. Maureen explained that the trench was part of the foundations for her new kitchen and bathroom extension which I found reassuring, after my initial mental wanderings ,and could relax.
Within a couple of minutes I had been assimilated into the family marking the ceremony with a lovely cup of tea, the very first one in a series of, to date, many thousands. I had also experienced my very first moment of genuine warmth and unconditional love from Maureen that is very much a part of her whole being and is so cherished by those who are privileged to know her.
(Presented today on our 26th Wedding Anniversary. Where did the tine go?)
My first ever introduction to and meeting with Allison's mother, Maureen was quite unusual.
She was crossing a deep trench on a plank at the back of her house.
It has always been a favourite double-entendre in the family that the first thing that Allison showed me on visiting her parents' home was her Father, George's ,back passage. It was a narrow, dark brick vaulted arrangement with lengthy ladders tidily stowed above head height behind secure outer and inner timber doors . What amazed me even more was that it was shared with the immediate neighbours with a reasonable right of way and use through it. That just about exhausts that line of humour.
As Allison led me into the walled yard beyond the passage I was faced with that deep trench. Being nervous I speculated to myself that it was perhaps one of a number of things;
1) An obstacle course to assess if I was good material for a son-in-law. A Brown family Krypton Factor.
2) An open grave as Maureen and George were very protective about their daughter.
3) A precaution against flooding in the pre-tidal barrier days
4) A Moat
As I approached the excavations Maureen came out from the back door and deftly negotiated a series of plank bridges over the trench to greet me. In a complete invasion of personal space and etiquette, for a first meeting, she grabbed me firmly by both cheeks (facial) pinching a good deal of puppy fat jowl between thumb and index finger. I cannot recall if she gave me a kiss because the constriction on my breathing from that particular style of welcome was making me feel a bit dizzy and I could have been a million miles away. I feared that this was the first stage of getting me into that large hole in the ground.
As my facial muscles regained their handsome, youthful composure Maureen looked at Allison and exclaimed that I looked just like Howard Keel. For a brief moment I had a picture in my mind's eye of the giant steel toothed assasin out of the Bond movies and felt that was a bit rude to draw attention to matters of an unfortunate bodily nature so early in the proceedings. The resemblance was because I was wearing a checked lumberjack shirt like one of the male cast of 'Seven Brides for Seven Brothers' which it turned out was one of the best known performances of that particular American actor and singer. I was a bit disappointed as I fancied myself as having a resemblance to Robin Williams or Harry Enfield. Thank goodness, Maureen was talking about my clothes rather than my physical attributes as in that particular year Mr Keel was approaching 70 years old.
I think that we were both pretty nervous at the first meeting but we did hit it off immediately as though we had known each other for many years. Maureen explained that the trench was part of the foundations for her new kitchen and bathroom extension which I found reassuring, after my initial mental wanderings ,and could relax.
Within a couple of minutes I had been assimilated into the family marking the ceremony with a lovely cup of tea, the very first one in a series of, to date, many thousands. I had also experienced my very first moment of genuine warmth and unconditional love from Maureen that is very much a part of her whole being and is so cherished by those who are privileged to know her.
(Presented today on our 26th Wedding Anniversary. Where did the tine go?)
Tuesday, 7 April 2015
Post Office Counters
My working years, representing more than half of my life to date, have been wholly reliant on what can be crammed into my diary so that I can get through a workload that changes quite rapidly.
This usually involves appointments on the hour, every hour and allowing for travelling in between.
I have to thank, for a usually seamless day, my very efficient Personal Assistant .
She is very skilled at setting up my working day which can cover a geographical area from Whitby to Thirsk on the east/west axis, down to Goole in the south west, across and out to Spurn Point in the east and all parts in between. Other days I may just spend a comparatively leisurely time within the city boundaries of Hull.
Her knowledge of places and routes is exceptional and I may find that over 8 hours of jobs I will not travel along the same length of road more than once or even deviate from a perfect clockwise or anti clockwise passage.
This skill has developed over the last 15 years but has had to be acquired and honed to the fine art that it is now.
There have been misunderstandings and misdirection along the way.
The place names for Scarborough and Scorborough are easy to transpose but can be problematic. Many a holiday maker has turned up at the group of half a dozen houses and farmsteads that make up Scorborough and been greatly disappointed not to have a view of Scarborough Castle or the harbour and funfare. There is a distance of about 30 miles between the two, one very much inland and without penny falls or candy floss.
Eastrington and Easington have also caused some logistical difficulties in the past and I was a bit annoyed, but of course hid it ,when knocking on the door of 30 High Street, Easington only to be met with blank expressions before the realisation that I was 50 miles adrift from an anxiously waiting client.
Thankfully I have not ended up in Lancashire when scheduled to meet someone in Preston or Bolton both of which are within easy distance of Hull rather than Blackpool.
I spent a few hours trying to come to terms with a copy of a property Title Plan that had been sent to me by a solicitor based in the Midlands. It was of a house and garden outlined in the usual red and with a few named streets and reference points for secondary identification. The property was in Cottingham. I like to think that I have an intimate knowledge of the place, a well to do commuter village about 6 miles out on the edge of Hull. However, I could not make any headway with the enclosure of the plan. The names given to the highways and by-ways were wrong. There was a river where none should have been. The layout of the plots and buildings were not anything that I recognised. I began to doubt my own mind until I realised that this particular Cottingham was in Northamptonshire, just outside Corby and not East Yorkshire, I sent everything back to the solicitor and if I had possessed a spare copy of The Readers Digest Book of the Road that would have gone also.
In some cases a small hamlet may attach itself to the nearest postcode town as an address without actually including the accurate postcode. I have had a few fruitless journeys looking for an address described as High Street, York only to find out that it could apply to every town, village and hamlet in the expansive county of Yorkshire. That does give quite a large margin of error.
One such request from a Bank was to carry out what is termed a "drive-past appraisal" of a property.
This is a common instruction to keep costs low but is often required if a bank customer is experiencing difficulties in meeting regular payments. It can also apply where a customer with an excellent credit history is looking to borrow more and the bank, in principal have no real issues but want an idea of the value of the property which forms security for existing facilities with them.
It was always emphasised, and indeed implied by the type of appraisal that I was not required to make any contact with the occupiers.
I could not find 'The Cottage' in any of the narrow lanes of the village in which it was supposed to be. A host of quaint and character dwellings could have met the literal description but they had prefixes of 'Forge', 'Cosy'. 'Cobweb', 'Little Bear's', 'Nook', 'Old Betty's' and the rather more stark, 'Temperance', 'Cold Harbour' and 'Abstinence'.
In frustration and not a bit of embarrassment I decided to ask for help at one of the whitewashed dwellings, characteristic of the place. A lady came to the door and in answer to my query for directions to the address was forthright in saying that yes, indeed, I was at the correct house.
Fortunately for me the lady was aware that her Bank were to seek some form of valuation in connection with her otherwise healthy financial situation and after a cup of tea and an amicable chat about the property market and world events we parted company as though we were longstanding friends.
I drove away, relieved that for the absence of a postcode, the worst case scenario had not unfolded where a disgruntled customer, under threat of foreclosure would have found a sadistic pleasure in holding an emissary of his bank captive and affording an opportunity to vent his spleen or worse.
This usually involves appointments on the hour, every hour and allowing for travelling in between.
I have to thank, for a usually seamless day, my very efficient Personal Assistant .
She is very skilled at setting up my working day which can cover a geographical area from Whitby to Thirsk on the east/west axis, down to Goole in the south west, across and out to Spurn Point in the east and all parts in between. Other days I may just spend a comparatively leisurely time within the city boundaries of Hull.
Her knowledge of places and routes is exceptional and I may find that over 8 hours of jobs I will not travel along the same length of road more than once or even deviate from a perfect clockwise or anti clockwise passage.
This skill has developed over the last 15 years but has had to be acquired and honed to the fine art that it is now.
There have been misunderstandings and misdirection along the way.
The place names for Scarborough and Scorborough are easy to transpose but can be problematic. Many a holiday maker has turned up at the group of half a dozen houses and farmsteads that make up Scorborough and been greatly disappointed not to have a view of Scarborough Castle or the harbour and funfare. There is a distance of about 30 miles between the two, one very much inland and without penny falls or candy floss.
Eastrington and Easington have also caused some logistical difficulties in the past and I was a bit annoyed, but of course hid it ,when knocking on the door of 30 High Street, Easington only to be met with blank expressions before the realisation that I was 50 miles adrift from an anxiously waiting client.
Thankfully I have not ended up in Lancashire when scheduled to meet someone in Preston or Bolton both of which are within easy distance of Hull rather than Blackpool.
I spent a few hours trying to come to terms with a copy of a property Title Plan that had been sent to me by a solicitor based in the Midlands. It was of a house and garden outlined in the usual red and with a few named streets and reference points for secondary identification. The property was in Cottingham. I like to think that I have an intimate knowledge of the place, a well to do commuter village about 6 miles out on the edge of Hull. However, I could not make any headway with the enclosure of the plan. The names given to the highways and by-ways were wrong. There was a river where none should have been. The layout of the plots and buildings were not anything that I recognised. I began to doubt my own mind until I realised that this particular Cottingham was in Northamptonshire, just outside Corby and not East Yorkshire, I sent everything back to the solicitor and if I had possessed a spare copy of The Readers Digest Book of the Road that would have gone also.
In some cases a small hamlet may attach itself to the nearest postcode town as an address without actually including the accurate postcode. I have had a few fruitless journeys looking for an address described as High Street, York only to find out that it could apply to every town, village and hamlet in the expansive county of Yorkshire. That does give quite a large margin of error.
One such request from a Bank was to carry out what is termed a "drive-past appraisal" of a property.
This is a common instruction to keep costs low but is often required if a bank customer is experiencing difficulties in meeting regular payments. It can also apply where a customer with an excellent credit history is looking to borrow more and the bank, in principal have no real issues but want an idea of the value of the property which forms security for existing facilities with them.
It was always emphasised, and indeed implied by the type of appraisal that I was not required to make any contact with the occupiers.
I could not find 'The Cottage' in any of the narrow lanes of the village in which it was supposed to be. A host of quaint and character dwellings could have met the literal description but they had prefixes of 'Forge', 'Cosy'. 'Cobweb', 'Little Bear's', 'Nook', 'Old Betty's' and the rather more stark, 'Temperance', 'Cold Harbour' and 'Abstinence'.
In frustration and not a bit of embarrassment I decided to ask for help at one of the whitewashed dwellings, characteristic of the place. A lady came to the door and in answer to my query for directions to the address was forthright in saying that yes, indeed, I was at the correct house.
Fortunately for me the lady was aware that her Bank were to seek some form of valuation in connection with her otherwise healthy financial situation and after a cup of tea and an amicable chat about the property market and world events we parted company as though we were longstanding friends.
I drove away, relieved that for the absence of a postcode, the worst case scenario had not unfolded where a disgruntled customer, under threat of foreclosure would have found a sadistic pleasure in holding an emissary of his bank captive and affording an opportunity to vent his spleen or worse.
Monday, 6 April 2015
Cruel Sea
Another strange coincidence. There have been a few lately, perhaps more than would normally be expected.
I know not why.
These have involved persons, places and events. Some I have fallen out of familiarity with or just plain forgotten over time. Trouble is, as soon as a distant memory is re-kindled by chance, a passing mention or even something on the TV or radio there is an almost immediate reinforcement by bumping into someone not seen or heard from for a long time, getting a letter about something long archived or a resurfacing of old issues.
This has been the situation this week. There has been a dramatisation of the 1951 book, 'The Cruel Sea' by Nicholas Monsarrat. The film version was amongst the black and white gems broadcast over the Christmas and New Year period but I only caught a short section, whilst channel hopping, with Jack Hawkins in his duffle coat on the open Bridge of HMS Compass Rose before the action really kicked off.
I admit that a copy of the book has been on the shelf and within reach for at least thirty years and I have frequently pulled at the spine with a view to actually reading it but not so far. The radio version, over two hour long episodes, has made me determined to spend time in the pages of the book. I expect to be as distressed and disturbed by the written word as I have been by the harrowing adaptation on the airwaves.
Montsarrat based his story on his own experiences of naval escort duty for the convoys of merchant shipping in the North Atlantic and to Russia which took place from 1941 until the end of the Second World War. The latter was a response to Stalin's demand for help to stem the huge losses in manpower, civilians and territory being exacted by the armed forces of Germany at that time. The allied convoys delivered, in that period, over four million tons of armaments from guns to lorries as well as general supplies from telephone wire to army boots.
The task was the most arduous and challenging for those at sea not just from wind, waves and ice but from a constant and materialised threat by the naval and air power of the mainly Norway based military of Germany including the prowling wolf packs of U-Boats. In the four years of the supply runs to Russia a total of 78 convoys made the journey in both directions. Out of 1400 merchant ships in this period 85 were lost to action or accident and the Naval escort lost 16 main vessels including 2 Cruisers and 6 Destroyers. The losses on the German side were as significant to surface ships and involving over 30 U Boats.
The facts are well documented but the first hand account given by Montsarrat really demonstrates the human impact of a harsh environment and the persistent menace of peril. For its time the book was seen as a rarity in its portrayal of the sheer futility of war. The film was acclaimed similarly as an antidote to a trend for jingoistic and Imperialistic depiction of the main theatres of war coming from the Hollywood studios. The main characters are thrown together from various former civilian roles and classes and struggle to cope with their shipside responsibilities and the cramped, cold and claustrophobic conditions on board. Back-stories show problems at home, hesitancy and lack of self confidence and esteem, friction between the Officers and Ratings but with a common bond, to survive physically and mentally, developing amongst the adversity.
The threat of being torpedoed with no warning must have been unbearable particularly to the crew below decks who would have little chance to escape. The Escort vessels, although at risk, were fast and manoeuvrable and adopted a zig-zag course through the convoy lines both to sweep for U Boats and to temper their superior speed compared to the heavily laded steamer, freighters and tankers. The sights and sounds of an attack by a torpedo on a slow moving, highly flammable fuel ship cannot be appreciated without having been there, nor the torment and torture of the crew in having to abandon ship but into a sea of burning oil.
I have been moved and distressed by the recollections of actions in just one part of the World War and from just one book that was published in 1951.
So why has it taken until 2013 for proposals to be discussed to recognise the courage, endeavour and suffering of those men and women, Naval, Merchant and Civilians who served on the Atlantic and Russian Convoys?
I know not why.
These have involved persons, places and events. Some I have fallen out of familiarity with or just plain forgotten over time. Trouble is, as soon as a distant memory is re-kindled by chance, a passing mention or even something on the TV or radio there is an almost immediate reinforcement by bumping into someone not seen or heard from for a long time, getting a letter about something long archived or a resurfacing of old issues.
This has been the situation this week. There has been a dramatisation of the 1951 book, 'The Cruel Sea' by Nicholas Monsarrat. The film version was amongst the black and white gems broadcast over the Christmas and New Year period but I only caught a short section, whilst channel hopping, with Jack Hawkins in his duffle coat on the open Bridge of HMS Compass Rose before the action really kicked off.
I admit that a copy of the book has been on the shelf and within reach for at least thirty years and I have frequently pulled at the spine with a view to actually reading it but not so far. The radio version, over two hour long episodes, has made me determined to spend time in the pages of the book. I expect to be as distressed and disturbed by the written word as I have been by the harrowing adaptation on the airwaves.
Montsarrat based his story on his own experiences of naval escort duty for the convoys of merchant shipping in the North Atlantic and to Russia which took place from 1941 until the end of the Second World War. The latter was a response to Stalin's demand for help to stem the huge losses in manpower, civilians and territory being exacted by the armed forces of Germany at that time. The allied convoys delivered, in that period, over four million tons of armaments from guns to lorries as well as general supplies from telephone wire to army boots.
The task was the most arduous and challenging for those at sea not just from wind, waves and ice but from a constant and materialised threat by the naval and air power of the mainly Norway based military of Germany including the prowling wolf packs of U-Boats. In the four years of the supply runs to Russia a total of 78 convoys made the journey in both directions. Out of 1400 merchant ships in this period 85 were lost to action or accident and the Naval escort lost 16 main vessels including 2 Cruisers and 6 Destroyers. The losses on the German side were as significant to surface ships and involving over 30 U Boats.
The facts are well documented but the first hand account given by Montsarrat really demonstrates the human impact of a harsh environment and the persistent menace of peril. For its time the book was seen as a rarity in its portrayal of the sheer futility of war. The film was acclaimed similarly as an antidote to a trend for jingoistic and Imperialistic depiction of the main theatres of war coming from the Hollywood studios. The main characters are thrown together from various former civilian roles and classes and struggle to cope with their shipside responsibilities and the cramped, cold and claustrophobic conditions on board. Back-stories show problems at home, hesitancy and lack of self confidence and esteem, friction between the Officers and Ratings but with a common bond, to survive physically and mentally, developing amongst the adversity.
The threat of being torpedoed with no warning must have been unbearable particularly to the crew below decks who would have little chance to escape. The Escort vessels, although at risk, were fast and manoeuvrable and adopted a zig-zag course through the convoy lines both to sweep for U Boats and to temper their superior speed compared to the heavily laded steamer, freighters and tankers. The sights and sounds of an attack by a torpedo on a slow moving, highly flammable fuel ship cannot be appreciated without having been there, nor the torment and torture of the crew in having to abandon ship but into a sea of burning oil.
I have been moved and distressed by the recollections of actions in just one part of the World War and from just one book that was published in 1951.
So why has it taken until 2013 for proposals to be discussed to recognise the courage, endeavour and suffering of those men and women, Naval, Merchant and Civilians who served on the Atlantic and Russian Convoys?
Sunday, 5 April 2015
I Heard it Through the Grapevine
There were three brands of absolute must have denim jeans in the 1980's.
These were firmly rooted in youth and fashion culture through some very slick marketing on the TV and cinema screens. Take the antics of, the loosely termed Beefcake, Nick Kamen, in the launderette in stripping off to give his clothes a wash in front of two amused mature lady customers. This imagery and 60's soundtrack boosted the sales of the Levi 501's and even today vintage pairs can make around £5000 amongst collectors and even those who might want to actually wear them.
Wrangler were not far behind in desirability although the name and imagery were perhaps more rugged and roughneck than the trendier, stylish Levi Strauss.
In third place were Lee Cooper. No less a product but it was a bit of a give-away of your personal buying power and taste if you were seen in a pair of these.
My first denims?
I was not at all up with the times and it was my mum who bought them for me from Foster Menswear under their Lopez Jeans label. They were a bit stiff in the leg and for the first few weeks, if I wore them when it rained, my skin turned a bright, washy blue which took some soaking to get rid of.
I was a bit envious of my friends who, through part time jobs or a higher pocket money allowance could stretch to a pair of Levi's. These had to be worn in the bath to shrink-fit and always, as a consequence looked like a custom made pair. My Lopez tended to have that loose baggy fit, after the initial stiffness, that gave the impression that they may have belonged to someone else and had been spotted in the rummage pile at a jumble sale or in a charity shop.
I and my contemporaries in this country took owning and wearing a pair of jeans for granted although I was becoming aware of the highly prized status of branded quality denims in such place as the old Soviet Union.
The first jeans reached the USSR in the 1950's being brought in from the West by a few privileged to travel such as diplomats, pilots and sailors. These goods could be kept in the family as an indicator of influence or sold at a huge profit to those who saw jeans as symbolic of everything that was missing in the country, mainly freedom.
At the Moscow hosting of the World Festival of Youth and Students in 1957 the feverish demand for jeans really took root with some of the overseas guests bringing over supplies.
The Communist State began to see jeans wearing as a threat from the emerging Free Market Sharks and a ban was enforced on trafficking. Earlier in 1961 two black marketeers had been sentenced to death although many now prominent Russian businessmen began their career rise in this trade, such was the demand. They flaunted Article 88 of the Criminal Code in force running the constant risk of an 8 year prison term.
The term "Fartsovshchik" referred to the many illegal traders in the Soviet Bloc for much of the post war period until the collapse of the USSR in 1991. They dealt in all manner of goods smuggled through to avoid customs and duties or those bought from foreigners permitted into the country for completely legitimate purposes of trade or cultural exchange.
The Fartsovshchiks were not seen in the role of spivs as we experienced in the UK in the austere times of ration books and scarcities of the war years and 1950's but were regarded as providing more of a social service to help the ordinary Soviets look trendy and modern.
The main three brands of jeans were the most sought after and would cost the equivalent of one months salary. Of course, with such profits to be made there was a thriving market for counterfeit denims and the public soon became skilled in detecting copies from the originals. This entailed drawing a wet match along the fabric. If turning blue it meant that the jeans were the genuine article.
The fading characteristics of denim were the key factor and the more faded and worn the more valuable they became.
The Soviet manufacturing machine did produce their own jeans but they just would not fade to look like the foreign denim and were not therefore an option for the aspiring younger elements of the population.
Always improvising because of the shortages and high costs a technique by which the communist bloc denim could be boiled to give that essential washed out look was devised. The four steps were to 1) Twist jeans fix with rubber bands 2)Add bleach to warm water 3) Boil jeans in the solution for 20 minutes 4) Rinse several times. All of the above imposed health hazards and important precautions such as good ventilation and wearing rubber gloves.
In the dying years of the USSR the home produced Montana Brand was commonplace but they were so unbending that when taken off they could be stood up on their own in the corner of a room.
In all, I seem to have it quite easy with my faithful but distinctly untrendy Lopez jeans.
These were firmly rooted in youth and fashion culture through some very slick marketing on the TV and cinema screens. Take the antics of, the loosely termed Beefcake, Nick Kamen, in the launderette in stripping off to give his clothes a wash in front of two amused mature lady customers. This imagery and 60's soundtrack boosted the sales of the Levi 501's and even today vintage pairs can make around £5000 amongst collectors and even those who might want to actually wear them.
Wrangler were not far behind in desirability although the name and imagery were perhaps more rugged and roughneck than the trendier, stylish Levi Strauss.
In third place were Lee Cooper. No less a product but it was a bit of a give-away of your personal buying power and taste if you were seen in a pair of these.
My first denims?
I was not at all up with the times and it was my mum who bought them for me from Foster Menswear under their Lopez Jeans label. They were a bit stiff in the leg and for the first few weeks, if I wore them when it rained, my skin turned a bright, washy blue which took some soaking to get rid of.
I was a bit envious of my friends who, through part time jobs or a higher pocket money allowance could stretch to a pair of Levi's. These had to be worn in the bath to shrink-fit and always, as a consequence looked like a custom made pair. My Lopez tended to have that loose baggy fit, after the initial stiffness, that gave the impression that they may have belonged to someone else and had been spotted in the rummage pile at a jumble sale or in a charity shop.
I and my contemporaries in this country took owning and wearing a pair of jeans for granted although I was becoming aware of the highly prized status of branded quality denims in such place as the old Soviet Union.
The first jeans reached the USSR in the 1950's being brought in from the West by a few privileged to travel such as diplomats, pilots and sailors. These goods could be kept in the family as an indicator of influence or sold at a huge profit to those who saw jeans as symbolic of everything that was missing in the country, mainly freedom.
At the Moscow hosting of the World Festival of Youth and Students in 1957 the feverish demand for jeans really took root with some of the overseas guests bringing over supplies.
The Communist State began to see jeans wearing as a threat from the emerging Free Market Sharks and a ban was enforced on trafficking. Earlier in 1961 two black marketeers had been sentenced to death although many now prominent Russian businessmen began their career rise in this trade, such was the demand. They flaunted Article 88 of the Criminal Code in force running the constant risk of an 8 year prison term.
The term "Fartsovshchik" referred to the many illegal traders in the Soviet Bloc for much of the post war period until the collapse of the USSR in 1991. They dealt in all manner of goods smuggled through to avoid customs and duties or those bought from foreigners permitted into the country for completely legitimate purposes of trade or cultural exchange.
The Fartsovshchiks were not seen in the role of spivs as we experienced in the UK in the austere times of ration books and scarcities of the war years and 1950's but were regarded as providing more of a social service to help the ordinary Soviets look trendy and modern.
The main three brands of jeans were the most sought after and would cost the equivalent of one months salary. Of course, with such profits to be made there was a thriving market for counterfeit denims and the public soon became skilled in detecting copies from the originals. This entailed drawing a wet match along the fabric. If turning blue it meant that the jeans were the genuine article.
The fading characteristics of denim were the key factor and the more faded and worn the more valuable they became.
The Soviet manufacturing machine did produce their own jeans but they just would not fade to look like the foreign denim and were not therefore an option for the aspiring younger elements of the population.
Always improvising because of the shortages and high costs a technique by which the communist bloc denim could be boiled to give that essential washed out look was devised. The four steps were to 1) Twist jeans fix with rubber bands 2)Add bleach to warm water 3) Boil jeans in the solution for 20 minutes 4) Rinse several times. All of the above imposed health hazards and important precautions such as good ventilation and wearing rubber gloves.
In the dying years of the USSR the home produced Montana Brand was commonplace but they were so unbending that when taken off they could be stood up on their own in the corner of a room.
In all, I seem to have it quite easy with my faithful but distinctly untrendy Lopez jeans.
Saturday, 4 April 2015
Thunderbirds
The Creator of Thunderbirds, Gerry Anderson died in December 2012 and I wrote this piece to reflect on his contribution to my childhood through his animation. I reproduce it today to mark the launch of the launch of the brand new series on BBC. As at the time of writing I have not seen the modern version and will report my thoughts when I do. In the meantime.......
Who is Hiram K. Hackenbacker?
There may be some interesting answers.
Try, did he invent a game involving a small seamed leather ball that you juggle and attempt to keep up in the air or between multiple players?. No That is Hacky Sack.
Was he the inspiration behind of a type of guitar used, for example, by Paul Weller, amongst others? No, that is Rickenbacker.
Is he, by chance the namesake founder and former Mayor of a town in New Jersey, USA? No. That is Hackensack.
It is a tantalising name but yet if you are a lifelong fan of the 1960's TV Series Thunderbirds you will instantly know that it is the real name of the highly strung and a bit nervy prodigy, Brains.
His name has come to the forefront in the last 24 hours with the death of his creator, the Supermarionation genius, Gerry Anderson. I grew up in the halcyon days of children's TV when there was no real competition or distraction from other media. No computers, Video Games, Apple products, etcetra and a childhood consisted of only sleeping, eating, playtime and education.
This was the perfect environment for imagination to take hold and run riot and a major catalyst in my own formative years was Thunderbirds.
The distinctive countdown, in my memory missing out the first "F", therefore "..ive,....four.....three.....two....one....Thunderbirds are Go!"was the introduction to a completely enthralling part of my day. It went further than that though and the individual episodes and subsequent adventures gave many, many hours of play value over the following days, weeks and months.
I was obsessed with Thunderbirds, the characters and of course the amazing equipment. International Rescue, the organisation founded by ex-astronaut Jeff Tracy was dedicated to getting the stupid, reckless, misled and unfortunate out of tight situations and in what style!.
Of course, now approaching my 50th birthday I may question how Mr Tracy managed to fund and sustain his charitable operation which must have involved an annual budget even in the 1960's of millions of whatever currency the off shore paradise of Tracy Island affiliated to. I hate myself for this totally cynical attitude and in some way it is a betrayal of my fascination with and complete trust in International Rescue in my early years. However, Gerry Anderson second guessed this later life inquisition with a convincing back-story of a personal fortune earned through the hard work and speculative ventures of Jeff Tracy in the construction industry on his retirement from the space race. All this and, as a widower, bringing up a large family.
The obituary for Gerry Anderson brought back a long forgotten memory of mine of a TV series he devised called Twizzle. This was originally broadcast from 1957 and unfortunately only the very first episode appears to have survived over time. I recall watching this programme in my pre-school years with my Mother and siblings and although I cannot actually summon up any bits of vision or dialogue I do have a very warm and comforting feeling from knowing that I saw it.
The output of Gerry Anderson and his wife Sylvia continued to be prolific with high tech puppetry (although I hesitate to use this term for the Supermarionation process) and also real life productions.
In no particular order but also representing avid viewing on my part were Stingray, Captain Scarlet, UFO, Joe 90, Fireball XL5 and Space 1999. The latter caused me considerable panic at the age of 36 which fell in that fateful year of the exit of the moon from earth's orbit. I was pretty relieved to get through that time with no incident, a bit like last Friday and the predicted Mayan Apocalypse.
The imaginative currency of the Anderson's productions was reinforced considerably by the clever merchandising which with hindsight would give the much criticised catalogue of the Star Wars franchise a run for its money.
I grew up under a Thunderbirds bedspread (ask your parents what one of those is, clue- it predates continental quilts ), I went to sleep after drawing my Thunderbirds curtains. I slept in Thunderbirds pyjamas. My favourite toys were a heavy metal Thunderbird 2 (The chubby green one) with the amphibious Thunderbird 4 in a removable pod, a larger plastic Thunderbird 5 and a diminuitive rocket model of Thunderbird 1. I also collected, from a brand of cereal, the small gawdy coloured plastic figures of the main characters. The aforementioned Hiram K Hackenbacker was a multiple swop and must have been heavily overproduced in some distant Hong Kong factory compared to the others.
A particular thrill when staying with my Grandparents was the sighting at a visit to Luton Airport of a full sized replica of the pink FAB 1 Rolls Royce of Lady Penelope, the racy and in a strange pre-adolescent mind, sexy family friend of the Tracy Family. I was genuinely disappointed to see it being driven by a mere mortal human and not Parker, the rather dodgy, skeleton-in-the-cupboard chauffeur.
In the playing out of the adventures of International Rescue I was always Virgil. It was not that the other four brothers were any less charismatic. Scott was alright but being the oldest a bit serious, John was just a bit invisible, Gordon too much of an enigma and as for Alan, there must have been a reason why he more often as not seemed to be banished to the earth orbiting space and communications centre that was Thunderbird 5.After all, he was a typical 19 year old.
The further science fiction creations of Gerry Anderson kept up with my demands to be entertained and though my under 10's and early teenage years I also collected and duly overpainted with Airfix enamel paints and then demolished the merchandising range of Captain Scarlet, UFO and Space 1999.
My own children were able to enjoy regular re-runs of Thunderbirds although the movie was mighty disappointing. Captain Scarlet was faithfully updated in recent years and no doubt captured a new generation of fans.
Even in schoolboy humour the characters featured. I still remember the story about Lady Penelope saying to the dour and expressionless Parker, "Take off my coat", followed by "Parker, take off my dress", then "Parker, take off my underwear". The punchline was "and Parker? ", to which he replies "Yes, me Lady", "don't let me find you wearing my clothes again". Classic.
The passing of Gerry Anderson has really pulled on my heartstrings.
Who is Hiram K. Hackenbacker?
There may be some interesting answers.
Try, did he invent a game involving a small seamed leather ball that you juggle and attempt to keep up in the air or between multiple players?. No That is Hacky Sack.
Was he the inspiration behind of a type of guitar used, for example, by Paul Weller, amongst others? No, that is Rickenbacker.
Is he, by chance the namesake founder and former Mayor of a town in New Jersey, USA? No. That is Hackensack.
It is a tantalising name but yet if you are a lifelong fan of the 1960's TV Series Thunderbirds you will instantly know that it is the real name of the highly strung and a bit nervy prodigy, Brains.
His name has come to the forefront in the last 24 hours with the death of his creator, the Supermarionation genius, Gerry Anderson. I grew up in the halcyon days of children's TV when there was no real competition or distraction from other media. No computers, Video Games, Apple products, etcetra and a childhood consisted of only sleeping, eating, playtime and education.
This was the perfect environment for imagination to take hold and run riot and a major catalyst in my own formative years was Thunderbirds.
The distinctive countdown, in my memory missing out the first "F", therefore "..ive,....four.....three.....two....one....Thunderbirds are Go!"was the introduction to a completely enthralling part of my day. It went further than that though and the individual episodes and subsequent adventures gave many, many hours of play value over the following days, weeks and months.
I was obsessed with Thunderbirds, the characters and of course the amazing equipment. International Rescue, the organisation founded by ex-astronaut Jeff Tracy was dedicated to getting the stupid, reckless, misled and unfortunate out of tight situations and in what style!.
Of course, now approaching my 50th birthday I may question how Mr Tracy managed to fund and sustain his charitable operation which must have involved an annual budget even in the 1960's of millions of whatever currency the off shore paradise of Tracy Island affiliated to. I hate myself for this totally cynical attitude and in some way it is a betrayal of my fascination with and complete trust in International Rescue in my early years. However, Gerry Anderson second guessed this later life inquisition with a convincing back-story of a personal fortune earned through the hard work and speculative ventures of Jeff Tracy in the construction industry on his retirement from the space race. All this and, as a widower, bringing up a large family.
The obituary for Gerry Anderson brought back a long forgotten memory of mine of a TV series he devised called Twizzle. This was originally broadcast from 1957 and unfortunately only the very first episode appears to have survived over time. I recall watching this programme in my pre-school years with my Mother and siblings and although I cannot actually summon up any bits of vision or dialogue I do have a very warm and comforting feeling from knowing that I saw it.
The output of Gerry Anderson and his wife Sylvia continued to be prolific with high tech puppetry (although I hesitate to use this term for the Supermarionation process) and also real life productions.
In no particular order but also representing avid viewing on my part were Stingray, Captain Scarlet, UFO, Joe 90, Fireball XL5 and Space 1999. The latter caused me considerable panic at the age of 36 which fell in that fateful year of the exit of the moon from earth's orbit. I was pretty relieved to get through that time with no incident, a bit like last Friday and the predicted Mayan Apocalypse.
The imaginative currency of the Anderson's productions was reinforced considerably by the clever merchandising which with hindsight would give the much criticised catalogue of the Star Wars franchise a run for its money.
I grew up under a Thunderbirds bedspread (ask your parents what one of those is, clue- it predates continental quilts ), I went to sleep after drawing my Thunderbirds curtains. I slept in Thunderbirds pyjamas. My favourite toys were a heavy metal Thunderbird 2 (The chubby green one) with the amphibious Thunderbird 4 in a removable pod, a larger plastic Thunderbird 5 and a diminuitive rocket model of Thunderbird 1. I also collected, from a brand of cereal, the small gawdy coloured plastic figures of the main characters. The aforementioned Hiram K Hackenbacker was a multiple swop and must have been heavily overproduced in some distant Hong Kong factory compared to the others.
A particular thrill when staying with my Grandparents was the sighting at a visit to Luton Airport of a full sized replica of the pink FAB 1 Rolls Royce of Lady Penelope, the racy and in a strange pre-adolescent mind, sexy family friend of the Tracy Family. I was genuinely disappointed to see it being driven by a mere mortal human and not Parker, the rather dodgy, skeleton-in-the-cupboard chauffeur.
In the playing out of the adventures of International Rescue I was always Virgil. It was not that the other four brothers were any less charismatic. Scott was alright but being the oldest a bit serious, John was just a bit invisible, Gordon too much of an enigma and as for Alan, there must have been a reason why he more often as not seemed to be banished to the earth orbiting space and communications centre that was Thunderbird 5.After all, he was a typical 19 year old.
The further science fiction creations of Gerry Anderson kept up with my demands to be entertained and though my under 10's and early teenage years I also collected and duly overpainted with Airfix enamel paints and then demolished the merchandising range of Captain Scarlet, UFO and Space 1999.
My own children were able to enjoy regular re-runs of Thunderbirds although the movie was mighty disappointing. Captain Scarlet was faithfully updated in recent years and no doubt captured a new generation of fans.
Even in schoolboy humour the characters featured. I still remember the story about Lady Penelope saying to the dour and expressionless Parker, "Take off my coat", followed by "Parker, take off my dress", then "Parker, take off my underwear". The punchline was "and Parker? ", to which he replies "Yes, me Lady", "don't let me find you wearing my clothes again". Classic.
The passing of Gerry Anderson has really pulled on my heartstrings.
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