It's been a busy week. Highlight of the week has been something I've been trumpetting to close friends for some while (please forgive the pun ... which will become apparent shortly). First, though, came a double lay-in.
The church where I ring is facing an interregnum in a few weeks. The vicar has now moved to a new responsibility elsewhere in the diocese and Sunday was his last day. He decided to cancel the service at the daughter church (the one with the bells) and have a big farewell service followed by a meal at the parish church. With the curate also moving on in a few weeks they are looking ahead to a difficult few months. Hence I was able to enjoy a lay-in.
The second one came on Monday. The leader of our usual men's breakfast meeting has been on holiday and for two weeks I stepped in to hold the fort. The first week was fine, once I'd won my battle with the cooker, and the second week also. However, with only four of us there, and one definitely not available this week owing to another commitment, it seemed prudent to cancel what would have been the last meeting of the term ... so I didn't have to get up at 5.30 in order to get to church and have everything all ready by 6.30.
The day was full enough, though, with the second week of the online genealogy course, and ringing practice in the evening. Then came the big event. For many years - at least twenty - I've suffered intermittently from a nocturnal sinus problem as a result of which I wake up several times in the night unable to breathe properly. It kicked off big-time this spring following a cold and, after two consecutive nights with about three hours' sleep each, I was sufficiently motivated to seek medical help. A sequence of nasal sprays proved both uncomfortable and ineffective, and at last my GP referred me to the hospital ENT clinic. I had a choice of three appointments, and opted for the earliest one, which also happened to be the closest to home, and was set for Tuesday morning.
After the usual verbal interrogation to see if there were any possibility of allergic or other cause, a visual inspection was followed by a brief wait during which a 'scope' was obtained. A camera was unveiled, about an eighth of an inch in diameter, on the end of a wand almost a foot long. After an anaesthetic spray, this was inserted into each nostril (I didn't care to look as it came ever closer), and withdrawn. "Well," said the consultant, "you have a very clean and healthy nose, and I can see no trace of infection." A discussion followed, during which he explained the putative cause for my symptoms, which boiled down to a likely laziness of the microscopic hairs that normally propel mucous away from the nostril, to drain imperceptibly down the throat, this possibly coupled with an excess of mucous production in the first place.
The remedy will hopefully be a four week spell of twice-daily washing of the interior of the noze with a sea-water aerosol, and continued use of the nasal spray that I had formerly rejected. Although only a few days in, I have to admit that this combination seems to produce the desired result. The only question in my mind is, just how permanent will it be when the four weeks are up?
A couple of weeks ago my help was solicited in the preparation of a risk assessment for an upcoming inter-church event described as a 'Picnic in the Park'. Being adequately described thus, it's an annual gathering in a town-centre park with entertainment and games where families can enjoy a communal picnic. Anyway, the very busy person who had contacted me found himself running out of time before a business trip and I was left not just to help with the exercise, but to carry it out from start to finish. All in all, this took up a fair slice of the week, with e-mail consultations and a face to face meeting with someone who had a fairly comprehensive idea of what is planned, followed by the creation of the document on the computer and delivery of the end-result.
Yesterday, our regular day of prayer and fasting, was rounded off with the final gathering of the children's holiday club, which has been running for the last four mornings. In the evening the 100 or so children from both church and neighbouring community were invited to bring their parents along to a barbecue to see what they have been doing throughout the week, so I went along to help where I could with fetching and carrying and then putting the church back to rights afterwards ... something that is often overlooked on these occasions.
And now, as things get back to normal, I can sort out the regular chores that have been shunted along the week, like shopping, clearing up the odds and ends of carpet after fitting some of the now redundant awning pieces (see the blog of a few weeks ago) into my kitchen, and preparing for another week of action-packed retirement. Work? ... what was that all about, now?
Saturday 30 July 2016
Saturday 23 July 2016
Extra - The Numbers Game
Bellringing is all about numbers, and so are dates. When the two come together, you may be sure, wonderful things can happen.
A bellringing method is a way of arranging all the possible combinations of a set (or ring) of bells so that each sequence (or change) occurs only once. When such a composition is achieved including more than 5,000 changes, it's called a Peal, takes about three hours to ring, and is usually performed to celebrate some special occasion ... even if the occasion is only the fact of the ringers having completed it! Even so, their success is usually dedicated to a worthy purpose. For arithmetic reasons (if you're really intrigued what they might be, just multiply together 7,6,5,4,3,2 and 1), a Peal is usually 5,040 changes; more often, a sufficient achievement to be worthy of note is recognised if 1,260 changes are rung ... termed, predictably, a 'Quarter Peal', or frequently simply 'a Quarter'.
So it was that, on 25th April 1993, I took part in a Quarter rung in honour of my father, at the church where he and my mother had been married, on the day that - notwithstanding the fact that he had died more than six years previously - he would have been twice my age. Fast forward exactly ten years, during which a great deal happened in my life. The most significant aspects, so far as this narrative is concerned, are that I had moved to my present home town in Hertfordshire, had joined a band of bellringers here, and had formed a deep friendship with a young lady ringer who had moved into the town a year or so later. We had discovered that, on 25th April 2003, I would be twice her age and we decided that it would be fitting to attempt a quarter peal to mark the occasion. Sadly some hitch occured and the attempt was unsuccessful.
This morning, here at our home tower, a quarter peal was successfully rung - which didn't involve me - for a similar celebration. It commemorated the fact that today that young lady, now married and one of the 'young mums' of whom I wrote here a few weeks ago, is half the age of the wife of our tower captain, and both of them took part. This afternoon, for the second time in two weeks, I was the first of our team to arrive at the church to ring for a wedding. Because of the structure of the building, it's quite convenient, and sometimes useful, that we can sit in the ringing chamber and overlook what is going on in the body of the church. As I watched the service for this couple I became enthralled and absorbed in what was taking place. Lawrence and Anna are a lovely couple, although completely unknown to me; they're clearly very positive people, very much in love, and Anna has a bouncy personality that shone through as she shared a joke with the vicar, who has been planning the wedding with them for a year and more.
When the other ringers arrived, just as the registers were being signed, it was as if I'd been watching a TV drama on my own, and the rest of the family entered the room at the height of the plot and broke the spell. The service concluded and, with our concentration competing as ever with the sound of the organ below playing Mendelssohn's Wedding March, the bells rang forth in celebration. As the ringing progressed, the organ ceased and the hubbub below died away, I found myself reviewing in my mind the events of the day. I recalled another occasion when a quarter peal had been rung on the morning of a wedding ... my own. Then I remembered the date; that would have been 23rd July, 1994.
As I said, a great deal had happened during that ten year period. In addition to those I mentioned, I had got married, and had been divorced. Every time I ring at a wedding - and especially today - my prayer for the happy couple is simply that they will remember the happiness they share today, in the bad times as well as the good, and that their love will survive the test of time ... as mine did not.
A bellringing method is a way of arranging all the possible combinations of a set (or ring) of bells so that each sequence (or change) occurs only once. When such a composition is achieved including more than 5,000 changes, it's called a Peal, takes about three hours to ring, and is usually performed to celebrate some special occasion ... even if the occasion is only the fact of the ringers having completed it! Even so, their success is usually dedicated to a worthy purpose. For arithmetic reasons (if you're really intrigued what they might be, just multiply together 7,6,5,4,3,2 and 1), a Peal is usually 5,040 changes; more often, a sufficient achievement to be worthy of note is recognised if 1,260 changes are rung ... termed, predictably, a 'Quarter Peal', or frequently simply 'a Quarter'.
So it was that, on 25th April 1993, I took part in a Quarter rung in honour of my father, at the church where he and my mother had been married, on the day that - notwithstanding the fact that he had died more than six years previously - he would have been twice my age. Fast forward exactly ten years, during which a great deal happened in my life. The most significant aspects, so far as this narrative is concerned, are that I had moved to my present home town in Hertfordshire, had joined a band of bellringers here, and had formed a deep friendship with a young lady ringer who had moved into the town a year or so later. We had discovered that, on 25th April 2003, I would be twice her age and we decided that it would be fitting to attempt a quarter peal to mark the occasion. Sadly some hitch occured and the attempt was unsuccessful.
This morning, here at our home tower, a quarter peal was successfully rung - which didn't involve me - for a similar celebration. It commemorated the fact that today that young lady, now married and one of the 'young mums' of whom I wrote here a few weeks ago, is half the age of the wife of our tower captain, and both of them took part. This afternoon, for the second time in two weeks, I was the first of our team to arrive at the church to ring for a wedding. Because of the structure of the building, it's quite convenient, and sometimes useful, that we can sit in the ringing chamber and overlook what is going on in the body of the church. As I watched the service for this couple I became enthralled and absorbed in what was taking place. Lawrence and Anna are a lovely couple, although completely unknown to me; they're clearly very positive people, very much in love, and Anna has a bouncy personality that shone through as she shared a joke with the vicar, who has been planning the wedding with them for a year and more.
When the other ringers arrived, just as the registers were being signed, it was as if I'd been watching a TV drama on my own, and the rest of the family entered the room at the height of the plot and broke the spell. The service concluded and, with our concentration competing as ever with the sound of the organ below playing Mendelssohn's Wedding March, the bells rang forth in celebration. As the ringing progressed, the organ ceased and the hubbub below died away, I found myself reviewing in my mind the events of the day. I recalled another occasion when a quarter peal had been rung on the morning of a wedding ... my own. Then I remembered the date; that would have been 23rd July, 1994.
As I said, a great deal had happened during that ten year period. In addition to those I mentioned, I had got married, and had been divorced. Every time I ring at a wedding - and especially today - my prayer for the happy couple is simply that they will remember the happiness they share today, in the bad times as well as the good, and that their love will survive the test of time ... as mine did not.
Friday 22 July 2016
The Reform Agenda
The week began with immersion in practical genealogy. I took part in a worldwide indexing marathon organised by FamilySearch.org, the genealogical arm of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. I was one of 116,475 people who took part, and out of a total of almost 10.5 million records indexed in the three-day spell, my 654 is less than a spit in the ocean, but I draw satisfaction from the discovery that this was more than seven times the average per person and that, out of my 24 batches, five were declared 100% accurate, and another ten were 95% or better.
The genealogy theme then continued in full force on Monday morning, as I began a six-week on-line course run by the University of Strathclyde. What I had rashly estimated as a one-to-two-hour commitment actually occupied about six hours, and my diary has now been amended accordingly!
These two items were heralded in last week's post; the more astute reader might have also detected, hidden away just beneath the surface, a slight disenchantment with the motorhoming side of life at the moment. Early on in the year I had taken the decision that, to justify its existence in my life, I should make more use of the vehicle than I had last year. Consequently, I had marked out five distinct slots in April, June, July, August and September, when I would go off somewhere. Each of the three so far accomplished has brought with it a disappointing dimension, along with the achievement, and the time has come to bring these to light and deal with them.
Quite apart from the parking ticket, which was successfully challenged, the trip to Lincolnshire highlighted the problem of taking my home with me - snail-like - when I go sightseeing. Soon afterwards I was asked after the church service one Sunday for my advice regarding owning a motorhome and my reply included reference to these events. Last weekend, that same friend announced that he was on the brink of having a tow-bar fitted to his car and investing in a small caravan for himself and his wife.
Then came the much lamented broken window incurred on my way to Scotland. I referred this to a local repair company, who undertook to source a replacement and provide a quotation. In five weeks - or is it six?- I've heard nothing from them as yet. It was at the end of that trip that I also noticed a damp patch on the floor near the location of the grey-water tank and sought the advice of the manager of the garage where I used to have my work van serviced. He has some experience of motorhomes and caravans, and had proved a mine of useful advice at the start of last year. He made some suggestions and undertook further investigation if necessary. Today, I returned for that further investigation. We have now located the problem, and through the recommendation of a friend, he was able to direct me to a likely source of the solution, whom I shall try to visit next week.
Two other minor set-backs' occured on my third trip a couple of weeks ago. I had just erected the awning upon my arrival at Hadley Swan - no mean feat as a solo exercise - when a member of staff passed by and pointed out that the awning was meant to be on the hard-standing rather than, as I had positioned it, on the grass beside it. Sadly, this was an impossibility for me, since I was not equipped with the requisite heavy duty pegs to achieve this.
The awning was slowly and laboriously taken down and re-packed and the carpet rolls so fortuitously obtained free of charge a few weeks ago for its interior were parked beneath the vehicle, having travelled there laying down the centre of the inside, a totally impossible situation while living in the motorhome for a week. Unfortunately, with my mind focussed on the clearing rain, and the need to avail myself of the toilet-emptying point and grey-water drain before leaving, I totally overlooked the need to load the carpet, and it wasn't until I stopped for coffee some forty miles along my homeward journey that I noticed its absence!
This week has also include a variety of other excitements. A recent e-mail from BT announced some 'upgrades' to their service. With the complimentary software protection contract that came with my computer about to expire, it was timely that one of these allows me to incorporate this with my broadband package. Another benefit is cloud storage, although having installed this thinking that it will save me the minimal payment I'm presently making for the same service, I'm not convinced that it's working as smoothly as what I already have, so I'll probably uninstall this in the coming days.
I've also realised that the spreadsheet applications that have grown 'like Topsy' to monitor my pension investments don't actually meet all my requirements. At the same time, they're are not doing in the most efficient manner those aspects that are useful. I've therefore spent a fair proportion of the last couple of days re-designing, re-shaping and, in one case, completely replacing these ... a job that is not quite finished yet.
And today saw the funeral of the husband of one of my fellow-bellringers, who died unexpectedly only a few days after his fiftieth birthday. The service included the usual mixture of tearful reminiscences tinged with humour and recollection of his life and achievements, as well as two hymns that were more powerfully sung than is often the case on these occasions, and we were pleased to ring the bells half-muffled in tribute afterwards.
The genealogy theme then continued in full force on Monday morning, as I began a six-week on-line course run by the University of Strathclyde. What I had rashly estimated as a one-to-two-hour commitment actually occupied about six hours, and my diary has now been amended accordingly!
These two items were heralded in last week's post; the more astute reader might have also detected, hidden away just beneath the surface, a slight disenchantment with the motorhoming side of life at the moment. Early on in the year I had taken the decision that, to justify its existence in my life, I should make more use of the vehicle than I had last year. Consequently, I had marked out five distinct slots in April, June, July, August and September, when I would go off somewhere. Each of the three so far accomplished has brought with it a disappointing dimension, along with the achievement, and the time has come to bring these to light and deal with them.
Quite apart from the parking ticket, which was successfully challenged, the trip to Lincolnshire highlighted the problem of taking my home with me - snail-like - when I go sightseeing. Soon afterwards I was asked after the church service one Sunday for my advice regarding owning a motorhome and my reply included reference to these events. Last weekend, that same friend announced that he was on the brink of having a tow-bar fitted to his car and investing in a small caravan for himself and his wife.
Then came the much lamented broken window incurred on my way to Scotland. I referred this to a local repair company, who undertook to source a replacement and provide a quotation. In five weeks - or is it six?- I've heard nothing from them as yet. It was at the end of that trip that I also noticed a damp patch on the floor near the location of the grey-water tank and sought the advice of the manager of the garage where I used to have my work van serviced. He has some experience of motorhomes and caravans, and had proved a mine of useful advice at the start of last year. He made some suggestions and undertook further investigation if necessary. Today, I returned for that further investigation. We have now located the problem, and through the recommendation of a friend, he was able to direct me to a likely source of the solution, whom I shall try to visit next week.
Two other minor set-backs' occured on my third trip a couple of weeks ago. I had just erected the awning upon my arrival at Hadley Swan - no mean feat as a solo exercise - when a member of staff passed by and pointed out that the awning was meant to be on the hard-standing rather than, as I had positioned it, on the grass beside it. Sadly, this was an impossibility for me, since I was not equipped with the requisite heavy duty pegs to achieve this.
The awning was slowly and laboriously taken down and re-packed and the carpet rolls so fortuitously obtained free of charge a few weeks ago for its interior were parked beneath the vehicle, having travelled there laying down the centre of the inside, a totally impossible situation while living in the motorhome for a week. Unfortunately, with my mind focussed on the clearing rain, and the need to avail myself of the toilet-emptying point and grey-water drain before leaving, I totally overlooked the need to load the carpet, and it wasn't until I stopped for coffee some forty miles along my homeward journey that I noticed its absence!
This week has also include a variety of other excitements. A recent e-mail from BT announced some 'upgrades' to their service. With the complimentary software protection contract that came with my computer about to expire, it was timely that one of these allows me to incorporate this with my broadband package. Another benefit is cloud storage, although having installed this thinking that it will save me the minimal payment I'm presently making for the same service, I'm not convinced that it's working as smoothly as what I already have, so I'll probably uninstall this in the coming days.
I've also realised that the spreadsheet applications that have grown 'like Topsy' to monitor my pension investments don't actually meet all my requirements. At the same time, they're are not doing in the most efficient manner those aspects that are useful. I've therefore spent a fair proportion of the last couple of days re-designing, re-shaping and, in one case, completely replacing these ... a job that is not quite finished yet.
And today saw the funeral of the husband of one of my fellow-bellringers, who died unexpectedly only a few days after his fiftieth birthday. The service included the usual mixture of tearful reminiscences tinged with humour and recollection of his life and achievements, as well as two hymns that were more powerfully sung than is often the case on these occasions, and we were pleased to ring the bells half-muffled in tribute afterwards.
Saturday 16 July 2016
There's Busy ... and There's Busy!
Regular readers will have spotted the absence of a 'Fourwheeler' post last week. I think I was just mentally exhausted. Certainly it wasn't physical exhaustion having just had a week's 'holiday' ... for the second time in a month! I returned on Saturday afternoon from most of the week in Worcestershire, staying at a campsite between Rhydd, Barnards Green and Hanley Swan. I rode on a lot of buses, and did quite a bit of walking, mostly in the cities of Worcester and Hereford, and I also visited Upton-upon-Severn, which felt more like a seaside resort than a place by the side of a river.
Upon my return, I was back into the routine of Letchworth life with a bang. I had worked while away on some prayers for the morning service on Sunday; these had to be finalised and then I had an e-mail from the leader of our breakfast gathering on Monday mornings, asking if anyone would be available to organise these for the next three Mondays while he's on holiday. In the absence of any other response, I agreed to fill this gap and the handover had to be that evening, before he left in the early hours of Sunday.
Normality was a welcome relief during the course of the week ... not only from journeying in the motorhome, but also the welcome return of things that had been part of the usual shape of my retirement up to the last couple of months. Three familiar quiz shows have returned to the TV screen, which for me means a return to my i-Player-watching at meal times. I did some Welsh exercises the other afternoon and the early sunshine was warm enough one morning to entice me out for a walk around the block ... usually a post-prandial exercise!
There have been a couple of firsts, too, in recent days. While away, for the first time in my life, I walked through a meadow where a flock of sheep were grazing (I didn't venture to take out my camera on this occasion!) and, one evening this week, my concern about the state of our country moved me for the first time to attend a political meeting in the next town.
Just before leaving for Worcestershire, I had started following an online course about spreadsheet automation, which I completed after my return, and I've signed up for a family history course, offered free online by one of the UK universities, which starts next week. And, if this isn't quite enough, I'm also taking part this weekend in an international indexing operation to enable more genealogical records to be searchable online. It sounds like a busy week in prospect, but they're all things I like and enjoy, so although busy, I'm hoping they will be relaxing at the same time.
The great thing about being busy at home is that there is always a background of comfort and distraction, so nothing is really full-on full-time. But talking of relaxing ...
Upon my return, I was back into the routine of Letchworth life with a bang. I had worked while away on some prayers for the morning service on Sunday; these had to be finalised and then I had an e-mail from the leader of our breakfast gathering on Monday mornings, asking if anyone would be available to organise these for the next three Mondays while he's on holiday. In the absence of any other response, I agreed to fill this gap and the handover had to be that evening, before he left in the early hours of Sunday.
Normality was a welcome relief during the course of the week ... not only from journeying in the motorhome, but also the welcome return of things that had been part of the usual shape of my retirement up to the last couple of months. Three familiar quiz shows have returned to the TV screen, which for me means a return to my i-Player-watching at meal times. I did some Welsh exercises the other afternoon and the early sunshine was warm enough one morning to entice me out for a walk around the block ... usually a post-prandial exercise!
There have been a couple of firsts, too, in recent days. While away, for the first time in my life, I walked through a meadow where a flock of sheep were grazing (I didn't venture to take out my camera on this occasion!) and, one evening this week, my concern about the state of our country moved me for the first time to attend a political meeting in the next town.
Just before leaving for Worcestershire, I had started following an online course about spreadsheet automation, which I completed after my return, and I've signed up for a family history course, offered free online by one of the UK universities, which starts next week. And, if this isn't quite enough, I'm also taking part this weekend in an international indexing operation to enable more genealogical records to be searchable online. It sounds like a busy week in prospect, but they're all things I like and enjoy, so although busy, I'm hoping they will be relaxing at the same time.
The great thing about being busy at home is that there is always a background of comfort and distraction, so nothing is really full-on full-time. But talking of relaxing ...
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| The lazy Severn at Upton |
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| "Severn swans a-swimming", Worcester |
Friday 1 July 2016
The Lost Arm!
My father was one of twelve children and his father one of nine. As I grew up, I quickly learned of my dad's siblings, and their families. He was the youngest son and, by the time he married, six of his brothers and sisters were already married, five of them with children. However, I never heard anything of his father's family. I heard of an uncle Willie, but this was his mother's brother, and one of her nieces paid us a visit with her family once when I was very young but, of his father's family, ... nothing.
Eventually details were prised from the records, and a picture began to take shape. Grandfather, too, was the youngest son of his family, with one younger sister, and seven older siblings. In succeding years, details were discovered about each of them, with the exception of the oldest brother, George, who had disappeared without trace after the 1861 census. I decided that he had died but that his death had somehow evaded all records. I still cling to a similar supposition about their father, of whose demise I have never found trace, although their mother re-married in 1892.
About four years ago, I decided to make one final attempt to crack the mystery of great-uncle George. I settled down to search systematically through everyone named George Evans, born in 1852, recorded in the 1871 census. If not dead, I reasoned, he must be somewhere! Amazingly, the first record I looked at was successful. He had joined the army and was listed at Colchester Barracks in the 27th Regiment of Foot (which was joined with the 108th Regiment in 1881 to become the two battalions of the Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers). Further finds quickly followed, as I discovered his discharge papers and found that, on leaving the army in March, 1876, he had settled in Enniskillen, where, as I later learned, he had married the previous Christmas Eve.
From what I had assumed to have been a dead twig on my tree, a flourishing branch had blossomed. George and his wife Mary Jane raised a family of eleven who, from the seven marriages I know of, produced at least 24 grandchildren, many of whom had families of their own. I often wonder just how much - if anything - my dad ever knew of his Irish cousins. I realised only recently that grandfather would have been less than two and a half when George enlisted on 10th January 1871 (and he may well have left home some while before that). It seems possible, then, that he may have grown up virtually unaware of his brother and in later years, with a big family of his own to bring up, passing on the family's history to them would scarcely have been his top priority!
This week I've been thinking about George's two youngest sons, my second cousins once removed. At 17, Samuel had left home by the time of the 1911 census, and was living on a farm in a nearby village. Meanwhile, Harry, 13, was still living at home with some of his younger siblings, while his widowed father had re-married and was living in the next street. Both boys later followed their father's example and joined the Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers. I have pieced together what follows from internet sources (mainly Wikipedia), because there is very little of a personal nature to go on.
When Samuel enlisted - any time from the autumn of 1912 - he joined the 2nd battalion, who were stationed at Dover when war broke out in 1914. Very soon they found themselves in Flanders, where they were involved in the battle at Le Cateau, following the retreat from Mons. Once the western front had stabilised, following the indecisive 'race to the sea', a sequence of engagements took place the following spring around the Belgian-French border. The 2nd Inniskillings were part of the British 2nd Division who took part in the Battle of Festubert (15th to 25th May). Like the larger offensive on the Somme the next year, it began with a heavy artillery barrage which failed to penetrate the enemy lines, followed by an infantry advance which sustained heavy casualties.
Samuel was one of those 5,445 losses suffered by the division before it was withdrawn on 19th. He has no grave, but is named on the Le Touret memorial, which stands beside the D171 road from Béthune to Lille. Its inscription is very moving:
It must have been soon after this that Henry (who would have reached 18 that July) joined the colours. The 1st battalion of the Fusiliers had been in India at the outbreak of war, and were part of the 29th Division at Gallipoli in 1915. Henry appears to have been one of a contigent of new recruts who were sent to join them on the western front after the seasoned men had arrived in Marseilles in mid-March 1916. Following the now famous week-long night-and-day bombardment, thousands of young men stood to with a wide variety of emotions ready for that fateful whistle at 7.30 am on the 1st July. Henry and the rest of the 1st Inniskillings were positioned towards the left flank, near Beaumont Hamel, about half way between the Albert-Bapaume Road and Gommecourt, where the filmed explosion of a 40,000-lb mine under the Hawthorn Ridge Redoubt occurred. It was this northern section of the front which bore the brunt of the almost 60,000 casualties incurred on that first day.
After the first day of the battle, General Haig wrote in his diary that, 'given their lack of progress, the men of VIII Corps [which included the Inniskillings] could not have left their trenches.' This was before he had learned of the slaughter that had taken place. He replaced the leader of VIII Corps immediately, but afterwards was unable to renew the attack in that sector because 'the trenches were clogged with dead and dying men.'
Needless to say, Henry is also simply a name on a memorial, in this case the famous one at Thiepval. It is interesting that both brothers died on the first day of a significant battle. It's arguable whether, perhaps, if they had to die in action, it were better this way, but there can have been nothing 'easy' about that ghastly war. We can only join with thousands of others and say,
Eventually details were prised from the records, and a picture began to take shape. Grandfather, too, was the youngest son of his family, with one younger sister, and seven older siblings. In succeding years, details were discovered about each of them, with the exception of the oldest brother, George, who had disappeared without trace after the 1861 census. I decided that he had died but that his death had somehow evaded all records. I still cling to a similar supposition about their father, of whose demise I have never found trace, although their mother re-married in 1892.
About four years ago, I decided to make one final attempt to crack the mystery of great-uncle George. I settled down to search systematically through everyone named George Evans, born in 1852, recorded in the 1871 census. If not dead, I reasoned, he must be somewhere! Amazingly, the first record I looked at was successful. He had joined the army and was listed at Colchester Barracks in the 27th Regiment of Foot (which was joined with the 108th Regiment in 1881 to become the two battalions of the Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers). Further finds quickly followed, as I discovered his discharge papers and found that, on leaving the army in March, 1876, he had settled in Enniskillen, where, as I later learned, he had married the previous Christmas Eve.
From what I had assumed to have been a dead twig on my tree, a flourishing branch had blossomed. George and his wife Mary Jane raised a family of eleven who, from the seven marriages I know of, produced at least 24 grandchildren, many of whom had families of their own. I often wonder just how much - if anything - my dad ever knew of his Irish cousins. I realised only recently that grandfather would have been less than two and a half when George enlisted on 10th January 1871 (and he may well have left home some while before that). It seems possible, then, that he may have grown up virtually unaware of his brother and in later years, with a big family of his own to bring up, passing on the family's history to them would scarcely have been his top priority!
This week I've been thinking about George's two youngest sons, my second cousins once removed. At 17, Samuel had left home by the time of the 1911 census, and was living on a farm in a nearby village. Meanwhile, Harry, 13, was still living at home with some of his younger siblings, while his widowed father had re-married and was living in the next street. Both boys later followed their father's example and joined the Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers. I have pieced together what follows from internet sources (mainly Wikipedia), because there is very little of a personal nature to go on.
When Samuel enlisted - any time from the autumn of 1912 - he joined the 2nd battalion, who were stationed at Dover when war broke out in 1914. Very soon they found themselves in Flanders, where they were involved in the battle at Le Cateau, following the retreat from Mons. Once the western front had stabilised, following the indecisive 'race to the sea', a sequence of engagements took place the following spring around the Belgian-French border. The 2nd Inniskillings were part of the British 2nd Division who took part in the Battle of Festubert (15th to 25th May). Like the larger offensive on the Somme the next year, it began with a heavy artillery barrage which failed to penetrate the enemy lines, followed by an infantry advance which sustained heavy casualties.
Samuel was one of those 5,445 losses suffered by the division before it was withdrawn on 19th. He has no grave, but is named on the Le Touret memorial, which stands beside the D171 road from Béthune to Lille. Its inscription is very moving:
"In memory of 13,482 British officers and men who fell fighting in this neighbourhood between October 1914 and September 1915 whose names are here recorded but to whom the fortune of war denied the known and honoured burial given to their comrades in death."
It must have been soon after this that Henry (who would have reached 18 that July) joined the colours. The 1st battalion of the Fusiliers had been in India at the outbreak of war, and were part of the 29th Division at Gallipoli in 1915. Henry appears to have been one of a contigent of new recruts who were sent to join them on the western front after the seasoned men had arrived in Marseilles in mid-March 1916. Following the now famous week-long night-and-day bombardment, thousands of young men stood to with a wide variety of emotions ready for that fateful whistle at 7.30 am on the 1st July. Henry and the rest of the 1st Inniskillings were positioned towards the left flank, near Beaumont Hamel, about half way between the Albert-Bapaume Road and Gommecourt, where the filmed explosion of a 40,000-lb mine under the Hawthorn Ridge Redoubt occurred. It was this northern section of the front which bore the brunt of the almost 60,000 casualties incurred on that first day.
After the first day of the battle, General Haig wrote in his diary that, 'given their lack of progress, the men of VIII Corps [which included the Inniskillings] could not have left their trenches.' This was before he had learned of the slaughter that had taken place. He replaced the leader of VIII Corps immediately, but afterwards was unable to renew the attack in that sector because 'the trenches were clogged with dead and dying men.'
Needless to say, Henry is also simply a name on a memorial, in this case the famous one at Thiepval. It is interesting that both brothers died on the first day of a significant battle. It's arguable whether, perhaps, if they had to die in action, it were better this way, but there can have been nothing 'easy' about that ghastly war. We can only join with thousands of others and say,
"May they rest in peace ..."
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