Under my newer, 'fuller' retirement régime, my week falls into two clear parts. There's the busy bit, from Tuesday morning until Friday lunchtime, and then there's the 'long weekend', which is the opportunity to fit in hobbies and favourite habits ... and general 'me'-time. It includes regular things like the monthly coffee morning at church, Sunday worship, the Monday morning breakfast and evening bell-ringing practice and also occasional one-offs.
This weekend has seen a sequence of those singular events. It started with the thrice-yearly family history meeting at which, instead of a routine talk from a visiting speaker, we were treated to a drama. At the appointed time, our guest was ushered in; he hesitated at the door, wearing ragged green trousers, a cloth hat under which was a white linen covering for his hair that he kept on even after removing the hat. He was carrying a large linen sack on his back and, together with long boots, he could have been a caricature of an out-of season father Christmas that had misfired in the costume department.
As I said, he hesitated at the door, giving us ample opportunity to take in his appearance. Seeing us seated in rows facing a couple of tables at the front, he asked, "Is this a court, then? Is the parish constable here?" Of course we had no reply ... as had we none to many of his questions, so he had to answer them himself, using quaint words and expressions that he had to explain with gestures as well as alternative phrases. The event had simply been billed as 'Life as a Vagrant in Elizabethan England', but this character certainly brought his topic to life as no other speaker has of late. He explained that his economy was based on theft, and unpacked his bag to show the sort of things that could be obtained by the cunning poor from the careless rich; and he explained some of the ploys and subterfuges that would be adopted to this end.
These thoughts set me up well for my Monday excursion to the record office in Bury St Edmunds. Here I fulfilled (most of) my planned task to verify some of the dates passed to me over the years by distant cousins from their own researches. Some had become subject of conflicting witness and, over time, one cousin in particular had grown a bad reputation with me for inaccuracies. It was therefore refreshing in a way to find in at least two of these conflicts that it had been her date that was supported by the registers rather than the other.
Highlight of this visit was the arrival during the afternoon of a ten-day-old baby in the tender care of her mother, and under the gentle supervision of her grandmother. The mother was a former member of staff at the office and her presence attracted the usual cluster of former colleagues and chorus of 'ooohs' and 'aaahs' before, eventually, they left and the normal silence of research was restored.
The evening was occupied by the Annual General Meeting of our bell-ringing guild. This was a typical example of the genre, taking almost an hour to deal with matters most of which had, in essence, been decided already by e-mail or through casual chatter. It would be wrong, however, to dismiss so curtly a cordial and much looked-forward-to gathering which, once the business was concluded, transmogrified into an occasion for eating, drinking and informal chatter about anything and everything ... sometimes even mentioning bells!
With such a colourful range of memories, I could then easily sink into the (still quite fresh) routine of the very 'fixed' part of the week, of volunteering and running my home and personal admin, with further excitement to look forward to on Sunday, as I re-arrange my attendance at worship in order to be one of about 160 or so who will be travelling down to Kent to watch a very important football match ... more news next week!
Friday, 22 February 2019
Friday, 15 February 2019
When the Bus Stops
Three weeks ago I told how easily I had been persuaded some years ago to respond to an appeal by a young lady I'd never met, and delivered the prologue of last weekend's adventure. On that occasion I spoke of train tickets on my noticeboard and all being ready. The more I thought about it, however, the more I realised that all was not quite ready.
The direct trains I had booked in each direction were from the main line station some five miles or so from home and, to get there, I had to get a bus from my 'local' bus stop, which is an eight-minute walk away, across a railway footbridge. (There is a bus stop right outside my home from which the only service was only night and morning excluding weekends, and has now been completely withdrawn ... but now is not the time to decry cuts to public transport.)
Unfortunately, the most appropriate bus was scheduled to arrive at the train station at precisely the time the train would depart, so I had to set off half-an-hour earlier - at 8.15 - to catch the previous one. At the other end of the day, the last bus back home would leave the train station about a quarter of an hour after my train would leave York ... some two hours away! My first job on arriving at the station was thus to purchase a local ticket for a train home once the main line train had brought me that far. As luck (and the timetables) would have it, the local train left from the other side of the station at the same time as the York train was scheduled to arrive so, once more, I had to wait for the next one and I finally walked home from my local station about 9.0pm.
Once all these finer details had been arranged, the plan worked out perfectly, and the weather played ball too. By Peterborough we were travelling through bright sunshine, which held for most of the day. There was a football match that afternoon between Doncaster and Peterborough and for that section of the journey, in both directions, I had the 'company' of quite a lot of fans, who weren't the quietest of travel partners ... particularly on the alcohol-fuelled return journey!
I arrived at the 'capital of the north' at 11.30 and had over two hours to fill before the meeting began at 2.0, so I visited the National Railway Museum, which is quite close to the station. There's easily enough there to occupy the enthusiast for a whole day, and it gave me my desired interest ... and lunch besides.
Once I'd crossed the river (after a moment's unjustified panic that I might have found the wrong bridge), it was easy enough, thanks to my preliminary Google perusal, to find the hall where the meeting was to take place and, once my name was recognised, I was warmly welcomed and thanked for making the journey. The formalities were over in less than an hour and were richly supplemented by the opportunity to chat with Emily, the founder and organiser of The Bus Stop, and some of the other supporters to learn something of the detail of their operation.
The Bus Stop was founded in 2015 with the aim of working alongside local churches and schools to provide youth and community provision and education about the Christian faith. To do this it has operated within a 30-mile radius of York, making use of a converted double-decker bus, which was supplemented last year by the acquisition of a second bus, which operates in the Scarborough area. The first bus is now in need of some considerable work and one of their primary considerations is whether or not to replace it, perhaps with something a little smaller, while the long-term aim is to expand to a small fleet of vehicles to provide this service over a wider area. However, they have to walk before they can run, and slow development will inevitably be the best way.
I find myself strangely warmed to these people, living and working so far from me, and yet in circumstances not dissimilar to my own background. At such a distance, there is naturally very little I can actually do to help them, but I do ask you, dear reader, to take a look at their website - the link is a couple of paragraphs above - and if you are as attracted as I am to what they're trying so hard to achieve, you can give to the charity here.
The direct trains I had booked in each direction were from the main line station some five miles or so from home and, to get there, I had to get a bus from my 'local' bus stop, which is an eight-minute walk away, across a railway footbridge. (There is a bus stop right outside my home from which the only service was only night and morning excluding weekends, and has now been completely withdrawn ... but now is not the time to decry cuts to public transport.)
Unfortunately, the most appropriate bus was scheduled to arrive at the train station at precisely the time the train would depart, so I had to set off half-an-hour earlier - at 8.15 - to catch the previous one. At the other end of the day, the last bus back home would leave the train station about a quarter of an hour after my train would leave York ... some two hours away! My first job on arriving at the station was thus to purchase a local ticket for a train home once the main line train had brought me that far. As luck (and the timetables) would have it, the local train left from the other side of the station at the same time as the York train was scheduled to arrive so, once more, I had to wait for the next one and I finally walked home from my local station about 9.0pm.
Once all these finer details had been arranged, the plan worked out perfectly, and the weather played ball too. By Peterborough we were travelling through bright sunshine, which held for most of the day. There was a football match that afternoon between Doncaster and Peterborough and for that section of the journey, in both directions, I had the 'company' of quite a lot of fans, who weren't the quietest of travel partners ... particularly on the alcohol-fuelled return journey!
 |
| York's famous curved platform |
I arrived at the 'capital of the north' at 11.30 and had over two hours to fill before the meeting began at 2.0, so I visited the National Railway Museum, which is quite close to the station. There's easily enough there to occupy the enthusiast for a whole day, and it gave me my desired interest ... and lunch besides.
 |
| The River Ouse from Lendal Bridge |
The Bus Stop was founded in 2015 with the aim of working alongside local churches and schools to provide youth and community provision and education about the Christian faith. To do this it has operated within a 30-mile radius of York, making use of a converted double-decker bus, which was supplemented last year by the acquisition of a second bus, which operates in the Scarborough area. The first bus is now in need of some considerable work and one of their primary considerations is whether or not to replace it, perhaps with something a little smaller, while the long-term aim is to expand to a small fleet of vehicles to provide this service over a wider area. However, they have to walk before they can run, and slow development will inevitably be the best way.
I find myself strangely warmed to these people, living and working so far from me, and yet in circumstances not dissimilar to my own background. At such a distance, there is naturally very little I can actually do to help them, but I do ask you, dear reader, to take a look at their website - the link is a couple of paragraphs above - and if you are as attracted as I am to what they're trying so hard to achieve, you can give to the charity here.
Friday, 8 February 2019
A Week that Seems to Mirror the Last!
Last week's blog ended with the result of the first match in this year's Six Nations rugby football tournament. Rugby is a game I've often watched on TV, but don't really understand, have never played and have never watched live ... except here in Letchworth from the touchline of the nearby soccer pitch. However, to restore the balance, this week's story begins with the round ball.
One of the ways in which I spend my leisure time is to support a nearby football team. For many years I was a 'groundhopper', visiting many a ground solely for the experience of 'collecting' it; then, a few years ago, my former boss helped to found a new club based on a youth team that he had been running for a couple of years. Last weekend, Biggleswade FC - in only the third year of their existence - found themselves playing in the fifth round of the FA Vase.
To reach, in the previous season, the fourth round of this national competition for clubs playing below the top eight levels in the football pyramid was something of a triumph. On that occasion, they played away and were beaten by the eventual runners-up. To repeat the feat this year, and find themselves playing at home against a more local side, was an even greater success. The event attracted a record crowd, who saw them beat what many had seen as a stronger team ... certainly one from a more established base, the opposing club having been founded in the 1880s.
That record crowd was exceeded last Sunday as another competent opposition team were put to the sword (not, thankfully, in a literal sense!). Honours were even with no score at half time, but a second-half goal-fest saw the home team run out 6-1 winners! Excitement mounted over the next 24 hours waiting for the draw for the quarter-finals. With the winners of the two northern ties that were postponed until tomorrow being drawn against each other, the other three matches are clearly defined, and we now know that on 24th of February we will be travelling to Kent to watch them play against Canterbury City.
Also last week, I mentioned an unfortunate accident that befell the jumper I wear for work; sadly today a parallel situation evolved as I came home to discover that I had managed to get grease on the arm of my flourescent jacket. Although it's not an official requirement, I prefer to wear this on the van because it combines being lightweight and manoeuvrable with being wind- and waterproof. There was nothing else for it but another Friday laundry! Fortunately this proved totally successful and even as I write the bright and shining garment is drying across the room.
I spoke, too, about the way my weeks seem to have settled into a regular pattern; part of this is a Wednesday afternoon Bible study group, for which I am joined by a married couple from the other side of the town. We had decided that we wouldn't meet this week, having a 'half-term' break. They have the privilege of living in a small modern estate of retirement homes, and enjoy a number of useful common services with their neighbours. One of these benefits is a communal TV aerial system, which has to undergo regular, if infrequent, maintenance. The unfortunate timing of this event means that our meeting will now have to be cancelled next week as well!
One aspect of the week that is vastly different is yet to come. Last Saturday I was almost completely at home; tomorrow will see me spending almost twelve hours away from my desk, but I'll report on that next weekend!
One of the ways in which I spend my leisure time is to support a nearby football team. For many years I was a 'groundhopper', visiting many a ground solely for the experience of 'collecting' it; then, a few years ago, my former boss helped to found a new club based on a youth team that he had been running for a couple of years. Last weekend, Biggleswade FC - in only the third year of their existence - found themselves playing in the fifth round of the FA Vase.
To reach, in the previous season, the fourth round of this national competition for clubs playing below the top eight levels in the football pyramid was something of a triumph. On that occasion, they played away and were beaten by the eventual runners-up. To repeat the feat this year, and find themselves playing at home against a more local side, was an even greater success. The event attracted a record crowd, who saw them beat what many had seen as a stronger team ... certainly one from a more established base, the opposing club having been founded in the 1880s.
That record crowd was exceeded last Sunday as another competent opposition team were put to the sword (not, thankfully, in a literal sense!). Honours were even with no score at half time, but a second-half goal-fest saw the home team run out 6-1 winners! Excitement mounted over the next 24 hours waiting for the draw for the quarter-finals. With the winners of the two northern ties that were postponed until tomorrow being drawn against each other, the other three matches are clearly defined, and we now know that on 24th of February we will be travelling to Kent to watch them play against Canterbury City.
Also last week, I mentioned an unfortunate accident that befell the jumper I wear for work; sadly today a parallel situation evolved as I came home to discover that I had managed to get grease on the arm of my flourescent jacket. Although it's not an official requirement, I prefer to wear this on the van because it combines being lightweight and manoeuvrable with being wind- and waterproof. There was nothing else for it but another Friday laundry! Fortunately this proved totally successful and even as I write the bright and shining garment is drying across the room.
I spoke, too, about the way my weeks seem to have settled into a regular pattern; part of this is a Wednesday afternoon Bible study group, for which I am joined by a married couple from the other side of the town. We had decided that we wouldn't meet this week, having a 'half-term' break. They have the privilege of living in a small modern estate of retirement homes, and enjoy a number of useful common services with their neighbours. One of these benefits is a communal TV aerial system, which has to undergo regular, if infrequent, maintenance. The unfortunate timing of this event means that our meeting will now have to be cancelled next week as well!
One aspect of the week that is vastly different is yet to come. Last Saturday I was almost completely at home; tomorrow will see me spending almost twelve hours away from my desk, but I'll report on that next weekend!
Saturday, 2 February 2019
Panic, Custard and Rygbi
Now my retirement has settled down into a regular pattern, I come to a Friday afternoon and wonder, 'now what shall I blog about this week?' Yesterday I was thinking that so little had happened of note that I would have to resort - as I did when I was driving - to the diary. But now, of course, there is little recorded there either. By this morning, however, all had become clear; I had two items, one of shame the other of triumph upon which I could expand ... so here goes.
For a day and a half a week I volunteer at the distribution centre that serves a small chain of high street charity shops providing income for our local hospice. On Tuesdays I sit at a computer and on Friday mornings I'm out and about on one of their vans visiting some of the shops. When I got home yesterday, I was cold and tired. The ideal reviver, I decided, spotting a couple of spare donuts in the cupboard, was to cover these with custard to provide a suitable pudding to follow my lunch.
The trouble was that my feet were cold, too. Instead of taking the wise course and sitting at a table to consume my feast, I lounged in my office chair, with the feet on the heater beside the desk. It's an ideal posture for playing a game on my phone late at night, but not for eating custard-covered donuts! It only takes one dribble, doesn't it? Now, I've got one particular jumper that I keep for work (it's an old courier jumper and it's nice and warm) and I didn't fancy turning up in the office on Tuesday with a yellow stain on the front ... even though my day is mostly spent facing the wall.
So now, as I write, I'm surrounded by laundry, brought forward a few days instead of my usual habit of letting it dry overnight mid-week. And it was at this desk that my other 'topic' occurred last evening. My vicar and I have a standing joke regarding the Welsh language. Although she grew up in Wales, she's not a Welsh-speaker and, although I have a Welsh name, try as I might I can't find any Welsh ancestors and certainly didn't speak the language ... until I retired and decided I should learn it.
Last night saw the first match in this year's Six Nations tournament, in which Wales visited France. In the exciting build-up to the game an appropriate post appeared on Facebook from my clerical friend, to which I felt I had to respond ... in Welsh, of course! I've found that learning the language from the textbook has become rather boring of late, and it's degenerated to the same level as learning a computer program. If I have something to do, it's a challenge, and I then find out the way the program can be applied to do it. Last night, I knew what I wanted to say, and then had to find the words to use. A final check with the online translator and a last-minute correction - the curse of mutation puts many off Welsh! - and it was posted.
I then turned on the radio and heard the commentary on the exciting second half, in which Wales < spoiler alert! >
won 24-19! Cymru am byth!
For a day and a half a week I volunteer at the distribution centre that serves a small chain of high street charity shops providing income for our local hospice. On Tuesdays I sit at a computer and on Friday mornings I'm out and about on one of their vans visiting some of the shops. When I got home yesterday, I was cold and tired. The ideal reviver, I decided, spotting a couple of spare donuts in the cupboard, was to cover these with custard to provide a suitable pudding to follow my lunch.
The trouble was that my feet were cold, too. Instead of taking the wise course and sitting at a table to consume my feast, I lounged in my office chair, with the feet on the heater beside the desk. It's an ideal posture for playing a game on my phone late at night, but not for eating custard-covered donuts! It only takes one dribble, doesn't it? Now, I've got one particular jumper that I keep for work (it's an old courier jumper and it's nice and warm) and I didn't fancy turning up in the office on Tuesday with a yellow stain on the front ... even though my day is mostly spent facing the wall.
So now, as I write, I'm surrounded by laundry, brought forward a few days instead of my usual habit of letting it dry overnight mid-week. And it was at this desk that my other 'topic' occurred last evening. My vicar and I have a standing joke regarding the Welsh language. Although she grew up in Wales, she's not a Welsh-speaker and, although I have a Welsh name, try as I might I can't find any Welsh ancestors and certainly didn't speak the language ... until I retired and decided I should learn it.
Last night saw the first match in this year's Six Nations tournament, in which Wales visited France. In the exciting build-up to the game an appropriate post appeared on Facebook from my clerical friend, to which I felt I had to respond ... in Welsh, of course! I've found that learning the language from the textbook has become rather boring of late, and it's degenerated to the same level as learning a computer program. If I have something to do, it's a challenge, and I then find out the way the program can be applied to do it. Last night, I knew what I wanted to say, and then had to find the words to use. A final check with the online translator and a last-minute correction - the curse of mutation puts many off Welsh! - and it was posted.
I then turned on the radio and heard the commentary on the exciting second half, in which Wales < spoiler alert! >
won 24-19! Cymru am byth!
Friday, 25 January 2019
Be Careful What You Wish For!
It was in the dim and distant days beyond recall, when men were men and women were ... but I digress - before I've even started! - let's just say it must have been four or five years ago when I first read about Emily Finch in one of those many unsolicited magazines and leaflets that penetrate the meagre defences of my letterbox flap. She was looking for help to start a charity ... no easy task, as I know from experience! Approving of her aims, I sent her a donation and in response received the occasional e-mail as the project progressed. Now I'm a regular supporter of the Bus Stop by prayer and a standing order.
Last summer, planning an extension to take advantage of my attendance at my cousin's 'big' birthday celebration, I booked a B&B near Huddersfield in order to make visits to three National Trust properties before I surrendered my membership later in the year. Whilst in the area, I thought I might drive through some of the towns and villages where the Bus Stop operates ... just to get a feel of the sort of communities it serves.
The whole plan was thrown into chaos when, with less than a week to go, I suffered a car accident, in which my lovely Tigra was written off. However desperate I might be for road transport to be replaced, it wasn't going to be in place by the end of the week: what was I to do? It needed little thought to hit upon public transport and I decided to go by bus and train, with the result that a beautiful sunny afternoon found me walking across Nottingham city centre from train station to bus depot after the smoothest two-leg train trip you could imagine. The ensuing National Trust bonanza was abandoned, and those Yorkshire villages didn't even get a thought.
The other evening, as I was getting ready for bedtime and made my regular 'final circuit' of e-mail and social media websites before shutting down the computer, I found an invitation to the Bus Stop's AGM in a few weeks' time. Suddenly, in a moment of freedom recognised, I realised that, instead of a swift 'it's a long way away, click-and-delete', there was actually no reason that I shouldn't go to the meeting. It's being held in the middle of York, almost opposite the famous Betty's Cafe Tea Rooms so, when I found the location, my next thought was where would I park the car? and I began to scour the map of York for car parks.
I soon discovered the NCP at the railway station and all at once I made the link I'd forgotten about all those months ago. To take the train would certainly overcome the parking difficulties but the very fact of going to the AGM would bring me directly into contact with the organisation, instead of the vague 'well, this is the place' experience that my summer plan would have achieved. With a few more clicks I had discovered a direct train in each direction and made the booking. I now have the tickets on my noticeboard, ready for use when the time comes, and all I need is fine weather to catch my initial bus, and then for my walk to the venue when I get there.
Talk about wishes being granted!
Last summer, planning an extension to take advantage of my attendance at my cousin's 'big' birthday celebration, I booked a B&B near Huddersfield in order to make visits to three National Trust properties before I surrendered my membership later in the year. Whilst in the area, I thought I might drive through some of the towns and villages where the Bus Stop operates ... just to get a feel of the sort of communities it serves.
The whole plan was thrown into chaos when, with less than a week to go, I suffered a car accident, in which my lovely Tigra was written off. However desperate I might be for road transport to be replaced, it wasn't going to be in place by the end of the week: what was I to do? It needed little thought to hit upon public transport and I decided to go by bus and train, with the result that a beautiful sunny afternoon found me walking across Nottingham city centre from train station to bus depot after the smoothest two-leg train trip you could imagine. The ensuing National Trust bonanza was abandoned, and those Yorkshire villages didn't even get a thought.
The other evening, as I was getting ready for bedtime and made my regular 'final circuit' of e-mail and social media websites before shutting down the computer, I found an invitation to the Bus Stop's AGM in a few weeks' time. Suddenly, in a moment of freedom recognised, I realised that, instead of a swift 'it's a long way away, click-and-delete', there was actually no reason that I shouldn't go to the meeting. It's being held in the middle of York, almost opposite the famous Betty's Cafe Tea Rooms so, when I found the location, my next thought was where would I park the car? and I began to scour the map of York for car parks.
I soon discovered the NCP at the railway station and all at once I made the link I'd forgotten about all those months ago. To take the train would certainly overcome the parking difficulties but the very fact of going to the AGM would bring me directly into contact with the organisation, instead of the vague 'well, this is the place' experience that my summer plan would have achieved. With a few more clicks I had discovered a direct train in each direction and made the booking. I now have the tickets on my noticeboard, ready for use when the time comes, and all I need is fine weather to catch my initial bus, and then for my walk to the venue when I get there.
Talk about wishes being granted!
Friday, 18 January 2019
Mary, Who Were You?
Despite all that the advertisements claim about family history research being easier with the advent of on-line searches by the score, countless millions of events now indexed and all the rest, I can't believe my ever-extending list of ancestors who just refuse to be traced is unique. We could be forgiven for thinking that people a century or two ago conspired to make life difficult for prying descendants who are trying to uncover all their little secrets.
My general pattern of activity of late in that field has been the filling-in of gaps in the basic details of some of my closer relatives; the one who has attracted this present ire is but one example. The story began with my maternal grandmother's aunt, who married the eldest of eight brothers and this tale starts with one of those brothers, the third of the eight, named Joseph Munford.
I already knew that he was born in Norfolk in the first quarter of 1851 and that he died in Co. Durham fifty-two years later. He was married to Mary and they had three children, Elizabeth, Joseph junior and Fred. I even knew when the children were born and had identified the deaths of the two sons but there, three years or so ago, I'd left it.
Just before Christmas, I tried to find out more. My research path seemed so straightforward. Since I last looked at this family, the GRO has published indexes that show the maiden name of the mothers of all children whose births have been registered since 1837. I already had the children's birth records; all I needed to do was look up those three entries in this index, identify their mother and look up the marriage. If only it were that simple! I found the three entries all right but the first showed the name Patterson, the second Fulcher and the third nothing at all ... which is usually the sign that the birth was illegitimate.
Then I remembered that I had located the family's entry on the 1911 census. I looked at this again. Here, sure enough, was Mary, now a widow, with her three children. She had given her age as 50 ... although she had been consistently aged 30, 40 and 49 in the three previous censuses. Maybe she looked young for her age and sought a new partner; Joseph had been dead 8 years by then. Mary had completed the so-called fertility data although, as a widow, she didn't need to. She had had eight children: the three living with her and five who had died. This would account for these three being aged 29, 19 and 9.
I turned again to the indexes. I found no less than ten Munford - or Mumford (the names became easily confused, even by the people themselves) - children between 1874 and 1894, all registered in the same Auckland district and all with the surname Patterson (except for one that was Pattison). The list didn't, of course, include Joseph, who had been registered to a mother named Fulcher. It was about then that I realised that, although the birth of Elizabeth was in the March quarter of 1881, she hadn't appeared on the census that year ... and, when she was listed in 1891, it was as a nine-year-old. Now, for most of their married life they had lived in Merrington Lane, Spennymoor but, in 1881, Joseph and Mary had been living at Ferry Hill, which was in the neighbouring district, Stockton; there was a birth of an Elizabeth Munford in Stockton in the September quarter of 1881, with the mother's maiden name given as Fulshaw ... not too much of a stretch of the imagination from Fulcher!
Was I following a false lead looking for Patterson (or similar)? Were there lots of births to Fulcher mothers as well? After checking both districts, I could find only the two I already knew about, whether registered as Munford or Mumford. I decided to begin another search 'from the other end'. In 1881, Mary's birthplace had been given as Winfarthing, Norfolk, the same as Joseph's; later it was curtailed to Norfolk, with no place name. I looked first for a Munford-Patterson marriage in Norfolk, not expecting much success, because Joseph was already living in lodgings in Co. Durham in 1871. I opened the search nationwide, still with no success. There was an Auckland marriage in 1874 of Robert Munford to either Mary Ann Ridley or Elizabeth Pattison which caught my eye because Joseph's father was named Robert, which could imply a confused parish clerk, but for this to be the one I sought, it would also need the brides' names to be mixed up as well. Furthermore, there was no birth registered anywhere in Norfolk between 1837 and 1856 for either of these women.
What can I make of my researches? With any certainty, nothing. By assuming some degree of deception, a number of possibilities emerge, none of them convincing. Mary might have been born locally in Co. Durham or have migrated from a third area to meet Joseph in that area. Maybe they just called themselves by his name without being married. If she really were Mary Patterson, did she lie about her age and, if so, by how much? If her '50 in 1911' claim were correct, she could have been living as a housewife in 1881 and saying she was 30, but would she already have had three children, the earliest registered six years before? If she were really Mary Fulshaw, or Fulcher (which fits the two elder surviving children), is it likely that she would have had no intervening children? If that really were the situation, why, as a '50-year-old' widow in 1911, would she have claimed five more who had died? Would this have won her a 'sympathy vote' of some kind with a prospective suitor?
As I stray into the world of fantasy, I ask, could there have been two women involved? Could Mary have died after the birth of the second surviving child and replaced by a 'younger model'? It wouldn't be the first time for a second wife to share the same name as the first. I did say 'fantasy'. There are no suitable death or marriage records in the Auckland district for those years ... I didn't look further afield. And anyway, why would such a second wife lie about the children when, as a widow, she wouldn't have to supply that information anyway? And why would the four of them all be living together? We could imagine the 9-year-old's situation, especially if this woman were his real mother anyway, but in that instance what would keep the two elder ones at home?
The deaths of these two ladies is also shrouded in conjecture. The only death I could find for Mary Mumford in the right age-range was in Worthing in 1937. You couldn't get much further from home than that! As for Elizabeth, her daughter, ... there is a death of a 56-year-old Elizabeth Mumford in 1939 in Durham Western district (age too young), but the only two marriages of that name in the Durham area are one in 1913 to Walter Smith (but the bride has a middle initial 'U'), or one in 1938 to Fred Storey. Without a certificate to indicate ages, the latter is a possibility, and could fit in with some notion of caring for an ailing mother on the south coast. There are a number of women on the 1939 register with that name, but none apparently married to Fred (although many married women were not with their husbands in September 1939!) and two possible death records exist for a 75-year-old Elizabeth Storey, one in 1954 and the other in 1955; but not a shred of evidence to link them to me!
So, my records remain blank for all these details; after all, how far does conjecture stretch?
My general pattern of activity of late in that field has been the filling-in of gaps in the basic details of some of my closer relatives; the one who has attracted this present ire is but one example. The story began with my maternal grandmother's aunt, who married the eldest of eight brothers and this tale starts with one of those brothers, the third of the eight, named Joseph Munford.
I already knew that he was born in Norfolk in the first quarter of 1851 and that he died in Co. Durham fifty-two years later. He was married to Mary and they had three children, Elizabeth, Joseph junior and Fred. I even knew when the children were born and had identified the deaths of the two sons but there, three years or so ago, I'd left it.
Just before Christmas, I tried to find out more. My research path seemed so straightforward. Since I last looked at this family, the GRO has published indexes that show the maiden name of the mothers of all children whose births have been registered since 1837. I already had the children's birth records; all I needed to do was look up those three entries in this index, identify their mother and look up the marriage. If only it were that simple! I found the three entries all right but the first showed the name Patterson, the second Fulcher and the third nothing at all ... which is usually the sign that the birth was illegitimate.
Then I remembered that I had located the family's entry on the 1911 census. I looked at this again. Here, sure enough, was Mary, now a widow, with her three children. She had given her age as 50 ... although she had been consistently aged 30, 40 and 49 in the three previous censuses. Maybe she looked young for her age and sought a new partner; Joseph had been dead 8 years by then. Mary had completed the so-called fertility data although, as a widow, she didn't need to. She had had eight children: the three living with her and five who had died. This would account for these three being aged 29, 19 and 9.
I turned again to the indexes. I found no less than ten Munford - or Mumford (the names became easily confused, even by the people themselves) - children between 1874 and 1894, all registered in the same Auckland district and all with the surname Patterson (except for one that was Pattison). The list didn't, of course, include Joseph, who had been registered to a mother named Fulcher. It was about then that I realised that, although the birth of Elizabeth was in the March quarter of 1881, she hadn't appeared on the census that year ... and, when she was listed in 1891, it was as a nine-year-old. Now, for most of their married life they had lived in Merrington Lane, Spennymoor but, in 1881, Joseph and Mary had been living at Ferry Hill, which was in the neighbouring district, Stockton; there was a birth of an Elizabeth Munford in Stockton in the September quarter of 1881, with the mother's maiden name given as Fulshaw ... not too much of a stretch of the imagination from Fulcher!
Was I following a false lead looking for Patterson (or similar)? Were there lots of births to Fulcher mothers as well? After checking both districts, I could find only the two I already knew about, whether registered as Munford or Mumford. I decided to begin another search 'from the other end'. In 1881, Mary's birthplace had been given as Winfarthing, Norfolk, the same as Joseph's; later it was curtailed to Norfolk, with no place name. I looked first for a Munford-Patterson marriage in Norfolk, not expecting much success, because Joseph was already living in lodgings in Co. Durham in 1871. I opened the search nationwide, still with no success. There was an Auckland marriage in 1874 of Robert Munford to either Mary Ann Ridley or Elizabeth Pattison which caught my eye because Joseph's father was named Robert, which could imply a confused parish clerk, but for this to be the one I sought, it would also need the brides' names to be mixed up as well. Furthermore, there was no birth registered anywhere in Norfolk between 1837 and 1856 for either of these women.
What can I make of my researches? With any certainty, nothing. By assuming some degree of deception, a number of possibilities emerge, none of them convincing. Mary might have been born locally in Co. Durham or have migrated from a third area to meet Joseph in that area. Maybe they just called themselves by his name without being married. If she really were Mary Patterson, did she lie about her age and, if so, by how much? If her '50 in 1911' claim were correct, she could have been living as a housewife in 1881 and saying she was 30, but would she already have had three children, the earliest registered six years before? If she were really Mary Fulshaw, or Fulcher (which fits the two elder surviving children), is it likely that she would have had no intervening children? If that really were the situation, why, as a '50-year-old' widow in 1911, would she have claimed five more who had died? Would this have won her a 'sympathy vote' of some kind with a prospective suitor?
As I stray into the world of fantasy, I ask, could there have been two women involved? Could Mary have died after the birth of the second surviving child and replaced by a 'younger model'? It wouldn't be the first time for a second wife to share the same name as the first. I did say 'fantasy'. There are no suitable death or marriage records in the Auckland district for those years ... I didn't look further afield. And anyway, why would such a second wife lie about the children when, as a widow, she wouldn't have to supply that information anyway? And why would the four of them all be living together? We could imagine the 9-year-old's situation, especially if this woman were his real mother anyway, but in that instance what would keep the two elder ones at home?
The deaths of these two ladies is also shrouded in conjecture. The only death I could find for Mary Mumford in the right age-range was in Worthing in 1937. You couldn't get much further from home than that! As for Elizabeth, her daughter, ... there is a death of a 56-year-old Elizabeth Mumford in 1939 in Durham Western district (age too young), but the only two marriages of that name in the Durham area are one in 1913 to Walter Smith (but the bride has a middle initial 'U'), or one in 1938 to Fred Storey. Without a certificate to indicate ages, the latter is a possibility, and could fit in with some notion of caring for an ailing mother on the south coast. There are a number of women on the 1939 register with that name, but none apparently married to Fred (although many married women were not with their husbands in September 1939!) and two possible death records exist for a 75-year-old Elizabeth Storey, one in 1954 and the other in 1955; but not a shred of evidence to link them to me!
So, my records remain blank for all these details; after all, how far does conjecture stretch?
Friday, 11 January 2019
First and Four-most
It's been a week marked by a number of 'firsts' in one way or another.
About nine years ago, I picked up once more a habit I dropped at the age of about fourteen, that of watching live football. Not until recently, however, have I adopted what seems to be a universal trait of footie-following males (I'm not being sexist; I simply have no experience of this behaviour in females), in that there is one team that each refers to in conversation in the first person, e.g. "We thrashed So-and-so United this week," when, as individuals, they may have been tens, perhaps hundreds, of miles from the ground, let alone one of the team.
"My team" in this regard is the one of which my former boss is joint manager, Biggleswade FC. They weren't founded until 2016 so, in one achievement after another, they can legitimately claim the occasion to be their first. This Sunday to my delight - and that of about half of a record crowd of 527 - they achieved perhaps their greatest first so far in their short existence. For the first time, they reached the fifth round of the FA Vase competition. Last season they reached the fourth round, when they succumbed to the team that eventually lifted the trophy. This year, as a result of an 87th minute goal, they have gone one stage further, making it to the last sixteen teams in this national contest. To be fair, this would have been a first time honour for whichever team had won the match but, considering that their opponents, Stowmarket Town, have had since 1883 to make their mark, this has to have been of greater value to 'my' team.
Early next morning, came the next 'first-time' shock of the week. For three years and more a handful of us have been gathering at church on Monday mornings for a simple breakfast, Bible-reading and prayer. One of our number has difficulty getting up, and often arrives just as we're getting under way. We all value his company and are grateful for his efforts, and he joins in the amusement, often joking about his late arrival as coffee is poured for him and a plate is passed. This Monday, to our surprise and pleasure - and possibly to his as well - he arrived before we began!
On Wednesday, it could well have been me who was the embarrassed one. Our church home group meets alternately at my home and another one. This week saw the first gathering of the new year, and as I planned my week, I remembered that I should need to get my room ready as usual after lunch on Wednesday. At 2.0, therefore, with the scene set in readiness, I was patiently reading a book when, glancing at the clock, I had a moment's panic and, upon research, discovered that I should by then be knocking on a door on the other side of town. It wasn't a 'diary malfunction'; the diary hadn't even been consulted! For whatever reason, I was absolutely certain that the meeting was at mine ... but it wasn't. One thing we decided later was that, in a few weeks' time, we shall experiment with a video-assisted study, following a suggestion from our vicar of a particular course we might like to follow. This will be a first for us all.
This morning at breakfast, I fumed, "I've had enough!" I've lost count of the times I've had to explore the innards of my toaster with a narrow knife to recover the remains of a slice that has not managed to navigate its way out of the top of the 'operation zone'. Some years ago, when I had a motorhome, I obtained a toaster on freecycle to put in it and discovered, to my great pleasure, that it was big enough to take a full-size slice of bread.
Sadly, I had it only a short while before it decided it had toasted its last slice and it passed to that eternal kitchen cupboard from which there is no return (aka the council tip). I replaced it with a cheap one from the local supermarket and ever since then I've been scouring the shelves of Morrisons in a suspicious manner, looking for the loaf with the lowest profile, in an effort to make sure that this cheap toaster will accommodate my breakfast slice.
Now the worm has turned. After prolonged investigation on line, I have gained fluency in toaster-speak, learned the euphemisms used to disguise the fact that particular models - despite having 'wide slots, so you can toast crumpets' - will only accept 'square' bread, and also discovered one particular model whose unique selling point is that it will 'toast the whole slice'. Sadly this one is also priced in line with the rarity of its qualification. At last, I've settled for one with a 248mm slot to take four slices or four buns! It's cheaper than the 'toast the whole slice' luxury but, with that capacity, it ought to be able to meet my limited requirements with room to spare!
Watch this space ...!
About nine years ago, I picked up once more a habit I dropped at the age of about fourteen, that of watching live football. Not until recently, however, have I adopted what seems to be a universal trait of footie-following males (I'm not being sexist; I simply have no experience of this behaviour in females), in that there is one team that each refers to in conversation in the first person, e.g. "We thrashed So-and-so United this week," when, as individuals, they may have been tens, perhaps hundreds, of miles from the ground, let alone one of the team.
"My team" in this regard is the one of which my former boss is joint manager, Biggleswade FC. They weren't founded until 2016 so, in one achievement after another, they can legitimately claim the occasion to be their first. This Sunday to my delight - and that of about half of a record crowd of 527 - they achieved perhaps their greatest first so far in their short existence. For the first time, they reached the fifth round of the FA Vase competition. Last season they reached the fourth round, when they succumbed to the team that eventually lifted the trophy. This year, as a result of an 87th minute goal, they have gone one stage further, making it to the last sixteen teams in this national contest. To be fair, this would have been a first time honour for whichever team had won the match but, considering that their opponents, Stowmarket Town, have had since 1883 to make their mark, this has to have been of greater value to 'my' team.
Early next morning, came the next 'first-time' shock of the week. For three years and more a handful of us have been gathering at church on Monday mornings for a simple breakfast, Bible-reading and prayer. One of our number has difficulty getting up, and often arrives just as we're getting under way. We all value his company and are grateful for his efforts, and he joins in the amusement, often joking about his late arrival as coffee is poured for him and a plate is passed. This Monday, to our surprise and pleasure - and possibly to his as well - he arrived before we began!
On Wednesday, it could well have been me who was the embarrassed one. Our church home group meets alternately at my home and another one. This week saw the first gathering of the new year, and as I planned my week, I remembered that I should need to get my room ready as usual after lunch on Wednesday. At 2.0, therefore, with the scene set in readiness, I was patiently reading a book when, glancing at the clock, I had a moment's panic and, upon research, discovered that I should by then be knocking on a door on the other side of town. It wasn't a 'diary malfunction'; the diary hadn't even been consulted! For whatever reason, I was absolutely certain that the meeting was at mine ... but it wasn't. One thing we decided later was that, in a few weeks' time, we shall experiment with a video-assisted study, following a suggestion from our vicar of a particular course we might like to follow. This will be a first for us all.
This morning at breakfast, I fumed, "I've had enough!" I've lost count of the times I've had to explore the innards of my toaster with a narrow knife to recover the remains of a slice that has not managed to navigate its way out of the top of the 'operation zone'. Some years ago, when I had a motorhome, I obtained a toaster on freecycle to put in it and discovered, to my great pleasure, that it was big enough to take a full-size slice of bread.
Sadly, I had it only a short while before it decided it had toasted its last slice and it passed to that eternal kitchen cupboard from which there is no return (aka the council tip). I replaced it with a cheap one from the local supermarket and ever since then I've been scouring the shelves of Morrisons in a suspicious manner, looking for the loaf with the lowest profile, in an effort to make sure that this cheap toaster will accommodate my breakfast slice.
Now the worm has turned. After prolonged investigation on line, I have gained fluency in toaster-speak, learned the euphemisms used to disguise the fact that particular models - despite having 'wide slots, so you can toast crumpets' - will only accept 'square' bread, and also discovered one particular model whose unique selling point is that it will 'toast the whole slice'. Sadly this one is also priced in line with the rarity of its qualification. At last, I've settled for one with a 248mm slot to take four slices or four buns! It's cheaper than the 'toast the whole slice' luxury but, with that capacity, it ought to be able to meet my limited requirements with room to spare!
Watch this space ...!
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