No Room in the Inn

It's a phrase that won't be unfamiliar today and many readers will know that it comes from Luke's Gospel.  As a doctor, Luke was meticulous in his research and probably got this straight from Mary, along with some description of the journey from Nazareth to Bethlehem when heavily pregnant.  It was census time and hoards of people were flocking to Bethlehem, taking up all available accommodation, and they had to make do with a stable as the place for Jesus to be born.

'Couldn't God have planned a more suitable place?' we might ask.  But the Almighty knew what He was doing.  After all, Jesus wasn't born a King (despite what the carol might say), but born to be King.  If he was going to be accepted as their King, he had to live a human life, to know the ins and outs of the lives of His lowliest subjects.  Just consider recent news bulletins for a moment.  How much fuss has there been about the removal of the £20 enhancement to Universal Credit ('let them try to live on what we've got left after paying for rent and heat!') and now last year's Christmas parties during lockdown ('one law for them and one for the rest of us!')  

What respect is there for a ruler who doesn't know how his people live?  That's one reason we fight for proportional representation: so that we can be represented by someone who's like us, rather than an outsider 'parachuted in' to scoop up enough votes to get elected, and then isn't seen again until the next election ... but I digress.

We know why it was a stable, then.  But I want to suggest symbolic understanding of that phrase, 'no room in the inn'.  If we have no respect for our representatives in parliament, we have no time for them.  We aren't interested in what they say, and resent any effect their actions might have on our lives.  We have no room in our lives to give them consideration: 'no room in our inn', so to speak.  It was the same for the people of Judea two thousand years ago.

Their land was under Roman occupation.  Their lives were governed by a combination of Roman law, enforced by the Governor and his underlings, and the Jewish hierarchy led by the High Priest.  Now, the priests had developed their own set of rules over the centuries, gradually corrupting the Law introduced by Moses to regulate the behaviour of the Chosen People for the benefit of all.  The result was a system that favoured the ruling class at the cost of the rest.  

As Jesus' ministry developed and became popular, the Pharisees (the party of the High Priest) resented the way this 'upstart son-of-a-carpenter' was undermining a society that they had moulded for their own benefit.  The common people, though, loved Him because He had grown up among them; He knew the problems they faced and used His power to heal them and help them.  Meanwhile, He taught them about God's love for them, showing them many ways in which the Priests (whose job that should have been) weren't doing what they were there for.

The difference between Jesus and this 'Robin Hood' characterisation that I may have portrayed here, was that He was the Son of God and, when the inevitable happened and He was killed, that wasn't the end of the story.  In fact it was just the end of the prologue.  Just as God's power had brought about His birth in that stable, so it also brought about His resurrection.  Jesus overcame a very real and certain death and, after being seen sufficiently to give evidence of this defeat of the power of death to frighten people, He was taken back into Heaven, where he reigns still.

So, what about us, as we go about the busyness of our lives.  It's Christmas ... there are decorations, presents, families to meet and greet and people to feed.  There are many anxieties brought about by this wretched Covid, anxieties that almost supercede those about the 'arrangements', whether everything will go smoothly, family members get on with each other, and so on ......................  

What about us?  

Where does that stable fit into our lives?  Do we have time to remember the babe-lying-in-a-manger all those years ago, who He was, why He came and why He was born in a stable?

Is there room in the 'Inn of our Heart' for Him?

Cousins or Not?

In a hypothetical encounter between a genealogist and someone who isn't one, the most likely question of the latter to the former would be along the lines of 'What's all this about different grades of cousins and their removal?'  Let's face it, it's confusing enough for those of us who know about these things.  One definition would be the relationship between two people who share a common ancestor two or more generations older than them.

There are all manner of charts that attempt to explain the 'grades and removals'.  For my part, I prefer to find that common ancestor and work forward.  I'd probably do this on the back of the proverbial envelope (once I've removed the Christmas card, of course).  I work down the generations counting, 'Siblings, first cousins, second cousins, third, fourth fifth ...' and so on, until I arrive at one of the candidates, which will define the 'grade'.  I then carry on, now counting, 'Once, twice, three times ...' until I get to the other candidate, at which point I've determined how many 'times removed'.

To get the 'feel' of the relationship once I've defined it, I try and think of people I know, or have known in the past.  When I was very young, for example, if I were not at school on market day when the buses came into town from the surrounding villages, we might be visited by 'Cousin Emma', sometimes accompanied by her widowed sister, 'Cousin Mary'.  These venerable ladies, who looked terribly old to me, but were in fact less than 70 years my senior, had come for a chat and a cuppa (and no doubt a toilet break) before catching their respective buses home.  My relationship to either of these would be first cousin, twice removed, for they were, in common parlance, my grandmother's cousins, and our common ancestor was one William Brickham (1806-1889), who was their grandfather and my great-great-grandfather.

Another personal example features someone whom I knew long before I discovered we were related.  This lady, Elaine, was a skilled musician, and took over from my wife as the church organist when my daughter was born.  Occasionally, she would bring with her a wizened older woman who was her mother, and sometimes referred to as 'the princess'.  I gave her no thought at all until, many years later, I discovered that Elaine and I were related, and I found that her mother really was a princess: that old lady's father was the last Crown Prince of Burma, when it became a British colony in the 19th century.

The common ancestor who relates me to Elaine is one William Bootman (1768-1848), my great-great-great-grandfather, and we are fourth cousins, once removed.  What tickles me most about this discovery is that, in addition to being the church organist, she later became a teacher at the local high school, and my daughter, who was her fifth cousin, was one of her pupils!

This brings me to another whole dimension of this subject of cousins.  If, for example two sisters marry, each would regard the husband of the other her brother-in-law; she would have no blood relationship or common ancestor with him, but he would be related solely by the legal connection of marriage to her sister.  And it's quite possible that, particularly if they lived in the same community, the two men would consider themselves to be brothers-in-law, although only related by two independent marriages.  So far as I'm aware, there is no such link, either formal or informal, between cousins and their cousins' spouses.  I can't therefore claim any personal connection to royalty as a result of this cousin-ship, for Elaine's father (my fourth cousin) had married the Princess Alexandrina Victoria Evelyn MOWNG LAT in Burma in 1931.  The very most I could claim - and it would be so pretentious as to be embarrassing were I do to so - would be that the late princess was 'my fourth cousin by marriage'.

Next, let me introduce another musical connection.  One of the consequences of large families is a noticeable difference in age between the two ends of the next generation.  I have a second cousin - whom I have never met in the flesh - who is a prominent brass player.  Our common ancestor is our great-grandfather, who had a total of 11 children, born between 1884 and 1907.  My grandfather was the eldest of these; his was the youngest.  Strangely enough, he was in my daughter's class at school, and may well have been taught by Elaine as well!  One day, I had the great good fortune to be in the audience of a concert at which one of the performers was introduced in terms from which I understood that she was his fiancée.  Afterwards, I announced my connection to him and we have shared correspondence and personal interest ever since.  She is my second cousin by marriage; we consider ourselves to be cousins.  Do we have that right?

During the autumn I received advice from Lost Cousins of a connection that I'm now in the process of following up.  It transpires that my first cousin, three times removed (the niece of my great-great-grandmother), born in 1860, married the brother of this woman's great-great-grandfather.  We have another, equally tenuous link, in that the uncle of these two brothers became the second husband of that same great-great-grandmother's sister-in-law after her brother's death in 1874.  I think the nearest I can calculate our relationship is fourth cousins once removed, by marriage.

I challenge you, dear reader, if you want a Boxing Day puzzle, to work that one out!  In the meantime, I ask once more, are we cousins?

A Much-Blessed Survivor!

You know how it is when you're doing something repetitive.  You wonder if perhaps there might be a better way of doing it that would save time or effort ... or both and, depending on the circumstances, possibly a whole lot of money, too!  I found myself in just such a situation some years ago, tried doing it a different way and realised that this wasn't the first time that week that I'd changed my method and improved the technique.  Observing that that particular task, once finished, was unlikely to recur, I coined the mantra: "By the time I've finished this job, I'll have refined to the utmost a skill that I'll never need again."

Once it was into my head, I've been astonished just how often this has proved to be true.  The latest example of this truism came this week.  Early this year, I joined an organisation whose aim is the provision of ancillary services to Christian missionaries, one of whose activities is the conversion of printed scriptures into a digital format for more modern and wider use in teaching people whose first language might be in common use by only a few thousand people across the world.

Apart from the basic typing operation, which I started with, there are other standard processes that lead to the completion of each project, and I've now progressed to the second level of this sequence that carries the label 'Editing'.  In addition to these standard processes, the same bespoke software we use is also able to tackle a number of 'one-off' tasks that particular projects require ... I expect you can already see where this line is going.  One such task came my way this week, a case of basic data manipulation within a series of  digital documents, each of which was a book of the Bible in the client language.

Along with a small number of fellow-editors, I was asked to perform this job using the program in whatever way we found it convenient to achieve the specified object, so long as the result still adhered to the printed original.  Needless to say, by the end of the task I'd tried several different approaches, at the end of which the same 'By the time I've finished ...' axiom had been proven yet again.

Some eight years ago, in my family history studies, I devised a check-list to make sure that all the various records that I keep had been completed.  The form itself has passed through seven or eight iterations, reaching what - for the present, at least - is the most useful document for the purpose.  Much of my spare time over the last year and more has been devoted to one particular branch of my family, about which I've occasionally written here.  My basic intention when I set out last autumn was to fill in some of the blanks in earlier data that more recent use of my document had revealed.

The 'Bullingham Project', as it became known, proved to be many times bigger than I first thought and, the longer it dragged on, the more I bemoaned the fact that I hadn't devised my checklist earlier.  I can relate the story of one particular young lady, whose family had fallen victim to just the degree of glossing over and oversight that the project was intended to overcome.  I might add in mitigation that more information has become available since original research announced her existence, but my checklist might have avoided some of the problems had it been in use at the time. 

This particular woman delighted in the distinctive forenames 'Alice Octavia'.  Alice was the youngest of a family of eight (as you might guess).  In 1901, her family appears in as correct a form as possible: father, mother, two sons and five daughters, listed in sequence, of whom Alice was the last-named.  With that name, Octavia, she had to be the eighth child, though.  Usually in these circumstances, my next step would be to look at the 1911 census, where the so-called 'fertility' questions would provide the precise boundaries for the research.  In this instance this facility was denied me, however, since the mother of these children died in 1903.  (This resource isn't always as helpful as it might seem, either.  I remember looking at one family where the woman claimed to have had twelve children, of whom seven were still living.  However, apart from the seven living ones, I was able to trace only one more child who had been born and died between censuses, and therefore never been recorded.)

At the time of my original research, I had found one instance of a birth and death in the same quarter, and had included this child as the eighth one I had been looking for.  As I now looked at the page with fresh eyes, though, I was suspicious.  My cousin, Alice's daughter, had provided me with the precise birth dates of her mother and the six aunts and uncles she knew.  Her mother was born in November 1900, and her youngest aunt in July 1898.  The birth of the infant I'd found, who had died in the same quarter as she was born, had also been registered in the September quarter of 1898.  Although there was no note to that effect, I think I had previously thought of these two as twins, one of whom had died, and the other survived.

I felt I ought to check.  If this were the case, then their birth registrations would be identical (or would differ by one, if one child were the last entry on one page and the other the first entry on the next page).  In this case, Alice's known sister was registered with the number 974; the infant who died appeared under the reference 970 ... unlikely if they were twins.  Since that initial research, the Registration Office has released the new facility, where the mother's maiden name of each birth registration can be looked up on line.  This makes research of this nature much simpler.  I checked all seven of the 'known' children and found that the name applied to each registration was Bailey, confirming the family link.  The name for the child under reference 970 was ... Parsons.  She was clearly not the girl - or boy - I sought.

Next, I checked each year around the times these known children were born, right back to the time of their parents' marriage (and a little before 'just in case'), both in the Suffolk area where the family were living and also where the marriage took place, which was in London, Miss Bailey having been born in Kent.  Eventually, I came up with just one additional birth with the mother's maiden name shown as Bailey, and a quick check revealed that she, too, had died within weeks of her birth, and so missed any census record.  'Annie, born and died 1898' was quickly changed to 'Mary Jane, born and died 1890', and I noted with some satisfaction that this infant had also been given two forenames as had all of her siblings, except for two who had enjoyed the luxury of three! 

One of these - the firstborn of the eight - had his own distinctive name, George, to which had been appended both of his father's, Allen James, while the daughter born in the jubilee year of 1897 was called by the names of three generations of royalty, Victoria Alexandra May, these last two being the spouses of the Prince of Wales (later Edward VII) and the Duke of York (later George V).

My wonderful checklist (now identified as version 3.2), though tedious, is one I now use constantly, and has long surpassed its original inclusion in the 'when I've finished' category described above.

Am I My Brother's Keeper?

I've just bought a new pair of curtains.  I'm sure you all wanted to know that.  (In case you are interested, the colour is described - unnecessarily alcoholically, in my opinion - as 'champagne', and there's a picture below).  There's nothing unusual about that, of course, particularly with a new home to fit them into.  As it happens, it was one of three significant purchases this week.  Having done my research beforehand, I found I had to go to a second store for the curtains, but it was at a price that enabled me to make my two other purchases and still have 'change' from the price my research had indicated.

When it comes to things like that, things I could really make do without, I always feel under some obligation to justify myself.  After all, I've been living behind temporary window coverings for the last few months ... what was preventing my continuing to do so?  It's just that they were quite thin and I felt that something more substantial would make the room feel warmer for the winter ... and possibly reduce the (as yet unquantified) heating bills!

As I go through my post I put aside begging letters from charities with whose aims I agree.  Then, once a month, I go through these and decide whether to give them some money or, if not, whether the letter is recycled or left in the basket for another time.  Justifying the expenditure on curtains is part of that same agony over charitable giving.  

I'm not wealthy, but I can be comfortable ... within the general scenario that I have a finite amount of money that will have to keep me in whatever state I choose for as long as I have left on this earth.  It's all a matter of responsibility.  If I decide to splash out on a luxury cruise, for example, I know that it will reduce the amount of time I can spend in comparative comfort before I have to get out the begging bowl; if I make an elaborate gift to a charity, it will ultimately reduce what a handful of chosen institutions will share as the residue of my estate.

I've been reminded that 'Christmas is coming'.  I'm heartened to hear that increasing numbers of people are boycotting the annual expensive and meaningless exchange of presents: 'using money they don't have, to buy gifts that won't last, for people who neither need nor will appreciate them', as someone neatly put it.  If this process is stripped back to its essentials, it is fundamentally to satisfy the need of the giver to give ... or maybe, less altruistically, to be seen to give.  A pressure comes from outside of ourselves - some would call it God's hand, others would not - to respond to benefits we have received in the past year, maybe faithful service rendered, maybe some tangible gift received.

I spend very little on my festive celebrations - just a few luxuries I wouldn't have during the rest of the year - and allocate an additional amount to the 'charity basket'.  Ten or fifteen years ago, when I was a fan of Sir Terry Wogan, part of my Christmas giving went to Children in Need; other charities I've supported at this time of year are Crisis, Shelter and the excellent work of the Salvation Army.  This year, I'm thinking of pushing something in the direction of organisations trying to alleviate the suffering of starving people in Yemen, Ethiopia or Afghanistan, always remembering that, within months of His birth, our Saviour was a refugee.

It's not that my humble contribution to whichever charity receives it will achieve their aims overnight.  In the overall scheme of things, it might not make much difference at all.  A few weeks ago, I wrote here at the end of what I described as a 'political rant', referring to the wise saying of a friend on this matter.  It's not a question of how much good I'm doing, rather one of making a worthwhile response to that external pressure to give.

With Christmas in the air, it seems that the media have taken up cudgels on behalf of those who feel inadequately advised about Christmas parties.  There is much about our present government and its doings with which I would take issue; however, on this matter I'm with them.  The situation is clear.  While legislation only requires mask-wearing in shops and on public transport, it does not ban gatherings and parties (as it did last year).  Alongside this legislation is abundant advice about hand-washing and distance keeping; there is strong encouragement about being vaccinated and nothing to stop people wearing a mask in situations where they are not legally obliged to do so if they feel it to the advantage of others or themselves.  One politician even suggested refraining from 'snogging under the mistletoe'.

In the face of all this, I have to ask, "Have we forgotten how to make up our own minds?"  There are aspects of this advice to apply to the various features of most parties.  Surely we are capable of making sensible arrangements for our guests; if invited to join with our friends and families, to consider whether we are comfortable with the suggested entertainment; and if matters are not to our feelings of personal safety, to politely refrain and be understood in that?

And finally, for the curtain-curious:

Keep the Home Fires Burning

There can be few who are not aware of this song, so evocative of the First World War.  While we may not know the verses, like many songs of the age, we've probably heard at least part of the chorus.  It gives voice to the emotion of the families left at home while their menfolk were at the front, as it ends, "Turn the dark cloud inside out, till the boys come home."  How true were these words by Lena Guilbert Ford, set to music by Ivor Novello, for whom they were his first musical success?

For many returning it was a change of scenery, and a relief from constant shelling and danger, but it was a difficult rather than warming and welcoming home-coming.  One veteran of the conflict told of his first night at home for four years, "My mother came to wake me up in the morning and found me sleeping on the floor."  After so long a real bed with proper sheets felt so strange.  

Few, we're told, spoke about their experiences of the war.  Not only was this because of the inherent horror of the memories, but - as many found when they were home on leave - life in the safe and rosy countryside of England was so different from what had become normal for them, that there was no point where the two worlds could touch to form a basis for meaningful conversation.  I believe the same was true of the Second World War.  Of my closest relatives who served, only one survived, and he said very little about it, if anything.  

To those who weren't directly involved in these conflicts, the horrors of war were irrelevant.  To many, especially if they were fortunate enough not to have lost loved ones, the wars' greatest significance was as a measure of time.  I grew up in a home where the expression 'before the war' was common.  There was no need to specify which war.  If a period somewhat earlier was being referred to, the words were simply extended to, 'before the first war'.  Even today, it's common to refer to certain houses as 'built between the wars'.

The centenary of the First World War has, for me, brought that earlier conflict into sharper focus, and I've learned a lot about it that I hadn't known before ... having been schooled in the age when 'history ended in 1914'.  One thing I've realised about these conflicts is that both were truly 'worldwide wars'; scarcely a single country in the world was untouched by them in one way or another.

Now, we find ourselves in another war, that against Covid-19.  Like those other wars this, too, is a worldwide conflict, but sadly the nations are not co-operating as with a tangible enemy, and the richer nations seem reluctant to share their resources with others less fortunate.  

As in those 'real' wars, many people are 'on the home front'.  They find their daily lives are restricted by anti-covid measures, but they don't actually come into contact with the conflict.  They are - since I'm one, I should say 'we are' - just getting on with our own lives as best we can, and leaving the fighting to the 'soldiers' of the NHS.  There is a disconnect of real understanding that results from that lack of direct involvement.

The sentiment behind that song with which I began this post was 'when it's all over, when the boys come home, we can go back to how things used to be.'  Only it wasn't.  It wasn't 'over by Christmas', as some had hoped, or believed, it would be.  The 'homes for heroes' didn't materialise, at least not the way people expected: there was too much anxiety about finding a job, getting what war pension they could, and pretty soon there was economic depression.  

The same was true in the late 'forties.  Some would have liked the pleasant life of the 'thirties to return, but the world, technology and social climes had moved on in six years.  Genies were out of  bottles and weren't going back.  

And I wonder whether we shall ever again see 'pre-Covid' days?  So much of our world has changed since the end of 2019.  How long will it be before - indeed, it's already here - we're saying, as a measure of time, "before Covid ..."?

Domestic Development Aids Altruism ... and More Besides!

Yesterday, I was invited to "Consider the most important thing you have done this week" along with the suggestion that I should examine my motives for doing it.  Now, I confess, I probably don't reflect on my motives as much as I should.  But there was something about this challenge that alerted me ... stimulated my moral compass, if you like.  Not only did I consider my motives, but also what I had learned from the experience.

Probably the most important thing I did this week - until writing this blog, of course - was on Monday morning, when I drove to the suburbs of a nearby city to collect something that had been offered free on line.  I had taken a quick look at the map before leaving and decided that my destination was on a modern estate, having many residential avenues strung between principal roads that stem from a central roundabout.  Perhaps, in the overall scheme of things, this analysis was not far from reality.  However, my definition of modern differs somewhat from what I found, which was narrow roads between hedged gardens at the front of post-war houses such as the one in which I had grown up sixty-odd years ago.

So, the first thing I learned was not to be swayed by my interpretation of the map.  The next quickly followed when the volte-face of my opinion was tempered by what I found beyond the hedge of no. 25.  It was a well-established family home with a garden just on the wilder side of neat, and the story that I was told as the householder helped me load a dismantled desk into my car gave me the impression that children of teenage or a little bit more were on the brink of leaving the nest: 'It isn't used any more and my daughters just dump stuff on it.'

My reflective thoughts turned from the where to the what and the why.  In my new home is a second bedroom which - since I only need one for the conventional purpose - has so far not found a name, owing to a lack of definition of its purpose, beyond that of 'more space'.  In the last few months it has been a store room, a partial library, an office annexe, and a workshop, besides being a suitable place to do the ironing.  One thing it had thus far been lacking was the very thing that was described to me, viz. 'something to dump stuff on'.

There is a cabinet in the corner but, being in the corner it's a bit dark, and being a cabinet, it's awkward to sit at.  During the room's brief workshop phase, I used the ironing board, for want of something better, as a surface on which to cut wood.  Many years ago I acquired possession of a collection of microfiche copies of parish registers, followed quickly by a fiche reader; after negotiations with the family history society, last weekend saw the publication of my offer to do look-ups in them.  

While these enquiries may indeed be few, with many resources now being available on line, I need somewhere accessible to fulfil them comfortably.  Monday afternoon, therefore, was spent happily converting a car-load of 'jig-saw pieces' into a useful and mobile surface upon which not only microfiche research, but a whole variety of other 'incidental happenings' can take place.  

At the end of the exercise, I was able to send this picture to the former owner with the comment, 'no pieces missing, and no pieces left over'.  She was pleased to respond that it was good to see it had 'found a new home'.

So far my offer has enjoyed four take-ups: two successful and two not.  If anyone reading this would like to make enquiries about which 56 parishes this collection covers out of the hundreds there are in Suffolk, and whether or not their ancestor is referred to there, then please be my guest.  Requests can be made by comment below.

A Roof Over My Head

A few things this week have brought home to me the extent of my new role as a householder in contrast to the previous one as a 'flat-dweller'.  Formerly, my responsibilities ended at the flat door.  There was no garden to look after; the grass surrounding the block was cut regularly, even the hall outside the door was cleaned weekly by contractors engaged by the management.  Now, my responsibilities extend to the pavement at the front, and to the gate at the end of the garden path ...  in fact, just beyond that, since I have to wheel my bin outside the gate for emptying once a week.

The fact that both are rented properties means that some things are, of course, common.  Maintenance is a prime example.  Last year, when new regulations were introduced concerning electrical fittings, compliance with these was all handled by the agent and all I had to do was admit the electrician on the appointed day.  When I moved in here, certain aspects of the house were obviously sub-optimal [I've been longing to use that word ever since I heard it ... now I have, and got it out of my system, I'll probably never think of it again!] and it took little persuasion for the agent to arrange for them to be fixed.

It's a personal trait that I hate asking people to do things for me.  Take, for example the door that would only shut if upward pressure were applied to the handle.  I had tried tightening the screws in the hinge, but this made little difference.  However, I discovered that one of the three screws didn't actually 'bite', so it was completely useless.  When I withdrew it, however, I realised that it was at an upward angle.  This week, it was the work of only a few minutes to bring a stool to the place, pilot a new hole at the opposite angle and fix a new screw in place.  The door now shuts perfectly. 

Asking other people, though, has become easier, especially when it's for something that is obviously beyond my ability.  Soon after I arrived here, I went upstairs one rainy afternoon and discovered water running down the landing wall.  An instant call to the agent brought forth a roofing contractor to assess the problem.  A few days later he returned with ladders and a colleague and they made some repairs.

The other week, however, after a spell of particularly heavy and persistent rain, I noticed the same phenomenon.  Once more, the roofers came, and examined the problem, not only from the outside, but also, by peering into the loft, they were able to see daylight where rainwater was able to get in.  It was decided that, given the amount of repairs that could be seen up there already, a more serious attack was called for and, as I write this today, scaffolding has appeared outside the door in readiness for this work to be carried out.

In the overall scale of things, these practical matters are relatively minor and, however inconvenient, can fairly easily be put right.  I was listening to a radio programme the other day which told of a businessman who had taken action to help some refugees in his town.  He had obtained a large warehouse in which he had erected some glamping units producing, in effect, the temporary equivalent of a block of flats, into which 24 refugee families were now able to establish themselves, each in their own separate household and, as he emphasised, with their own front door.

Many have agonised over the plight of refugees, and we've been glad that, as a nation, we have accommodated some - albeit pitifully few - of these unfortunates in our communities, but it doesn't end there.  What this man had realised - and I suspect few others had done so - was that many refugees are caught in a vicious economic circle.  Upon arrival, they have been provided with temporary accommodation but are unable to progress beyond this stage.  Many want to, and are able to work to support their families, but can't get work because when a potential employer sees their address and realises their situation he is unwilling to take them on.  Without work and the income that it brings, they are unable to move out and find that permanent address that would make getting work easier.

What is important, as this businessman pointed out, is having their own front door, having an address that is unique to them and gives a potential employer confidence to give them work.  It also enhances their self-esteem, taking them beyond the feeling of a piece of property that has grudgingly been given storage space.

I have no idea of your circumstances, dear reader.  Maybe like me, you are limited in resources and abilities, but maybe you are able to go beyond mere sympathy.  Is there something that you could do to help restore the self esteem of someone who, like me, is reluctant to ask for favours?

The Past, the Present and Whatever Comes Next

Just before sitting down to write this blog on Friday evening, I stood outside for a few minutes - suitably protected against the cold - and took in the atmosphere.  There were at least three bonfires going on in the adjacent streets.  One was merely glowing above the rooftops, while two others were regularly accompanied by the flashes and bangs of fireworks and occasional brightly coloured displays in the night sky.  Who knows whether this might be the last time I can absorb first-hand these doings, what new regulations might be introduced, what financial constraints the nearby families might suffer, between now and a year hence?  Or, indeed, will I be in a fit state to perform such an act of witness?  

The backdrop for this moment of observation was the small cluster of back-to-back houses constructed around the turn of the twentieth century to house those involved in the developing coal mining industry of the Dearne valley, where I now reside.  In daylight these backways display a rich variety of material and colour, but at night the street lights pick out little more than the pointed façades of gable ends, each adorned by the twin black rectangles of bedroom windows.

It was the night to celebrate, if that's the right word, a treasonous attempt to blow up king and parliament some 416 years ago.  Fortunately the preparations were detected the previous night, the constitution preserved and the malefactors duly rounded up and executed in the most horrific manner that was, in those days, considered appropriate for their crimes.

This occasion is as much an annual part of our national culture today as it was when enshrined in law until 1859.  This year, however, it carries an additional significance, for its calendar appointment coincides with the COP26 event in Glasgow and, while the contribution of one night's national firework celebration to global warming will be minuscule, nevertheless there will be some effect, as there is from every incidence of consumption of fossil fuels.

But for me, standing by my back door just now, there is another historic link to COP26, as I've already mentioned.   The purpose that the town was expanded in this direction a century or so ago was coal.  While the occupier of this particular house in 1939 was a shop assistant, many of his neighbours were miners and I have no doubt that miners would have lived here, too, either earlier or later: possibly both.

So much for the general, the macro-connections.  What about the personal, the micro-involvement in this climate crisis.  Certainly, I can do nothing about the past.  If I had avoided moving here on the basis of the original purpose for building the house, but had instead gone somewhere else, it wouldn't make one jot of difference to the present situation.  Nor can any regrets about coal fires that kept me warm in past years.

I don't intend holding my own personal conference, either.  There would be little point - even if I had the resources of knowledge and information - in taking days, perhaps weeks, to examine every aspect of my daily life, analysing it in fine detail to compile a revised way of life to step into and abandon all I'm doing at present.  Many of the changes that such an examination might come up with will only be possible at some time in the future, and depend on local or national changes that won't happen for many years, while most of my life wouldn't change at all.

All I can do, I believe, is to be aware of what is implied in each step of my life that I can change.  When I realise that there is a greener option to something I'm doing or buying, I shall endeavour to make a change.  Meanwhile, my philosophy reflects whoever it was who said, "Worry is like a rocking chair - it gives your body something do to, but doesn't get you anywhere."

When the Doctor Calls

What do you call your rooms?  Names can vary according to use, and perhaps according to a former purpose that is no longer their use.  Take my present home, for example.  We found on line pictures from when it was sold a few years ago, when the room at the front was called the dining room, although it was farthest from the kitchen.  Many years ago my neighbour showed me her flat and I was surprised that, compared to mine, her use of the two rooms was reversed, so she had a large bedroom and a small lounge, while I had a large living area and slept in the smaller room.

A small cottage might have a parlour, a room in which to 'parley' or chat.  In large houses, of a size that I would only see as a tourist, there would almost certainly be a dining room and a drawing room, the latter not for artistic purposes but, as its former name suggests, one to which the ladies would 'withdraw' after a formal dinner, leaving the gentlemen to their own devices at the dining table.  And probably some at least of the bedrooms would have a dressing room next door.

The list of examples of such names is endless.  In my flat one room used to double up as dining room and lounge while, at the same time, one corner was my library and another provided my 'office' space.  Compared to those pictures I referred to, the room nearest the kitchen is now my dining room, although my flat-dwelling times are preserved in that one corner next to the window houses my desk and is therefore my 'office'.

After several house-moves when she was young, my mother lived from the age of eleven in a quite spacious town house that had formerly been two separate cottages, for it had two front doors opening on to the street, one in use, the other permanently closed.  Consequently there were two separate rooms into which those front doors would have opened.  In my early childhood I used to visit my grandparents there, and I quickly learned that one of these, the living room, was where all aspects of life took place, while the other was only used on special occasions and was known as 'the front room' ... despite it not being the only one to which that expression could literally apply.

It will be no surprise, therefore, when I tell you that the council house into which I was born, though it had two of what estate agents would call 'reception rooms', was organised in much the same way.  The larger of these, with windows to front and back, was the living room - sometimes described simply as 'the room', as opposed to 'the kitchen' - while the smaller one took on the 'very occasional use' role and was known as the 'sitting room'.  We were also privileged to have both front and back doors.  We always used the back door, never the front; visitors who knocked there were interrogated through an opened living room window.

And by now you are wondering how all this relates to my title ... patience, please, dear reader: I'm getting to that.  In my new home I have much more space than I did in the flat.  As a result, while most of my living is done in the dining room, the room at the front of the house (notice I don't call it 'the front room') is set aside, in a way following my mother's example, although not intentionally so.  But that's where the similarity ends.  I've adopted a fairly strict rule that the things I generally think of as 'work' end between six and seven o'clock, after which time I retreat to the lounge - that's the name I give it - where I read or watch videos or DVDs and generally chill out until bedtime.

Up to now, however, there had been one drawback to this comfortable ending of the day.  The cosiness of the lounge was undermined in that the door separating it from the dining room wouldn't shut.  The result, initially just visual but, as the autumn draws on, increasingly physical too, is quite chilling.  Yesterday morning a carpenter came to resolve this problem.  His visit was scheduled for 9.30 and at about 9.15, I deliberately unlocked the front door so that it should be ready for his arrival and thereafter wouldn't start anything least I should miss his knock.

Albeit a little late, the carpenter duly arrived, looked the offending door up and down and instantly decided what was needed.  Within the space of twenty minutes or so, he had removed the door, carried it out to his van, where he sliced a little off the bottom, trimmed some wood from where one of the hinges had been fitted, and replaced the door, which now functions perfectly.  He also noticed that the trims on the door handle were loose, so he applied some glue to fix them.  "Just leave them an hour or so and they'll be fine," he said ... and was off.

As I muttered to myself, "Now he's been, I can get on," I realised how closely his visit had resembled that of a doctor of sixty years ago.  My mother would unlock the front door to be ready for him and be quite ill at ease until he had been.  He would bustle in, black bag in hand, take a look at the patient, hear the narrative of symptoms, make a decision, leave a prescription and say, "take this three times a day until it's all gone, and he should be better by the end of the week."  And as she locked the front door behind him, those same words that I had used this morning would accompany her relief that his visit was over.  

Job done, on with the motley!

Trying to Help, and Wondering Later

Nine years ago - while I was still dashing about the country to earn a living as a same-day courier - I had just embarked in my 'spare' time on a project that took almost a year to complete.  One of the most significant false trails I'd followed in my family history researches derived from the fact that there were several families in the small Suffolk town of Stanton all bearing the same name. By the mid-nineteenth century they had become very distinct from one another and distant from what had probably been a common origin centuries earlier.

I decided that it would clarify things in my own mind, and possibly help others following the same name, to attempt a sort of 'one name study' of all the Sturgeons in Stanton during the 19th century.  By the following summer, I'd compiled a massive spreadsheet, and offered it via the internet to any who thought it might be useful.  I had about a dozen expressions of interest, and there the matter lay, done and dusted ...

... Until this week, that is.  I had an e-mail from a lady in Australia who has become confused by finding a number of family trees on a well-known website that purport to represent some of her ancestors, but with significant differences from her own understanding of her forbears.  She has had correspondence with the owners of some of these trees, who are adamant that 'she has got it wrong'.  Since some of her researches were based on the results of my project, she has come back to me for re-assurance that her version of the story is the right one, and that it is these other tree-owners who are mistaken.

This puts me in something of a dilemma.  My distribution of the results of my project was accompanied by the usual disclaimer that "while I have checked this data and believe it to be accurate, I can take no responsibility for any residual errors and it is for the user to check the details therein against their own research and with original sources where possible, before adding anyone in it to their own tree."  Although probably about 90% of the details included were not part of my own tree, I would hate to have misled anyone with it.  So I'm now wondering what errors I might have made.

If you've tried digging back through reams of correspondence and tried to follow lines of thought and research that many years' hectic living have forced into the farthest reaches of your memory, you'll have some idea how I feel as a new weekend dawns.  On one hand I'm fortunate that I don't have to take work into consideration now, as I did back then.  On the other hand, my 'normal' week is taken up with the many things that have filled my retirement, and these are not easily laid aside in order to do the necessary checking and re-checking.

At a personal level, I would like the satisfaction of saying, 'I know I'm right because of this, this and this.' and, although it won't further my own research, that end-result will motivate me in this un-sought task.  However, my enthusiasm is blended with the resentment that is echoed by one of the early sentences of my correspondent's e-mail: "I just wish people would check their facts properly before they put them on line!" and also the fear that the same condemnation could apply to me!

Switching Off and Switching On ... Tentacled Travelling!

Energy prices are set to go through the roof ... or so we're told.  It used to be said that the best way to ensure you're paying least for your gas and electricity was to switch suppliers.  I heard on the radio last week that this advice is now redundant; it's apparently best to stay put and stick it out.  Financial Health Warning: Please don't act on this 'reported' advice! 

I switched in about 2017 ... long enough ago not to remember which supplier I moved from.  Since then I had been a happy customer of Octopus.  When matters were finally settled for my move this summer, I called Octopus to arrange for them to provide me at my new home.  Sadly, when I explained that the house was fitted with a pay-as-you-go meter, they told me that their system couldn't cope with this.  I learned that the only thing I had to do was to change my account to payment by direct debit and then they would be able to pick up my supply.

The day after I signed the lease, I visited the house to deliver some advance possessions, measure the rooms for my furniture plan and check for curtain requirements ... and while there, I read the meters.  I had discovered that the fridge was running and I was anxious that the supply wouldn't be cut off if I didn't make a payment for electricity.  This would be using a system involving some kind of 'key' like a credit card that was completely foreign to me, and while I was still some distance away since the removal company wouldn't be able to fit me in for a couple of weeks.

During the next few days I made several efforts to contact British Gas to arrange the 'mode change'.  The only phone numbers I could find led to automated systems and the nearest I ever came to speaking to an actual person was an online chat facility.  Eventually, a whole week after reading the meters, I was finally satisfied that there was a functioning account, in my name, to supply electricity and gas under terms I thought I could understand.  Note my use of the word 'thought' there.

I began to make monthly payments by direct debit.  Slowly, it dawned on me that I had not one, but two separate accounts, one for each energy type.  The monthly payment was for electricity only and, despite a letter saying they would send a monthly statement, nothing arrived.  The account for gas would be paid by a separate, variable direct debit, against a monthly bill.  I received one such bill on 14th August, some 54 days after supply began, and payment was duly extracted from my bank a fortnight later.  Monthly bill? I don't think so.  Meanwhile I had still heard nothing at all about the electricity. 

If you're confused having read this far all at one go, imagine how I felt living through it day by uncertain and puzzling day!  In the early days of September, I received an e-mail from British Gas (no name, no location - just 'British Gas'), announcing that their prices would be increasing from a date in October.  I decided enough was enough.  It was time for me to fulfil my promise to return to Octopus.  I made the phone call, speaking directly to a human voice at the other end.  Certainly I could switch.  I followed up with an e-mail quoting my new address, the British Gas account numbers and that was it.  They would transfer my bank details from my now closed account, and the whole process would be done in about three weeks.  I marked my diary 'O-Day' with a smiley face and on that day I read the meters and sent them to Octopus.

The only things left to resolve were payments to and from British Gas.  I had an e-mailed bill for gas, which was paid by direct debit this week, a couple of weeks after the bill, as before.  I had a letter - again with no name, or sending address - regarding the electricity account, announcing 'We've now cancelled your direct debit'.  This was not strictly true: I had cancelled it as soon as I had a switch date from Octopus.  The letter suggested I could pay with a credit card either on line or by phone, or I could send a cheque to their payment centre.  This was the only address in the letter. 

I made unsuccessful attempts to obtain account details by phone and on line (both said there were no charges and a zero balance on my account, although the letter had said that my account was in credit by slightly more than the total of my three monthly payments).  I wrote a letter to them, pointing out that these two sources both disagreed with the figure on their letter, and asking them to deduct from the credit balance the charge for electricity in the last three months and "return the balance to my bank account within fourteen days."

I made no comment suggesting what action I might take if those fourteen days should pass with no result.  In truth I had no plan, but I felt that the 'legal-sounding' expression would add gravitas and might produce the right result.  Within three days I had an e-mail enclosing a proper statement and specifying the resulting balance that would be transferred to my account.  It arrived on Thursday of this week, before the fourteen days had elapsed.

After four years, I know I can trust Octopus to provide regular details of my account.  If I'm paying too much or too little, I can adjust my regular payment by sending them an e-mail.  I send them meter readings and within hours I get a statement based on the readings I've sent.  Nothing could be simpler.  Soon after the switch date, I received notice that my old direct debit would be reinstated, and earlier this week I was asked for meter readings.  These I supplied by return e-mail and the resulting statement shows that my single payment has been offset by the total of electricity and gas used since the switchover.

And am I better off from switching?  I have now had a chance to compare prices, too.  The charges per unit are lower than British Gas, even if only slightly - down by 0.08% for electricity and 0.61% for gas.  The standing charges, however, are much lower - gas down by 10.34% and electricity by a whopping 39.71%  The financial benefit may be small, but mentally, I'm much happier, knowing that I can monitor my costs regularly and reliably and that any query can be resolved by e-mail to and fro with a single definite operator.

I'm a happy bunny, dealing with eight super-efficient tentacles!

It All Needs to Change!

I'm presently suffering from three conflicting feelings ... call them emotions if you like.  First, at my age I'm reasonably content with life and I'm probably old enough not to be around when the worst of climate change takes effect.  Second, while I feel concern for those who are in need, I don't have any practical way to identify needy individuals in my immediate vicinity, and third, I don't have great physical energy, finance or particular skills to do much anyway.

It's an iceberg of a problem, this business of concern.  At least that's what I fear: there's probably far more for people to worry about than the few things that hit the headlines.  Outside of my own comfortable nest, there are three things in particular that worry me as I reflect upon the wider aspects of life in the autumn of 2021.  First, and perhaps most seriously, is the climate crisis.  Given the nations' track record following previous conferences, I find myself sceptical firstly about any positive outcome of the upcoming COP26 event in Glasgow, and secondly how many of any commitments that might be made there will actually come to pass.

My second major concern is the sequence of extreme measures that the present government of this country are adopting.  Let me give you just three examples.  One is measures against voter fraud, very much a solution in search of a problem, if ever there was one.  The likely outcome is that many will become disenfranchised and that few of these would be Tory voters, making the government's position more secure.  Another is the clause in the Policing Bill that will deprive individuals of the right to protest.  The third is the way that refugees are being treated.  I acknowledge that the arrival of Afghan refugees was somewhat thrust upon us, but news bulletins reveal that many are being herded into temporary accommodation, e.g. in tourist hotels, and simply left there with no plans or discussions with local authorities - and little or no economic assistance - to facilitate their integration into the local community.  

On the other hand we see boatload after boatload of asylum seekers arriving - or attempting to arrive - on our shores in the most dangerous manner.  The focus of all the action surrounding this situation is aimed at making it more difficult for these voyages to take place.  This just plays into the hands of the smugglers, who will devise other routes, more difficult, but more lucrative, and keep trying.  If these people - many of whom possess skills that we need! - were to be welcomed with open arms, there would be no market for smugglers, and an enhancement to our economic strategies into the bargain.

And my third major concern is our present economic situation.  Someone - and it's so long ago that I can't remember who or on what occasion, but its history doesn't undermine its relevance - once described the government as 'lurching from crisis to crisis with all the dignity of a ruptured duck on an ice rink!'  The proud claim of those who supported and contrived to achieve Brexit was that it would enable us to take back control ... of our trade, and our borders and, by implication, of our population, too.  

So far, trade with our most profitable partners has declined; what survives is burdened with a seemingly impenetrable cloak of new paperwork, and one of the most loyal sections of our multi-faceted nation has suffered the most stringent difficulties by the introduction of a border that they were told would never come about.  

Our borders - which I understand were never controlled before Brexit to the extent that was provided for by EU legislation - are now so unwelcoming that hoards of loyal citizens born elsewhere but happy to live, work and pay taxes here (and never had any need to get a British passport until Brexit came about) have now either been expelled or have decided voluntarily to go back to continental Europe.  The effect on our economy has been disastrous, The contribution to our social and economic structures that was being made by their skills and diligence has suddenly evaporated.  While there is a logical argument that British people should be doing jobs here, the management of this changeover has been far too precipitant - or non-existent! - and the time needed for our own nationals to gain those skills has never been taken into account.  In some cases - perhaps many, for all I know - there are no native-born applicants clamouring to replace these unappreciated, and now missing, workers.

Another - and more topical - strand to the economic situation is the removal of the temporary enhancement to Universal Benefit payments.  A woman interviewed on the radio this week admitted that, when the additional payment was introduced, it was indeed an 'extra' and enabled her to catch up on some outstanding bills.  However, increases in the price of food and in the general cost of living since that time has taken up that 'slack', and she is now back where she started; the removal of the enhancement, though not a surprise, hits her hard.  James O'Brien on LBC asked this week how many of those opposing the retention of the enhancement actually had any idea of the effect of the loss of £20 ... even on a single occasion, let alone every week.  It's all very well to say that the intention is for people to work harder and earn what they need to live on.  Many are doing their utmost already.  Many others either can't physically work and rely solely on benefits, and many who are in work can't increase their hours - even if they had the stamina to do so - because their present out-of-work time is committed to caring for either children or older family members.

Underlying all of these distressing situations, and the desire for change and improvement, is the need to reform our electoral system.  This would relieve, and hopefully remove, the dissatisfaction that many thousands feel that those whose decisions control their lives either don't listen to them, or don't care about them, or both.  Very few Tory MPs are willing to support, or give any thought to, the introduction of proportional representation (in other words making seats in Westminster match the way the population actually vote), knowing that any such a change would work against them and deprive them of the power they presently wield.

I don't often devote this blog to a political rant, but I'm tormented by those emotions that introduced this post.  There's guilt at my present comfortable situation, and frustration about not being in a position to help others.  Many years ago, in response to feelings like this, someone whose situation was far better than mine is now, and whom I greatly respected, told me, "I could sell my house and give away all my money, but what good would that do, other than make me part of a still unresolved problem?"  At least I can write about all these things and hope that others will read and react in the most constructive way they can.

You Wouldn't Catch Me Doing That!

A true expression of bravado, if ever there was one!  There are several possible meanings to it, possibly identified by the intonation of the speaker.  Spoken defiantly, it could indicate careful planning before the execution of something unlawful, ensuring so far as possible that the speaker wouldn't be observed or apprehended.  Spoken in a spirit of self-confidence, it could imply that he or she would not consider actions that could result in the situation being referred to, or would take precautions to avoid that result.  Or, a stage further, it could be said with self-deprecation, and suggest a reluctance to offer or apply for a position or office that would lead to such a situation.

These are words that have come to my mind in a number of ways just lately.  Some apply to me, some to others about me or involved with me.

There are rules governing all we do in life, some general, some specific; some enforceable in law, others depending on courtesy.  In the voluntary work I'm doing at present, I began earlier in the year doing what, in effect, amounted to copy-typing material in a foreign language.  Specific rules dictated what to type in certain circumstances, such as printing instructions that had to be inserted amongst the text; ensuring the correct positioning of punctuation, and so on.  All these were on top of typing the correct letters, with the correct accents, in the first place.  The key thing emphasised in my training was checking: reviewing and correcting in order that the end result was as accurate as possible.

I have now been moved to the next stage in the process.  Everything is typed twice, by different people, and I'm now presented with two separate sets of documents, to compare to each other as well as to the original, with the objective of producing one final version that is an accurate and usable digital version of the printed original provided.  I can see now the importance of the checking!  Some of the errors I'm having to correct would require little checking by the typist to spot and put right before submission, and I find myself saying, "You wouldn't catch me doing that!"

Soon after arriving in my new home, several days of rain revealed the need for some attention to the roof.  As I watched this being carried out, with one man standing at the foot of the ladder for safety while his colleague actually repaired the flashing and applied sealant where necessary, I found myself coping with a variety of emotions.  One was envy, another was fear.  Once on holiday, I lay flat on my stomach and looked straight down the face of the Pont du Gard; I may even have taken a picture ... I can't clearly remember.  As a bell ringer I have often emerged from the top of a church tower to admire the view, but always from the safety of the surrounding parapet.  Watching that roofer walking with apparent abandon up and down the sloping tiles, I recalled days in the school gym, clinging to the top of a climbing rope, and my palms go wet even now as I remember both occasions over fifty years apart.

You wouldn't catch me doing that!

The pattern I've developed over the few months I've been here is to visit the supermarket for my grocery shopping every other Monday, and every other visit - i.e. once a month - I go across the road before returning home and fill up with petrol.  I presently have something less than half a tank of fuel in my car.  I hope to fill up this coming Monday, but if I can't, and the situation is not resolved by the time the tank is empty, I shall have to resort to plan B ... which has yet to be determined.  There are many reasons for the present crisis, which I don't propose to rehearse here.  Suffice to say that one of the most critical is a shortage of HGV drivers.

When I was driving I was fortunate to be using a vehicle that was unregulated.  However, the threat of that changing sent me to research the regulations that might have been extended in my direction.  Baffling doesn't begin to describe them.  In addition to these - with the underlying threat that failure to comply could mean the revocation of the driver's HGV licence - are the conditions under which those heavy haulage drivers have to work.  

I read a most informative summary on social media recently, posted by a British driver who regularly travels to other countries.  The regulations state that breaks must be taken regularly and some are specifically to be taken away from the vehicle.  The need to complete jobs in the least time possible, and fit in as much work as possible, all adds to the pressure to find somewhere to take the necessary breaks, whether for half-an-hour or a number of hours.  In this country, it could mean finding a motorway service station (with a hefty parking charge), or a roadside lay-by (if there's room).  If the rest period is to include a night's sleep, this is hardly likely to be sound and refreshing beside a busy main road! (I know - I've tried it!)  Put together several days like this up and down the country, and the need for proper sleep, washing facilities etc. builds up, not just physically, but mentally, too.  Drivers with families to get home to are under even greater pressure.

In France, Germany and other countries, said this driver, there are few main roads without a convenient spread of purpose built refuges for this purpose, certainly with toilets and often with showers, proper beds, and provision for a hot meal.  Those countries recognise that these men - and women! - are key to the smooth running of the economy and look after them.  For too long Britain has taken lorry drivers for granted.  They have to make do with what facilities they can scavenge, which is why thousands have left the road and let their licences lapse.  

The present temporary visa scheme, when it eventually get under way, will, I fear, be treated by foreign drivers with contempt.  Those who are already driving for other employers won't be interested, and those who aren't have either found other work or will look at the possibility of eight, maybe ten weeks' work in British conditions - with which they are probably familiar - with no guarantee of anything beyond Christmas ... and think that it's just not worth the hassle.

Someone asked me the other day if I had been tempted to help fight the present shortage.  When I was driving, I heard stories from parcels drivers (DPD, Hermes and the like) of being challenged to make well over 100 deliveries a day or lose pay; my reaction to them was that I couldn't stand that pressure.  My answer to this challenge was gladness that I never had an HGV licence, so wouldn't qualify, but given the conditions I've seen and heard about ... "You wouldn't catch me doing that!"

Seaside Musings and Memories

It was some time on Tuesday afternoon that the thought came to me.  The prospect of no work coming my way to occupy me the next day, coupled with the forecast of more bright and warm weather reminded me of an annual 'tradition' - broken by Covid restrictions last year, but otherwise consistent since my retirement - of a 'day at the seaside' at some point during the late summer.

So, where would I go?  By a happy topical coincidence of geography and my recent Welsh lessons, one of the nearest resorts aligned itself with 'Dw i erioed wedi bod yno o'r blaen' (I've never been there before).  So it was that a quick glance at the road atlas enabled me to set course for Cleethorpes.

The journey east, via M18 and M180 heralded a day of happy and quite varied memories, beginning with the recollection that there was a Moto service station at the junction of those two motorways.  On the few occasions that I'd had deliveries in Hull, I preferred to use the A15 and Humber Bridge, to the faster combination of A1 and M60.  I would often return by way of these two motorways, so the scenery thus far was quite familiar.  Grimsby I had seen once, I think, but Cleethorpes ... never.

On my arrival, having located a parking place, the first major question was 'how long do I want to pay for?'  I decided four hours rather than two, but in the event it was only just over the two by the time I left.  Like many seaside resorts, the town has grown up in the last two centuries from small and deep-rooted beginnings.  Essentially a fishing village with a population of just a few hundred at the start of the nineteenth century, Wikipedia tells me that it is now home to nearly 40,000.

The seasonal attractions at many resorts are manned by people who have two lives: meeting and greeting the holidaymakers for a few months in summer and turning to some other lifestyle for the 'less public' greater part of the year.  As I wandered along the promenade from my parking place quite close to the railway station, one of the first sights I encountered was a truck on the beach in readiness to carry away a fairground ride that was in the process of being dismantled, its work done for another season.

On this mid-September day, there was, of course, a noticeable absence of children, resulting in an atmosphere that could easily be compared to the leisurely age of a century ago.  Almost all of the seats on the promenade were occupied and it was touching to find that some bore plates dedicating them to particular individuals who had obviously taken pleasure in sitting there regularly down the years, and had now passed on to a greater plane.  Some seats were occupied by family groups, often comprising three - or more - generations, and I was reminded of many a group picture from the 1930s in my own family collection.  There was a noticeably significant presence of motorised wheelchairs and tricycles, not all of which were being used by older visitors, for a number carried young parents out with the rest of their family to enjoy the late summer sunshine.

In embarking on this impromptu excursion, I had deliberately brought no food with me, confident that there would be somewhere to get something to eat, be it hot or cold, a substantial meal or a simple snack.  Not far from where I had left the car, was one of many fast-food outlets and, having made my purchase, I walked carefully to the other side of the promenade and ate my sausage and chips, looking out to sea.  As I did so, my mind went back some eleven years to my one and only visit to the Isle of Man.  On that occasion I had eaten fish and chips by the seaside surrounded by an eager squabble of  hungry gulls eager to share my lunch; this week my audience was more refined, but no less hungry, and these small speckled birds (sadly, I have no idea of their species) were content to stand back until I had finished.  Their reward was my emptying of the carton on the ground, before putting it carefully in one of the many large bins provided to keep the town tidy.

Later, I walked further along the promenade, lingering from time to time by the rail at the beach's edge to watch mankind at leisure.  As I did so, I assigned to one individual who caught my eye, the epithet 'a brave young mum'.  She had come, it appeared, alone apart from her daughter, a bubble-curled blonde of two years or less.  When I first spotted them, mum was taking pains to explain that she was about to leave for a brief errand.  Her gestures clearly conveyed the message 'I'm going up there, and I won't be long.  You'll be quite all right here, won't you?'.

I watched as she then walked quickly, though with a few backward glances, past me, up the slope to the promenade and back behind me to her car.  Having established the point of her journey, my gaze turned back to the toddler, still happily playing with her spade in the sand.  I wondered in my vigil how loudly I would be able - or, indeed, willing - to shout 'leave that child alone' or something similar, should I see an interloper make a threatening move.  Of course, all was well and within seconds, her mission complete, the mother was retracing her steps.  I breathed a sigh of relief and allowed my imagination to question what else the woman could do, and what circumstances might have placed her in that situation.

Cleethorpes central promenade

Further along, I sat awhile on one of the seats, forcing myself to sit and relax.  I find it hard to 'unwind' and sit doing nothing; there's always a niggling feeling that my minutes could be filled more productively.  As I did so, framing this blog in my mind, two young women approached, one pregnant, the other drawing a pram.  Sitting alone at one end of the seat, I was amused at the latter's question, 'Excuse me, do you think we can we squeeze in?'  How could I object?  They were content to sit and chatter beside me and, when I felt that it would no longer convey a message that they had forced me out, I wandered off and satisfied another whim, buying an ice cream ... from a place that happens to feature prominently in the picture from Wikipedia, in the window of which was a sign that read "Last day - closing tomorrow".

Thus provided for, I enjoyed memories of other resorts: Clacton-on-Sea as I walked uphill through gardens behind the promenade & Colwyn Bay as I then came upon the red-brick shopping street beyond.  My homeward journey brought its own memories: battling with SatNav as it tried to send me to Louth rather than Market Rasen: my brief sojourn in that latter place a few years ago, when I bought in a charity shop there the pair of pictures that still sit beside my desk.  Then, strangely, as I passed through Bawtry, I was reminded of another town I've passed through only once, but by which I was sufficiently impressed that I resolved one day to go again - although I haven't as yet - Yarm.  Is it mere coincidence the distance from Bawtry to Doncaster is not much different from that between Yarm and another recognised railway town, Darlington?

(Picture credit: Wikipedia - used under license: Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported) 

Not What it Seems!

During the brief respite from Covid-19 precautions last year, the funeral was held of a lady who, with her husband, had moved to the town from Cardiff a few years previously; the funeral was thus a meeting of cultures as well as a celebration of her life.  

The organist for the occasion was a young woman whom I was privileged to consider a friend of mine - and still do.  I got there early for the service in order to secure a parking space and, in the quiet before the mourners arrived, we were chatting and looking through the order of service.  When I spotted that the final piece of music was to be a recording of Cerys Matthews singing Calon Lân, I spoke of my liking for the song, and showed her the words to it that I have stored on my phone.

When she said she didn't know it, I quietly sang the first verse and chorus to her as we sat by the organ.  Now, if I say she was looking at the words on my phone 'through English eyes', that would misrepresent this remarkable woman.  Born in Romania, her knowledge of English is faultless and she speaks it with scarcely any trace of an accent.  In addition, I know her to be fluent in a number of other languages ... but Welsh is not one of them!  Her comment was both revealing and profound.  "What I'm hearing is not what I'm seeing!"

For many decades, I have had a fascination for this 'foreign' tongue on our doorstep and, since my retirement, in addition to formally learning the language, I've 'adopted', if that's not too strong a word, the culture as well.  At weekends, I listen to programmes on BBC Radio Wales (having not yet progressed far enough in my studies to venture into BBC Cymru!), and it's like stepping into another world.  As my opening comments reveal, there's a different culture beyond Offa's Dyke!

At the end of that funeral, it seemed inevitable that some in the congregation would join in and, as they sang along with the chorus, I confess that I did so too, as I sat in my corner.  I have since tried to discover why it’s such an emotive song.  It is sung in churches and chapels, at eisteddfodau, rugby and football matches, and in stadiums and pubs across the country wherever Welshmen – and women – gather.  So deeply is it embedded within the Welsh culture that it could easily be believed that it’s far older than is actually the case.  

The words were written in 1891, allegedly on a cigarette packet, by a poet known for excessive drinking, who would sit in the King’s Head pub in his home town of Treboeth and exchange verses for ale ('poems for pints').  Daniel James, this lyricist, was born on 23 January 1848, one of five children; he became known as the 'bad boy' of Mynyddbach Chapel in Swansea.  He worked at Morriston Dyffryn steelworks, and later at a tinplate works.  When that closed, he moved to the Cynon Valley.  Here he was employed at a succession of three coal mines until, through ill health, he left the mines at the age of 68 and returned to live with his daughter in Morriston and died on 16 March 1920.  In later life he used the bardic name 'Gwyrosydd' (Man of the Moors), which appears on his tombstone in the Mynyddbach Chapel graveyard.

The tune was written on James’s invitation by a younger man, John Hughes.  He was born in 1872 at Pen y Bryn, Pembrokeshire and had already written 'Cwm Rhondda' for William Williams' great hymn 'Guide me O thou great Redeemer'.  The Irish-American writer Sean Curnyn claims that the combination of James’s syllables and Hughes's notes results in something very profound and able to affect the emotions with absolutely no idea of what the words mean.

It has been suggested that Calon Lân is neither a hymn nor a spiritual song; why then should it have such a strong emotional appeal?  What is it about the words of one of the most diversely sung songs in the world - although rarely, if ever, sung in English - that strikes directly to the hearts of Welshmen everywhere?  It's not the land itself; that has its own song, 'Land of My Fathers'.  And it's not the brave feats of Welsh heroes of the past like Owain Glyndŵr.  Here’s a link to a recording by Katherine Jenkins, useful because it shows an English translation as the Welsh words are being sung.  What, then, do those words have to say to us today?

Man's essential need is for spiritual maturity.  God has provided everything we need for a worthy and rewarding life, should we choose to accept it.  Sadly, many other philosophies are on offer from what some would call 'false teachers'.  These are to be avoided if we want that 'pure' life.  Pure is the word most translators have chosen for the Welsh (g)lân.  It’s a word for which it’s difficult to find an exact English equivalent; other words offered by Google’s translator include 'clean, complete, utter, holy, spotless, dear and fair'.

The message purveyed by those false teachers comes in modern ways to modern people, but is essentially the same as ever.  It is a message of permissiveness, the offer of present pleasure, material possessions and the complete denial of the existence of sin.  In his first two lines, Daniel James writes, 'Nid wy’n gofyn bywyd moethus, | Awr y byd na’i berlau mân' ('I don’t ask for a luxurious life, the world’s gold or its fine pearls') and in the second verse he acknowledges that, 'Pe dymunwn olud bydol, | Chwim adenydd iddo sydd' ('If I wished for worldly treasures, on swift wings they fly away.')

The third verse is a complete and constant prayer for the spiritual maturity that we all wish for, 'Hwyr a bore fy nymuniad | Gwyd i’r nef ar adain cân | Ar i Dduw, er mwyn fy Ngheidwad, | Roddi i mi galon lân.' ('Evening and morning, my wish, rising to heaven on the wing of song, is for God, for the sake of my Saviour, to give me a pure heart.') for, as the chorus repeats, 'Dim ond calon lân all ganu, | Canu'r dydd a chanu'r nos.' ('None but a pure heart can sing, sing in the day, sing in the night.')

What songs bring you that 'back-of-the-neck' tingle of emotion?

Sources:

            Curnyn, Sean: The Cinch Review, 23.5.2013

            Felinfach.com

                        Sotejeff-Wilson, Kate: Found in Translation, 6.7.2016

            Walesonline.co.uk, 11.4.2019

A Sting in the Tale!

My title is mis-spelled deliberately, for it applies to what follows at many levels.  I leave you to work out the details.

With last week's excitement subsiding after a family history 'triple', and my charity work-giver on holiday, normal genie research took pride of place once more this week. There were just five more individuals left in the Burlingham sector of my tree to be checked out.  The five comprised a couple with an unmarried only son, and the father's unmarried sister with her young daughter.  I really felt close to the end of this project that has dragged on - as my readers well know - for so long.

However, those who study censuses should, of anyone, be most aware of the dangers of the premature summation of small fowls as yet unborn!  The Burlingham couple were Francis and Lucy; I had no maiden surname for Lucy, but this was easily overcome from marriage registers, and was confirmed by checking the birth of the son, Frank, on the GRO website.  The 1911 census revealed that Frank had married four years earlier; there were no children, however, and it seems they never became parents at all.  The last of these four died in 1950.

On then, to Hannah, the sister who had fallen victim to an early pregnancy.  Her baby was born on Boxing Day, 1860 and died during August the following year.  While Hannah was still only 17, she had no doubt gained a degree of maturity through her experience.  She caught the eye of George Ashford, a young man who had grown up in the village.  Following the death of his mother the previous summer, George was living alone at the 1861 census in the house they had formerly shared, making a living for himself as a sawyer.

Hannah and George were married at the village church in the December quarter of 1862.  Looking back with 21st century eyes, it's impossible to fathom whether or not the following decades are likely to have fulfilled Hannah's expectations, perhaps putting life to dreams she had formed as a fifteen-year-old when her daughter had been conceived.  It may even have been the case that this young woodworker had been the baby's father.  Whatever the background, the facts of the next years are simply put.  The couple welcomed a daughter in the third quarter of 1863 and over the next seventeen years further children followed at almost regular intervals of nine quarters or so until, in December 1880, came the arrival of Hannah's tenth child.  Her body no doubt exhausted, Hannah Ashford, neé Burlingham, died in the summer of 1881 just weeks after her 37th birthday.

I've begun tracing the lives of those nine surviving children, and the signs of an early end to my labours are not great.  Emma, the eldest, gave birth to a son in the early months of 1883.  Her brother James was married in the autumn of that year, and I can't help wondering whether his plans might have had some bearing on the fact that she and her son's father followed suit just weeks later.  By the time of the 1901 census these two couples had produced a total of 22 children, albeit that one of each family had died within weeks of being born.

Their second-youngest brother Albert was living in Harrow in 1901.  Ten years later he was in Hampstead and had been married for 8 years, during which he and his wife had suffered the loss of two of their four children, while only one of those remaining was with them at the census: more work for me to do there!

Another brother, William, joined the Royal Marine Light Infantry (one of the branches of the armed forces that later became the Royal Marines), had married a woman named Susanna, and was living in Hampshire in 1901.  The marriage register indicated that her maiden name was Hillier.  I have often moaned about the family I'm researching sometimes being recorded as Bullingham and sometimes Burlingham, often changing from one generation to the next.  Here was another name to provide hours of wasted research time!

In the 1901 census, Susanna's place of birth foxed the transcribers; looking at the original I could see it was Sturminster Newton.  She was 27 years old, so I looked for a birth in 1873 or '74.  It is clearly a regional name, but the only ones I came up with were in Pewsey and Devizes districts, neither of which included Sturminster - which had its own district!  One of these had the full name, Susanna (albeit with an ending 'h'), and was within the range to give age 27 in 1901.  The other was Susan, and a year older.  I followed up Susannah, who was born in Burbage, and her family in 1881 and 1891, all the time wondering why, after getting married, she should say she was born some 50 miles away.

Puzzled rather than satisfied, I turned for inspiration to the 1911 census.  Here I found yet another birthplace for the girl: Belchalwell (which again foxed the transcribers!).  When I looked for this and found that it is only a couple of miles from Sturminster Newton, I was convinced I had been on the wrong track.  Why change the place of birth a second time, to an obscure village that was close to the first fiction, ... unless it were true?  In my search for Belchalwell, I found an unexpected entry on the Google results page, headed 'Belchalwell Parish Records'.  This led me to the page of the Online Parish Clerk, which was full of fascinating information, not least of which was a transcription of the 1871 census for the village.  One click and ... Bingo!  The fourth household listed proved to be Susanna's family (without her, of course), whose name was given as Hilyer, a search for which finally gave me her birth details.

That was one of the families nailed but, with more of that generation, and at least a couple of dozen of the next, it looks as if there's to be no end yet to my quest and, with the prospect of more voluntary work next week now confirmed, the coming weeks are likely to be very busy!