Gardening Time

Some years ago, when I was house-hunting, I discovered - and was quite attracted to - the term 'low maintenance'.  It referred to a garden that didn't require regular weeding and watering, and plants that didn't die off and need clearing away in the autumn.  In such a paradise (as I then saw it) one could simply laze behind an iron table, and enjoy the sunshine with a good book.

Luxurious dreams? I think so, but that general level of desirability lingered as I pondered my recent move.  After twenty years of flat-dwelling, with no outside area to call my own, no drying space for my washing and very limited storage facilities, I certainly wanted a 'garden'.  But I was caught between another flat, which would gain little over my then present accommodation, and somewhere with a garden in the accepted sense of the word ... "A piece of ground, usually partly grassed, adjoining a private house, used for growing flowers, fruit and vegetables, and as a place of recreation" (OERD, 2nd edition, 1996).

A new term then entered my property vocabulary: the courtyard; in this context not in the traditional sense ... "An area enclosed by walls or buildings, often opening off a street" (ibid.), but something midway between those two definitions.  Allow me the privilege of an acceptable compromise: "a piece of enclosed ground, possibly partly grassed and/or with shrubs, ornaments, etc., adjoining a private house as a place of refreshment and recreation".  Low maintenance, certainly, and it would provide all I would require, or so I thought.  So it was that I moved into a small terraced house with courtyard ... and outbuildings, these last providing, hopefully, the bonus of some additional storage space.  

When I arrived, the aforesaid additional storage was found to comprise the former privy and coal-store.  The door of the coal-store had been removed and had been thrust into the other outbuilding behind a jumble of broken furniture and assorted rubbish, the whole barely visible behind a forest of thistles and weeds some four or five feet tall.  The discovery of some wilting broad beans and canes suggested that once this had been a tiny and tidy garden now thriving on neglect.  I admit that, in the course of moving in, the whole had been adorned by the addition of an extendable dining table that had been thoughtfully-or-inconsiderately left in the irregularly-shaped room that I intended to use as my own 'dining-for-one' room and office.

The accommodating agents of my new landlord, though plagued themselves by administrative difficulties and the demands of anti-Covid measures, arranged for a contractor to deal with the worst of the rubbish and the four local-authority bins that were all crammed full of 'incorrect' waste that the regular operatives wouldn't touch.  He helpfully lodged the door in its correct place and, a few weeks later, he returned to refit or replace the broken hinges and made it safe to use.

The waste bins are presently lined up along the path to the back gate - yes, another bonus is a viable rear entrance to the property! - but it is my intention to re-locate them to a less intrusive position.  To do this, I find, a whole sequence of other operations is required.  The slate chippings at the far end of the area need to be lifted (tick!); the path to the doors of the outbuildings needs to be cleared of about five inches of solid debris (tick!) and the concrete slabs that cover much of the remainder of the ground have to be re-positioned to form the foundation for, and access to the re-located bins (hard work for another time ... it'll take several days!).

As I look around, I can see examples both of what could be achieved with some effort, and also of  what other potential incomers might be confronted with!  It's looking like a busy autumn, but I know it will be worthwhile at the end.

Where's the Time Gone?

Knowing my friendship with a certain lady, someone asked me the other day about her son ... and her daughter, with whom I had been at school many years ago.  Now, I hadn't seen the daughter since schooldays except for a single occasion probably twelve or thirteen years ago, when she happened to be visiting her mother when I called in for a chat.  I have never met the son, but it was he who had advised me of his mother's death.  I saw them both at the lady's funeral but that wasn't the time for inconsequential chit-chat.

I remember the funeral as if it were last month: the quaint little church in a rugged north Yorkshire village, the plastered, cream-coloured walls, the wooden pews with doors and a thin cushion to sit on.  I was about to respond to this week's enquiry saying "I haven't seen them since the funeral last year", when I realised that it couldn't have been last year, because no one was wearing a mask and the church was almost full!  

I removed the time phrase from my response and pressed 'send'.

Easby Abbey - the Abbot's House

Puzzled, I later remembered that, on my way back I had stopped to visit the ruins of Easby Abbey, so it was a simple matter to look back at the photos I'd taken on that occasion, and could thus verify that this was in fact 8th October, 2019 ... almost two years ago.

Notwithstanding the sorrow of those who have lost loved ones, and the discomfort and pain of those who have succumbed to the illness itself, this pandemic has a lot more to answer for.  I'm sure I'm far from the only one who is looking back and slowly realising that I've 'lost' a whole year!  Three years ago, I went on a coach trip to Donegal.  I realised that there was a lot more to be seen of the 'Emerald Isle', and went back the next year in my car, staying at a lovely farmhouse B&B in Co. Offaly.

About the time that I went to my late friend's funeral, I decided that I would like to visit the WWI battlefields of northern France before Brexit, with all its inevitable restrictions, became a reality.  I remembered the depth of organisation of the Donegal holiday, its flexibility and smooth running, and I readily made a booking with the same firm for the following June.  

Then Covid struck, bringing with it all kinds of chaos.  The coach company's immediate response was to re-plan their programme for the next year, at the same price, minimising the need for any financial adjustment and, at the time, I readily went along with this.  

When this year opened with a third period of lockdown, I realised that I no longer hankered to venture abroad - partly because of the pandemic and partly because of Brexit, but also because my 'thirst' (I know it's not the right word, but it will do) for things akin to WW1 has been more than assuaged by my discovery of - and subsequent joining - the Western Front Association.  At the cost of just the deposit I'd paid back in 2019, I decided to cancel the holiday.

Imagine my astonishment, when the time of the now-forgotten battlefield tour came around, I received a cheque from Leger Holidays for the total amount of the deposit I thought I'd sacrificed.  I'm pleased to recommend them as a reputable and more-than-trustworthy organisation.  Although I wouldn't admit it to them, that refund has more than repaid my subscription to WFA for the year!

As I reflect on the past eighteen months, I can see certain good outcomes that have arisen, and wouldn't have done so if it hadn't been for Covid.  They are scant compensation for those who have lost so much, but benefits they are, nonetheless.

Mary and Eliza: Just a few Years Later ...!

It's sometimes the case when you're researching a family that you become so focussed on a particular household and the individuals in it that you lose sight of what brought you 'through their door', as it were. As I've recently picked up the threads of my family history, I've very much started again where I left off before moving house.  But I was reminded this week that this phase of research began last Autumn with a desire to fill in some of the gaps in, and lack of documentation of, the family of my maternal grandfather's maternal grandmother, Eliza Jolly, née Burlingham.

After several months chasing up and down the Burlingham (or Bullingham, which adds to the excitement ... or confusion!) generations, this week I was on the trail of one Mary Ann Claydon, who became the wife of George Bullingham on Christmas day, 1857.  Mary was born in Wattisfield, Suffolk, on 1st December 1835 and was baptised on 24th April following at the Independent Chapel in the village.  Her elder siblings had been baptised in the parish church, but presumably their parents William and Ann had changed their allegiance over the intervening years.

In 1841, the family appeared in Walsham Road, Wattisfield, and I started looking for the 16-year-old Mary in 1851.  Without too much trouble, I found her in Diss, where she was the general servant in the household of William Barkham in the Market Place there.  William was a cabinet maker, and presumably had a prosperous business, employing nine men, while his wife Eliza was described as a seller of Berlin wool (I wonder what that distinction signifies).  The household was completed by the presence of their children Henry and Catherine.

As I entered the family to my records, I noticed that I had already visited that page of the census and looked back to find that just round the corner in St Nicholas' Street was the Bobby family, where I had identified their servant as one Eliza Jolly, 20 years old and also born in Wattisfield.  Now this unmarried Eliza was not the focus of my entire project, but the elder sister of her eventual husband.  Eliza was born on 30th June 1829 (so she was a little more than 20 years old), the eldest daughter of Stephen Jolly of Wattisfield and his second wife Frances Sutton.  She was baptised at Wattisfield on 10th April 1831.  Regrettably, I've been unable to trace any record of her after 1851. 

The Bobby household was somewhat greater than that of the Barkham family.  In addition to James, a linen draper, and Mary his wife, their three daughters and baby Angell James (I wonder whether, at four months, he was as angelic as his name foretold) there were a milliner, two apprentices and a nursemaid, as well as Eliza, their general servant.

The Bobby family became well-known in the town. Several generations later, their shop was virtually a department store in the Market Place, and I remember one of their descendants being at school at the same time as me.  Of the Barkhams, however, I know nothing.  What became of the cabinet maker and the Berlin wool seller?

And then there are their servants.  Although one was some four or five years the elder, given that these two young ladies were both from the same small village and now living in Diss only a few hundred yards apart, I think it unlikely that they didn't know one another.  My curiosity is, of course, unanswerable; did they keep in touch?  Were they aware of the threads that brought them so close together again when, on 15th October 1858, Eliza's brother John Jolly married the sister of Mary's husband of less than a year, George Bullingham?

"Squirrelling Down"

When I introduced the fact of my moving house here, just eight weeks ago, I didn't use the expression that forms my title this week.  Where that phrase comes from, I couldn't say, but it's one that I've often used to myself to describe the process I described there.  Four weeks after the drama of moving in, I can now vouch for the truth of its taking place once more.

I don't imagine I'm unique in this; I expect it's true of all people as they move house, and perhaps more so if they are moving to a new location, as opposed to another dwelling in the same street or area of the same town.  It's not something I've discussed with others, so I just don't know.  

If this process all seems a bit bizarre, I'll try to describe what it means in my daily behaviour.  I'm aware of it happening at a number of levels, and I recognise that it's not complete yet.  Firstly it happened within the house itself; then, came the garden - or courtyard, as I sometimes think of it - and then it applies to the town, and finally to a much broader area.  And my settling in hasn't happened level by level, as might be the case in some great battlefield strategy.  All four levels are developing at the same time.

One of the earliest problems I had to confront I will describe as rubbish, in a generic sense.  Although the house had been cleaned, there were certain areas that I was loath to go into.  In some cases it was actual dirty possessions that had been left by the previous occupant, in a cupboard and in the cellar.  In others it was simply a feeling of surfaces being unclean until I had been over them with an appropriate cleanser.  The physical rubbish was kindly removed by someone working for the agent, along with lots of clutter left in the courtyard, which was itself covered with unwelcome growth, up to four feet high in places!  All four refuse bins were stuffed full, too!

The house itself was 'conquered' in the first few days, with particular use being made of mop and vacuum cleaner, although it was well into the second week before one or two places had been finally cleaned up and occupied by the belongings as I unpacked them and disposed of the many boxes in which they had arrived.

Alongside this I had begun to explore my surroundings.  I had established the layout of the town from Google before the move, but that's not the same as finding it 'in the flesh'.  For example, one charity shop has moved since the picture on Google was taken, but it wasn't until I'd been to it in its new location and was then looking for what I thought was another shop where I'd remembered seeing it on the virtual image, that I realised that they were in fact part of the same charity, and one had simply replaced the other, which is now empty.

Further afield, I made my first exploration of the larger towns nearby as I travelled to my chosen place of worship in Doncaster, and the next weekend found me at a pre-season friendly football match some six miles from home in South Elmsall.  During the following week I made my first use of the local bus services, first to Doncaster, and then in the opposite direction to Barnsley.

After an early attack on the large bush that had managed to virtually cover the small street-side frontage of the house, I later followed up with the smaller weeds that still limited my use of the courtyard.  In particular I cleared those that were growing beneath the drying line.  I have since expanded my efforts to the rest of what was once a garden, disposed of a useless and overgrown window box and begun planning the redistribution of paving slabs and granite chips over the next few months, inspired by a very neat and welcoming example beyond the neighbour's fence.

In the kitchen, further cleansing, stage by stage, revealed an encrusted grill-pan hidden beneath the cooker, and I'm slowly getting to grips with cooking by gas, instead of the electricity I've been used to.  However, I've still not ventured into using the electric oven, which must be at least twice the size of the one I had in my flat!

This afternoon two more boundaries will be crossed as I travel five stops down the railway to Sheffield.  Here, weather permitting I shall walk across the city centre to attend a commemoration in the cause of world peace, marking the anniversary of the atomic bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki at the end of the Second World War.