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! 

Many Blessings

It's an old adage - for me, as a blogger of ten-plus years, at any rate - 'when inspiration fails, turn to the diary'.  For a week that began with few diary entries, it's been a remarkably full one.

Not everyone takes a break on the Bank Holiday.  Ever since I moved into this house, I've been wary of shutting the door between the porch and the lounge, remembering that the broken handle has sharp edges.  On one occasion, returning from shopping with two heavy bags, I forgot and suffered the inevitable nicked finger.  However, that trouble is now in the past, thanks to Paul, who popped in to replace it on Monday morning.

Paul is the supervisor of a team of contractors engaged by the landlord's agent, and I took the opportunity to mutter about the colder evenings and the fact of the heating system not working.  He already knew about this, and promised a call from the plumber later in the week.  The phone rang at lunchtime on Thursday, "Plumber here, I'll be there in ten minutes if that's OK."  I stifled my cheer and told him it would be fine.  After skilled attention to the boiler and all the radiators, along with patient explanations to answer my 'newcomer's silly questions', I now have warmth to accompany both ends of every day.

Long ago, or so it seems, I subscribed to a wonderful system called Lost Cousins.  It's a well-run on line system, working around a database of particular entries on the key censuses, contributed by individual genealogists from their own research.  An algorithm then matches people who have shown interest in the same individual on the database.  I found it of limited use, and was reminded this week that, some nine years ago, I responded to two people I'd been matched with, only to be met with complete silence!  I don't think I've been near the site since, although I still receive and enjoy reading the regular newsletters from its organiser.

Twice this week, I've had e-mails from Lost Cousins, announcing that someone matching my entries to the database would like to make contact.  My confidence in the system was instantly restored, and in each case I responded immediately.  I have now exchanged two or three e-mails with both Michaela and Ian, with definitely positive results.  Michaela appears to be a fourth cousin, twice removed, linked to my grandfather's ancestors, while Ian's first cousin, three times removed, married my great-great uncle and emigrated to Canada before the First World War.

They say good news comes in threes ... so does genealogical revelation, it seems.  For many years, I have exchanged Christmas Cards with a lady whom I knew to be my third cousin once removed through my grandmother's family.  This week, as a result of my long-standing and oft-lamented work on the Burlingham family, I discovered links that now indicate that this woman is also a straight fourth cousin through my grandfather.

It will be fun in the coming weeks to incorporate all these links into my long-neglected family tree program and see how they look on paper!