Marking a little light relief the other night by - you'd never guess it - doing a little family research, I located my great-uncle's sister-in-law, working in 1881 as domestic servant to the vicar of St Mary's, Southtown. I was just entering my discovery to my records when I noticed two entries above it, one Claud James Donald Smith. Now I am in regular contact with my Smith cousins, and have recently been doing some work on their ancestors but these names didn't ring a bell ... and yet he had a record number, so must fit into my tree somewhere.
The entry for this three-year-old with three bold and distinctive names brings together three interests for me. First of all, his address. He lived at 5, Row 57, Yarmouth. I say 'Yarmouth' deliberately, because it didn't become 'Great Yarmouth' until it stretched a finger across the river and obtained Southtown and Gorleston from Suffolk in 1891. Having been taken there for family holidays since before I can remember, Yarmouth and its history ... and specially the dark mystery of its Rows ... have fascinated me all my life.
There were about 150 of these narrow passages running broadly east-west between four main thoroughfares parallel to the coast on the east and the River Yare on the west. Stretching from Northgate School in the north to Friars Lane in the south, there were 145 numbered Rows, two without numbers that are wider than the rest and are, in effect, shopping streets: Broad Row and Market Row, and a couple of 'half-rows' that terminate not onto streets but into other rows. Some of these had common names as well as their official numbers.
These details are taken from a 1905 map; since then, partly as a result of natural development or overcrowding and partly thanks to the Luftwaffe, many of the rows and landmarks have disappeared, but many identifiable pieces remain, too. Row 57 would have been almost exactly opposite Haven Bridge, which is the main link between the town of Yarmouth and Southtown on the west side of the river.
The second interest of this census entry was Claud's mother. The household comprised five people. At its head was Curtis Aldred, a 58-year-old mast and block maker; also listed were his wife, Mary A, 52, his daughter, 28, grandson Frederick C Smith, 4, and our featured 3-year-old brought up the rear. The daughter was Lorina Smith, a most unusual name and the first time I'd come across it in my family history researches over the last twenty years or so. If you write it quickly, with that old-fashioned 'r' that had a loop at the top, and are a bit sloppy about positioning the dot of the 'i', you will see how it can easily be misread as the more common Louisa, as was often the case with this lady. However, unless my memory is playing tricks - which, with advancing years, I have to admit is a possibility - I used to work in the late 1990s with a lady called ... Lorina Smith.
Lorina also provides the third element to my tale. The census entry gave an 'occupation' for her: "Railway engine driver's wife". Trains, steam trains in particular, and the railways they powered have been another lifelong interest for me. I pictured Lorina going about her business in the town hearing the whistle of an engine above the clatter of wheels on cobbled streets and the other hubbub around and thinking proudly of her husband, somewhere behind the controls maybe even of that very engine, and the pride which she must have felt for him and his responsible job.
<spoiler alert> I later found the entry for him in 1881. Frederick Charles Smith was living at 1, Laburnum Terrace, King's Lynn, with his elder brother James and James's wife Eliza and their two sons. James was a Railway clerk and Frederick ... a Railway fireman. Well, at least he was on the footplate! The railways were in their blood. Their parents were both born in Cornwall, James at Bodmin and Ann about five miles away by today's roads at Cardinham. My guess is that work had taken them out of their native surroundings; James junior was born in Woolwich, which was then in Kent. Frederick's place of birth had me guessing for a while: Ouse Bridge.
Then in one record it was given as Hilgay, which is a village near Downham Market in the west of Norfolk. A look at the map shows a cluster of houses within the parish of Hilgay, strung out alongside the Ouse. One of these modern homes bears the key name Ouse Bridge Farm; more importantly, just 600 yards upstream is a railway bridge. The line it bears was opened in 1847 after the construction of a substantial wooden viaduct over the river, since replaced by this modern structure. Just by the bridge is a pair of cottages that look about the right age to have been where Frederick was born in the winter of 1848/9. In 1871 the Smith family were at Pentney, where James was the Stationmaster and his 21-year-old son a Railway clerk.
Lorina Lamb Aldred (another strange name, which I haven't looked into) was born in Yarmouth about the beginning of 1853. In 1871 the Aldred family, Curtis, Mary, Lorina and her elder sister Harriet, were living in another Row house in Yarmouth, one that was closer to Vauxhall station, the terminus of the Great Eastern Railway than their home ten years later. Her son Frederick Curtis Cecil Smith appeared in the September quarter of 1876 and was registered in the name of Smith, although the marriage of Louisa Lamb Aldred and Frederick Charles Smith is recorded in Norwich in the December quarter of that year.
There are many possible reasons why, after the birth of the baby in Yarmouth, they should have married in Norwich. The next fixed point in the story is 8th December 1877, when Claud was born in Gaywood, now a suburb of King's Lynn, then a separate village about a mile from the town. We can only guess why three years later Frederick and Lorina were living at opposite ends of the county. The most likely reason is that Frederick's work was based in Lynn, and they had decided to live there, but they had been unable to find a home, so he lodged with his brother and she took the children to live with her parents. At least the journey would have been easy on the train so they might not have been apart all of the time.
Ten years later, in 1891, they were recorded living in South Street, King's Lynn, and had added a younger son Charles to the family. He was at school, Claud an errand boy in the port, and Frederick was working in a foundry. Lorina's dream had become reality: her husband, now 42, was a railway engine driver. Sadly, within three years she was a widow; Frederick died in the winter of 1893/4 aged only 44. In 1901 She was still living in South Street with her two younger sons: Charles had become a blacksmith's striker, while Claud had followed his father's example and was a railway engine stoker.
Claud married in 1902 and by 1911 he and his wife Amy had four children although, typical of the times, they had also lost two others. His mother was no doubt pleased that they'd named their first child Ivy Lorina, though one of those who died was Frederick Charles. Lorina died in the summer of 1922, and Claud settled in Cambridge, becoming a joint maker/assembly worker with LNER. He died in the spring of 1957 and Amy ten years later.
And why did I have them in my records? Amy's first cousin married my uncle.
Friday, 1 June 2018
Saturday, 26 May 2018
The Widows Might ...
I make no apologies for beginning this post with what appears to be a quote from the Bible. Close inspection will, however, reveal differences in both spelling and punctuation from the Scriptures. My need to explain discharged, I shall continue ...
... or might not have found my company enjoyable. As the only (I think) single man in the party, it was inevitable that the travelling parts of my holiday would find me seated with one of a small number of single women. By far the majority of participants were either married couples or groups of women travelling together. I decided that the difference in cost between organising my own independent holiday in Ireland and joining a party such as this was small enough to be outweighed by the absence of the hassle of doing it myself, and that the outcome was likely to prove much more enjoyable into the bargain.
Thus it was that last Sunday I was up at silly o'clock and walking the streets with a wheeled suitcase in tow, trusting that I would be collected on time by a taxi or minibus to meet a coach in Luton. All the arrangements were perfectly synchronised (thank you, Leger Holidays) and after collecting a dozen or so more people at six further points along the way, we arrived outside that wonderfully-named former railway station on Anglesey about midday. Here four other coaches met us, and an operation called 'inter-change' took place, whereby feeder coaches were transformed into tour coaches and passengers and their luggage were re-grouped in the right combinations for the correct tour that each traveller had selected.
In my case, this was a four-day visit to the north-west of Ireland, where I enjoyed surprisingly good weather, saw some exceptional scenery and amassed a staggering 142 photographs! The tour included standing atop the highest cliffs in Ireland, Sliabh Liag, and a visit around the island's oldest operating pottery and it ended with a bus trip around some of the famous buildings in the centre of Dublin.
The sights weren't all, of course. There was some superb accommodation, highlight of which was the Great Northern Hotel & Conference Centre in the seaside resort of Bundoran, and also a rich variety of good food and good company.
After returning home yesterday evening, my descent into normal life once more has been swift, with a heap of post waiting to be dealt with, a rota swap at church to be negotiated, and ringing bells for a wedding this afternoon. Where did that wonderful holiday go to?
... or might not have found my company enjoyable. As the only (I think) single man in the party, it was inevitable that the travelling parts of my holiday would find me seated with one of a small number of single women. By far the majority of participants were either married couples or groups of women travelling together. I decided that the difference in cost between organising my own independent holiday in Ireland and joining a party such as this was small enough to be outweighed by the absence of the hassle of doing it myself, and that the outcome was likely to prove much more enjoyable into the bargain.
Thus it was that last Sunday I was up at silly o'clock and walking the streets with a wheeled suitcase in tow, trusting that I would be collected on time by a taxi or minibus to meet a coach in Luton. All the arrangements were perfectly synchronised (thank you, Leger Holidays) and after collecting a dozen or so more people at six further points along the way, we arrived outside that wonderfully-named former railway station on Anglesey about midday. Here four other coaches met us, and an operation called 'inter-change' took place, whereby feeder coaches were transformed into tour coaches and passengers and their luggage were re-grouped in the right combinations for the correct tour that each traveller had selected.
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| Church of St. Mary of the Visitation, Killibegs |
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| The Atlantic waves are gentle here at Glencolmcille |
After returning home yesterday evening, my descent into normal life once more has been swift, with a heap of post waiting to be dealt with, a rota swap at church to be negotiated, and ringing bells for a wedding this afternoon. Where did that wonderful holiday go to?
Friday, 18 May 2018
The Great Freeze, the Great Heaps and the Great That Wasn't
The key-words this week have been 'Cold' and 'Feet'. And, I have to admit, at the ends of the day, the rest of me has been quite chilled, too. No, I'm not suffering from any illness (at least not that I know of); it's just that the sun is so high in the sky near the solstice that it never reaches the far end of the lounge where I work. With the outside temperature being so high, and considering the time of year, it seems unreasonable to have the storage heaters running ... and in the middle of the day it can get a bit overwhelming even at the cold end! The result is that, while I happily sat out in the sunshine to read the other afternoon, in the mornings and evenings I've been sitting in a fleece to keep warm.
My holiday is approaching, in mark of which a pile of stuff is accumulating in the corner of the room that has been mentally labelled 'Suitcase'; meanwhile a smaller gathering is coming together on the sideboard under the aspiration of becoming hand-luggage. I'm hopeful of getting some decent pictures to satisfy those friends who say 'can't wait to see the results' ... and also to post on here, of course.
Amid all the preparations, my family history has not escaped attention. I finished my latest batch of census transcriptions yesterday, and have been drawing to a close the lengthy verification exercise on my own research, checking out the data provided by someone who proved to be a bit unreliable. This afternoon saw the finish of that exercise, and after a brief lull and the tidying up of a few loose ends, I shall embark on a similar batch of information from a different source. Hopefully, it will be done by Christmas ... but I've heard that saying before, somewhere!
A little side-shoot from this came yesterday, when I discovered the record of the burial of an unmarried lady who was the sister of my great-great-great-great-grandmother. It had been assumed that this lady was the wife of a great-great-great-great-grandfather. Had this been so, and had the two great-great-great-great-grandmothers been sisters, it would have meant that my grandparents were second cousins, a rather nice rounding-off of the family story, and one that would have been quite possible in a relatively small area of north Suffolk. I was surprised to find such precise evidence, but not really surprised that it existed for, had those two really been sisters, the elder one (the one who I've now found never married) would have borne her two youngest children when she'd passed the age of 47 ... not impossible, I know, but highly unlikely at the time of Trafalgar!
Now I have another set of records to discover ... but that won't be how I'm spending my holiday!
My holiday is approaching, in mark of which a pile of stuff is accumulating in the corner of the room that has been mentally labelled 'Suitcase'; meanwhile a smaller gathering is coming together on the sideboard under the aspiration of becoming hand-luggage. I'm hopeful of getting some decent pictures to satisfy those friends who say 'can't wait to see the results' ... and also to post on here, of course.
Amid all the preparations, my family history has not escaped attention. I finished my latest batch of census transcriptions yesterday, and have been drawing to a close the lengthy verification exercise on my own research, checking out the data provided by someone who proved to be a bit unreliable. This afternoon saw the finish of that exercise, and after a brief lull and the tidying up of a few loose ends, I shall embark on a similar batch of information from a different source. Hopefully, it will be done by Christmas ... but I've heard that saying before, somewhere!
A little side-shoot from this came yesterday, when I discovered the record of the burial of an unmarried lady who was the sister of my great-great-great-great-grandmother. It had been assumed that this lady was the wife of a great-great-great-great-grandfather. Had this been so, and had the two great-great-great-great-grandmothers been sisters, it would have meant that my grandparents were second cousins, a rather nice rounding-off of the family story, and one that would have been quite possible in a relatively small area of north Suffolk. I was surprised to find such precise evidence, but not really surprised that it existed for, had those two really been sisters, the elder one (the one who I've now found never married) would have borne her two youngest children when she'd passed the age of 47 ... not impossible, I know, but highly unlikely at the time of Trafalgar!
Now I have another set of records to discover ... but that won't be how I'm spending my holiday!
Friday, 11 May 2018
The Elephant Roars!
It's time to tell all about April's political pre-occupation. I'll begin my account at the start of the year, when it was agreed that our communications officer, who had stood unsuccessfully in the county council election last year, would fight the ward that we felt there was a chance of winning, and the winter months saw some early canvassing to lay the groundwork for his campaign.
When a call went out for party members to volunteer as candidates in the other wards or agents, I read the background information and briefly considered the role of an agent, but decided that, with an experienced agent among our number, I didn't need to entertain that responsibility. There the matter rested until a second appeal prompted a discussion with the branch chairman. So far as candidacy was concerned, I have no real time to serve as a councillor; and little inclination to go knocking on doors, which is why the only part I had taken in the campaign thus far was to deliver a few leaflets.
The thought of being what was described as a 'paper candidate', i.e. to stand for an office that one has neither chance nor ambition to hold, seemed hypocritical. It was then explained to me that, if we entered no candidate in a ward (as had been the case in two wards in 2014), voters of our persuasion in those wards were faced with a 'Hobson's choice' of voting for their least-disliked candidate, or not voting at all. By offering a Lib Dem candidate, we would be doing those people a service, and also get an idea of the level of support existing in those wards, upon which we might build in the future. On this basis I agreed to stand, and was assigned the smallest of the five wards in our town.
Church members and a bell-ringer living in that ward were gently persuaded to sign my nomination, supported by our branch secretary and another party member and the 'campaign' was under way. I was given a supply of leaflets and told to exercise my judgement as to their distribution and, "if you want to knock on a few doors, do so, but you're on your own." The other paper candidates were told the same, and all the main effort was concentrated on the target ward. I looked at the map, decided which roads would be addressed and which ignored, allocated my free time accordingly and the fortnight was thus filled.
Pitted against a well-established and well-liked Labour councillor of some twenty years standing, I felt somewhat overawed by the situation. I did as I had been bid and knocked on a few doors the first night; there were some interesting responses, including one jovial life-long trade-unionist who politely told me he wouldn't be voting for me, but offered the consolation that I would be his second choice! It was further consolation to be told by one young man that he had already sent off his postal vote in my favour. The second night's effort destroyed my enthusiasm. Eleven doors were knocked, seven without reply; at one I was told to go away, and the other three were clearly not going to offer me any support.
On the day, I secured just 73 votes, the second lowest in the town's five wards, and better than only five candidates in the whole district. It wasn't until the following evening that I realised that to achieve 5% of the vote, in a ward where I was told we haven't fielded a candidate for about 20 years, is a reasonable result ... especially considering the effort (or lack thereof) that I had expended. Our candidate in the target ward achieved a decent second place with almost 27% and, town-wide, the Lib Dems increased their share of the vote by 8%. It was a privilege to be part of this degree of success.
The most interesting part for me was to be present at the count and follow the mechanisms that translate all those 'Xs' to the announcement of results in the prescribed form that we have seen so often on television. I confess to be fascinated by elections and it was revealing and satisfying to see it all in action.
So, where does my political 'career' go from here? The honest answer is that I don't know. Of one thing I'm certain: my leg has not responded well. It still hasn't recovered from delivering nearly 500 leaflets in a week. The physical demands are different from normal walking, with so many changes of direction up to doors and away again, as well as diverting into and out of gateways. I'm not sure I would entertain that 'exercise' on another occasion. Maybe something more administrative will give expression to my enthusiasm. Only time will tell.
When a call went out for party members to volunteer as candidates in the other wards or agents, I read the background information and briefly considered the role of an agent, but decided that, with an experienced agent among our number, I didn't need to entertain that responsibility. There the matter rested until a second appeal prompted a discussion with the branch chairman. So far as candidacy was concerned, I have no real time to serve as a councillor; and little inclination to go knocking on doors, which is why the only part I had taken in the campaign thus far was to deliver a few leaflets.
The thought of being what was described as a 'paper candidate', i.e. to stand for an office that one has neither chance nor ambition to hold, seemed hypocritical. It was then explained to me that, if we entered no candidate in a ward (as had been the case in two wards in 2014), voters of our persuasion in those wards were faced with a 'Hobson's choice' of voting for their least-disliked candidate, or not voting at all. By offering a Lib Dem candidate, we would be doing those people a service, and also get an idea of the level of support existing in those wards, upon which we might build in the future. On this basis I agreed to stand, and was assigned the smallest of the five wards in our town.
Church members and a bell-ringer living in that ward were gently persuaded to sign my nomination, supported by our branch secretary and another party member and the 'campaign' was under way. I was given a supply of leaflets and told to exercise my judgement as to their distribution and, "if you want to knock on a few doors, do so, but you're on your own." The other paper candidates were told the same, and all the main effort was concentrated on the target ward. I looked at the map, decided which roads would be addressed and which ignored, allocated my free time accordingly and the fortnight was thus filled.
Pitted against a well-established and well-liked Labour councillor of some twenty years standing, I felt somewhat overawed by the situation. I did as I had been bid and knocked on a few doors the first night; there were some interesting responses, including one jovial life-long trade-unionist who politely told me he wouldn't be voting for me, but offered the consolation that I would be his second choice! It was further consolation to be told by one young man that he had already sent off his postal vote in my favour. The second night's effort destroyed my enthusiasm. Eleven doors were knocked, seven without reply; at one I was told to go away, and the other three were clearly not going to offer me any support.
On the day, I secured just 73 votes, the second lowest in the town's five wards, and better than only five candidates in the whole district. It wasn't until the following evening that I realised that to achieve 5% of the vote, in a ward where I was told we haven't fielded a candidate for about 20 years, is a reasonable result ... especially considering the effort (or lack thereof) that I had expended. Our candidate in the target ward achieved a decent second place with almost 27% and, town-wide, the Lib Dems increased their share of the vote by 8%. It was a privilege to be part of this degree of success.
The most interesting part for me was to be present at the count and follow the mechanisms that translate all those 'Xs' to the announcement of results in the prescribed form that we have seen so often on television. I confess to be fascinated by elections and it was revealing and satisfying to see it all in action.
So, where does my political 'career' go from here? The honest answer is that I don't know. Of one thing I'm certain: my leg has not responded well. It still hasn't recovered from delivering nearly 500 leaflets in a week. The physical demands are different from normal walking, with so many changes of direction up to doors and away again, as well as diverting into and out of gateways. I'm not sure I would entertain that 'exercise' on another occasion. Maybe something more administrative will give expression to my enthusiasm. Only time will tell.
Friday, 4 May 2018
See-saws ... and Roundabouts, but no Swings!
This week has proved a real see-saw so far as the weather is concerned, with showers and longer periods of rain alternating with days of bright - and eventually warm - sunshine. And I suppose you could say that my week has followed this example. I had few definite plans at the start of the week and, for the most part, the wetter days followed my usual round of personal family research, census transcription and a variety of church worship and meetings ... all very predictable.
So far as these go, the only real highlight was the arrival on Wednesday of a CD of Suffolk baptism transcriptions that I'd ordered last week. This completes a set of eight, representing all four deaneries where most of my family lived, from the mid-18th century up to the start of the 20th. Its arrival enabled me to verify many events in one particular parish whose records I hadn't so far examined in the numerous visits I've made to the record office over the years. The cost of the CD is matched by that of about two visits to the actual archive, not to mention the amount of time required.
The other tilt of the see-saw was a fairly exclusive visit to a stately home in Norfolk. This was organised several weeks ago by the Norfolk Family History Society. I'm not a member of the society, but on learning about the trip, I contacted the organiser and asked if I could join the party. This was quite acceptable, provided I agreed to pay for an unused seat on the coach by way of a fair contribution to the overall cost. Given the exclusive nature of access to this particular estate, I was content to comply.
So it was that, at lunchtime on Tuesday, I drove through the gates of Hockwold Hall. These days it's an auspicious wedding venue, where a quality event seems to be virtually guaranteed, and the proprietor and his family made us very welcome. The hall itself dates back to Elizabethan times, and the variety and life stories of its occupants down the centuries made for a very interesting narrative, which accompanied our tour of the garden. The warm sunshine provided a complete and welcome contrast to the previous day's cold and miserable rain.
Also on Wednesday came a small tilt of the balance from the true ordinary: this was a thrice-yearly meeting to make preliminary decisions about the content of the church magazine, of which I'm one of a team of three co-editors. The immediate result of this is the need to arrange an interview with one of the church members, and plan what questions I shall pose to my 'victim'.
Left until last is any mention of the 'elephant in the room' of the last few weeks: the local council elections that took place yesterday. Suffice to say that I didn't win the contest I was involved in, and nor had I expected to do so. As to the details and the aftermath, I shall leave further comment until another time ... when I've had a chance to process them properly.
So far as these go, the only real highlight was the arrival on Wednesday of a CD of Suffolk baptism transcriptions that I'd ordered last week. This completes a set of eight, representing all four deaneries where most of my family lived, from the mid-18th century up to the start of the 20th. Its arrival enabled me to verify many events in one particular parish whose records I hadn't so far examined in the numerous visits I've made to the record office over the years. The cost of the CD is matched by that of about two visits to the actual archive, not to mention the amount of time required.
The other tilt of the see-saw was a fairly exclusive visit to a stately home in Norfolk. This was organised several weeks ago by the Norfolk Family History Society. I'm not a member of the society, but on learning about the trip, I contacted the organiser and asked if I could join the party. This was quite acceptable, provided I agreed to pay for an unused seat on the coach by way of a fair contribution to the overall cost. Given the exclusive nature of access to this particular estate, I was content to comply.
So it was that, at lunchtime on Tuesday, I drove through the gates of Hockwold Hall. These days it's an auspicious wedding venue, where a quality event seems to be virtually guaranteed, and the proprietor and his family made us very welcome. The hall itself dates back to Elizabethan times, and the variety and life stories of its occupants down the centuries made for a very interesting narrative, which accompanied our tour of the garden. The warm sunshine provided a complete and welcome contrast to the previous day's cold and miserable rain.Also on Wednesday came a small tilt of the balance from the true ordinary: this was a thrice-yearly meeting to make preliminary decisions about the content of the church magazine, of which I'm one of a team of three co-editors. The immediate result of this is the need to arrange an interview with one of the church members, and plan what questions I shall pose to my 'victim'.
Left until last is any mention of the 'elephant in the room' of the last few weeks: the local council elections that took place yesterday. Suffice to say that I didn't win the contest I was involved in, and nor had I expected to do so. As to the details and the aftermath, I shall leave further comment until another time ... when I've had a chance to process them properly.
Friday, 27 April 2018
The Sunshine and Showers of Life
I was very tempted to re-use a title from some years ago, "A Curate's egg of a Week", but I've tried to be original. In any case, this week has not been in two halves, nor specifically good in parts and not so good in others. Rather the last few days have shown both sides of a number of different facets of my life. You may have shared in the most noticeable aspect that has shown us both sides this week ... the weather. Most mornings I was greeted by wall-to-wall sunshine - witness this beautiful tree outside my window;
sometimes this lasted until afternoon but, on other occasions, it has very quickly given way to rain. On at least one evening, I found shine at the front of the flat, and a very threatening black cloud at the rear. After going on my errand, just missing a heavy hailstorm and returning amazingly unscathed, I took my second picture.Last week I was celebrating my first taste of door-knocking in the political sense; this week circumstances have made it more practical to walk around and push leaflets through letterboxes. If the weather holds, I might revert to 'plan A' tomorrow. The administrative procedures that lie behind the election are not seen by the average voter. Three weeks ago I received notification that my nomination had been received and was valid; this morning I received two more letters from the Electoral Services Manager. One told me that there would be an election (as if I hadn't realised this already) and, although it advised me where the polling station will be, it didn't say I would be welcome there! By contrast, the other informed me of the place and time when the votes will be counted, and reminded me of my right to be present when that happens.
With the aggregated interruption in the last couple of months caused by telephone and then computer problems, it's some while since I applied myself to family history. This, too, falls into two distinct sub-sections of life. One is my own research where, some months ago - in fact sometime during the winter before last - I realised that there were two people who, in the early years of my research, had provided me with lots of details about distant relatives, some of which I had since found to be inaccurate. I made a list of all the events for which the only evidence I had came from one or other of them, and I had started to research these, making use of resources now available which wouldn't have been in those distant days. Other demands on my time have led to this pursuit being put on hold until the last couple of weeks, when time has allowed me to pick up the threads of what I was doing a year or more ago.
The other dimension to those activities is my ongoing transcriptions of the 1871 census for FreeCen. I hadn't allowed this to be so disrupted as my own research but I went back to it this week after some weeks of not doing any, and so had to re-learn some of the routines that had been 'second nature' in the days of the previous laptop.
Readers who have loyally followed my blog for some while will recall that, some years ago our church began a routine of fasting and prayer on the last Friday of each month. This involves three prayer sessions in church, at 7.0 morning and evening and at 1.0 as well. Somewhat inevitably, the lunchtime gathering is the most popular because some people don't like getting up early in the morning while others prefer not to have an interrupted or delayed evening. However, last month the last Friday was in fact Good Friday when there were other arrangements anyway, and not everyone was aware that the pattern had recommenced. It was not a unique occurrence but today, for the first time at two out of the three meetings, attendance was confined to the curate and myself. This didn't mean that the prayers were any less sincere, but the atmosphere was distinctly different and, in some ways, more rewarding.
Friday, 20 April 2018
The Ticker, the Book and the Knocker!
Quite apart from enjoying what have been the warmest April days for more than my lifetime - a welcome treat after Easter snow! - this has been a satisfying week that has included two firsts for me ... possibly three, depending on your definition of 'first'.
The questionable 'first' - debatable because it's really a one-off, so there is no multiple for it to be the first of - was the return to me last weekend of my father's pocket watch, now cleaned and serviced and once more in working order. A friend had heard of a local watchmaker willing to undertake such work, and reported great satisfaction with the result. Thus inspired, I recalled this item that had lain unused in my mother's drawer for her eighteen years of widowhood, and has now spent nearly as long in my possession, in a similar state of redundancy. This is one of very few mementos that I have of dad; he wasn't a man to hoard possessions, but a man of hard work and little inclination to take things easy. To have it 'alive' once more, ticking by my side and reminding me of the responsibility to keep it wound now it's working again, is somehow most satisfying.
I flagged up last week my intention of going to a conference on Saturday. This was an afternoon of Bible study that took place near Reading. I discovered that there is a National Trust property only two miles away, so I made a day of it, and visited Basildon Park first. This is well worth a visit and was the home, after de-requisitioning by the Army following the end of WWII, of Lord and Lady Iliffe who, being both wealthy and caring, spent the next decades filling it with appropriate furniture and impedimenta, much of which stayed in the house when it was handed over to the Trust.
The study afternoon was run by an organisation with which I made contact some years ago, but of which I had been rather sceptical. However, I'm glad I made the decision to explore them further, for I found a very warm welcome and a wealth of unbiased Biblical knowledge. They have published a whole library of inexpensive study guides and booklets that I think will be both interesting and useful in coming years. I began making use of this resource by placing an order as soon as I returned home and I shall almost certainly be going to more of their events in due course.
Some weeks ago, I succumbed to persuasion to become a candidate in the district council elections. Initially, I had opposed the idea on the basis that my life is full enough already. However, it was pointed out to me - and to many others, too - that if our party didn't field a candidate in every ward, then there would be any number of would-be supporters who would either have to vote for someone they didn't really support, or else be effectively disenfranchised. So, although with little chance of winning against a very strong Labour councillor seeking re-election, I'm faced with the challenge of presenting a credible candidacy, with no help from other members, since the main thrust of our effort is going to assist the campaign in the target ward that we feel we have a chance of winning.
As a consequence of this, I found myself on Tuesday evening, knocking on a few doors to introduce myself as the local candidate for the Liberal Democrats. This is a task that I've been putting off for a long while, and the longer I'd put it off, the more difficult it had seemed in my imagining. However, when it came to the crunch, it was not so daunting an experience as I had feared. I met several interesting people, some with opinions clearly not the same as mine, but equally, others who might well be supporting me on polling day.
The questionable 'first' - debatable because it's really a one-off, so there is no multiple for it to be the first of - was the return to me last weekend of my father's pocket watch, now cleaned and serviced and once more in working order. A friend had heard of a local watchmaker willing to undertake such work, and reported great satisfaction with the result. Thus inspired, I recalled this item that had lain unused in my mother's drawer for her eighteen years of widowhood, and has now spent nearly as long in my possession, in a similar state of redundancy. This is one of very few mementos that I have of dad; he wasn't a man to hoard possessions, but a man of hard work and little inclination to take things easy. To have it 'alive' once more, ticking by my side and reminding me of the responsibility to keep it wound now it's working again, is somehow most satisfying.
I flagged up last week my intention of going to a conference on Saturday. This was an afternoon of Bible study that took place near Reading. I discovered that there is a National Trust property only two miles away, so I made a day of it, and visited Basildon Park first. This is well worth a visit and was the home, after de-requisitioning by the Army following the end of WWII, of Lord and Lady Iliffe who, being both wealthy and caring, spent the next decades filling it with appropriate furniture and impedimenta, much of which stayed in the house when it was handed over to the Trust.
The study afternoon was run by an organisation with which I made contact some years ago, but of which I had been rather sceptical. However, I'm glad I made the decision to explore them further, for I found a very warm welcome and a wealth of unbiased Biblical knowledge. They have published a whole library of inexpensive study guides and booklets that I think will be both interesting and useful in coming years. I began making use of this resource by placing an order as soon as I returned home and I shall almost certainly be going to more of their events in due course.
Some weeks ago, I succumbed to persuasion to become a candidate in the district council elections. Initially, I had opposed the idea on the basis that my life is full enough already. However, it was pointed out to me - and to many others, too - that if our party didn't field a candidate in every ward, then there would be any number of would-be supporters who would either have to vote for someone they didn't really support, or else be effectively disenfranchised. So, although with little chance of winning against a very strong Labour councillor seeking re-election, I'm faced with the challenge of presenting a credible candidacy, with no help from other members, since the main thrust of our effort is going to assist the campaign in the target ward that we feel we have a chance of winning.
As a consequence of this, I found myself on Tuesday evening, knocking on a few doors to introduce myself as the local candidate for the Liberal Democrats. This is a task that I've been putting off for a long while, and the longer I'd put it off, the more difficult it had seemed in my imagining. However, when it came to the crunch, it was not so daunting an experience as I had feared. I met several interesting people, some with opinions clearly not the same as mine, but equally, others who might well be supporting me on polling day.
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