I didn't know the date without looking it up, but 16th March 2014 marks a landmark in my life. Its significance is apparent as I look around my home, for that was the day I first signed up to Freecycle. Now part of 'Trash Nothing', it's a wonderful scheme by which anything that would otherwise find its way to the junk yard, or worse to landfill, can be offered to anyeone else who might be able to use it.
A bookshelf in my bedroom, my radiant heater, and the laminator in the cupboard all bear testimony to its success. Some things have a complex story behind them; my desk, for example. I arrived at my present home with a desk that was clearly too big for the room. Via Freecycle I acquired a metal computer desk - the traditional design with a pull-out shelf for the keyboard - which was soon found to be too small for my needs. By this time, the original desk had been collected by someone else. I then saw offered a rosewood desk at a median size that would suit both my requirements and the room. I contacted the owner and discovered that her situation was much the same as mine had been. The rosewood desk was too big for her room and what she needed was the metal computer desk that I was saddled with ... Result x2!
Other things have come and gone by the same means. I acquired a small lamp on a stand, which I could place behind my armchair as a reading light. Months later, it was being offered again, after I found the ideal standard lamp lying in a lay-by, just a little buckled but easily recoverable.
Of course, it's a game of win and lose. Several times I've posted a 'want' of a long-arm stapler, which has never materialised. Clearly anyone who has one is hanging onto it for dear life! On the other side, I've lost count of the times when I've expressed interest in something, and either been told that it had already been taken ... or heard nothing at all. This happened the other day in the case of a two-manual keyboard.
That's the most recent chapter of quite a long saga. Some years ago, I had been offered a harmonium, at the time in the home of the offerer's parents. Owing to the difficulty of co-ordinating communications between them and me, and the demands of my work, it ended with me hunting for their address at the same time as the parents, having given up on its being collected, had taken it to the dump! I subsequently obtained an electric (as opposed to electronic) keyboard, but found after a while that I used it so little that its space was more valuable than its presence. So far as this week's offer was concerned, had I been successful I would have been a little challenged to make room for it, but decided it was too good an opportunity to ignore.
This week, as well as the disappointment of the keyboard, I offered a number of items that had come out of my old car and for which no place could be found in the new. At the same time, I also offered a small cafetiere that I realised I no longer use. The car items were collected within hours of my post, but the lady who had expressed interest in the cafetiere cried off for reason of 'domestic chaos', so it's still on the shelf.
It's a great use of the internet, simple to use, and amazingly useful for anyone on a limited budget!
Friday, 10 August 2018
Saturday, 4 August 2018
Broken and Twisted ... but not Bitter!
As hinted in my last post, this week's steep learning curve has been coming to terms with a new lady-friend, some ten years younger than the last, more sophisticated although less gymnastically capable, but hopefully less demanding and more reliable ... and I'm NOT talking about the saleslady!
Following the demise of Tina the Tigra, I questioned both the accessibility and the wisdom of getting another secondhand car. Firstly, there was the problem of transport. I could think of no secondhand dealer within walking distance, and only two on my regular bus-route, neither of whom fill me with confidence. There are several main dealers in the town, but a glance at their websites told me that even their secondhand prices were beyond my resources.
The way forward seemed to be a contract on a new vehicle. Although in many ways it's kicking the can down the road - a principle that I normally detest - it is a way out of an unacceptable situation. In only two weeks, I realised both the frustration and the limitation of having to walk everywhere, whether directly or to get the nearest bus, which is a ten-minute walk over the railway bridge ... not to be considered lightly in the context of shopping, for example. Church is a 20-minute walk, and to ring bells on Sunday was an impossibility to co-ordinate, it being a similar distance in the opposite direction.
So, I've been discovering the great electronic prowess of Keziah, my new VW Up! (what a name for a car! - 'Up!', not 'Keziah' - the latter was inspired by the registration letters, and means sweet smelling like cinnamon). She also has a DAB radio, which promises cricket-filled journeys if they're cleverly planned!
The other learning associated with this transition is more of a puzzle ... and something of a caution. I wrote the other week of the impressive speed with which the insurance company dealt with the aftermath of the accident. It happened on Sunday; I rang my broker first thing on Monday to report it and was told to send the estimate for repair when I'd received it, which I did the next day. That afternoon (Tuesday), the insurance company texted me to say they had been contacted by the third party's insurers and would I call them.
When I did so, and tried to explain that my brokers were handling this on my behalf, this was poo-poo'd, and I was persuaded to provide them with the estimate, which led to the prompt financial outcome later in the same week. I heard nothing from the brokers until a week later, when they e-mailed to say they had sent the estimate to my insurers to authorise the repair! Feeling that they were a waste of space, I sent off a caustic reply ... expecting to hear no more from them. But this was not to be.
On Wednesday this week, came an apology from the brokers for their delay and what appeared to be a casual enquiry whether my policy excess had been deducted from the settlement, in which case they might be able to recover this from the third party's insurers. When I replied that there had indeed been such a deduction, the brokers' response floored me. "I'm surprised that this wasn't waived, since the third party insurer accepted liability very early into the claim."
Now, my insurer had advised me that, whoever had caused the accident, because I was the one driving onto the roundabout I would be deemed to be at fault. Having suffered in a similar way some years ago, I reluctantly accepted this at the time as an 'insurance convention'. Now I'm wondering just how much of these exchanges is 'insurance speak', and how much actually reveals what's going on. I hadn't seen the other car until just before he hit me; I could have been a bit cursory in making sure nothing was coming, or he could have been coming at excessive speed (he was coming down a hill towards the roundabout). Instinctively - as I suppose most drivers would - I felt it wasn't my fault, but I couldn't be sure. If, as my insurer had led me to believe, there is a convention that made me at fault, why should the other insurer 'accept liability' ... unless his client had told him that he was to blame?
It's all water under the bridge now - or, more accurately, car on the scrap-heap - but it does leave me wondering just what is the relationship between insurer and broker, and how do their respective responsibilities to the client interweave? Having accepted the Volkswagen insurance on my new car for the present, I have twelve months in which to ponder these things before I have to consider how to proceed next year.
Following the demise of Tina the Tigra, I questioned both the accessibility and the wisdom of getting another secondhand car. Firstly, there was the problem of transport. I could think of no secondhand dealer within walking distance, and only two on my regular bus-route, neither of whom fill me with confidence. There are several main dealers in the town, but a glance at their websites told me that even their secondhand prices were beyond my resources.
The way forward seemed to be a contract on a new vehicle. Although in many ways it's kicking the can down the road - a principle that I normally detest - it is a way out of an unacceptable situation. In only two weeks, I realised both the frustration and the limitation of having to walk everywhere, whether directly or to get the nearest bus, which is a ten-minute walk over the railway bridge ... not to be considered lightly in the context of shopping, for example. Church is a 20-minute walk, and to ring bells on Sunday was an impossibility to co-ordinate, it being a similar distance in the opposite direction.
So, I've been discovering the great electronic prowess of Keziah, my new VW Up! (what a name for a car! - 'Up!', not 'Keziah' - the latter was inspired by the registration letters, and means sweet smelling like cinnamon). She also has a DAB radio, which promises cricket-filled journeys if they're cleverly planned!
The other learning associated with this transition is more of a puzzle ... and something of a caution. I wrote the other week of the impressive speed with which the insurance company dealt with the aftermath of the accident. It happened on Sunday; I rang my broker first thing on Monday to report it and was told to send the estimate for repair when I'd received it, which I did the next day. That afternoon (Tuesday), the insurance company texted me to say they had been contacted by the third party's insurers and would I call them.
When I did so, and tried to explain that my brokers were handling this on my behalf, this was poo-poo'd, and I was persuaded to provide them with the estimate, which led to the prompt financial outcome later in the same week. I heard nothing from the brokers until a week later, when they e-mailed to say they had sent the estimate to my insurers to authorise the repair! Feeling that they were a waste of space, I sent off a caustic reply ... expecting to hear no more from them. But this was not to be.
On Wednesday this week, came an apology from the brokers for their delay and what appeared to be a casual enquiry whether my policy excess had been deducted from the settlement, in which case they might be able to recover this from the third party's insurers. When I replied that there had indeed been such a deduction, the brokers' response floored me. "I'm surprised that this wasn't waived, since the third party insurer accepted liability very early into the claim."
Now, my insurer had advised me that, whoever had caused the accident, because I was the one driving onto the roundabout I would be deemed to be at fault. Having suffered in a similar way some years ago, I reluctantly accepted this at the time as an 'insurance convention'. Now I'm wondering just how much of these exchanges is 'insurance speak', and how much actually reveals what's going on. I hadn't seen the other car until just before he hit me; I could have been a bit cursory in making sure nothing was coming, or he could have been coming at excessive speed (he was coming down a hill towards the roundabout). Instinctively - as I suppose most drivers would - I felt it wasn't my fault, but I couldn't be sure. If, as my insurer had led me to believe, there is a convention that made me at fault, why should the other insurer 'accept liability' ... unless his client had told him that he was to blame?
It's all water under the bridge now - or, more accurately, car on the scrap-heap - but it does leave me wondering just what is the relationship between insurer and broker, and how do their respective responsibilities to the client interweave? Having accepted the Volkswagen insurance on my new car for the present, I have twelve months in which to ponder these things before I have to consider how to proceed next year.
Friday, 27 July 2018
Three Young Ladies and a Wardrobe
The received wisdom regarding a bulging wardrobe is to consider whether you've worn a garment in the last six/twelve/eighteen/twenty-four months (choose your own threshold) and, if you haven't worn it, get rid of it. In my case, the last time I purged my T-shirt drawer, it was a case of 'if it hasn't got a hole where it shouldn't have a hole'. All the intact ones were kept and, given our usual English weather, none has been worn for several years.
So it was that, while sweltering in heat that is no longer welcome in the last few weeks, I've been recounting tales of holidays 26 and 27 years ago, and of working abroad in the millennium year amidst election posters for Geo. W. Bush.
While wearing some of these antiques last weekend, I visited my cousin for a 'special' birthday but, now being without a car (see last week's illustrated post), I had to resort to train travel. In both directions, the boredom of public transport was relieved by the company of students. On Friday, my train from Grantham to Nottingham - an hourly two-car shuttle - was packed. As I sat by the window waiting for it to depart, a breathless voice came from above a flowery dress, "Is this seat taken?"
My negative reply afforded relief to a student at a local university, glad to have caught this particular train as it would allow her to make it to her seat of learning by 1 pm. She began to read from the heavy tomes she carried in her bag, making notes as she did so. It seems that she'll be working through the holidays to submit her dissertation in September ... "and then it will all be over!"
I set off early on Monday in a vain attempt to negotiate crossing the city centre before the day got too hot. As a result, I could sit on the platform and enjoy a cooling breeze while I waited about half an hour for an earlier train than I'd planned. Soon I was joined on the seat by a second student, who parked her suitcase and carrier and began studying her phone intently. A train was announced on the tannoy, arrived in front of us and departed, having completely evaded appearance on the departure board visible from our seat. Mentioning this to my fellow traveller led to the discovery that we were both waiting for the one train that was shown, she going to the second stop, I to the first.
Contact having thus been established, I asked if she would mind keeping an eye on my bags while I went in search of a toilet ... which she did and on my return asked me to reciprocate. While she was on her way back it was announced that our train would be leaving from a different platform. Finding this and waiting there for our train allowed further exchanges, revealing that she was from Belfast, was studying at Newcastle, and was joining up with fellow students to look at Cambridge and then proceed to the south coast. Once more, the train was quite full - although not standing only, as we had been led to expect - but we found a seat and shared a companionable silence, as she watched a film on her phone, and I studied a family across the aisle. When we reached my stop, the friendship came to a pleasant ending as each thanked the other for brightening our journey.
On Tuesday began my search for a new car. At the first showroom I entered, I was greeted by a receptionist, who summoned the sales executive to explore my needs. Armed with their information, I walked home and, after lunch, sallied forth to another such establishment, expecting to find a similar situation. However, seeing no obvious greeting point, I stood somewhat helplessly amidst the vehicles on display. Someone at a nearby desk asked, "Can I help you?" I approached the desk and repeated the morning's explanation for being there, to 'talk to someone about deals on new cars'. "Certainly," said the third young lady of my tale, "I can help you with that; take a seat."
In half the time the man of the morning had taken, I was provided with far more information, and in a more collaborative manner, and I returned home very impressed ... not least by the certificate of her credentials proudly displayed on the desk! Meanwhile, following a brief conversation the previous evening, a friend had e-mailed with details of a car he knew was likely to be for sale. After careful consideration of these two very different opportunities, I replied to his e-mail and rang the efficient young lady to say I'd like to take up the deal she had outlined. The result was a test drive in a similar vehicle, reams of form-filling and a very satisfied customer now looking forward to being mobile early next week.
So it was that, while sweltering in heat that is no longer welcome in the last few weeks, I've been recounting tales of holidays 26 and 27 years ago, and of working abroad in the millennium year amidst election posters for Geo. W. Bush.
While wearing some of these antiques last weekend, I visited my cousin for a 'special' birthday but, now being without a car (see last week's illustrated post), I had to resort to train travel. In both directions, the boredom of public transport was relieved by the company of students. On Friday, my train from Grantham to Nottingham - an hourly two-car shuttle - was packed. As I sat by the window waiting for it to depart, a breathless voice came from above a flowery dress, "Is this seat taken?"
My negative reply afforded relief to a student at a local university, glad to have caught this particular train as it would allow her to make it to her seat of learning by 1 pm. She began to read from the heavy tomes she carried in her bag, making notes as she did so. It seems that she'll be working through the holidays to submit her dissertation in September ... "and then it will all be over!"
I set off early on Monday in a vain attempt to negotiate crossing the city centre before the day got too hot. As a result, I could sit on the platform and enjoy a cooling breeze while I waited about half an hour for an earlier train than I'd planned. Soon I was joined on the seat by a second student, who parked her suitcase and carrier and began studying her phone intently. A train was announced on the tannoy, arrived in front of us and departed, having completely evaded appearance on the departure board visible from our seat. Mentioning this to my fellow traveller led to the discovery that we were both waiting for the one train that was shown, she going to the second stop, I to the first.
Contact having thus been established, I asked if she would mind keeping an eye on my bags while I went in search of a toilet ... which she did and on my return asked me to reciprocate. While she was on her way back it was announced that our train would be leaving from a different platform. Finding this and waiting there for our train allowed further exchanges, revealing that she was from Belfast, was studying at Newcastle, and was joining up with fellow students to look at Cambridge and then proceed to the south coast. Once more, the train was quite full - although not standing only, as we had been led to expect - but we found a seat and shared a companionable silence, as she watched a film on her phone, and I studied a family across the aisle. When we reached my stop, the friendship came to a pleasant ending as each thanked the other for brightening our journey.
On Tuesday began my search for a new car. At the first showroom I entered, I was greeted by a receptionist, who summoned the sales executive to explore my needs. Armed with their information, I walked home and, after lunch, sallied forth to another such establishment, expecting to find a similar situation. However, seeing no obvious greeting point, I stood somewhat helplessly amidst the vehicles on display. Someone at a nearby desk asked, "Can I help you?" I approached the desk and repeated the morning's explanation for being there, to 'talk to someone about deals on new cars'. "Certainly," said the third young lady of my tale, "I can help you with that; take a seat."
In half the time the man of the morning had taken, I was provided with far more information, and in a more collaborative manner, and I returned home very impressed ... not least by the certificate of her credentials proudly displayed on the desk! Meanwhile, following a brief conversation the previous evening, a friend had e-mailed with details of a car he knew was likely to be for sale. After careful consideration of these two very different opportunities, I replied to his e-mail and rang the efficient young lady to say I'd like to take up the deal she had outlined. The result was a test drive in a similar vehicle, reams of form-filling and a very satisfied customer now looking forward to being mobile early next week.
Friday, 20 July 2018
Wham, Bang, Thank you, Ma'am!
It can take a while: months ... years even, to build up a trusting relationship and then in a flash - call it carelessness, oversight, complacency ... whatever - all that building effort is rendered to dust in an instant.
I've lost count of the number of times this has happened to me ... although no more than most of us, I imagine. But on Sunday afternoon, it happened again. I'd been out to lunch, as I often do, and was driving home again when out of the blue ... SMACK! ... a Mercedes came at me from where I thought there was nothing and biffed me on the roundabout. I tried to avoid him, but it was too late. I came to rest by the 'keep left' bollard of the road joining from the left.
I suppose I was in shock, although I didn't recognise it at the time. I got out of the car, looked briefly at the ripped wing and smashed headlight and thought, "Well, it's the end for you, old girl!" before turning my attention to the driver of the Merc. Like me, he and his passenger were unhurt and, mechanically, we went through the standard routine of exchanging names and addresses.
Surprisingly, I found that I was able to drive away from the scene, albeit with a lot of screeching and whining. Realising that my route home passed an accident repair centre, where there were often people working on a Sunday, I stopped there to seek advice.
This was immediately forthcoming: "Don't drive any further!" They were surprised that I'd made it the three miles or so to them; a sharp edge of the body was gouging a deep channel in the tyre, so there was an increasing danger of a blow-out if I were to continue and I was persuaded to leave my beloved 'Tina the Tigra' on their forecourt.
In addition to the damage I could see, I had already discovered problems with the steering, and it transpired that the main structure of the vehicle had been distorted as well. The estimate for repairs was more than I paid for the vehicle two-and-a half years ago! Once contact had been made with the insurers, action was swift. By Wednesday afternoon, a payment was on its way to my bank and I noticed the next morning that the 'corpse' had been removed.
Now I'm off for a different adventure ... one that will be a much happier one, I'm sure: the celebration of my cousin's birthday, and a weekend away from home and all its challenges!
I've lost count of the number of times this has happened to me ... although no more than most of us, I imagine. But on Sunday afternoon, it happened again. I'd been out to lunch, as I often do, and was driving home again when out of the blue ... SMACK! ... a Mercedes came at me from where I thought there was nothing and biffed me on the roundabout. I tried to avoid him, but it was too late. I came to rest by the 'keep left' bollard of the road joining from the left.
I suppose I was in shock, although I didn't recognise it at the time. I got out of the car, looked briefly at the ripped wing and smashed headlight and thought, "Well, it's the end for you, old girl!" before turning my attention to the driver of the Merc. Like me, he and his passenger were unhurt and, mechanically, we went through the standard routine of exchanging names and addresses.
Surprisingly, I found that I was able to drive away from the scene, albeit with a lot of screeching and whining. Realising that my route home passed an accident repair centre, where there were often people working on a Sunday, I stopped there to seek advice.
In addition to the damage I could see, I had already discovered problems with the steering, and it transpired that the main structure of the vehicle had been distorted as well. The estimate for repairs was more than I paid for the vehicle two-and-a half years ago! Once contact had been made with the insurers, action was swift. By Wednesday afternoon, a payment was on its way to my bank and I noticed the next morning that the 'corpse' had been removed.
Now I'm off for a different adventure ... one that will be a much happier one, I'm sure: the celebration of my cousin's birthday, and a weekend away from home and all its challenges!
Friday, 13 July 2018
You Can Take the Boy ...
In general terms, I'm content with my present life in the First Garden City. Most of my modest needs are catered for in the town, and those that aren't can find satisfaction nearby. Occasionally, though - and especially when there are blue skies overhead like those this glorious summer has brought - I yearn for cornfields. Yesterday afternoon I actually drove out to find one to walk around.
That yearning for the wide East Anglian skies was heightened last weekend when much of our church family migrated to Letton Hall for two days of great teaching, fabulous fellowship ... and a great deal of equally fabulous food! My mind, however, was to a certain extent focused a few miles away. I had taken with me a slim book, most of which I read during free time over the weekend. It told the story of Lucilla Reeve, a strong-willed woman who, in 1938, had exchanged a job as a land agent for the role of farmer, and taken over one of the properties she had formerly administered.
Little did she know that, within five years, the village where she had been born, the one where she now lived and worked, and four more would be under military occupation, with all the inhabitants cleared out on just a few weeks' notice to find homes elsewhere, and with precious little by way of compensation. Lucilla Reeve took a few belongings, samples of the crops she had grown on her farm, and scraped a living just outside the cleared area. "It's all right," they had been told by their landlord (who lost his own home at the same time), "You can come back when the war is over." It never happened, of course.
Although the fundamental reason for the expulsion of civilians was their own safety, it soon became apparent that the military training for which the area had been commandeered would be impossible if they were to keep to their initial undertaking that the homes would be left intact. On Armistice Day, 1950 Lucilla Reeve took her own life. Many believe that the loss of her farm was a major factor in this tragedy. She is buried at the corner of the churchyard of St Andrew's church, Tottington.
After the end of World War II came the Cold War, Northern Ireland, the Falklands, the Balkans and Iraq. While the homes of the original villages of Buckenham Tofts, Langford, Stanford, Sturston, Tottington and West Tofts are now just humps in the ground, a new 'village' has been built, representing a typical settlement in Afghanistan, complete with street markets, lots of signs in Arabic and even a mosque ... all in the cause of urban warfare training.
Each of the villages had its own church; two of these had already disappeared before the nineteenth century, but the remaining four are carefully protected by the Ministry, with high fences and severely restricted access. The roofs of the larger two have been replaced by blastproof panels in the style of pantiles. The villages themselves will never be re-habited. While the material losses of the individuals was, in the overall scheme of things, minimal, what was destroyed was the sense of community, as they were scattered far and wide across the county and beyond. In their absence, the old, and largely unmechanised, farm and village life of pre-war Norfolk disappeared for ever. The only civilian connection with the area now is a fast-declining sentimental link with family graves and the memory of Breckland childhoods that are now eight and nine decades into history.
The occasional visits allowed by the MOD to the area usually merit a mention in the local press. It was just such a report that prompted my interest in what had hitherto simply been a blank area on the map, and my purchase of the book that I took with me last weekend. Although my journey to our retreat venue passed close by, I knew that it would be pointless to engage in a sightseeing diversion. For one thing my curiosity relates only to the past, and there is no longer a past to be seen, and for another, I have no personal interest in the villages at all, save for the basic one of filling in a gap in awareness about my native county.
It's true what they say about many a birthplace - "You can take the boy out of Norfolk (or wherever), but you can't take Norfolk out of the boy!"
That yearning for the wide East Anglian skies was heightened last weekend when much of our church family migrated to Letton Hall for two days of great teaching, fabulous fellowship ... and a great deal of equally fabulous food! My mind, however, was to a certain extent focused a few miles away. I had taken with me a slim book, most of which I read during free time over the weekend. It told the story of Lucilla Reeve, a strong-willed woman who, in 1938, had exchanged a job as a land agent for the role of farmer, and taken over one of the properties she had formerly administered.
Little did she know that, within five years, the village where she had been born, the one where she now lived and worked, and four more would be under military occupation, with all the inhabitants cleared out on just a few weeks' notice to find homes elsewhere, and with precious little by way of compensation. Lucilla Reeve took a few belongings, samples of the crops she had grown on her farm, and scraped a living just outside the cleared area. "It's all right," they had been told by their landlord (who lost his own home at the same time), "You can come back when the war is over." It never happened, of course.
Although the fundamental reason for the expulsion of civilians was their own safety, it soon became apparent that the military training for which the area had been commandeered would be impossible if they were to keep to their initial undertaking that the homes would be left intact. On Armistice Day, 1950 Lucilla Reeve took her own life. Many believe that the loss of her farm was a major factor in this tragedy. She is buried at the corner of the churchyard of St Andrew's church, Tottington.
After the end of World War II came the Cold War, Northern Ireland, the Falklands, the Balkans and Iraq. While the homes of the original villages of Buckenham Tofts, Langford, Stanford, Sturston, Tottington and West Tofts are now just humps in the ground, a new 'village' has been built, representing a typical settlement in Afghanistan, complete with street markets, lots of signs in Arabic and even a mosque ... all in the cause of urban warfare training.
Each of the villages had its own church; two of these had already disappeared before the nineteenth century, but the remaining four are carefully protected by the Ministry, with high fences and severely restricted access. The roofs of the larger two have been replaced by blastproof panels in the style of pantiles. The villages themselves will never be re-habited. While the material losses of the individuals was, in the overall scheme of things, minimal, what was destroyed was the sense of community, as they were scattered far and wide across the county and beyond. In their absence, the old, and largely unmechanised, farm and village life of pre-war Norfolk disappeared for ever. The only civilian connection with the area now is a fast-declining sentimental link with family graves and the memory of Breckland childhoods that are now eight and nine decades into history.
The occasional visits allowed by the MOD to the area usually merit a mention in the local press. It was just such a report that prompted my interest in what had hitherto simply been a blank area on the map, and my purchase of the book that I took with me last weekend. Although my journey to our retreat venue passed close by, I knew that it would be pointless to engage in a sightseeing diversion. For one thing my curiosity relates only to the past, and there is no longer a past to be seen, and for another, I have no personal interest in the villages at all, save for the basic one of filling in a gap in awareness about my native county.
It's true what they say about many a birthplace - "You can take the boy out of Norfolk (or wherever), but you can't take Norfolk out of the boy!"
Thursday, 5 July 2018
One Mistake and Two Surprises
It was with some trepidation that, on an autumn morning nearly twelve years ago, I crossed the threshold of a new church ... and a new phase of my life. I was warmly greeted by a lady named Ann, who spotted the cross I always wear, put two and two together and made five. She had clearly been watching out for a visiting preacher representing one of our supported societies, took me for him and asked, "Are you our visitor?"
Unsurprisingly, when hearing a new voice, what I heard was the more expected, "Are you a visitor?" When I told her I was, she ushered me to a seat next to where she would be sitting. It wasn't until I didn't get up to deliver the sermon that she realised her error. From that day, we've never exchanged more than a smile of recognition - perhaps recalling our first meeting - and the usual friendship of fellow worshippers ... until last weekend.
For some months now, I've been volunteering at a weekly drop-in at our local Salvation Army. As a result, I received an invitation to a concert and strawberry tea at their hall last Sunday, in support of their nationwide social work. I arrived in good time and was settling into my seat when Ann arrived with two friends whom I recognised from the church. By then the hall was getting full and they were scattered among the spare seats.
The concert included a visiting group of ladies, one of whom introduced them individually. One was said to come from my home town in Norfolk, where she was engaged to the bandmaster. Through social media, I was almost certain that my second cousin, whom I knew to belong to the band, held that post, and afterwards I approached this singer to enquire further. It turned out that I was correct in my assumption, and that the two of us are shortly to become related. Naturally, she was agog to know more and, in the crowd, we resolved to meet outside for a chat after we had gathered some food.
As I emerged into the garden, I was spotted by Ann who, in the way of these gatherings, recognised a fellow church-member and invited me to join her and her friends at one of the tables. When our plates were empty, she offered to get refills, since I was chatting to someone else at the table. After a while, my new-found cousin-to-be approached, saying, "I'm going to stick near you, there's lots I need to write down!" She also wanted a photograph, so we engaged the help of one of the local corps who had been filming the concert, who drew us into the shade and obliged us in this.
We chatted amiably about the many ways in which her fiance and I were linked, through relationship and also the fact that he would know my daughter but not me. And then out of the blue came Ann, again bearing food. She handed over a strawberry crumble saying, "there were only two left ... I thought you might like the last one!" I was so overwhelmed by the thoughtfulness of this caring octogenarian, whom I've had virtually nothing to do with in these twelve years, that I fear my reaction may have been less grateful than was due!
Unsurprisingly, when hearing a new voice, what I heard was the more expected, "Are you a visitor?" When I told her I was, she ushered me to a seat next to where she would be sitting. It wasn't until I didn't get up to deliver the sermon that she realised her error. From that day, we've never exchanged more than a smile of recognition - perhaps recalling our first meeting - and the usual friendship of fellow worshippers ... until last weekend.
For some months now, I've been volunteering at a weekly drop-in at our local Salvation Army. As a result, I received an invitation to a concert and strawberry tea at their hall last Sunday, in support of their nationwide social work. I arrived in good time and was settling into my seat when Ann arrived with two friends whom I recognised from the church. By then the hall was getting full and they were scattered among the spare seats.
The concert included a visiting group of ladies, one of whom introduced them individually. One was said to come from my home town in Norfolk, where she was engaged to the bandmaster. Through social media, I was almost certain that my second cousin, whom I knew to belong to the band, held that post, and afterwards I approached this singer to enquire further. It turned out that I was correct in my assumption, and that the two of us are shortly to become related. Naturally, she was agog to know more and, in the crowd, we resolved to meet outside for a chat after we had gathered some food.
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| with my cousin-to-be |
As I emerged into the garden, I was spotted by Ann who, in the way of these gatherings, recognised a fellow church-member and invited me to join her and her friends at one of the tables. When our plates were empty, she offered to get refills, since I was chatting to someone else at the table. After a while, my new-found cousin-to-be approached, saying, "I'm going to stick near you, there's lots I need to write down!" She also wanted a photograph, so we engaged the help of one of the local corps who had been filming the concert, who drew us into the shade and obliged us in this.
We chatted amiably about the many ways in which her fiance and I were linked, through relationship and also the fact that he would know my daughter but not me. And then out of the blue came Ann, again bearing food. She handed over a strawberry crumble saying, "there were only two left ... I thought you might like the last one!" I was so overwhelmed by the thoughtfulness of this caring octogenarian, whom I've had virtually nothing to do with in these twelve years, that I fear my reaction may have been less grateful than was due!
Sunday, 1 July 2018
A Special Post on the 102nd Anniversary
My great-uncle George, born in Suffolk, was discharged from the 27th Regiment in Enniskillen on 24th March 1876 and settled there. I've often wondered whether, as he grew up, my father was aware that he had Irish cousins; I certainly don't recall his ever mentioning them. George was some 16 years older than my grandfather, and had probably already left home when he was born.
One of those Irish cousins, George's tenth child and fourth son Henry, joined the 1st Battalion of the Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers (RIF). His brother Samuel (almost three years older) served in the 2nd Battalion; it's not clear whether they enlisted together because their service records were probably destroyed by fire during the Second World War. It seems unlikely, however, since Samuel died on 16th May 1915, and is commemorated on the Le Touret Memorial
In September 1914, as part of Kitchener's New Army, the 36th (Ulster) Division was formed by uniting three existing regiments, the Royal Irish Fusiliers, the Royal Irish Rifles and the RIF and supplementing their numbers with thirteen new battalions formed from the Ulster Volunteer Force. (The UVF had been set up in 1912/13 to oppose home rule for Ireland.)
The Division trained near the north Down coast, on the Clandeboye estate, part of the town of Bangor. In 1861 the then owner of the estate commissioned a tall folly, which he named Helen's Tower in memory of his mother. The distinctive shape of the tower, rising above the countryside would have been familiar to the soldiers, and for many would have been their last sight of their homeland as they left for England and, subsequently, the Western Front.
It had been considered that the men of the New Army were insufficiently trained and their battle tactics orders were more strict and regimented than those of the regulars. However, on July 1st 1916, the 36th Division disobeyed these orders and, during the heavy bombardment that took place before zero hour at 7.30, they advanced by pushing forward small trenches and cutting the barbed wire. Thus, when bugles sounded the Advance' and the other divisions formed up in waves for a walk across no man's land, the Ulstermen sprang forward and rushed the German front line.
Had they followed orders and attacked under creep bombardment - intelligence being so bad - they would have come under bombardment from 'friendly fire' at the German front line. Instead, the result was that they captured a long section of the enemy's front line. Theirs was the only division of their corps to gain its opening day objective, which they did "by a combination of sensible tactics and Ulster dash", as one historian has expressed it.
In the first two days, the division overall lost 5,500 officers and men, either killed, wounded or missing; in the whole five months and more of the Somme campaign, the Inniskillings suffered the loss of 296 dead. 233 of these died on that very costly opening day, including my cousin, Lance-Corporal Henry Evans.
Those who died on the Somme but have no known grave are commemorated at Thiepval. The site of the Schwaben redoubt, against which the Ulster Division advanced on the first day is marked by the Ulster Memorial Tower, an exact replica of Helen's Tower, near which they had trained.
One of those Irish cousins, George's tenth child and fourth son Henry, joined the 1st Battalion of the Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers (RIF). His brother Samuel (almost three years older) served in the 2nd Battalion; it's not clear whether they enlisted together because their service records were probably destroyed by fire during the Second World War. It seems unlikely, however, since Samuel died on 16th May 1915, and is commemorated on the Le Touret Memorial
In September 1914, as part of Kitchener's New Army, the 36th (Ulster) Division was formed by uniting three existing regiments, the Royal Irish Fusiliers, the Royal Irish Rifles and the RIF and supplementing their numbers with thirteen new battalions formed from the Ulster Volunteer Force. (The UVF had been set up in 1912/13 to oppose home rule for Ireland.)
The Division trained near the north Down coast, on the Clandeboye estate, part of the town of Bangor. In 1861 the then owner of the estate commissioned a tall folly, which he named Helen's Tower in memory of his mother. The distinctive shape of the tower, rising above the countryside would have been familiar to the soldiers, and for many would have been their last sight of their homeland as they left for England and, subsequently, the Western Front.
It had been considered that the men of the New Army were insufficiently trained and their battle tactics orders were more strict and regimented than those of the regulars. However, on July 1st 1916, the 36th Division disobeyed these orders and, during the heavy bombardment that took place before zero hour at 7.30, they advanced by pushing forward small trenches and cutting the barbed wire. Thus, when bugles sounded the Advance' and the other divisions formed up in waves for a walk across no man's land, the Ulstermen sprang forward and rushed the German front line.
Had they followed orders and attacked under creep bombardment - intelligence being so bad - they would have come under bombardment from 'friendly fire' at the German front line. Instead, the result was that they captured a long section of the enemy's front line. Theirs was the only division of their corps to gain its opening day objective, which they did "by a combination of sensible tactics and Ulster dash", as one historian has expressed it.
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| Ulster Memorial Tower |
Those who died on the Somme but have no known grave are commemorated at Thiepval. The site of the Schwaben redoubt, against which the Ulster Division advanced on the first day is marked by the Ulster Memorial Tower, an exact replica of Helen's Tower, near which they had trained.
(Much of the detail for this post and the picture, which is published under
Creative Commons Attribution Harm@frielink.net at the English language Wikipedia,
has been obtained from Wikipedia. Other sources include
the Commonwealth War Graves Commission website and personal research.)
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