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!

Gardening Time

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where's the Time Gone?

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

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

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

Easby Abbey - the Abbot's House

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Squirrelling Down"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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