A Day at the Braintree Museum

This horror, feigning sleep but actually busy kicking mum in the back, came today to wear me out.  Three years (almost) and full of energy.  The intention was to visit a local heritage railway, however, the traffic alterations had made them double back, and I was not keen on my niece driving around too much on strange roads.  So, I convinced them to visit the museum as this was just around the corner and I knew he would love it.

The exhibition concerned the local Fire, Police and Ambulance operations down through the years.  It is a fantastic display with lots for kids to do, and he was soon taking over the fire station.  There are many old items from those who served as 'retained firemen,' sometimes for many years.  Bits and bobs of equipment, some for obvious use and others which make you wonder!  

 

 

I particularly liked the model fire engines on display, such as this pre-war engine, and the WW2 gray versions, usually staffed by those who had a full-time job during the day also.  They had some call-outs round here. 

 

Fire, Police and Ambulance were enjoyable, but when he found a wee shop he was in his element, shopping is a thing for him.  So, we had to spend some time while he bought his shopping, though no money appeared to pass by, and then dad and I disappeared into a darkened room to colour in pictures.

 

Hunger forced us into the adjoining café, where we scoffed toasted delights and the little 'un bounced on the seating.  By this time he had got used to me and was happy to make me read a 'Mr Nosey' book to him, before he ate.  Then it was home and playtime at the holiday cottage for him and brandy and bed for me.  

A good day.

Day Trip to the 'Grove.'

The train arrived around about noon at Liverpool Street.  A peaceful journey for a Saturday, one with no rail engineering on our line to hinder us, somewhat unusual at the weekends.  The sun shone, the hottest day of the year they say.

Grabbing a couple of quick shots of the crowds milling around the station and remembering the grime covered building of the not too distant past I grabbed the 'Oyster' card I had been given and headed for the 'Tube.'

  
The London Underground, the smell of er the Tube, the rush of air as trains arrive or leave, the squeal of wheels,the panic to board before the doors close, always someone just too late!  No-one notices.  The sudden increase in speed as the train rushes from one station to another, the jerk as the connection fails, bodies swinging from side to side, not so much swinging during commuter rush hour obviously.  The lack of air, yesterday the oppressive heat, voices talking in unknown languages, women, usually Spanish, talking very loudly, all creating an atmosphere difficult to replicate.

 
Notting Hill Gate, nothing like the film which somehow managed to avoid any black people appearing, but does on Saturdays gather together the tourists and the show-offs, dressed to kill, to the market.

Being lunchtime the pubs and trendy overpriced restaurants were full, I hesitated to think what price a pint would be around here, and struggled through the mass of tourists desperate to see the sights so long read about in tourist guides and seen on foreign TV shows.  My cynical years tell me such sights are not what are presented by well paid er, presenters, but still we go and they come and get in the locals way, hindering traffic and hopefully spending their money as if it meant nothing to them.  
I spent nothing.

As you know the top end of Portobello Road contains a row of little houses like these.  One is available for you at a mere £3 million ono.  I liked the plants growing around the house here offering a little protection from the tourists although many were photographing the houses and fantasising their next 'never to happen' move.     

George lived a few doors down from this house at one time.  He did get around, Empire serving in Burma was it? Paris, the Outer Hebrides, and this house which I suspect he rented as folks did then.  I wonder if people knock on the door and request a peek around?  I suspect I know what the answer would be...

This sign has intrigued me for years, only now do I realise it is carved into the wall which explains its long life.  I had a quick look for info but so far have discovered nothing re the man, the 1851 census has not show anything so I will have to look further.  In 1851 I suspect this road was still a muddy path to the farm at the far end, certainly pigs were being kept in Westbourne Grove at this time by those living in hovels, not buildings such as this.

Not much has changed down Portobello since I was here last  The 'Pink Fairy' selling Afghan coats in 1970 and silver jewellery in the 80s has long since departed.  Most shops look the same but owners have gone and new ones have come, prices remain devious.  'Alice's' once sold ex-army dress uniform to trendy types in the 60's yet has survived the slings and arrows of outrageous governments and remains the same colour as before.  The expressions on view have not changed either.

 
This end of the road has always been where the expensive stalls are found.  It is the far end where folks such as I looked for bargains.  In between came the fruit stalls with their crooked owners, often slappers I found, ready to overcharge for spoilt fruits.  At the far end we could see the stallholders who know their business scouting for bargains to take back to the top end, once burnished up they would offer a decent profit.  I looked for things I needed, but often it was possible to find things cheap that you cannot live without, even if you don't need them.  Too far for my knees today so we remained at the top end among the fancy people.  The lead soldiers on display were once popular with the middle classes children, others could not afford them.  Today these would be banned as dangerous for kids.  I shoved through the crowd to get a picture as a voice spoke at the far side "No, not Russian madam, 'Prussian' you see he has a Picklehaube helmet."  I did not hang around to hear the fantasy price he was going to ask for.

  
'Finch's' on the corner, a pub I once spent time in around 1971.  The place usually had a fiddler, a box player, sax or trumpeter or whatever jamming in the corner.   A hazy smell would often appear and the barman was desperate to clear it out before the 'fuzz' crashed in killing his profits.  We arrived one night when A large Black African was arguing with a small Asian man, both known to us.  We gently interfered and ended the slagging match before the wee man got dealt with. "I say what I think," said the Asian, "I don't care what he says, I say what I think."  His face was a mass of bruises, a cut here and there, a plaster, a bruise.  I heard myself mutter "Sometimes tact is required."  It was a great wee place then in the far off days of yore.  A bit ordinary now I suspect.  

That year I began as a volunteer shifting folks from one flat to another.  The charity owned several of these buildings, I doubt they do so now, and the people we moved usually went from the 5th floor in one building to the 3rd floor in another, or vice-versa.  I remember the ease in which we carted large objects up and down stairs then!  I also stayed for a while in the basement, sorry 'garden flat, of the last house in the picture.  I suspect it would cost £500,000 today.  There again the previous tenant to us had painted the front room black and left a skeleton image hanging behind the door.  Hmmm I wonder what went on there...  Opposite on the shop wall someone had scrawled 'Get high on dynamite!'  Graffiti that remained there for many years.

As London expanded in the second half of the 19th century these buildings appeared and Westbourne Grove was a shopping centre of high repute.   These 'Upstairs, Downstairs' houses were popular but they did not go much further north at the time.  The wealthy stopped about here and further north the lower classes were moved in.  Until recent gentrification it remained that way.  An entire building might be available for sale but usually these flats go from between £500,000 to double that and above.  It appears however the market has reached a point where it can no longer sustain such prices.  I will wait until it falls considerably.

  
By the 1880'sthe area was at its height, the  streets flowed with well dressed women annoying badly paid shop girls everywhere while trawling from one shop to another on their way to leaving their 'carte de visite' at the home of someone of importance.  A bit more elegant than a text I think.  The shops today I note are no less expensive and 'exclusive.'  The prices are made to make you think you have made it when you pay over the top for run of the mill clobber.  People of course fall for this, increase the price and people think it of a higher standard, life is often deceitful.

Now if you have followed so far you, like me, need a break!  Here it is.

Now, back to work...

These shops have stood here for well over a  hundred and odd years.  While the Post Office is now something that I could not understand and the shop that once sold art nouveau lamps has gone there are many places where the silly girl can look her best and pay through the nose for it.  The lamp shop had many exquisite young ladies, dressed, or usually undressed, in Edwardian or 1920's style.  These usually were lamps of some sort but for the girls sake it is nice to know it is cooler in the shade.

I eventually reached my destination, to the great pleasure of my knees.  I spent many years in this church building.  Eventful years for the most part with several difficulties.  God was there and much happened.  In time all that ended and a new thing happened, many moved on and God continues his work in a new way here.  The building was renovated giving a huge collection of rooms, large and very small.  The ministers wife's training as an architect helped with the design.  Tremendous use of rooms and the two showers installed.  On Mondays street people get a tea and biscuit and a shower, for many it is the only one they will get.  Advice is offered if anyone can give it and a chance to just meet people of the street.  On Saturday it was the monthly 'Lobby Lunch' something they have done for many years.  Street people, and others, come to tea and sandwiches, to chat and lonely folks from the area drop in, London as you will know is a very lonely city. 
The church spaces are also used for art exhibitions and Chris, the minister, had some of his work on show and that was the purpose of my visit.  The one time staircase turrets were put to good use making spaces to show pictures or spend time alone in prayer.  There were several of these and other cubby holes around the building as well as office spaces and larger halls, it had been very well designed and a huge development considering what the place had been like before.  At least now there was no more need to personally paint doors, walls, or any other running repair.  How many doors I painted in past times.  On the top you can just make out the pricey flats that have been built in to pay for it all.  Great views from up there.
Only two of the girls working the kitchen, that's what women were made for surely?  Only two of them I knew, Rosie spoke with all the keenness of someone wishing she was elsewhere and Rosemary did not recognise me.  l did not think it worthwhile explaining as it had been 23 years since I was there, few remember.   

Going around the exhibition and wandering up stairs and through doors I forgot to take pictures of the art on show.  It is not a massive show but when he tells you how he took the pics it takes time!  His eye is better than mine and he sees pictures everywhere.  This pic is taken after 'Lobby Lunch' was cleared up and the last guest was chatting about some problem.  It shows the space in this first hall, vestibule I suppose, and as I sat chewing on the last piece of cake they cleared away the 8 tables and this man and the other regulars sorted things out.  In spite of the vast wealth in the area there are normal people around also.  rich or poor they all have similar problems and the 'up and outs' need help as much as the 'Down and outs.'  This church is willing to cover both in a manner Jesus wishes them to.

Here is the boss admiring his work through the window into one of the tower spaces.  At the rear is one of his offerings.  At night the picture shows up clearly to the passer-by but the reflection spoiled the show today somewhat.  It will run until the end of June and the church is always open these days unlike in the past.  One complaint was the doors were always shut but when open these grumblers did not enter, now it is open daily but do they enter? 

Chris and I then went 'just around the corner' about a ten mile hike for my knees, to a cafe where we sipped coffee while he ate apple strudel.  My diet forbade this, and all the other delicacies spread along the counter which my greed longed for.  It is many years since we had met in the real world and it was good to hear how satisfied he now is with the church building, the 'programme' if that is an acceptable word, and the staff, all part time, who help run the place.  The congregation is small as is the case in such churches, while around 50 attend on a morning over a three years period that 50 will vary with time and over a hundred may have been regulars.  London life brings people in and chucks them out at a great rate.  He needs to bring in some of the media types from round about.  They of course hate Christianity because it exposes their sin, not to public scrutiny but to themselves and this they fear greatly.  Don't we all hate knowing what we are?
It was good to know he is where he ought to be and the church is facing the right direction.  I was glad he is content with his lot, especially as he has so many troubles each day, often new ones to surprise him, and Jesus takes him through them.  His success revealed clearly my failure.
One thing was clear this is not the 'Grove' I remember.  Not just because of the building work but because the people have changed, most were not born when I was last here, and the outlook is while similar to the past very different also.  God reaches out to what is there now, not what was there then.

 
It was time to shake off the cafe and head for the 'tube' again.  Once more I saw sights I had forgotten while pushing through chattering tourists oblivious to others sharing the planet with them.  I avoided the young thing tempting me with T-shirts claiming 'I have been to Portobello Road' and ignoring her and avoiding death on the road by using the zebra crossing and almost getting killed as the driver could not see past the tourists crowding the roadway I headed home.

This row of shops was at one time shrouded in the fragrance, if that is the right word, of the 'joss sticks' that one of the Hippy shops burnt daily.  Looking at what is there now I wish the Hippies were back again.  "Peace!"  Anyway I must push through this crowd and make my way down all those steps to catch the next train.

 Blast, Missed!

This will do.  I just have to keep awake and avoid ending up at Hainault, wherever that is.

I slunk around the station, usually I jump on the first train and head for Chelmsford and change there.  If anything happens and a delay occurs I can change to the bus and get home easily enough.  Today I just could not be bothered and instead searched W.H.Smiths for a cold drink.  Eventually I found a tin of something cold, I was too tired to care to read what it was called and it was one of the few actually cold drinks in the fridge, and with only 'self-service' in the shop, the staff to lazy to take the cash, I paid £1:89 for whatever it was.
As I left the shop the Somali (?) security guard asked which team I was supporting in the evening game.  Neither I said and wished I had expressed my real thoughts that it would be a poor game with few goals and a waste of time.  However I said little.  He asked what team I supported, I explained and he looked blankly at me.  "Scottish team," I explained.  "Oh," said he, "Scottish."  He let the word roll around his head as I moved off while he tried to work out what "Scottish" was.  England does not know Scotland, London knows it even less.

 
I greedily guzzled the cold drink, it had claimed 'energy' on the tin but I saw little of that, and slouched off up the long platform to the front end of the train, one of the newer replacement ones for the old out of days trains.  At this time of night I considered it could not be busy and I was right.  However each one who boarded ensured they bumped into me until I moved to a safer seat.  

The journey takes an hour mostly dropping people off as opposed to gathering them on.  The sun shone through the window, the coach was quiet, four young kids got on and noisily off soon afterwards, they had the difficulty of explaining to one of their number he could not get on the train where he intended as the railway did not go there.  
I was not convinced he was joking.  
Home by 8 in time for some of the football and a plate of corned beef and chips.  At this point the sight of the cafe specialities lined along the counter returned and caused me a deep moment of jealousy.  That cafe did not exist while I lived there, hopefully he will move out here one day.
The dinner was woeful, the football so woeful I played with the pictures instead.  My knees were woeful and wished me to know this, my tiredness was woeful and as I remembered clambering up 5 flights of stairs carrying furniture all those years ago I wondered if it was all a dream?  
Soon I was dreaming and even sooner it was 5:15 am and I was awake again....

  

Thursday Cogitation

The tenth of January twenty nineteen, yet another year has almost finished before I have got over Christmas, and that itself appears far in the past!   Staring out into the gloom does not cheer me early in my morning, neither does Radio 3 cheer as it ought this morning, the wrong choice of music for me.  I wish for something more cheery, ah, Brandenburg Concerto's, that's better, I need something cheery as in a minute the news will appear bringing tales of Brexit, squabbles in parliament and little encouraging me to go out and meet the world.  The world itself is gray and chilly, the people wrapped up, gloved and woolly hatted as if the Antarctic was on their minds rather than Tesco, only young girls heading to college dress skimpily to attract the strange creatures attending them, tardily attired males who consider themselves 'trendy' while looking, as all youths do in every generation, a mess.

My mood might be affected by the pile of paper lying beside me.  This contains information regarding the graves in the Bocking End Congregational Church graveyard.  This has been in use so long many of the tombs are now unreadable and others soon to be similar sadly.  However I checked up some of the names and was struck by how much many achieved, at least in child rearing, and how quickly their life had passed, life is much shorter than we realise, and only after fifty do we realise we are next!  The age span of the names is also great, one church minister was serving the church there for nigh on fifty years, greeting many when they entered the world and burying them around him when they left, while others failed to reach five years in their Victorian life.  Many women lie there dying in their twenties and thirties, childbirth often the cause.
Others appear to have been successful in business, a builder married the girl next door, began as a carpenter, became a builder, then a master builder and eventually died in what I presume to be a house he himself built in one of the more prestigious streets.  Today that house will cost well over half a million, possibly much more, it is an outstanding building!  His other buildings will stand all around probably for many years yet.
I sometimes wonder how people survived the physically tough eras in the past.  Walking was the most common form of travel until railways appeared, and then we would not venture far unless we sought a new life or had a public day off.  Medicine was rare, mostly old wives tales and experiments, until the mid Victorian days when ether arrived operations were rather drastic, germs were not discovered until much later and sickness was dangerous.  Hard labour, poor wages, poor prospects, even though life improved as the century came to an end, in comparison to today the opportunities had to be fought for and life was strewn with difficulties.  We have it so much easier and I am aware of many faults and difficulties we all face today. 

Our next exhibition reflects greatly on one of the large businesses that once employed thousands of townsfolks, Crittall Windows.  By the end of the 19th century Courtaulds Mills, Lake and Elliott and Crittall's employed thousands here, all were decent employers and workers happily remained employed at these companies for most of heir working days.  All paid decent wages, good working conditions and social clubs and events.  Crittalls had a large social club almost opposite their extensive factory, now all gone and replaced by housing, and paid good wages with excellent conditions for the time.  During the Great War they replaced men who had gone off to serve with women paying the same wages and prepared 18lb shells for the war.  One of the Crittalls built the small town of 'Silver End' around one of his factories for the workers, social clubs, parks, shops etc all available in a modernistic setting.  While few of the early settlers remain, most must have passed away by now, the village is still clearly well laid out although the benefactor 'feel' may now have long gone.  If only our millionaires today acted like this towards their people?  I suppose they have no contact with workers and therefore have no idea what the workers lives are like, politicians today mostly failing to have ever 'worked' having always been politically minded.  They are indeed far from us all.  The Crittalls however knew their people and this exhibition will show oil paintings made by the company of workers at all levels from shop floor to boardroom.  These were made in the 20's and at least one person I have met has a granddad who is among those portrayed by the artist (whoever he was).  This ought to being in the public, half the town worked there or knew some family member who did, and it will run on until the new year to allow schools a chance to bring the kids in and learn about the towns past.  
No-one paints portraits of their workers today.

 

Matisse...hmmm...

'Matisse, Drawing with scissors' exhibition is under way.
In 1939 Matisse was aged 70, a divorce was forcing his artwork into store while French lawyers argued, he was seriously ill and probably not very happy.  By 1943 with war all around sickness still serious and who knows if the lawyers had finished as yet he took scissors and paper and cut out a figure of a man.  Adding a red heart he called this the 'Fall of Icarus,' read into that what you will.
He then went on to develop his scissors, paper and paint work and instead of dying as doctors said he should continued his work until he died in 1954.
The museum has an array of his work to temp the art lovers of the town, though most appear to be coming from elsewhere, and I had four who travelled in on Tuesday just for the exhibition.  It made a change from dead soldiers anyway.
I am not sure what any of us think about this. I only had a short look yesterday while setting up my area and while the colours are pretty it is not something I would travel to see.  Not that I would travel for much this man produced, to much late 19th and early 20th century modernism in his work, 'modernism' being another word for 'meaningless' in my mind all too often.  It has not set the staffs heather on fire but as long as folks come and see we will be happy. 

Our lass has been going around the schools and the kids have produced these frames which I think are better, and more colourful, than the old man's work.  They mean as much and probably brought the kids more enjoyment than that achieved by Matisse in his workshop.

This has to do with Christmas...