Stuck Indoors

 

I have been stuck indoors for days this not for an eagerness to hear the words of Boris Johnson on the news nor for fear of ISIS terrorists, if only the 'Tube' came this far out!  None of these things have moved me much and instead I have merely loitered here unless the desire to feed my fat face moved me elsewhere, elsewhere being Tesco or Sainsburys.  Those places, and one other now found in this town, offered me a glimpse of the creatures that have recently left school and a re pursuing a career in supermarket rip-offs.  One featured a disinterested gayboy who will not see out the month as he clearly finds work in the real work not to his liking.  It appears school has not taught him about reality and while one or two others who joined alongside him are making the most of things this one will not last.  The newer shop, B&M has in the few occasions I have been in been staffed by incompetents and wee girls with an attitude suitable for a poor soap opera, it is however unsuitable for work.  The boys do the job but the girls, including some well past adolescence, fail in every way.   The allure of a life as an 'Essex girl' may be drawing them, I suspect they watch 'TOWIE' and see it something to live up to.  Give me the elder regular checkout staff who for the most part are grown up, well most of them.

Much of my time has been taken up with catching up on things begun years ago.  A woman asked one day for information regarding a local village and we had none, no surprise there as there many villages in our area.  I decided to write out a handout for the village, and others also but never got round to it because of the interference of the war exhibitions.  Recently I managed to pick up some of the forgotten links, those not lost in the death of the old laptop, and have begun once again. 

Some villages here go back into the Iron Age, others appear to have begun just to till the fields of a Lord of the Manor, especially in Norman times, and hovels that once housed farm labourers after their long day in ploughed fields now sell for half a million or more to residents who never meet one another unless they collect the kids from school or lower themselves to get drunk in the one remaining pub, a pub the few remaining locals avoid.

It s no surprise men took to trades of any description if it took them off the land or flooded into bigger towns for work in unhealthy factories where wages were higher and rough conditions better than frozen fields.  It is no surprise also so many left voluntarily for war when the chance came, excitement, comradeship and a chance to see the world was not something a young fit man could wish to miss.  There are fifty or so memorials to those who did not return from their adventure around our district, not counting the ones in the bigger towns.

In days of old things were tougher.  If dad was working the fields the kids had to walk two or three miles on occasion into school.  Fun probably in summer but not so in winter.  Most of these kids were local but others had a long walk in to education.  I do not think most teachers had any qualifications, I am unsure when that became a requirement, but certainly on some census returns clever lassies of 16 years were noted as 'teachers.'  What did they know?  I suggest they were however more capable than the local young checkout staff of today.

Sunny Sat

I spent some fifteen or so minutes sitting in the park watching the clouds above change shape and twist and turn as they passed by.  Clouds, as you know, fascinate me.  They are such huge great monstrosities that we take for granted.  Some reach thousands of feet into the air, other cover whole continents, many are dark and foreboding while today most were of the large fluffy type.  This was the nearest to a rain cloud we saw today.  
I was led to wondering what is actually in them?  Water vapour we know but what else fills these Goliaths in the sky?  Reading today about a man visiting Antarctica and learning of the huge icebergs that contain pockets, if that is the right word, of the air, the atmosphere from five to fifteen thousand years ago.  An air breathed by the Sumerians before they learnt to write, an air early man knew as he spread out about the earth.  How different it is today.  How long will we be able to breathe such air as daily it changes content and each change brings more pollution.  Maybe we will require workers to open the old icebergs and release fresh air!

    
With the weather reaching 80% today and nothing in the news bar the Tower aftermath we run out of things to say.  My tired mind has spent much time looking through the village census for 1911 seeking any link to men I cannot trace.  The facts noted are however interesting.  People in their 70's and 80's still claim to be 'Agricultural labourers' a few being pensioners, the over 70's were granted five shillings by Lloyd George in 1909 and this caused Margaret Thatchers father to leave Lloyd Georges Liberal Party and join the Conservatives.  He did not agree with dole to the unemployed nor pensions to the old, this tells us something.  One poor woman had been married twelve years, had given birth to nine children and only two were surviving.  I noted that neither child was listed at home, only an adult Boarder, and wondered about her state of health and mind and where would the children be living?  I never found my lost men but did get an insight into village living in 1911.

      

I Took a Walk Today

I decided at the last minute I was going to take advantage of the bleary sun that appeared in between the clouds to go somewhere new today. Remembering the buses use a different timetable on Saturdays, and don't run at all on Sundays, I checked the supposed times online.  This gave me just enough time to grab my coat and run.  I then returned and put my shoes on.
I thought of a place to go and sitting upstairs at the front with the sun shining through the windows it was almost like Spring, if you ignored the clouds.  We proceeded apace and after about twenty minutes I judged we were nearing the stop for the place that was in my mind.  So I rang the bell and as they say, alighted.  Quite what that word means I am not sure.  Does it mean I got lighter by getting off, could they imply be leaving the bus that object of delights felt lighter?  I know not and worried little about it at the time.      
It appeared to me my goal lay just down the road and I proceeded in an easterly direction, as the constables would say, before deciding to first walk up the short street marked 'Dead end' as the sign pointed to the church of 'St James the Less.'  Less what we will ignore for now.  
On the way up the road I noticed the kind of thing often seen in the back roads of English villages, on this occasion it was the turret of an American tank sitting in the front garden as if this was a normal sight to see.  In this part of the world, in among the quiet bungalows where nothing but wife swapping and money laundering are the usual pastimes people often parade their hobbies for the few passers-by to enjoy.

  
Whether the old tractor in the rear actually works these days I doubt but the American truck looks like it may sometimes be used.  
I sauntered on passing the quiet houses, enjoying the near seclusion from the world hurtling by less than a mile down the road and arrived at the small church.  To the right, just behind the car park, lay a field, the recently ploughed earth a light brown colour as it waited for the offerings beneath to start sprouting. Two houses stood on the other side and nothing moved, not even a bird.  

The church was erected in 1130 but I failed to discover by whom and for whom. Such churches were often built by the local Lord for the villages in his area but I know not who he may have been.

Much altered since the 12th century, and renamed St James the Less in 1365 in stead of St Mary for some reason, the church conveys and impression of age. The mustiness in the air pervades the building heightening its attractiveness rather than lessening it.  Somewhat darker than the photos show light fills the place today through two large windows on either side, I think these may have been the ones inserted in the 14th century.  It is always something to admire when we talk of buildings renovated so long ago. This small church has been used by people for hundreds of years, mostly agricultural types, I suspect there was little else on offer then, working themselves to death every hour of the day on what must have been back breaking toil on the fields.  

     
One interesting recent discovery was the aged paintings that once ran round the walls.  Most of these were removed during the reformation but the majority of these appear to have survived reasonably well. Of course years of whitewash have hidden them so this may have preserved them to some extent but it also damaged them so these are difficult to interpret at first sight.  The explanation booklet I could not find but one day I will discover more.  

  
The old beams above the window may hold the roof up but originally this was probably a thatched roof, tiles would come later.  Many houses around here remain thatched and the Thatchers art was dying out by the 1960's but demand has once again trained men to the job.  needs must I suppose.

One small portion of coloured glass dating from the 1400's is found high above the window in the apse. Too insignificant for reformation zealots but maybe the windows in this church were not stained in any way, money would be scarce.

Sadly such buildings are usually locked as light fingered peoples appear looking for treasure, I however was fortunate enough to get into this one today.  There is no treasure here, the building itself, and the wall paintings, are the treasure and one worth visiting.  

I was much taken by the organ, which I suppose actually works, especially because of the size.  What a delight, however I am not keen on organ music as such and my delight might fade if I heard it in operation.

The round end and building material can be clearly seen here.  The rubble used is typical of local churches.  No stone in sufficient quantities here, occasionally Roman bricks can be seen where once proud villas have fallen apart and been reused by the Saxons and later Normans for their buildings.

Naturally I found a dead soldier in the graveyard, there is usually one somewhere.  Even little villages like this, still only a handful of houses, only seven families in 1810 and only a couple of dozen hoses in the area now.  How many attend the church I wonder?
Anyway having enjoyed my fill of the delightful place I wandered on towards what I thought was my intended destination.  As I walked I realised I may have made a mistake somewhere as this appeared to be failing to make an appearance.  My knees ached, the weather became warm, so I jumped on a bus to discover I had indeed got off at the wrong stop by about three miles!  The bus pass came in useful!    
The destination was a church I often pass on the bus, it was locked!
Maybe the good Lord took me to a better place, certainly he knew more about where I was going than I did!
My knees now ache, I need to eat a large steak and sleep for a week! 


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Things upon which to Cogitate

Scotch Whisky Guide

Fifty Scots Words  

A must read for intellectuals.

Blind man drives car in town!

Fifty Shades of Gray dumped in Charity Shops everywhere.

So many being dumped the shops canny get rid of them!

It's Dan Brown all over again!

Thankful Villages

The small villages who received back the men who marched to the Great War and received all their boys back once again were called 'Thankful Villages.'  There were few indeed of these.  At the time this report was written, 2011, only 52 such villages could be found in England and Wales.  

No such village was discovered in Scotland or Ireland.

Near me lies a small village with a population of 402 in 1895.  

During the Great War some 32 men died in action,

rather more typical of the time.

Yorkie Dialect

To stop Soub from greetin I add the Yorkshire version

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Sunshine

A shot of village England from the train as we passed at high speed today.  A shot a second or so earlier would have given a slightly better view, however the big houses, the church, and the green represent the usual English village that tourists love.  Whether the pub remains open or whether actually living there is good is another matter.  The TV programmes often show folks looking for a small, quiet village to retire to.  They talk of community spirit, a local friendly pubs, and give the impression they can fit in anywhere.  Maybe so but do the villagers take to them I wonder?  Some folks live forty years in a village and are still reckoned as outsiders by those born there. I suspect if you have money and do not upset the routine you may be alright, but it could be too cosy for some.  Occasionally incomers are known to demand the church bell stops ringing as they came to the country for quiet, some even demand local chickens or cattle in fields are removed.  That is not how to endear oneself to the locals.  One or two houses are available however £6-900,000 would be required for the bigger ones, good luck!

While up town being browbeaten and nagged by Helen (Is there a school women attend where they learn to bully males?) concerning job searching, I noticed the river was deep, fast flowing and as you can see a bit murky.  This reflects the rainfall over the past month.  I noticed from the train the river had flooded in many places, on occasion filling ready made holes and flood basins, yet we know the rain is insufficient to find its way deep into the earth, to fill reservoirs or aid farmland in the long run.  Personally I think we have had enough, but I do not posses a garden, a crop nor a vast need for water.  The hosepipe ban continues but some would say there are still too many mains pipes leaking that water companies are too busy counting their profits to notice.  They may have a point.




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If it's Springtime That Must Mean Cricket in England!

Whenever Spring shows through the rain clouds Englishmen will run for the 'white's,' grab a bat and head for the village green! Naturally this is not always easy in large conurbations but somehow there is always an area put aside for men of indeterminate age to waste a few hours throwing a ball at a bat playing cricket. As you are aware the English believe, wrongly, that they invented everything that exists, however when it comes to cricket most peoples will happily allow them to take the blame!  Since it sprang into being in the late seventeen hundreds it has become associated with the spread of the British Empire.(Stand to attention at the back! Salute the flag!) Now nations like India and the West Indian Islands play the game, and naturally they play it so much better than its inventors! Pakistan, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka are places where the game has an almost religious status. For the poor of course a success at cricket can lead to an escape from a life of toil and sweat and some have become rich beyond their wildest dreams.The latest version of the game '20/20' now has a league in India which offers football player type profits. That appears popular with the players! Those nations with connections to the 'Old Country' also played the game successfully, Australia in particular, while New Zealand played it in between thumping everybody at rugby union. The Canadians tried it but found the ball often got lost in the twenty foot snowdrifts and instead took up Ice Hockey, a derivation of another English game. Being Canadian of course they decided on a version which was deemed pleasantly violent. There again few Canadians ever saw a girls school play hockey! St Trinians anyone?

To normal people, and Americans of course, the laws of cricket are confusing. Having myself idled watched the game via the box in the corner for many years I can assure you that it has a pleasant and enjoyable side. Ask me however where a 'Silly Mid Off' should stand or what the umpire, (that's he in the white coat with several pullovers around his head in the 70% heat) ask what he is doing waving his hand in that peculiar manner and I confess, like an English batsman, I'm stumped! By the way English cricket has improved greatly in recent years notably from the descendants of immigrants from the Indian sub Continent and elsewhere reaching test standard! Quite how the British National Party will cope with that I do not care to answer. 

Watching these chubby, sweating men roll up and throw (sorry, 'bowl') the ball at a gray haired man who's belly desired to break through the restricting belt, I was struck by how sociable the game was. Many of these lads have played enthusiastically for many years, often following in their father's footsteps, especially around here in a small town with lots of villages round about. Some cricket pitches possibly go back over two hundred years or more. Only 'Townies' moving form city to a quite life in the country would ever complain about a ball from such a pitch breaking their window! And would you believe some do! If the game is rained off the players can always socialise in the bar and if not the exercise of standing around in the sun for a few hours, occasionally chasing a ball, incidentally a very hard ball, and batting tsaid ball occasionally then running 22 yards between the wicket to the sound of a lacklustre applaud from a drowsy watcher must be good for them, physically and emotionally. Sociable, healthy exercise with little strain, and a game many play well into their fifties and beyond. Let's face it, we might play football into our thirties, but when we realise, at around eighteen, that we will never make the grade the joy of being kicked around is somewhat lessened. By forty few play football any more. Crickets leisurely pace enables enthusiasts to pull hamstrings and damage the Achilles right up to their pension.  Anyway some say, but whisper this quietly, that in spite of the confusing rules and endless arguments about 'moving feet,' and 'spinners,' and absurd scoring system, some say that this serious cricket business is actually fun!   

Escape to the country

Escape to the Country is a programme  designed to aid country type people, 'townies,' to find a rural idyll that they can call their own. I like this programme. It enlivens our covetous nature as we watch a couple, always a couple, and sometimes some pretty strange couples appear on this show, we watch a couple wander about several houses wondering if this is 'the one,' and mentally tear down walls and build families. (Maybe they should keep the last bit to themselves of course?) We covet both the money these people have to spend, usually in the regions of £300.000 to a million or so, and then dream about the house we wish to possess, all the while shivering in our clammy cave sitting over the last candle to keep warm. But do these people know what they are doing I wonder?

The presenters give lavish information regarding the are in which the couple desire to find a dwelling, the green country, the deep blue sea, the history and the communications, all with a smile and a cheery disposition. And yet I have never heard mention of the ducking stool or the witch burning, the wife swapping is ignored and there is never a mention of what they did when they caught that poacher! Do these incomers not understand why Agatha Christie set so many of her crime stories in villages? Do they think 'Miss Marple' was an invention of the author? These were not novels, they were news reporting! Yet not one word of this is mentioned by the cheery presenters of this country. 'Community' is mentioned many times, especially when speaking of the local pub, the presence of the Post Office, and of course the small shop. Yet the pub is not called 'The Jolly Hangman' for nothing! The Post Office was closed after the little old lady running it was done for murdering her 'toyboy,' and the small shop is run by a sour spinster and her brother who has not been right since he was mortared at Monte Cassino! If you hear strange noises in the night it is just him 'passing through' the garden. It's best not to look out......

When the house buyers have finished grumbling about the insufficient 19 acres of land, the problem with the upstairs toilet, and wondering if the house, priced at a mere £850,000 is for them, nobody mentions the curtains twitching across the road. Do they not know that while the farmer, desperate for income, is happy to sell them an extra 'bit of land' for an arm and a leg, the curtain twitcher has already worked out a plan to stop this happening? No voice will be raised amongst the unsmiling, unless they are being paid, villagers about the reason the woman of the house is so eager to 'do a deal.' No voice will mention what, or who, is lying at the bottom of the village pond either,will they? Ducks are often found in such ponds, but surely the programme presenter must have thought an alligator a bit strange for the Cotswold's? I would love a country house with an acre or two. A little wood at the side, a wide panoramic view, preferably of the sea, and the money, and justification, to possess such an abode. However I would be careful about where I buy, amongst whom I would dwell, and remember the story of Lot. He 'saw the land was good,' and it turned out to be Sodom!

Enjoy your house hunting.

   


 

           

Driving Essex Roads

Much to my surprise the driving instructor phoned yesterday and offered a lesson today, a bank holiday. Having missed two in a row because I was dying from the ever present filthy bug that refuses to leave me, in spite of medicines, prayer and cursing, I was pleased to have a go! As it was a day off for the world I rather hoped the roads would be empty, wrong! it appears that the day brought many out. Cyclist clubs were found in groups of seven or eight blocking roads wherever they could, motorcyclists, who love the windy roads, gather at Finchenfield, 'England's prettiest village' they say. It is lovely indeed but full of all sorts of bikers filling The Fox,' and I had to go through them. The village contains a pond, ducks, the pub and an overpriced antique shop, and also an ancient bridge over the stream. This I had to cross twice, and you only have priority one way. Naturally as I approached some nyaff shoved through and nearly caught us. As there was only an old wifey on the bridge coming back I didn't bother to slow down - she can swim quite well you know!

For two hours I crunched the gears along these pretty roads, passing all sorts of aged cottages, many thatched, all brightly painted and probably very attractive when the sun shines, and only twice did I come across Mr Impatient. On the first occasion he raced past just as I glanced in the mirror thinking, 'Only a fool would...' and he did! Later I was trailed by a lass in a red 'Micra.' That's a car, not a skirt, and I noticed a sensible gap between up. Then along he came in his black Willie extension and I noticed him force his way between us. This often happens when I am near women. Naturally I thought it was the police, it usually turns out to be. Anyway just as we approached a hill with a bend he went for it. Whether he noticed the car coming over the top I don't know but he made it, just! Already I am amazed at the patience of most who drive and the foolishness of others.

Still, it was fun today. The back streets are enjoyable, although the sharp right and left turns through villages, the cars parked in exactly the worst spots in said places, the occasional tractor and junctions round which it is impossible to see - and not helped when you leave the handbrake on - do keep you awake. I write this simply because since I returned I have still got the road flashing in front of me. Like my life, it takes longer to flash past than it used to.


The picture is found on an excellent site called Rural Roads. Well worth a look.