S. Worthen | Weblog

The day after the last local history group meeting was, inconveniently in its way, Rememberance/Armistice Day, which made it inappropriate to post about one of the interesting things I'd learned at it.

The British Free Corps was a unit which fought for the Germans in WWII, against Russia, recruited from the ranks of POWs. One of them was one of the men we heard about, one of only four people convicted of high treason in Britain after WWII. I was fascinated to learn such a Corps existed in the first place; the internet tells me many of you may already know of it thanks to its use in various (fictional) books and movies.

I'd also been unaware of the Princess Alice, whose wreck on the Thames is still, to this day, the largest loss of life in a river accident in Britain. Nearly 700 people died, and that's an estimate. 640 tickets were sold for the day-trip to Kentish pleasure gardens, but no tickets were issued for the many children on board. Not everyone died - but most did. Even strong swimmers were scuppered by the site of the collision, in the outwash of one of Bazelgette's fancy new sewer outlets, by Creekwater/Barking Village, at the mouth of the Roding River.

Several things went obviously wrong, leading to its collision with a large outbound cargo ship. The helmsman got off at Gravesend and entrusted the ship to a Thames novice. The currents are strong and different around the mouth of the Roding, and confused by the sewer outlet.

But really, when it came down to it, the single biggest confusion which caused the accident was the law which, just at the beginning of that year, had switched which side of the Thames upstream and downstream vessels needed to stick to. It's like switching which side of the road traffic should drive on, but in a place where sufficient road signs just aren't possible. The Princess Alice was caught by currents, and the ship approaching her thought she was switching sides of the river, as per regulation changes, to let it by. Collision ensued.

Passing directions on the Thames - port to port - have never been altered since.

In honor of C.'s birthday week, we went off to Wiltshire for a few days, to explore, eat a good meal or two, and bask in the glorious weather. The basking was effective, such that, sunblock forgotten on the first day, we were rather pinked, although not burned to the point of any pain, happily. At least we both remembered our hats.

( Stonehenge, Old Wardour Castle, Caen Hill Locks, Lacock... )

Today, a houseguest arrives, fresh from an emergency root canal followed by a trans-Atlantic flight. Tonight, dinner with friends, possibly sans-houseguest, given his likely state.

Waltham Abbey was the richest monastery in Essex before the dissolution. It had Thomas Tallis as its organist at one point. It was a pilgrimage church. It was where Harold II was buried. After the dissolution, two-thirds of it was knocked down, leaving only enough for a parish church. Its bones are Norman, but with plenty of add-ons and revisions to mark the passing of subsequent centuries.

You might think, from this photograph, that this is a Memorial Day post. Literally, it is (at least in the U.S.), and seasonally, it is. Of course, poppies are in bloom this time of year. But if I spent my afternoon remembering any particular battle, it was the Battle of Hastings, in which Harold was killed, in October of 1066.

Poppies growing on a wall, assembled from parts of the destroyed extended abbey.

( Photos of Waltham Abbey... )

My morning featured a totally unanticipated trip to Harlow. Thus, in effect, I spent the morning touring the Essex countryside (with a bit of Hertfordshire thrown in), first by taxi and then by bus. The fields of rapeseed were vibrant yellow, in full bloom under blue skies, contrasting with the rich green of the gently wandering hills. The roads were scenicly winding as they skirted fields and villages, and nearly traffic-free. The banks of the road were heaped up with Queen Anne's Lace and the perfume, mostly of spring blossoms, wafted in through the open windows. Harlow itself seemed all weary concrete and new housing developments, interleaved with really great bicycle paths.

I saw the mounds of earth for the White Water Canoe Centre being built for the Olympics. It's right next to a charming glimpse of the Lee Valley canel. I saw small villages, new and old, all the way down to brief hamlets, such as Jack's Hatch. Best of all, I photographed the lovely Norman church of Waltham Abbey in passing, where Harold II is buried and through which the Prime Meridian runs. (Now I know how easy it is to get there, so can go back to see it properly.)

From the parking lot of Bashell Barn Farm Shop and Restaurant, Pendle, snow-scarred and illuminated, shone over shadowed Clitheroe. In Clitheroe itself, we went back for sausages, of course. They were out of pork-and-chesnut, clearly a popular flavor at the moment, but that still left us no end of other options.

At the wine shop, I finally found a bottle of elusive chocolate liquor. Months ago, I think it was, I posted asking for advice on chocolate liquor brands. I went to shop after shop which had no chocolate liquor at all. Finally, at M&S I found their in-store brand - but it was dire. At D. Byrne in Clitheroe, they had milk chocolate Mozart and milk chocolate Thornton's. I went with Mozart. They said they couldn't currently get ahold of the white or dark chocolate ones. A national shortage, perhaps, explaining why I'm having so much trouble tracking them down?

Afterward, we walked up to the castle, one of the smallest Norman keeps in England. It may be smaller than my house. A pile of single rooms would have formed the interior, unless they were cut down to the size of closets. As is the way with keeps, however large, it was never a self-sufficient building, but part of a complex. Later versions of those buildings, now a museum, clustered just downhill. The floor on the ground of the keep was raised enough that I could gesture my fingertips into the timber holes marking the base of the next floor up. A pigeon, just as startled as I, flew out from the timber hole from where she had been nesting. We only barely made contact with each other.

Ingatestone Hall was built in Tudor times, but its real charm comes from having been lived in continuously. It's a living home, renovated, revised, and restored along the way until, these days, it's mostly Tudor in form, but still wholly functional, an eclectic accumulation of furniture and imported Tudor panelling from other buildings to repair the look. The Petre family still lives here, in private apartments, although even the show rooms are clearly used. The historical kitchen's fireplace was full up of toys and an upright piano. A modern rocking horse was left in the corner of the ornate dining room. Family photos adorn side tables. Highlights of the interior were the two priest's holes, rediscovered during early twentieth-century renovations. One of them was hidden behind a bookcase.

Outside, the grounds continue the balance between grand and functional, homely and elegant. A football lay forgotten by a garden wall. The ditch maze had become slightly unclear over the years, as the marshy ground on which it was built filled in. An original stew, a fishpond, was surrounded by both decorative and practical plants. On the way out of the gates, we saw the owner and his son, chatting by the gatehouse; after all those family photos, how could we not recognize them?

Name note: "Ing" is a Saxon word for pasture, or meadow. The stone in the town's name is from a marker on the Roman road to Colchester.

Wigan "Pier" is a set of quays in an open, wide stretch of the Leeds-Liverpool Canal. This is a photo of what used to be warehouses and what is now the Orwell Pub. The most distinctive feature left over from its industrial past are the roofed sections sticking out over the canal with the remnants of hoists, used for loading cargo onto canal boats.

( More photos... )

The most important, world-shifting thing I've learned from reading Alice in Sunderland so far is this: there is no Wigan Pier.

It was all a joke, one which grew so far out of hand as to spawn a novel, a night club, a city quarter, a worldwide reputation. But it does not exist.

pittenweem - did you know this?

haggerty - Potatoes and cheese and goodness, as served as an appetizer as The Narrow. aca and easterbunny joined us for a second expedition to the pub, which proved itself to be MUCH more interesting on a second try than it had been the first time around.

clapshot - A side-dish, also from the Narrow's menu. Turnips and potato mash.

steeplejack - A person who scales large buildings for the purposes of repair. It's an excellent history of tech term I'd never run across before. The profession was made famous in the UK by Fred Dibnah. This subject came up because Dibnah is referenced in the Lancashire Hotpots' song "Ebay 'eck", and I didn't know who he was. (Thanks to pennski for introducing me to their existence via "He's turned emo".)

double-fronted house - I had visions of this property term meaning something like "façades on two sides of a block", such as at a corner, or because it has an entrance from both the front and the back of the building. No, nothing so interesting. It just refers to how many "bays" the house has - one on one side of the door is a "single-fronted house". One bay of house on each side of the door is a "double-fronted house". I learned this in Ilford, where coth & co. kindly gave us a local tour on Sunday.

fritelle - Lovely deep-fried holeless doughnuts flavored with candied citrus pieces. Available seasonally in Venice for carnevale - which ends today. Tomorrow, they will not be available anymore, and another year will pass without me eating one. They're really good. If you can't have fritelle either, may your day be full of pancakes instead.