Shonks

We'll start today's walk in the village of Brent Pelham in Hertfordshire.... 

And this was once the communications hub of the little settlement! I don't know how many people still post letters rather than firing off emails, but they certainly take good care of their post-box, freshly-painted in bright red with the details picked out in gold. The telephone box, however, now houses a defibrillator rather than a telephone since everyone now carries a phone in their pocket.

The remaining cottages have been spruced up for modern living, though they retain their picturesque charm. And there are other reminders of the past...

Here are the stocks and whipping-post, left from a time when justice was handed out more brutally than today.

So lets go for a walk in the surrounding fields, where harvest has been gathered in once again as it has been throughout the centuries, albeit with rather less sweat and toil in these mechanised times.

Even now it's just about possible, from time to time, to glimpse the mystery and magic of this ancient landscape; for this whole area is woven together with myths and legends, the texture of which still shows through in some places, despite our attempts to gloss everything over with our modern preoccupations.

Just over the fields in Anstey there's the legend of the Blind Fiddler, who walked off into a secret tunnel playing his violin. Screams were heard but the fiddler was never seen again. They still call the local pub "The Blind Fiddler".

And a little further afield they speak of Jack O'Legs, a friendly giant who robbed the rich to give to the starving poor. Nearby, Jane Wenham was the last person in the country to be convicted of witchcraft.

(I wrote about Jack O'Legs and Jane Wenham here)

The mystery we were struggling with on this drizzly morning was where exactly the footpaths were; if they weren't plunging us into waist-high vegetation, they were vanishing without trace as they crossed newly-ploughed fields. But we did see a ghostly figure ahead of us at one stage....

....an unusual white pheasant. These occur occasionally as the birds are reared to be released for what some people call "sport". Helpful, I suppose, for very short-sighted marksmen!

We completed our circuit and arrived back at the church. If we go inside we can hear about Piers Shonks, the subject of Brent Pelham's very own legend.

Piers Shonks lived around here back in the eleventh century - you can still find "Shonk's Moat" marked on modern maps. Now, around that time the district was much troubled by the existence of a dragon who lived in a hole in the ground. In 1830 farm labourers engaged in felling an ancient tree found the very lair (or at least that's what they thought). 

The brave Shonks slew the beast only to find that it was the Devil's favourite dragon and Old Nick was naturally displeased with Piers. "I'll have your soul, whether you're buried inside the church or outside", he hissed. When Shonks neared his death he asked if he could have his bow and arrow; wherever the arrow landed was where he was to be buried. The arrow flew through the air, passed through the window of Brent Pelham church and buried itself in the wall.

And there Shonks was buried, in the church wall, neither inside nor outside, and thus cheating the Devil.

The carved stone, which lies in the niche, is richly carved and, whatever the exact details of its history, must have been to commemorate a rich and powerful individual. It's also very old.  What's more it's horrible to photograph, being at an awkward angle and badly lit. I was down to about half a second exposure time.

The enigmatic verse above the stone was added much later. The legend and how it's been added to and re-invented over the centuries is the subject of a book (Hollow Places: An Unusual History of Land and Legend by Christopher Hadley) which attempts to unpick the various strands of story-telling, superstition, misunderstanding and facts.

Whatever the truth behind the story of Piers Shonks it's always interesting to consider how our ancestors' lives differed from ours - and how many similarities there are.

Take care.

Woodland Wanderings

 It's a day for a walk in the woods around the quiet Hertfordshire village of Bramfield.

Bramfield is not really on the way to anywhere and is another of those places only reached by narrow, winding roads; though in this case I suspect that many of the people here work in London - or they did till present circumstances dictated that they work from home.

We were soon following sunken paths leading through ancient woodland - a magical place.

This strange deep cleft in the woodland floor goes by the name of Sally Rainbow's Dell. A few centuries back one Sally Rainbow lived in this out-of-the-way place and was reputed to be a witch. It's said that local farmers used to give her food so that she would refrain from casting spells on their crops and livestock. You might think that Rainbow is an unlikely surname, but there are still a few families of that name dotted around East Anglia.

Autumn hasn't really got going just yet, but we did find one or two clusters of golden leaves lurking among the greenery, and being picked out by the late-September sunshine.

Then we were out in the open again, near to Great Gobions Farm. Gobion is an old Anglo-Saxon family name, so I presume it gets its name, directly or indirectly, from them.  

The footpath runs between the farm buildings and right by the rather smart farmhouse.

We carried on through open country on quiet roads and tracks before diving back into the woodland once more.

The next few pictures are fairly self-explanatory so I'll tell you the true story of The Hertford Pie-Man, Walter Clibbon:

During the eighteenth-century most of the trade in the country took place at regular markets and fairs. Hertford had a regular weekly market as well as four annual fairs where a lots of money changed hands. However some of those who had profited at the fairs never reached home with their gold, having been roughly set upon along the lonelier stretches of road. 

The thieves had their faces blackened with soot so that they could not be recognised. Anyone who put up a fight against them was murdered. It was soon realised that only those who had done particularly well were attacked and robbed; clearly the robbers had some kind of inside information. 

In 1782 the gang attacked a farmer's son, very near to where we are now, as he made his way home. The young man wisely let them have the money and escaped with his life, fleeing to his uncle's house nearby. The young man, his uncle and a servant then went off to try to find the villains and a fight ensued on the road between Bramfield and Datchworth, during which the leader of the gang was shot and killed, causing his accomplices to run off. 

The leader of the robbers was found to be Walter Clibbon, the pie-man who sold his wares at Hertford market and took the opportunity to overhear the conversations of the traders. He was buried at the side of the road where he died, and a stake was driven through his body to prevent his ghost from wandering the roads at night.

The original stake is long rotted away but a modern post has been erected in its place and has "Clibbon's Post" and the date "December 1782" carved on it. We drove up and down the road, after we'd completed our walk, in search of the post but didn't manage to find it - let alone any ghosts!

What we did see, albeit rather distantly, was the old house known as Queen Hoo, which is where the uncle in our story lived.

And so we wandered on, undisturbed by any highwaymen or footpads, through this grand piece of countryside, until we once more came within sight of Bramfield church. You can just make out its spire, between the foreground tree and the more distant poplar in the photo below.

Take care.

Open For Business

Perfect days like this are few and far between. The ideal day to be cycling along, just north of Downham Market, and enjoying the roadside flowers and the vast skies arching over the Fens. I was on my way somewhere else (which of course you'll learn about in future posts) when I realised I was close to the village of Wimbotsham.

When I say "realised I was close" I mean there was a big sign at the side of the road saying WIMBOTSHAM so I could hardly be mistaken. I remembered that the church has some nicely carved bench-ends on the pews, not medieval but so cleverly carved that you could easily think that they were the real thing.

I smiled at the sign inside the porch. I'm sure they don't really mean it any more than the landlord of a pub I know means All Day Opening - try knocking on the door at eight o'clock in the morning and see if mine host is as merry as he was at ten the previous evening! And I bet the church locks up at night too. But at least it's open now which is all that matters.

I went inside and waited for my eyes to adjust to the light and I'm sure I heard a voice but as I looked around I could see there was no one else there and I commenced taking a photo of the unusual stone pulpit and the old stairs which once led up to the rood loft.

See what I mean about the bench ends? The woodcarver has perfectly caught the mood of older carvings. Not only that, but the subject-matter and the darkening of the wood looks so authentic.

A rather unusual "poppy-head" bench end depicting a figure carrying a shield bearing a coat of arms. The term "poppy-head" has nothing to do with poppies anyway and I was trying to remember just.....

"Excuse me" - there's that voice again. Not an indignant "excuse me", but someone sounding as if begging forgiveness. Then I could see him, kneeling down behind the altar. Was he in prayer? Or maybe a workman fixing the electrics?

"I'll be going soon. Got caught out last night". I understood then, my mystery man was a homeless person who sought (and found) refuge from the night air in the chancel of the church. At least that was my conclusion from the evidence of the sleeping bag, the discarded shoes and the water bottle. 

"I've just come in to take some photos," I assured him. He looked around him, "Aye, it's a beautiful building, isn't it?" he said. I'd have liked to have spoken to him for longer, but with that he climbed back into his sleeping bag and settled down once more. I turned to leave him in peace.

So. Not only a church with remarkable carving, but also one with a remarkable policy, for this day and age, of actually always being open.

Outside once more I noticed a huge Norman door. At least I think it's Norman. Sometimes it's hard to know what to believe.

Take care.

Oh, I've just looked it up, the term poppyhead comes from the Latin word "puppis" meaning the curved figurehead of a ship.

Cambridge According To Conybeare

We first heard about Rev Conybeare when I visited Barrington church back in 2012 though I already knew his name from another context. I eventually remembered that he was the author of an old history of Cambridgeshire, oft quoted as a reference by later books, though I'd never blown the dust off the dear Reverend's august tome to read his words for myself. Still haven't. Though I did recently come across his Highways and Byways of Cambridgeshire, published in 1910, and it turned out to be surprisingly readable (in parts!). 

He's particularly good at coming up with interesting stories from the old days of the University. Here are some tales of varying degrees of truthfulness connected with some of the colleges we've visited on this blog.

Dr Perne from Peterhouse

Dr Andrew Perne was Master of Peterhouse from 1554 till his death some 35 years later, a remarkable achievement in those turbulent years when Catholics and Protestants were constantly at each other's throats. Many lost their posts and people were losing their lives as a result of simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Dr Perne however showed amazing versatility in his convictions. So much so that the Catholic Dr Perne preached the sermon when the bodies of the Protestants, Bucer and Fagius, were dug up and burned at the stake. When the decision was reversed and the pair were "rehabilitated" just three years later, it was Dr Perne, the Protestant, in the pulpit. 

Although none of this was of much concern to Bucer and Fagius, others within the University had great fun making jokes at Perne's expense. So that when he made a gift to the college of a weather-vane bearing his initials, A P, his critics said that it stood for A Papist or A Protestant, depending on which way the wind was blowing!

Fearful In Pembroke

Until the nineteenth century the colleges of the University, apart from Trinity and St John's, were very small indeed. But there was then a rapid expansion with more and more subjects added. Despite this in 1858 Pembroke College had just one new student. And he soon fled to Caius College. He was, according to Rev Conybeare, "afraid of being divided into sections by the authorities, to satisfy the demands of the Mathematical, Classical, and Philosophical lecturers provided by the College".

Parker Sticks His Nose In

Corpus Christi College has many pleasant buildings but probably no great masterpieces of architecture. It does however have a library. The Parker Library. A library which contains priceless ancient manuscripts including the 6th-century Gospels of St Augustine and the oldest copy of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle.

These documents, along with many others, were plundered from the nearly 900 monasteries which Henry VIII dissolved between 1536 and 1541. Henry had no use for these books and was happy to see them used as waste paper. However Matthew Parker, the first Protestant archbishop, saw them as being vital to the founding of the Anglican Church and saved them for posterity, depositing them in his old college, Corpus Christi, where they can be seen to this day.

By a cunning clause in Parker's will, if a certain number of manuscripts were to go missing while in the care of the college, then the whole library was to be transferred to Caius College and thence to Trinity Hall, should a similar loss take place. The latter two colleges have the right to inspect the library every year to check the completeness of the library and indeed these annual inspections are still carried out, though as yet no books have been found to be missing.

Although Parker had a reputation for being a meddlesome busybody, there is sadly no firm evidence that the expression Nosy Parker derives from his inquisitive character.


A Noisy Ghost

Corpus Christi also has a reputation for being haunted, a notoriety largely based on unexplained noises heard during the night. (I've lived in student accommodation so this doesn't surprise me in the slightest!) 

The ghost is either 
        - the seventeen-year-old daughter of Dr Spenser (Master from 1667 to 1693) who died of fright having been discovered during what Rev Conybeare daintily describes as a "clandestine interview" with her undergraduate lover.... 
      - or it may be the lover himself who accidentally became locked in a cupboard while trying to hide....
         - or else a student from King's who, not wanting to haunt his own college, had the foresight to come over to Corpus Christi before doing away with himself.

The Early Days Of Student Protest

Trinity College has a splendid chapel, but you can have too much of a good thing. And when the Senior Fellows decreed in 1838 that all undergraduates must attend Chapel twice on Sundays and at least once on every other day of the week it was enough to spark a small rebellion. The method chosen was simple but effective. 

The Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Students was formed and this secret body published league tables showing the Chapel attendance records of the Senior Fellows themselves. To their shame many were shown to be but irregular worshippers! At the end of the term the Society cheekily presented a Bible as a prize to Dr Perry, the Fellow with the best attendance. He went on to become the Bishop of Melbourne and cherished his prize for the rest of his days.

The members of the Society were eventually identified, but escaped punishment by agreeing to cease the publication of their lists.

Take care.

A Sup And A Yarn

On Friday nights there came a regular knock at the door. Dad's friend Fred calling for him to go for their weekly drink. In those days you dressed up to go to the pub and, sure enough, there stood Fred sporting a white shirt and fancy tie beneath his tweed jacket, hair Brylcreemed in place, and grey flannels with cycle clips. His Friday night bottle of Harvest Brown Ale was the highlight of Fred's social life; he took only one week off from work each year and that was in the Spring so that he could get his garden in order. Even then he walked up to the farm twice a day to do the milking.

It wasn't actually a pub they were going to though, but a Social Club, set up by the men of the village in response to their local pub closing down - it was happening even back then in the 1950s. Though the economics of running a village pub was very different in those days as most publicans had day-jobs to supplement their income.

Many village pubs had some kind of small-scale farm attached to the business. My local pub still has an old barn (disused now) and a few acres of land, though much of the space is now taken up by the car park. My grandfather, when he kept The Fox Inn, had pigs and chickens too. The last vestiges of this practice still remained in one or two pubs when I began to use them; The Jolly Brewers always had boxes of vegetables on the bar and you could, if you so desired, buy a sack o' taters with your pint!

The first pub I drank in was The Blue Ball at Grantchester, which is still a small, beer-drinkers' pub even in these days of gastro-pubs and wine bars. Back then though the Lounge Bar was just like sitting in someone's front-room with its armchairs, standard lamp and radiogram, complete with 78 rpm records and a few, very "square" LPs. The landlord, Ernie, worked during the day in a toyshop in Cambridge and, if you got in early enough, you could catch him still eating his dinner, with his napkin tucked into his collar and gravy down his chin.

Just down the road, at the Red Lion, things were much more sophisticated. The Lion prided itself on being a hotel. There were a few guest rooms and a restaurant but the bar still had a dartboard and a bar-billiards table. The hotel side of the operation seemed to be run most of the time by the permanently flustered and overworked Turkish waiter, Harry. I remember hearing him answering the phone one evening as he was dashing from the restaurant to the kitchen, "Hello, ees Harry here. Head waiter? Head waiter? You wanna spik to the head waiter? No, ees Harry, the only waiter!"

On Saturday evenings a lady from the Salvation Army always arrived attempting to sell copies of Warcry magazine. She was a powerful personality and usually persuaded several of us to part with some of our hard-earned cash for a magazine we did not want and to support some cause in which we had no interest. It became customary for most of us to decamp to the safety of the gents' toilet. This worked well until one night she was accompanied by a male colleague who, as our bad luck would have it, came into the Gents', only to find some twenty men crowded into the small space, each of us clutching our pints.

Most pubs in those days had two draught beers - bitter and mild - and a small selection of bottled beers such as brown ale, stout, Burton and barley wine (which was more like a beer than a wine). There'd be a few bottles of spirits, usually whisky, gin and rum. Also there'd be drinks which were exclusively for the wives who occasionally came in with their husbands - Babycham and later Pony. If you felt peckish there were crisps (Smiths, with a little blue twist of salt), pickled eggs in a jar on the bar, and sandwiches on darts night. Some pubs had pork pies too. I remember asking for one in the John Barleycorn - "What you think this is? A flamin' butcher's!" came the cheery reply from mine host.

Perhaps the most basic alehouse in the area was the Exhibition, in the village of Over. I discovered this little piece of history when friends moved into a cottage nearby. I went into the pub first and took a couple of steps inside. This located me in the middle of the room where I stood looking around in some puzzlement. You see, there was no bar counter, no beer taps, no spirits bottles.....just a room with wooden tables and benches. 

At length I was approached by an elderly lady asking me what we wanted to drink. She scuttled off and came back with a tray bearing the beer. I gave her the money which she stowed in the pocket of her apron before she went and sat down on one of the wooden settles. For entertainment there was a box of dominoes (not allowed on Sundays) or the newspaper. Failing that you had to talk to each other, or to the redoubtable Grace Bullen who ran the place.

Similarly archaic was the Harvest Home at Fen Ditton, though at least that had a bar, and even a dartboard for when you tired of listening to the ticking of the clock. Three of us called in for a drink one evening and someone suggested a game of darts. 

"If you'd like to make up a four", said the woman behind the bar, "I'm sure my husband will join you". 

An old man shuffled into the room wearing his slippers and proceeded to show three young whippersnappers just how the game should be played. "Used to have a good darts team in here back in the day", he confided, "only not so many folks come in these days". 

"Moved away have they?" suggested Steve. 

"Oh no, all dead". 



Take care.