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Monday 18 March 2024

A Small Black Book

  Lying on a shelf, a small black book, unopened in the last couple of years.  Time to remedy that.

No photograph, because it really is just a small black book with tanned pages.  It is a second edition of Forgotten Lincoln, and was published in May, 1898, cost one shilling.

It is a little treasure, filled with articles which were written for publication in the "Lincoln Gazette & Times".  Of course I read it when I first bought it but have only used it once since then, which is a shame, for it is filled with stories.

Tales of the Romans in Lincoln, and Lincoln after they had left.  Church stories aplenty, along with stories of the Cathedral, the Stonebow, Guildhall and Mint.  Kings and Queens, castles and prisons, inns which no longer exist, churches which have vanished (their word) of Earls, Cromwell, Parliamentarians, and the Knights Templar.  The list goes on.

The final chapter is entitled: Reminiscences.  Four pages filled with interesting stories.

A small sample: 

In 1035 there was a frost on Midsummer Day.  So severe was it that much corn and fruit was utterly destroyed.

On September 7th 1809, it is recorded that for a wager a Sleaford waiter trundled a hoop from that town to Lincoln without once letting it fall or touch his body.  The distance by road is 18 miles.

A stirring scene is recorded on Lincoln racecourse in 1831.  A riot took place, booths were torn to shreds and carriages were set on fire.  About 500 thimble-riggers and others fought against the townsfolk.  The riggers and others taking out the legs of their "thimble-tables" to fight with, and would certainly have won the day but for the opportune appearance of about fifty fox-hunting gentlemen and farmers, who turned the tide.

Lincoln has know many dry summers, but never one when water was so scarce as in 1826.  In that year Brayford Pool* was absolutely dried up and people actually took strolls across the bed of the same.  Navigation was necessarily at a standstill.  In the city the supply of water needed by residents had to be used with extreme care.  At appointed times, twice a day, the Town Crier stood at St Mary's Conduit, and at that on the High Bridge, and doled out the water.  This condition of things continued for nearly two months.

*Brayford Pool is a natural lake formed by a widening of the River Witham in the centre of Lincoln.  It is the oldest inland harbour in the United Kingdom.

The book also features complete lists of Mayors, Bishops and High Sheriffs - which led me to have some reminiscences of my own.  

More about those another day!

Friday 15 March 2024

Secrets of Owl Wood

 A fine Spring day, a little sunshine, birdsong, no people.  Bliss.  

A chance to quietly observe and perhaps learn some of the secrets of Owl Wood because a woodland, no matter how small, always has secrets.  

Mystery is always there.

There may be stillness and silence, then the sudden woosh of wind and the busy clack-rat-a-tat as the long skinny fingers of the tall trees tap out their messages.  This is fine during daylight hours, however, should one old woman be making her way home from a committee meeting at the village hall on a cold dark night, those same clack-rat-a-tats sound much more creepy!

Today it was easy to see that the bare trees are active.   Small buds of new foliage present and waiting for the signal to burst out in their glorious shades of green.

I am delighted to report that the snowdrops have had a good year, spreading ever wider.  Primroses are dancing their way through some areas, especially near pet cemetery.  Wild garlic is rampant and bluebells will soon be blooming.  There are tiny aconites nestled cosily among the detritus on the woodland floor.

While I have been working out there this morning I have found even more violets, some shyly hiding around the roots of trees, while others have bravely dashed out into the open.  Deep violet in both colour and scent.  

Out along the roadside verge there are masses of white violets.

I picked a small number of each because once indoors it is much easier to tell whether they are truly scented.  The violet-coloured ones are.

The violet is the county flower of Lincolnshire, which makes this tiny flower even more special in my eyes.


While I was doing my Spring clean out there my attention was also caught by a stick which is sprouting the wonderfully bright fungus.  Of course it was the bright daffodil yellow which made me stop my work to investigate.  The fungus is slightly jelly/rubbery. 



The second photograph shows one further down the stick, slightly older and a bit more shrivelled.


Yellow Brain Fungus.  It is the first time I have spotted it.  Oh for more time to spend out there, there is always something new to discover as Owl Wood offers up her secrets.


Wednesday 13 March 2024

Wednesday

 Some days all I want to do is read.


Today I managed to resist the siren call of the mop, dusters and vacuum cleaner because the call of my books was even louder.  So I have read.  A real treat.

Grandchildren and cats still got fed, so all was not lost.

No time to do a proper post.

Sorry.  

Sunday 10 March 2024

Who Lives in a House Like This?

 My daughter asked me for some photographs showing our vegetable garden, preferably those from back in the days when it was at its' most productive - that means when we were younger and I had a less troublesome back!  Old photographs from an old camera, in the days when I used a real camera.  

I began trawling through the old discs, thousands of memories captured and held within that tiny rectangle of metal and plastic.  I found what she wanted, but I also came across other forgotten treasures.

Like this one.  

Then I came across a small cache of others and so the theme for this post was born.  

Forgive me as I indulge myself yet again...which could lead on to a whole other discussion, but that is for another day.


Whenever I visit a stately home, castle, or similar, it is the kitchens and lesser rooms which hold my interest.  I can briefly admire the grand rooms, the marvellous furniture, paintings, silverware and china collections, but it is the workings of the place which fully engage my attention.

So it is with churches.  

I can admire the grand cathedrals, the soaring columns, the skill of the old stonemasons.  It is the small country churches which I most enjoy and Lincolnshire has a wonderfully varied and beautiful heritage of small rural churches.  

The history attached to each of them is simply fascinating and the buildings themselves, whether they are tiny, but richly decorated, or large and exquisitely austere, are wonderful.

Old Welby is doing his best to wreck it, not just Lincolnshire, the whole country.  My feelings run deep on this man, enough said!

Not all churches have one, quite a number of Lincolnshire churches are simply too small, but it is the vestries which I enjoy viewing.  


This is a door I know well, because I occasionally help out as a Mrs Mop, along with a couple of church wardens.  Mops, dusters, polish and vacuum cleaners at the ready.


What I hadn't noticed until recently, was this locked box outside the vestry.  It looks just like a pew, totally unremarkable, until you notice the keyhole.   It is not grand/strong enough to hold anything special, but I must try to find out what is inside (I know, curiosity killed the cat)  of course the key may have been lost long ago and it may simply be  home to some happy little church mice.


The vestry is really a little chamber where church robes are hung.  These days they are usually dumping grounds for all manner of useful things.  Vases, watering cans, ladders, candles, Christmas trees, trestles...some still hold massive safes, usually left open to show that there is nothing worth stealing from them!


Tombola prizes, flower arranging equipment, teapots and toasting forks...


There is usually a small mirror of some sort tucked in among the brooms and dusters, polish and fly spray.  All the little things which are occasionally needed and are then forgotten until next time.

This is the rather grander doorway to the vestry in what was once a much larger church - mostly destroyed during the English Civil War.  In 1643 it was caught between royalist and parliamentarian troops.  Only the original south aisle remains.



Thursday 7 March 2024

Old and Wobbly

 I love old and wobbly...buildings.  They have so many stories to tell of people and place.  

Take this old building, which no longer exists, for it has been replaced with a garage and large dog kennel/compound.  The beauty has been lost, the stories almost forgotten, but I was lucky enough to spend a lot of time in and around the property before it was swept away.


It had long been neglected, although it was in almost daily use as a store shed and workshop by the lovely old man who used to live there.  You can see the holes in the roof, the wobbly shape and the ever-increasing cracks.  It came to a point where we feared for his safety.

The taller building was one of the village slaughterhouses.  The other side had been stabling.


John Poplar used to keep his honey extractor in there, along with lots of old white goods and assorted detritus.  He had been a farmer, then smallholder, almost all his life.  He had kept bees since he was very young and was often called upon to give talks and demonstrations, as well as teach the young ones learning about the care of bees and their hives.  


I have very happy memories of the time I spent there for he was a man with many tales to tell and a slightly naughty sense of humour.  He was a real character.


If I am to be scrupulously honest, I would have to confess that my affections were pretty equally divided between John and his old horse, Arnold.  

Arnold was a lonely old horse, especially once John's wife had died.  At first he was given the companionship of several sheep, which worked well until one of them headbutted John and that was the end of that.


So I began visiting Arnold twice a day.  In this photograph you can see my lovely old Toby (the original Toby) and my gorgeous cat Bennie.  I would take Toby along the lane to the paddock, while Bennie would cut through Owl Wood to sit a while with him.  They got on really well.


All gone now, swept away by time, age, and 'progress'.  

They are forever in my heart, but thank goodness for cameras.

Tuesday 5 March 2024

The Ebb and Flow of Life

My regular daily walk takes me around our village and two hamlets, a journey of a little over three miles, depending which route I take.   

The other day my brain was underemployed and I fell to thinking about the inhabitants of the homes - the ones I know about, anyway.  


We have an artist, a retired art teacher, two builders (not related), two accountants (not related), two high profile events organisers, long-term unemployed people, care workers, several working teachers, lots of retired teachers, a working GP and a retired GP (not related), a world champion motor cyclist, IT executive, council worker, a plumber/electrician, veterinary nurse, a few retired farmers, working farmers, a potter, publicans, brewery director, car repair mechanic, dog groomer, retired engineer, a working nurse, a retired nurse, an ex BBC producer, a rather successful show jumping/dressage eventer, farm workers, housewives, pensioners...

One of these days I must count the number of houses, however, it would be fair to say there cannot possibly be more than two hundred between the three villages, so quite a diverse group of people for such a small number of homes.   

Most residents get on pretty well and end up staying for years, although there are one or two houses which are bought and sold over and over.  The people who end up in one of them in particular, seem to arrive quite happily but leave after a couple of years having fallen out with people for one reason or another.  It is not a house with close neighbours, either.  Very odd.

aerial view of the larger village


As with anywhere, people come and people go and, unless you maintain links with the village pub (yes, we are lucky enough to still have ours), attend the village hall coffee mornings, or listen to village gossip, it can be months or even years before you learn that someone has died, or moved out/moved in, especially if you live a little away from the heart of the village.

I have found this out the hard way on three or four occasions.