The Porridge Feud

   

The Porridge Feud I refer to broke out in Norway, in1864.  

A cookery book had been published which challenged the traditional method of cooking porridge!  It was normal to add some flour to the porridge after it had been taken from the heat and was ready to eat, therefore the flour was not cooked.

The author argued that this raw flour was wasted, because it would simply pass straight through the body without providing any nutritional benefit.  He directed his criticisms at the 'foolish peasant women and farmer's wives' who cooked it this way.   

You can imagine it caused much offence to women!   Surprisingly it also stimulated a big national debate which went on for years.  The book was a success and quickly sold out no doubt due, in part, to the controversy.

Luckily, another scientist argued in defence of the women and a while later lab tests were done.  For three days a doctor and his assistant ate nothing but traditional porridge, with flour added at the end of cooking.  Tests proved not a single molecule of carbohydrate had come out the other end.

It has since been found that the raw flour could release helpful enzymes and provide a little sweetness in the absence of sugar.  So perhaps those peasants and farmers wives knew a thing or two!

At this time people were coming up with all manner of 'scientific' methods of achieving optimal nutrition.  

• One deemed that wholegrain flour was indigestible and therefore highly refined flour was much better for the body. 
• The use of dairy products was discouraged and the use of margarine encouraged
• Sugar and syrups were excellent nutrition.
• Coffee was praised as being an excellent substitute for meat.  
• Salt was to enjoyed without restraint, and the brine in which meat was pickled was called excellent nutrition...ditch the meat use the brine.
• Sugar and alcohol were necessities 
• Narcotics such as coca, hash, opium and tobacco were given the stamp of approval. 

 One doctor went so far as to say that narcotics were a necessity for millions of people as it made them strong and happy, banished the blues and gave them energy!

Remember, this was all happening about 160 years ago.

These days we are constantly being bombarded with crazy messages about food, the benefits of eating lab-grown meat, insects, and other nonsense.  I wonder how that will be looked back upon.

We do have porridge 'discussions' in Parsonage Cottage.  Nothing serious.  He likes his porridge served with chopped Granny Smith apple at the bottom of the dish, then porridge topped with grapes.

I've tried it that way.  Horrible.  Doesn't work for me.

Mine is unsweetened porridge with a dash of good old fashioned evap milk.  Any shrieks of horror?  

I eat my grapes and apple separately, later in the day.

If you eat porridge, how do you take it?

Neglected Things

Last year we had a reasonable crop of blackcurrants so I decided to have a go at making some blackcurrant vinegar.  

I made a small batch in a kilner jar - just cider vinegar, blackcurrants and some sugar.  Initially I was filled with enthusiasm and remembered to give the jar a shake each day.  After a week or two I forgot all about it. 

 

Until yesterday, when I was cleaning that part of the pantry.  Ooops!

It is a large pantry, time was when I would empty the entire thing and clean it out all in one day.  Those days have passed, I now do a shelf as and when I get the urge to do it...obviously that is not as often as I should!

I opened the lid expecting to find a mouldy mess but, no, the vinegar is wonderfully dark and delicious.  The blackcurrants should have been removed after a few weeks, but they were left in all the time.  No harm done, in fact when I tried one or two they were delicious.   

I strained the liquid and poured it into a couple of small sterilised wine bottles.   It will be used on salads and as a dipping sauce.  Best of all, unlike so many Balsamic vinegars, this didn't trigger a bad headache, and that has to be a bonus.

The signs are looking fairly good for a reasonable crop of blackcurrants this year.  Fingers crossed!

Several years ago I made some vanilla essence, just vanilla pods and vodka.  It needed plenty of time to mature but it is excellent.  Much better than the commercial ones.  

Time to get another batch of that made then I can let it sit and mature in peace.

A couple of months ago I made a sourdough starter (again) followed all the directions, nurtured it and coddled it, then forgot it.  Dead as a do-do (or should that be a dough-dough) it just fell off my radar.  

I could blame it on the fact that George suddenly developed an interest in baking bread (it soon waned) and he took over the bread-making for two or three weeks, but I won't. 

I will own the neglect.  I totally forgot it was there.  

For St George and for England

 

I have been in and out of the house today, waiting for the wind to swing around in the right direction to properly unfurl my St George's Cross.  It has played games, so has the camera.  

Just as the grandchildren were eating their tea, I stepped outside for one last go and managed to get this one.

Not brilliant, but it will do.  It is high above the arched gate, normally this picks up any breeze.

MSM would have you believe that far right hooligans were causing trouble, earlier.  No they were not.  The met police suddenly formed a barricade across part of the planned route, this is not a little trick they would do during one of the hate marches which take place each weekend.  It was calculated to stir up trouble, it was provocative.  It worked for a short time, they got the photographs the MSM wanted.

Back to my normal platform, a couple of old-style farming sayings.  According to weather lore experts these are tried and true:

'When on Saint George's rye will hide a crow, a good harvest may be expected.'

'At St George's the meadow turns to hay.'

Happy Saint George's Day!

 

A Town without Walls

 After doing the shopping I had a little time to spare so I called in at Louth library.  

The shelves of local history books are in a quiet corner, perfect.  I found a book which gives the history of virtually every street in town.  Jonny and MingMing have a house in town, not so much a house, more a rather large project.  I was hoping to be able to discover some of the history of the old building.

I couldn't find anything directly relating to their building but there was plenty about some of the people who lived in the same road, Northgate, which is only one of the names it has been known by since medieval times.  

The other names are rather more fun - in 1317 it was known as Padehole (toad-hollow).  'Northgate', was recorded first in 1450 then, for a while, it became known by the nickname Finkle Street (stinking street or fart street). 

 

There were a couple of small schools along the road, but given the Finkle Street name it probably wasn't a particularly good part of the town, nor were they especially good schools.   The Poor House and House of Correction were also sited on Northgate.  These days part of the workhouse building has been converted into flats, after having been a butcher's premises for quite some time.  You can see it in the photograph.

The modern building to the right is the library.

Records show there was a baker and flour dealer on Northgate,  Edward Fields,  this is of particular interest as some of the old deeds to J & MM's house show that the building was formerly a bakery and shop, could that be their building?  I wonder.  Unfortunately the paperwork they have doesn't go back quite far enough. 

Back to Louth, the town itself.  It is a fairly small market town, steeped in history.   The number of gates which are listed, given that it is not a walled town, is intriguing.

• Eastgate
• Westgate
• Northgate (No Southgate)
• Kidgate
• Upgate
• Ramsgate
• Gospelgate
• Cisterngate
• Ludgate
• Chequergate

These are all street names which can be seen around town.  However, there also used to be:

• Hollowgate
• Walkergate
• Enginegate
• Lowgate

According to another book this is because this part of the country was conquered by the Danes in 9th century and a strong Danish influence of the language remained long after.  The Danish word for road was 'gata', which over time became the suffix 'gate'.

My Next Project

 One of my 1930's cookery books gives a wonderful description of a typical farmhouse kitchen - huge old flagstones, white scrubbed tables and brightly shining grate, delicious pots of food simmering on the fire.

Once a week bread (plain, spiced, fruited, wholemeal) Yorkshire teacakes, pies, cheesecakes, tarts and great big fruit cakes would be baked.  All the work of one capable and efficient pair of hands, the farmer's wife.  

The author could see the flames of the fireplace travelling under the brick built bread oven and enquired about how she managed to maintain the heat, did she use coal?  

No, she used only wood, didn't trust coal at all.  She knew wood, and could manage the heat very well with it.  

The table was laden with delicious-looking bread and pies.   When asked whether she used scales to weigh out her ingredients, she said she just knew how much flour, butter, lard, milk, water and eggs were required.

As you can see, I use my trusty scales, but then I am not a real cook.  I don't enjoy cooking, but I do enjoy baking bread.

Further on in the book there is a paragraph of the practicalities of using a brick oven, the work involved in firing up and cleaning one and that is before the baking can begin.  However, despite all these drawbacks, the writer says that no bread, spice loaves, or fruit cakes ever taste as wonderful as those baked in a brick oven...

I have asked that George build me an outdoor bread oven.  He can call it my birthday present.  

We have plenty of old bricks around the place and Owl Wood is the perfect place for me to get the wood to make into faggots for burning under the oven.  I know he will enjoy the build, in fact he is busy doing the research right now.

I will enjoy the bread-baking experiments.  No doubt there will be many failures.  I will post them on here.

Not sure how long this build will take but it has certainly got him fired-up (if you will forgive the pun) and energised.  Now that he no longer works it is all too easy for him to fall into the doldrums.  This should keep him happily occupied for a week or three.

Letterboxes

My mother and her relatives were prolific letter-writers.  So was my father, although his letters were either to my mother, when he was working away, or correspondence with fellow naval historians as he did his many decades of research.

I still have bundles of their old letters and postcards.  Every now and again I open the box and have a little read, enjoying the sight of their familiar handwriting.  

Almost every day the postman would push a pile of letters dropped through their letterbox, not the boring circulars which I receive, but personal letters.  I began thinking about postboxes around here and what a challenge it must be for temporary postmen when our lovely regular one has a holiday.   

 Here is a small selection of post and parcel boxes found on a rural postal round in Lincolnshire.  

The boxes range from cute to strictly utilitarian.

Some are positioned on fences, to save the postman a long drive down to the house,

while others are stuck on outbuilding walls.

Royal Mail postbox, built into a tiny section of wall which was specially constructed to house it.

A black painted mail box, barely visible through the ivy and attached to a tree trunk.  

The post is collected once a day, six days a week, from the red Royal Mail post boxes,  though that may soon change.

I got carried away talking to this interested spectator and forgot what I meant to photograph, the letter box is the red painted item, lower left, it is a nice chunky box which could also hold parcels.

This beautiful house was formerly a railway station.  Built into the actual wall of the house, between two windows, is a bright red post Royal Mail postbox where mail can be posted, while mail deliveries are through a typical letterbox in the front door.

An elderly woman lives there, I didn't take a photograph of the front of the house with the box as I didn't want to worry her.  That box also gets emptied once a day, though I doubt there is anything in it most times as there are only nine houses in this hamlet and two of those are holiday lets.

Not all country letterboxes are so cute, this one is the black slit you can see in the wall.  Definitely not parcel-friendly.

My post today: two circulars.  One personal email and a whats app msg.

One of my Walks

 One of my favourite walks.  If you click the link it will take you to a You tube video which I have just found.  

The three-and-a-half minute video belongs to someone else, but it is a good illustration of one of my favourite walks.  The terrain and the peace.  

Parsonage Cottage can't be seen because it is almost totally hidden by Owl Wood, but you do pass through 'our' barley field at one stage.

Not shown is the watermill, although the route takes you past it.  Along the lane and on through the fields.

Onward, past the dovecote (not shown) then up the small hill to the church where we have our Christmas Carol evenings.

Follow the very quiet lane, then we hit the tracks and the fields as we head out to Swaby.    Cut back through a long and narrow valley (formed during the last Ice Age) and back along the farm tracks, through some protected meadow and out to another church, the one which hosted the Angel exhibition.

More tracks and fields and the circular walk is complete.  About 5.5 miles of wonderful Lincolnshire countryside.

Hardly a soul to be seen, just the occasional car or tractor.

By the time I reach home I am more than happy to indulge in some bread and cheese.

A Parish Council Meeting

      Agenda:

• Need for more adequate police protection.
• More regular dustbin emptying required.
• Road crossing problems near school.
• Need for more trees to be planted.

Nothing special about these topics for discussion, except that the meeting in question took place in November 1952.

Once again proving the old saying 'the more things change, the more they stay the same'.

Yesterday, and the day before, I spent some time on my hands and knees clearing out some bookshelves.  Of course this process always takes much longer than it should simply because I can't resist having a quick read here and there!   

Taken in small doses, they make fascinating reading.

Meanwhile, in Owl Wood, the crab apple tree is coming into blossom.  The dark withered bits are the remains of crab apples from last year.

The apple trees are all coming into blossom.  There is one apple tree which I am really pleased about.  It is in Owl Wood, we didn't even spot it until a few years ago.  It had sprouted up among some of the towering ash and field maples, so it is exceptionally long and skinny as it has had to fight hard to reach the light.  Now that the roadside trees have been pollarded, the apple tree is finally getting a full quota of nourishing light.  It has blossom and (silly as this sounds) it looks much happier!

The pear tree, plum trees and cherry trees are all in blossom.  So far they have survived the strong winds, please don't let us have any frost.  No blossom yet on the quince trees.

Last weekend, I went to shop in beautiful Louth.  This is a very unlovely photograph of the Co-op car park, looking towards the church.

As I was dropping some shopping off at the car, I could hear a busker singing 'Scarborough Fair".  This particular busker has a regular pitch on Saturdays, but her beautiful voice doesn't often carry as far as the car park.  I debated whether to walk back into the shopping area to listen and drop her a few coins but, in the end, I decided to carry on and get the cat food from the supermarket instead.

As I came out of the shop, the sun broke through,  and the church bells began ringing.  

I was already happy but the combination of sunshine and church bells elevated my mood even further.  

A hotch-potch of Lincolnshire life.

x

Hear Ye, Hear Ye!

These days we are fed information daily, hourly, minute-by-minute, according to your settings and self control.  News can flash around the world almost before it has happened.   X, Fb, TikTok, YouTube, Rumble, Quora, Snapchat, Instagram, Telegram and WhatsApp can broadcast events with frightening speed and coverage.

Before all this modern hocus pocus, other methods were used to inform a community of forthcoming events.  You could engage the village bellman - the rural equivalent of a town crier, for a small fee.

Say you wanted to announce a whist drive, jumble sale, summer fair, or even a pig sale.  Well, for just a couple of shillings a village bellman would go to certain stations/places around the village where he would ring his bell and call out the announcement for you.

In a medium-sized village there could be anything up to twenty of these 'stations'.   A message may have had up to a hundred words, so it could take quite a while to complete the circuit.   Back in 1963, a Lincolnshire bellman charged 2/6  (12.5p), which wasn't a great deal, even in those days.

The bellman I have been reading about was also worked as a road sweeper.  He thoroughly enjoyed both jobs and only retired due to advancing years and ill health.  While he happily handed back his shovel and broom, he was rather more anxious to hang on to the top hat he wore when making the announcements.

The bellman tried hard to find someone to take his place but no one was interested.  

He put it down to the fact that young people could make more in an hour than he could in a week as a bellman.

Everywhere is coming to life in Owl Wood, so we have been working hard to complete our work.  I reckon we need to do another couple of days work out there, then all will be as it should be and the cow parsley and wild flowers will take over.  

Some of the tracks have had fresh chippings applied, a few are still waiting.

Some are grassy, so they will be left to do their own thing.

A Good Egg!

 Happy Easter!

A little over a week ago blogging friend, Trundling Through Life, visited Parsonage Cottage.  She brought this cheerful wreath, which brightens the kitchen and my spirits with that lovely shot of sunshine yellow.  

We drank coffee, chatted, and laughed a lot, for she has a wonderful sense of humour, as we covered a wide range of topics.    We were joined by none other than Sparky, who chose to leave her usual perch on the window sill to curl up on one of the armchairs.  Highly unusual behaviour for a cat who normally runs for the hills when anyone other than immediate family is around.  

She had decided that Mary was a good egg, and perfectly safe to be around.  

Sparky is an excellent judge of character.

So, back to today. 

Easter Sunday.  

The traditional Lincolnshire pudding for the day was Tansy Pudding.   It consists of a batter pudding, into which the juices from the plant would be squeezed, before cooking.  I can't find a recipe, only references.  I imagine it would be made in the same way that pancakes are made, especially as it is said that it should be eaten with orange marmalade.

The symbolism of it is the interesting bit, for the bitterness of the Tansy was said to represent the bitter herbs given to Christ at his execution.

I do not recommend that anyone try it.  I have read that Tansy can cause problems, skin blistering, etc.  

Wishing you a Happy Easter!

A Pithy Guide to Lincolnshire

 I was flicking through my copy of 'A Shell Guide to Lincolnshire', the other day.  It was written during the 1960's by Rev Henry Thorold and Jack Yates, two Lincolnshire men.

I have no idea whether they made a tour of the whole county together, or whether they allocated each their own portion of the county.  Perhaps one of these days I will have the time to dig a little deeper.  All I can say with certainty, is that the two of them produced a fascinating book which is filled with acerbic comments about individual villages, buildings and towns.  

Beautiful old Lincoln isn't spared, for it is described as being beautiful on the approach (thanks to the magnificent Cathedral on the hill) but they then say that it is only as you enter the city that disappointment assails you...much of it is grim and sordid - dreary streets of ugly red houses spread everywhere.

The front of Louth Town Hall is described as looking like an annexe to the Vatican but the back is more like a slaughterhouse.  

Cleethorpes "is a large seaside town with a very short season."  

Caistor  "A Roman walled town.  There never seems to be much shopping going on and the Market Square has a depressed aspect.  But school life is vigorous."

It was interesting to see that my opinion on the works of a particular architect who 'restored' some may say vandalised, far too many Lincolnshire churches, James Fowler, is shared by these two much more knowledgeable men.

The book is littered with references to his work.  "The church has suffered too much from Mr Fowler to be interesting" being just one.  As it is Good Friday, I won't pull out any others, although there are many!

None of these photographs match anything I have extracted from the book, I simply don't have the time today.

Hot Cross Buns for breakfast.  Fish for lunch.  Homemade soup and a roll for tea.  

A Black Panther

 Good progress is being made in Owl Wood.  Of course this means that everywhere else is being neglected, especially the gardens.  Ah, well, I am definitely more of a woodswoman than a gardener.   The grass will eventually be mowed.

We tend to work for an hour and a half, then come indoors for a cup of tea, a rest, and then back out to work another session of picking, carrying, sorting and prepping.

Yesterday, George had opened his laptop and was enjoying catching up on the newspapers when little ginger Millie decided to join him, which was fine, until she spread herself over the keyboard and caused chaos.  He shooed her off and, in a huff, she began to leave.  A split second later she turned back and bit him, very hard.  He yelled and she ran.

Elderly Sparky had been snoozing on the window sill by my desk.   She lifted her head at the kerfuffle...and was transformed.  She had gone from being sick and scraggy and had become a fierce and powerful black panther.  Somehow she suddenly bulged with muscle and power (not fur)  as she made her way off the desk and over to the sofa where Millie had taken herself.

Her black panther gaze never wavered, she was totally focused on Millie.  Still as a statue, she oozed power.  A long pause.   Then she sprang, landed several knock out punches and a slash on Millie's nose.  To her credit, Millie didn't fight back, she took her punishment.  

Mission accomplished, Sparky became herself again.  She went over and checked on George, gave him a chirrup, then returned to her favourite day bed, the windowsill.  Back to sleep.

The little ginger cat demoted and told off by her elder, sat stock still for several minutes, doubtless wondering what on earth had happened,  then she quietly got down from the sofa and slunk to her favourite bed in the other room.

The mighty Sparky rules the roost and lives to fight another day.

Archangel Uriel, in a nearby Village

 Another day of working in Owl Wood lies ahead, but I just wanted to take some time to tell you about an exhibition which I visited as a reward for yesterdays hard work.

This area has lots of tiny villages and tiny churches.  It is part of the reason I love it so much.  Each village has many stories to tell, so do the churches.

This particular church is where my two Lincolnshire grandchildren attended Sunday School for many years.   I had forgotten about the exhibition but luckily my daughter reminded me and offered to take me down there.

The centrepiece of this beautifully curated exhibition is a metal and fabric figure of Archangel Uriel.  He took three artists five months to create.  The metal parts look like silver coloured washers which have been carefully welded together, the fabric is mostly silk.   Countless Suffolk Puffs form the robe, each one handstitched.   The gold ones represent armour because the artists wanted to show the martial aspect of angels.

The sleeves are made from organza and are encrusted with seed pears, diamante, and metal beads. 

The mirror was placed behind so that it was easy to seed the detail on the back.

Archangel Uriel is the angel of wisdom who sometimes gives people sparks of inspiration and shines the light on truth.  He is referenced in many religions.

The exhibits ranged from ancient coins, tiles, scraps of fabric, stamps, puppets and many other items, all showing angels.  Unfortunately, the church is small and the space available tiny.  Naturally, people like to stop and chat - but in doing so, they often blocked access to the exhibits.  I couldn't get any decent photographs of the other works, which is a shame.  

Someone had worked hard to put it all together.  All credit to them.

Spring in Owl Wood, a Race Against Time

 Owl Wood is very active.  

The last few days have seen the cow parsley/Queen Anne's Lace spring into action.  The primroses and violets have been swamped by this vigorous plant.  So far the areas of wild garlic are just about holding out, but it won't be long until that disappears under the surge of other plants.  If you look closely, you can see that has already started to happen - and the wild garlic hasn't even flowered yet.

All this growth means that, frequent visitor to the gardens and the wood, Mr Pheasant and his two wives have plenty of cover.   They are refugees from the many shoots which take place around here during the season.  

We now have a bit of a race on our hands.  Our new 'muncher/cruncher' machine has finally been delivered.  It faces a mighty challenge.  It has to convert all the many heaps of fallen branches from this  

into mountains of gold, like this.

It is small in size, but extremely powerful.  The mulch it produces is far superior to that which our old machine gave us.  We need lots of mulch for the tracks around the wood and the vegetable garden.   This is the kind of work I really enjoy.  Getting the woodland sorted out ready for Easter and the summer holidays.  Much more satisfying than housework.

Now all I need is a reasonable spell of dry weather.  You know where you will find me...down in Owl Wood, clad in a hard hat, with visor and ear protection, hands clad in very thick gloves.  All necessary as I get rid of some very nasty blackthorn which has ripped my skin a few times already this year.

Delving into my Past

 Way back, so far back that we go into the previous century, when I was almost 30 years younger than I am today,  my younger brother and I used to occasionally organise art exhibitions, mainly as fund-raisers for charities.

One such, was for a local hospice.  We had a broad range of works available to us.  

Because this particular exhibition was in aid of the hospice and was to be held in a rather nice country house, we were also able to secure some of the work of - goodness knows how many greats are involved here, but lots - grandson of Joshua Reynolds (1723-1792).

The country house in question belonged to the then High Sheriff of Lincolnshire.   All terribly nice, terribly highbrow, not my kind of do at all.  However, it was for charity.  We put on a brilliant show and raised a good amount for them.

It was a summer garden party, the weather was kind, we got everything ready in good time before the guests arrived.   We were putting the finishing touches to everything when the High Sheriff himself came down from getting into his full ceremonial outfit, complete with frills, ruffles, sword and fancy feathered hat.

He strutted about, made a few kindly meant inane comments, turned, tripped on his sword and made an ungainly exit into the gardens...we waited until he had gone then had a chortle.  These things are hard work, you have to get some fun where you can.

After a full day of very hard work we were invited into the kitchen to take whatever we wanted of the leftovers...we declined, nicely.

What does a High Sheriff do?  It is a non-political Royal appointment for a single year.  The role is largely ceremonial, but they do play some part in supporting the Crown and the judiciary.    They receive no remuneration and no part of the expenses comes from the public purse.

Princess Diana's sister, Lady Sarah McCorquodale, was High Sheriff of Lincolnshire in 2009, so that gives you some idea of the type of people who hold the post.  

On another occasion, we organised an exhibition in Louth.  For some reason or other (now lost in the mists of time) we couldn't gain access to the venue until much later than we had hoped.  Time was short and there was a lot of art and organisation to be done before the town Mayor was due to open the event.  

As the hour approached, we still had half a dozen or so paintings which needed to be hung...a man appeared and just stood around the doorway, loitering.  Time was ticking.  I looked over my shoulder at the man and suggested that instead of just standing there it would be wonderful if he could just help hang something...he did.

I'm sure you have worked out by now, he turned out to be the town Mayor!  He took it all in good part, and had a laugh. 

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!

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

 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.  

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.