Yipee! It's 2013

Yes, it's that time of year again when everyone seems to make predictions about and resolutions for the New Year. For what they are worth, here are my thoughts. Nothing original, I'm afraid, as they are very similar to those of previous years. Plus ca change.

I suppose, as we say goodbye to 2013, we can take some comfort that we come to our last full year of Posh Dave's pack of scoundrels before we are faced with arguably the most important election for a generation. So take heart my friends. Push those shoulders back, lift those chins high and steady your hands for this is no time to lose your nerve. There is still plenty of work to be done and battles to be fought, for faint hearts and weak minds will never win the day. So as we enter 2014 together remember....
''There maybe troubles ahead
But as long. as there is music and moonlight and love and romance
Lets face those Tories and dance".

But we should not forget what is going on elsewhere in the world. We are not alone in facing huge issues and, compared with many, many others, our trials and tribulations are insignificant. Notwithstanding all of our local doom and gloom, there will be many good things about 2014 that we should not lose sight of. Here are a few from me: add your own to the list.

* The sun will rise and set every day.
* Most people will eat, laugh and love more than they are hungry, cry and hate.
* The world around us will continue to provide immense pleasure to those who take time to experience it.
* Many people will practice unsolicited random acts of kindness.
* Communities and organisations will continue to work together and make the lives of many immeasurably better.
* Most of us will continue to relish the companionship and support of our network of family and friends.
* Children will be born and received into the arms of loving parents.
* Most of us will still be around this time next year.
* Healthcare professionals will successfully treat millions of us for a wide variety of illnesses and diseases.
* Other public service professionals and employees will continue to keep us safe and contribute to our good standard standard of living.

Each of us can accomplish something worthwhile in 2014: let's give it a go. And that brings us neatly to the subject of resolutions - but more of these in a future post.

Who do I think I am?

A family history group I've had on-off but very loose connections with for a few years asked me a while ago to contribute something to a 'what genealogy means to me' collection they are compiling. Their intention is to attract new people to genealogy and they have a clear idea of what they want. Their not-open-to-negotiation 'house-style' - too flowery for my taste - imposed a constraint on how I could approach the topic but I thought it would be an interesting challenge to see what I could do when I have to wander outside of my stylistic comfort zone. Here's the text of what I'm going to submit but it does need a few more illustrations to finish it off. When will it be published? Sometime next year apparently, assuming they get enough material to fill out whatever format they'll be going with. No fee, just the glory of getting my name in print (and, call me immodest, I do enjoy seeing that).

***************************

WHAT GENEALOGY MEANS TO ME

According to one dictionary I've got genealogy is defined as: 

*  A record or account of the descent of a family, group or person from an ancestor or ancestors; a family tree.
*  Direct descent from a progenitor; lineage or pedigree.

*  The study or investigation of ancestry and family histories. 

And the motives of those indulging in genealogy are:

"The desire to carve out a place for one's family in the larger historical picture, a sense of responsibility to preserve the past for future generations, and a sense of self-satisfaction in accurate storytelling".

I'd never describe myself as a genealogist but I can identify with some, but not all, of the above. I 'do' some family history research and have done for about 15 years now. To me, however, genealogy is a whole lot more than those first three dry sentences might suggest.

*  It is finding my roots, my family, and my home.

*  It is seeing my great great grandparents as a young couple in a census record with their three young children; children who I know will be in the Chippenham Workhouse within the year.

*  It is seeing my grand mother as a one-month-old child.

*  It is seeing my grandfather's signature on WW1 records and knowing that he and others like him must have gone through hell.

*  It is even finding the "skeletons in the closets" or the "black sheep" of the family.
*  It is tracking how my family moved around the country seeking employment, a trait I've continued.

*  It is finding that members of my family went through some terrible times, but also knowing that they survived.

*  It is seeing in my mind's eye the careworn faces of all of those who have gone before me and imagining what they were like as individuals.
*  It is trying, but failing, to identify people and events that may have shaped my personality.

*  It is listening to stories told by my older relatives and passing those precious memories down to future generations.

*  It is finding cousins and other family members I never knew existed until recently.

*  It is the realisation of how important family is.

*  It is the realisation of how important it is to remember those ancestors who came before us.

Great grandfather Caleb Boniface
in the Royal Navy on the Royal Yacht
Albert and Victoria II

But most of all, it is the sharing of information with others who like me relish the research.

*  It is not just dusty records or words.

*  It is not only sharing the excitement of finding a new ancestor, but also sharing the frustrations of not being able to find what you are looking for.

*  It is the bouncing of ideas back and forth, of theories of "what might be" and commiserating with another when that theory falls through, which it often does.

*  It is being able to say "Look! Look what I have found!" and knowing that your excitement will be shared and understood.

*  It is being able ask a question on a mailing list, knowing that what you are asking may be "dumb" but knowing that you will not be treated with disrespect.

*  It is the people who give of their time and their energies to help you.

*  It is the people who volunteer their time and energies to do lookups on the various county web pages.

*  It is the people who volunteer their time and energies for the various historical societies.

*  It is the people who give of their time to transcribe old documents and microfilm, and who share that knowledge, whether it is through books sold by historical societies or on web pages.

*  It is the people who go through old cemeteries and take the time to write down those who are buried there and share that knowledge gladly.

*  It is the people who share old photographs, old letters and their old family stories, not expecting anything back other than a thank you and the knowledge that they have helped another in their family quest.

*  It is the people who go above and beyond what is asked of them because they love genealogy. They love the fun of it, the frustrations of it and the excitement of it.

*  It is also the knowledge that you are passing down something of worth;

that you are leaving behind a little something of yourself.

*  It is the knowledge that through all of your research you may have made a difference, however small it may be.

This is a just a little of what genealogy means to me. Why not give it a try?

My oldest authenticated photograph -
great great great grandfather
Steven Moon Newman -
dated September 1868

Of bras, mud and hippopotami

A pre-Xmas ramble with our regular walking group and a route that started at Minions on Bodmin Moor. We dropped down through the Gonamena Valley, across fields to the Bronze Age Trethevy Quoit, up to Darite  and Crow's Nest and thence back to our starting point. About 7 miles in some less than friendly weather, which made our sojourn at the Cheesewring Pub (the highest in Cornwall apparently) for mulled wine and mince pies all the more welcome. A few photographs for the record.

Leafless branches on the trees at this time of year act as an interesting framework for the epiphytic beard lichens. I don't know what particular type of Usnea this one is but it's very common in these parts. And a good thing too as they are very sensitive to air pollution, especially sulphur dioxide. Under bad conditions they may grow no larger than a few millimeters, if they grow at all. Where the air is unpolluted, as it is down here, they can grow up to 15 - 20 cm. Long may it be that way.

Dating from the mid-1800s, these are just a few of the remains of the Gonamena mine on the side of Caradon Hill, a prolific area for copper and tin, plus a little tungsten. A couple of other stacks can be seen on the background. Strange to think that some of my IWC's forebears must have been working here when the mines were in full swing.

The hedgerows are interesting at this time of year. This was a very rare Red Bra we spotted. We can fantasise about the events leading up to, and after, it was discarded and, given our recent weather (a storm in a C-cup?), we must assume that they were very determined. Let's hope it was worth it.

More hedgerow goodies: this time a very expensive pair of motorcycle gloves. If the owner recognises them, why not contact me and I can tell you where they are.

Something more interesting by the side of one lane: part of a medieval chapel. Definitely not in its original position, it must have been picked up somewhere and placed in the wall by a farmer. Coming across the unexpected makes walking the lanes so interesting and, thinking about the bra, intriguing!

And then there was the mud.......................

........................and more mud...............

.....and yet more mud. Aficionados of mud will be particularly admiring of this last example. As sticky as Superglue and wonderfully squelchy. A joy to slurp through. 

As our merry muddy band are all of a 'certain' age I'm positive that, at some stage on this walk, we all had the 'mud' song going through our minds. You know, the Flanders and Swann tune with the well known chorus:

Mud, mud, glorious mud,
Nothing quite like it for cooling the blood.
So, follow me, follow,
Down to the hollow,
And there let us wallow in glorious mud.

Of course, its correct title is The Hippopotamus Song (but you knew that already, didn't you?) and here are the eponymous duo singing it in concert. Wonderfully literate lyrics and superb voices. Enjoy. Even better, remember it the next time you encounter mud, mud, glorious mud...........



In praise of: the H2O Mop X5

Regular followers of this blog would have noticed (lamented?) a lack of posts for a few days recently. What was I doing? Confession time: I have discovered a new passion in life and, as with all passions, it seems to have been monopolising my time. It all started one night when I was unable to sleep, so I got up and switched on the television. I eventually found one of those all night shopping channels and decided that it would be a perfect cure for my insomnia. And there before my eyes at 3 am in the morning was a chap demonstrating a steam mop that seemed to be the answer to just about everyones' prayer. 

It would clean everything: stone, wood, tiles, carpets, pots, pans, drains, drums, sinks, suits and all with nothing more than a cup full of water. With such a steam cleaner my life could be transformed. I could banish dirt, odour, disease, and quite probably wickedness and the Tories, from this world. I could sanitise our dog, banish wet-wipes from our nappy changing routine, make our Christmas tree baubles sparkle, deep-clean the shower nozzle and resurrect life into our upholstery. I could do all that with just the flick of a switch and a confident smile on my face. The very thought of sleep became impossible until I had acquired such a machine myself and, since it was delivered, I haven't had much time to sleep because of my passion to make everything clean. Not just any old clean but H20 Mop x5 clean. The hall carpet and the kitchen floor were fine for starters, but very soon my horizons' expanded. Friends are starting to steer clear of me because they know that they are likely to get a cleansing dose of steam if they stand still for too long. The lamp-posts up our road shine with a radiance that can outmatch any halogen bulb. It is the glow of cleanliness, the shimmer of spotlessness - as only a H20 Mop X5 can bring.

Fear not: once I have steam-cleaned the rest of East Cornwall, I will return to regular blogging. And if you don't believe the powers of this amazing piece of high technology, watch this short video and be astounded. I'm glad I bought mine before the rush.

(To avoid any misunderstanding, I should add that our house is the last place on earth that needs any steam cleaning).

Stumped for a Xmas present idea?

It was so much easier in the 50's and 60's when these TV ads were running. I think I may have bought some for various people at the time. I wonder if they are still alive?

RIP: The Amazing Mr Smith

Sad news today of the death of someone I used to work with many years ago during my time at the Wellcome Research Laboratories in Beckenham. Then he was a technician in the Biochemistry Department and known as Derek Smith. However his alter-ego was The Amazing Mr Smith, an accomplished musician and eccentric comedian. Think of a musical amalgam of Spike Milligan, Micheal Bentine and Monty Python and you won't be far off. He was well known on the folk club circuit and, by all accounts, he had quite an international following as well. I saw him perform a few times and he had that rare ability to make me laugh out loud. He will be fondly remembered by all who knew him.

And through the wonders of YouTube, we can all see him in action. The first clip is a compilation of snatches of several of his best routines,  including Duelling Banjos, The Condom Bagpipes, The Condom Harp and The Cuckoo Clock. And the second clip is of him playing Mull of Kintyre on a condom. To paraphrase the old saying You don't have to be completely mad to appreciate the Amazing Mr Smith but it certainly helps.

Mmmmmmmmmmm - Xmas goodies

I'm an unrepentant omnivore and I do like to put a face to the meat I eat. Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce to you, albeit fleetingly as they are soon to be despatched, the provider of our Xmas lunch and the centrepiece of our Boxing Day table. Many thanks to Patrieda Produce, Linkinhorne, for getting them this far. They'll be in safe hands - and an even safer oven.

Our goose is the one in front, looking rather dishevelled due to the bad weather. But she will be 'dressed' appropriately on Xmas Day. We'll call her 'Birdy Lunch'.  

We'll be having a piece of the lady to the left in the form of a potentially delicious maple syrup and cinnamon glazed gammon joint. We'll call her 'Piggy Lunch'.

Derek Acorah......again.

Schadenfreude n: Pleasure derived from the misfortunes of others. Something I try not to indulge in but I do make an exception in the case of Derek Acorah. Of course if he was a thousandth as good a psychic as he would have us believe he is, he would have seen his recent brush with the boys in blue coming. Indeed, if we take his writings at face value, he actually chose to take the path he did. In which case I do hope that the presiding judge does what he can to help Derek achieve the growth of his soul he so obviously desires.

"............it is my belief that before we enter our physical lives we choose the  way in which we will live those lives. We choose the burdens we will have to carry, the things we will have to endure and also the manner of our passing".
"..................people have to undergo certain harsh experiences in their lifetime in order to achieve soul growth. In other words, they had agreed to these experiences before they had incarnated into their physical bodies".

Who remembers Wink Martindale?



A friend of mine is an avid poker player. A game of great mystery to me and the mystery deepens every time she (Ms X mentioned in a previous post here but revealed as The Baffer in the clip above) puts something on Facebook about her latest exploits. Yesterday was no exception when she seemed to be less than happy with a recent game. At least that's the way I interpreted her remarks: I could be wrong as I don't understand the lingo. However, The Baffer's experiences with her deck of cards brought to mind one Wink Martindale.

I've always had a morbid fascination for spoken word records because the chances are, if there is a spoken word passage or – better still – if it’s entirely narrated rather than sung then it’s almost preordained to be awful. And the granddaddy of all awful spoken word records must be Wink Martindale’s huge hit Deck of Cards. A little research shows that Winston Conrad "Wink" Martindale was born in Jackson, Tennessee, and started his career as a disc jockey at age 17. His version of Deck of Cards, the ridiculous, melodramatic story of a soldier caught playing snap at the back of a church, reached Number Five in the UK charts in 1959. And this wretched record just won’t die: Martindale has been in the charts with it on three different occasions, and it has been recorded by everyone including Max Bygraves (coming up shortly). And the last line of the 'song'?: "I know! I was that soldier!" Rubbish, he wasn’t. The original story, adapted for Wink's recording, has been around since at least 1762 – 180 years before WW2.
 

Wink has had a successful TV career over the years hosting a series of game shows, including What's This Song?, Trivial Pursuit, Boggle and Debt. Why didn't we get to see them over here? Apparently he still pops up on USA TV every now and again. Who knows, he may even still be singing Deck of Cards. Listen and, if you are of a certain age, indulge in a little nostalgia.

As an extra helping of awfulness, I’ve included Max Bygraves’ version of this appalling song. Inexplicably popular, especially as the man was a dreadful singer, pedestrian comedian and a terrible game show host (another thing he shared with Wink), old waxy Maxy’s career began in earnest shortly after WW2. He appeared in a number of cringeworthy films (believe me, they were. I saw a few of them. Why?) before

establishing himself as a housewives'
favourite, releasing an endless stream of albums and singles through the 50s and 60s (will anyone admit to remembering the SingalongaMax series?). When he issued his version of Deck of Cards (in 1973) it managed to reach Number 13 in the charts. Sniffing out the possibility of a few more sales, the Martindale version was reissued, reaching Number 22. Can you imagine - two versions of the song in the charts at the same time? What was wrong with us? Was this in reaction to Ted Heath's Conservative government? Yet another thing to blame on the Tories?

 

Max died last August (2012), just a couple of months shy of his 90^th birthday. Married to former WAAF sergeant Blossom Murray, with whom he had three children, for almost 70 years, naughty Maxy also fathered three other illegitimate children who, although he went to great lengths to distance himself from, finally made peace with the serial philanderer shortly before his death. But this shouldn't detract from your vicarious enjoyment of his version of Wink's masterpiece. Listen and be amazed at how Max can take it down a couple more notches on the naffness scale.

Out of Chaos comes sweet music

A regular reader of my blog (thank you, TP) pointed me in the direction of this piece of Xmas music. Called 'The Christmas Waltz' and played by the Edge of Chaos Orchestra, I think it's delightful and good enough to share more widely. Enjoy.

'Tis the nightmare before Christmas....

The season is approaching, folks, when we curmudgeons have lots to sound off about. And there's nothing that irritates us more than the annoying, tedious and repetitive Christmas jingles and tunes we are confronted with wherever we go. Yes, it's time to be assaulted yet again by an excruciatingly dippy version of “It’s A Jingly Jangly Jolly Holy Holly Santa Snowy Sleigh Ride” or some such. It really is snow joke (sorry). Once I hear Noddy Holder dementedly screeching 'It's Christmas!', I want to perforate my eardrums with a hot needle.

But I never do, of course, because not all Christmas songs are totally naff. Let Santa Parsons give you an early Xmas present and point you in the direction of some festive musical fun that will make you forget the tuneless turkeys. You might just find your heart filling up with Christmas joy if you follow the link to the podcast called The Yule Log from Hell.

It's a compilation that comes out at this time of year of 'alternative' Christmas songs: some straight, some completely off-the-wall, some politically incorrect, some plain awful, some you would definitely not want your mother to hear but all of them infinitely preferable to Wham, Slade, Wizzard and their like. Take a look below at a few of the songs featured and think where else you could find them. Why not download them all and entertain your friends and family to around 10 hours of glee? I have and I will - so, visitors to Colinette Barn, you have been warned!

*  Ragin’ Cajun Redneck Christmas – Willie Robertson
*  It’s a Technicolor Christmas When You’re Jewish – Tommy and the Greyhounds
*  Please come home for Christmas - Etta James
*  Yes, Virginia. There is a Santa Claus - Burgess Merrideth
*  Santa Claus is Coming in a Whirly Bird - Pat Boone
*  Lumberjack Christmas/No One Can Save You From the Ghosts of Christmas Past - Sufjan Stevens
*  Santa Doesn't Come to the Little Jewish Kids Houses - The Yid Kids
*  Naughty, Naughty Children (Better Start Actin' Nice) - Grace Potter and the Nocturnals
*  Yah Dis Ist Ein Christmas Tree – Mel Blanc
*  I Saw Daddy Kissing Santa Claus - Kip Adotta
*  Give Me a Second Chance for Christmas – Mike Viola & the Candy Butchers
*  I Saw Three Ships - The Chieftans/Marianne Faithfull
*  Santa Claus is a Black Man - A.K.I.M. and the Teddy Vann Production Co

In praise of: The Commonwealth War Graves Commission

If you've ever been involved in researching a member of the UK forces who was killed in WW1, you'd have given thanks to the Commonwealth War Graves Commission. Their records are invaluable as they detail the burial place of nearly two million dead from not only the two 'great' wars but also many other minor conflicts. The CWGC database, accessible free via their website, is the first place to go to get started. I've used it many, many times but I'd never given much thought to the origins of the CWGC. Reading David Crane's recent book, 'Empires of the Dead: How one man's vision led to the creation of WW1's War Graves', has changed that.

Before WWI, little provision was made for the burial of our war dead. Soldiers were often unceremoniously dumped in mass graves whilst officers were shipped home for burial. The great cemeteries of WWI came about as a result of the efforts of one inspired visionary. In 1914, Fabian Ware joined the Red Cross, working on the front line in France. The sheer scale of the killing and maiming presented unprecedented challenges. Horrified by the hasty burials, from the first he tried to establish a method of uniformly recognising the fallen with a simple cross and template to stencil on the name, rank, number and unit. Within three years he had established a War Graves Registration unit, which in 1917 became the Imperial War Graves Commission, and later the CWGC. 

How Ware achieved this, quite often in the teeth of opposition from the politicians, the Crown, the Army and Whitehall bureaucracy, is the subject of Crane’s book. It is not a biography of Ware as such, but it does put the early years of his creating the commission into the context of the times and, as such, it gives extraordinary insights into the prevailing prejudices and hang-ups of official and unofficial Britain.

Ware's vision was based on the simple and egalitarian proposition that the dead should be buried as close as possible to where they fell (many objected and wanted their sons brought home, but Ware’s vision prevailed – until the Falklands War in 1982, when families could choose to bring their fallen home). They should be buried irrespective of rank with privates and soldiers alongside colonels and brigadiers. This philosophy translated into the simple 'standard' headstone, modelled by Edwin Lutyens on secular lines, thus making it suitable for the dead of all the countries of the Empire, irrespective of their religions. The cemeteries themselves were designed by Lutyens and his rather combative fellow architects Reginald Blomfield and Herbert Baker and were set off by flowers of the English countryside — a touch of inspiration from the Gertrude Jekyll. These cemeteries were designed to be commemorative, to mark the dead and provide sites of mourning, and not to trumpet military or imperial glory. Rudyard Kipling, who was mourning the loss of his 18-year-old son Jack at Loos in 1915, for whom there was no grave, added the poignant phrase “a soldier of the Great War known unto God” – to offer solace.

Given the subject matter, I'm not sure that 'enjoyed' is the right term to use about the book but I did. Understanding the establishment of the CWGC and the trials and tribulations underlying its prime task - identifying, retrieving and burying a body - somehow adds to the search for those commemorated. Recommended reading.

A view of the Railway Dugouts War Cemetery near Ypres in Flanders. It's a typical CWGC site and is the resting place of William Conibear who I mentioned in a recent post.

William Conibear's headstone in the Railway Dugouts Cemetery, showing the simple, clean lines of Lutyens' design.

The antidote to Slade's 'Merry Xmas'

I've mentioned my favourite podcast a few times previously - The Best Radio Show You Have Never Heard - and its producer and host Perry Bax has just created a full composite of the Who's Tommy that encompasses the masterpiece from its inception to this year's remastered release. He has combined tracks from a variety of sources, including:
• the 2013 remaster
• demos, outtakes & unreleased tracks from The Who and Pete Townshend
• live tracks from the 1969 - 70 Tommy tour

The episode is called Smash The Mirror - Tommy Reconstructed and it really is very good. In fact, I'd forgotten how good Tommy is as I haven't listened to it in its entirety for years. It's going to be a main part of my Xmas 2013 Soundtrack (Yaa boo sucks to Slade, Wham, Wizard, Band Aid and all other purveyors of seasonal muzak dross) and, for those interested, here is the track listing - as if you'll need any inducement. Enjoy.

1. Overture (live) - The Who
2. It's A Boy (live) - The Who
3. 1929 - Pete Townshend
4. Amazing Journey (live) - The Who
5. Sparks (live) - The Who
6. The Hawker / Eyesight To The Blind (live) - Pete Townshend
7. Christmas - (live) - The Who
8. Cousin Kevin Model Child - The Who
9. Cousin Kevin - The Who
10. The Acid Queen - The Who
11. Underture (live) - The Who
12. Do You Think It's Alright? - Pete Townshend
13. Fiddle About (live) - The Who
14. Pinball Wizard - Pete Townshend
15. There's A Doctor - Pete Townshend
16. Go To The Mirror (live) - The Who
17. Success - Pete Townshend
18. Tommy Can You Hear Me? - Pete Townshend
19. Smash The Mirror - Pete Townshend
20. Sensation - Pete Townshend
21. Miracle Cure - Pete Townshend
22. Miss Simpson - The Who
23. I'm Free (live) - The Who
24. Welcome - The Who
25. Tommy's Holiday Camp (live) - The Who
26. We're Not Gonna Take It (alt) - The Who
27. See Me, Feel Me (live) - The Who
28. Trying To Get Through - The Who
Gulp! I've just realised that next year is the 50th anniversary of the first time I saw them - at Sophia Gardens in Cardiff. Suddenly I feel so old.

In Memoriam: William Conibear

I've mentioned previously that I'm in the process of writing a book about those mentioned on our local WW1 memorial. One such whose biography I've just completed is William Richard Conibear. He was serving as a Driver (of horses rather than anything mechanised) in D Battery of the 106th Brigade of the Royal Field Artillery when he was killed during the 'softening' up activities prior to the Battle of Messines near Ypres on June 4th 1917. Each man I'm researching is unique in their own way and with William Conibear there are a few things that stand out:
1.  He was Welsh by birth and spent the early years of his short life in Barry, South Wales.

2.  He is one of the few men for whom I've managed to obtain a photograph.

3.  He is one of the few men for whom I've been able to trace a living relative.

Not a close relative but a relative nonetheless and one who has shared with me William's militaria that has come into her care, such as the 'death penny' received by his family as a formal recognition of his death. 

4.  He is one of the few men whose exact time and place of death I can trace through documentation.

The documentation relevant here are the War Diary of the 106th Brigade and the personal diary of the officer commanding the 106th Brigade at the time, Lieutenant Colonel Ralph G.A. Hamilton, Master of Belhaven. I've quoted them both below as they are worth reading. The Brigade War Diary entries are brief but do mention that D Battery was hit by a gas shell on June 4th, with nine casualties, one of whom would have been William Conibear. The personal diary of Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton's is far more expansive and paints a vivid picture of life at the front at that particular time and what men such as William had to endure. William was buried very close to where he died, in the Railway Dugouts War Cemetery.

From the 106th Brigade, Royal Field Artillery War Diary for June 1917:
Friday June 1st: Batteries wire cutting on Mt Sorrel zone. (meaning firing barrages to destroy enemy barb wire defences).
Saturday June 2nd: Ditto. Batteries also fire in support of small raid on Spoil Bank Sector.
Sunday June 3rd: Practice barrage at 3.15pm. Batteries wire cutting.
Monday June 4th: Brigade Commanders Conference at Busseboom. 2.30 pm. Railway Dugouts shelled with gas shell. D (Battery)/106 shelled 9 casualties. Total Brigade casualties for first week 34. 

From Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton’s Personal Diary:

Zillebeke 4th June, 1917: What a 4th of June! I wonder if they are having the procession of boats at Eton today; certainly we can compete with them for fireworks; there has been nothing like it before. Our guns and the Germans' roar night and day and never stop for a moment. To-day General Sheppard had a conference of group commanders at his Headquarters in the vicinity of Poperinghe. He sent a car to meet us near the Asylum on the road to Vlamertinghe. Colonel de Satche and I walked over to meet it and had a rough time, as the Hun was shelling the whole area heavily, We had to make detours to avoid burning dumps of ammunition, which were exploding gaily in all directions. We were nearly caught going through Kruistraat, a big shell hitting a house not far off and blowing out the whole of the side of the house facing us. It was tropically hot and we had to keep off the roads because of the shelling. The fields are thick with long tufts of grass and full of shell holes, so by the time we had done 8 miles I was about exhausted. It was a relief indeed to reach the car. For the first mile or so the car had to pick its way among the holes in the road, but after that we bowled along the road merrily, and reached Divisional Headquarters, which are a collection of well-made huts. The general and everyone asked after my wound, and we adjourned to their mess for our conference. General Sheppard read out a letter from the army commander saying that he realised what a bad time the gunners were having and much appreciated the good work that was being done. We discussed every detail of our plans and the general made several excellent suggestions. I saw our brigade major and staff captain and made all sorts of arrangements, and asked for all the maps I wanted. They are a delightful staff to work with -always anxious to help in every possible way. This is not the  case with all staff officers by a long way. After the conference we drove to our wagon-lines, where I had tea and saw the horses. They are looking much better than I had expected after the tremendous work they have had. C Battery horses were caught last night in a gas shell barrage and had a bad time. Their horses were still gasping for breath and looking very sick, but none have died and they will probably be all right in a day or two. After tea I had my trumpeter and an orderly with a horse-holder and started back for the line. I took the new sand track and was able to canter for the first two miles without drawing rein. I could have ridden farther, but when I got into the area that is shelled at night there were so many dead horses lying on the road that my mare began to object. I don't blame her, as she could not hold a handkerchief to her nose like I did. I accordingly got off and sent the horses back. The orderly and I walked the last two miles to Bedford House. I passed a 6 in. howitzer battery in my old position near Voormezeele and inquired whose it was; to my surprise I found Birch in command-now a major. He was my captain in A/106 when I went home in November last. He gave me a drink and we exchanged news. He is very lucky, as, being a "silent battery," he has not been spotted by the Hun yet, and has had a peaceful time since he arrived here. On arrival at my own brigade I found that A and D had been heavily shelled whilst I was away. D had bad luck, a 5.9 shell crashing into one of their gun-pits and killing two and wounding seven men. I do not think it was meant for them at all, but was a bad shot for A Battery. The Hun has "bracketed" them with a 25-yrd bracket, so I have warned Dallas to look out for trouble. The general has given me two more officers, both of whom I have posted to A Battery, as they are very short. To-night the Hun has put a large number of gas shells round our dug-outs. I did not put on my gasmask quickly enough, with the result that I got a nasty whiff of it that made me cough and splutter. It catches one by the throat and the eyes are affected, so that tears pour down one's face. Our new gas-helmets are a great improvement on the old flannel bags. I was so tired that I half went to sleep with it on. The Hun has shelled my Headquarters intermittently all day, but has not caught many people fortunately.



Hamilton himself was killed in March 1918

Don't be like that: 1928

I came across this recently in a search for something else. I like it for its exuberance and because it's a counterpoint to the rather dreary weather we've had today. It's by Harry Reser. I defy you not to enjoy it.

In praise of Anthony Trollope.

What makes us read novels more than once? It can hardly be because of a suspenseful plot as we already know how it unfolds. It might possibly be the quality of writing - I have read Thomas Hardy and George Orwell on many an occasion just for the sheer pleasure of the words - but it is a rare writer who can achieve such heights consistently. It might, of course, be familiarity: a kind of literary comfort food - apple tart printed in Times New Roman. 

The question comes to mind because I have just started reading Anthony Trollope's 'Barsetshire Chronicles' sequence of novels again: for the third time. I suspect it is a personal thing, a relationship between characters real and characters fictional, that brings me back to these six linked novels. As I read the books I keep coming across fragments of my life, people I remember and people I have forgotten, incidents and events, even places: all mixed up, shuffled around, out of context as if in a jumbled dream. All in all, a rather pleasant exercise.

I have just embarked on the first in the series - The Warden - and there are another five waiting for me. In a moment of unnecessarily maudlin introspection just now, I thought to myself "this will be the last time I read the sequence". Possibly true but I suspect I can manage one more full reading before I hand in my Reader's Card and leave the Library of Life.

Not the sharpest pencil in the box? How wrong can you be!

Have you got the right kind of point on your pencil? Do you know how to achieve the perfect point for the kind of work you need out of that pencil? Have you even got the right lead in your pencil? I thought not. What you need to read is a gem of a book by professional pencil sharpener David Rees entitled How To Sharpen Pencils: A Practical and Theoretical Treatise on the Artisanal Craft of Pencil Sharpening for Writers, Artists, Contractors, Flange Turners, Anglesmiths and Civil Servants.
In this book, part manifesto and part fully-illustrated guide to  the many, many, many ways to sharpen a pencil, Rees reveals the secrets of his craft. By the time you’re through this book, you will know how to get the perfect point on your pencil without injuring yourself. This indispensable manual answers all the questions you’ve ever had about pencil sharpening, plus thousands of questions you didn’t know you had, but would have eventually had if you’d thought about it for a really long time, like the author has. I learnt a lot from it and I don't think I'll look at a rod of carbon encased in a wooden shell in quite the same way again. I'd call it an essential read for anyone who aspires to use or who has ever used a pencil.

And it's not a joke. Deep in New York’s Hudson River Valley, craftsman David—the world’s number one #2 pencil sharpener—still practices the age-old art of manual pencil sharpening. In 2010, he began offering his artisanal service to the world, to the jubilation of artists, writers, draftsmen, Argos shoppers and bingo players everywhere. Take a look at his website - Artisanal Pencil Sharpening and see the man himself in action in the clip below. It's well worth spending 5 minutes or so to enter the world of THE pencil-meister.

How do they get away with it?

Duplicitous, mendacious, devious, disingenuous - not very flattering adjectives but common parlance when describing politicians. How do they get away with it? For what they are worth, here are my thoughts on the subject.

The Great British Electorate let them.
As might be deduced from the general tone of my more political posts, I don't hold the Great British Electorate in high esteem. Gullible, comatose and disengaged, is it any wonder that the politicians know that they will never properly be held to account for what they do? We get what we deserve. Depressing, isn't it?

They are masters of the black arts of propaganda.
We all know they are but we all continue to fall for their spin. If you want to find out more about the techniques they use, let me recommend a fascinating little book called Spinfluence: The Hardcore Propaganda Manual for Controlling the Masses by Nick McFarlane. In `10 easy steps` the use of propaganda as a tool
for influencing public opinion (ie. me and you) is explained through punchy text, striking info-graphics and bold black, white and red illustrations. It covers such fun techniques and tactics as emotional hijacking, brainwashing and hysteria harnessing and shows how spin and propaganda are used to to bend the truth and control the masses (ie. me and you - again). It is written as if its target readership is crooked politicians, media manipulators and corporate big-wigs, in fact anyone interested in how to exploit people for profit or power. But, of course, it is really for anyone interested in learning how to see through the techniques. Once you've got the knowledge, it's amazing how easy it becomes to spot the subject matter being put into practice. Read the book and then watch any politician in an uncomfortable position in action. Behold, the motes shall be removed from thine eyes. 

They rewrite history. 
Sometimes the truth is very uncomfortable and wouldn't it be great if any skeletons in the political cupboards could be removed? We've seen a brilliant example of how to do this recently as the Conservatives tried to remove from the internet all speeches and press releases dating from the time before Posh Dave became prime minister. Of course, once it was realised what was happening, it naturally led to everyone on the internet reminding themselves - and us - of all the things Cameron once said, to compare them to things he had done, and to understand immediately why he would want them deleted. This demonstrates the first rule of rewriting history – it only works if people don't notice that you've done it. Posh Dave obviously hasn't read Spinfluence.

A downer on Downton

When I'm feeling depressed by worldy affairs, I find that a quick burst of Petula Clark singing Downtown soon perks me up. Hard to believe that the clip comes from 1964, around about the first time my IWC accepted my offer of a trip to the pictures in Newport. Perhaps we should make Downtown 'our' song?


Downtown I like but Downton me no like. And I'm not the only one. Here's what Rachel Cook, TV critic for the New Statesman, writes in the latest issue of that excellent magazine. Lovely stuff and I've just added a few photographs that seemed appropriate.


A sad week, should your tastes extend to dotty costume dramas. At Downton Abbey, the big house of ridiculousness and anachronisms where this column begins, Julian Fellowes' cheap little rape plot line reached a feeble denouement in the final episode of the series (10 November, 9pm) when Bates (Brendan Coyle) pushed the valet who'd attacked Mrs Bates in front of a bus and killed him - an excellent use of his precious day off, one has to admit.

Meanwhile, Violet, the dowager duchess (Maggie Smith), having somehow intuited that her unwed grand-daughter Lady Edith (Laura Carmichael) is up the duff by her bounder of a newspaper editor boyfriend, decided that the best solution all round - pass the smelling salts! - would be an all-expenses-paid, five-month-long trip to Switzerland. At least there, she'll be able to blame her swollen belly on too much Toblerone.

Most unexcitingly of all, Lady Mary (Michelle Dockery) now has two hot-ish chaps dancing her attendance: Lord Gillingham and Charles Blake, both of whom must first have appeared in an episode I missed (that is, all of them) and both of whom look like Thunderbirds puppets, only with fob watches instead of strings. Dullards, the pair of them; Lord "Tony" Gillingham's only claim to fame is that it was his valet whom Bates so swiftly despatched. Some viewers will perhaps be hoping for a threesome in series five, though how Dockery's acting skills would cope with such a scenario, one can only imagine. Would a sex troika in the king-size she once shared with the ineffably boring Matthew Crawley render her any the less plank-like? I fear not. I've seen walnut commodes more animated than Lady Mary.

Lady Mary? Walnut commode?

What is to be done about Downton Abbey? I don't know! ITV will, I fear, keep flogging this particular dead horse - "I'm sorry to have to tell you, Lord Grantham, but your favourite hunter was knocked down early this morning by Tom Branson, who was in a particular rush to get to a political meeting where he hoped to meet Miss Bunting, who had promised to show him her red bloomers; yes, I'm afraid these socialist girls are terribly easy, m'lord" - until such a time as the Academy of Television Arts and Sciences (one of the groups that hand out the Emmys) begins to ignore it. So let us hope that is soon.

Or that ITV grasps just how bad a writer Julian Fellowes is and locks him in a room for a month with only Chris Morris and some classic Coronation Street on TV for company. Or until Maggie Smith storms off (I don't believe the show could survive without her). Or that Fellowes is made the new presenter of Daybreak, which would leave him too knackered to worry about butlers at a Time of Great Social Upheaval.

As for all of you people who still watch it, what is wrong with you? Seriously. Are you gripped in an ironic, postmodern, sneery, let' s-count-the-extras-at-Lady-Sarah's- village-bazaar, tee-hee kind of a way? (On this point, I spotted two: one in a sack race, the other manning the test-your-strength attraction.) Or are you simply waiting to see if Lady Mary's expression is ever going to change?

Confession time. In truth, all my negativity towards Downton Abbey is just sour grapes. Not many people know that I did once audition for a part but didn't get it. Bates and I just didn't get on. He wanted to be called Mister but I couldn't stop myself from calling him Master and sniggering in a very schoolboy-ish way. However, they did give me one of the auditions stills as a momento.

A walk in the Duchy Woods: November 15th 2013

A walk in the nearby Duchy Woods down at Broad Mill Ford with two of our three grandsons today. Throwing stones in the stream, splashing in puddles and generally getting wet and muddy. The boys enjoyed it as well.

There were lots of these fungi growing in the leaf mould under the trees. I think they are Tubaria hiemalis (Winter Twiglet), apparently one of the more common species which grows from September to February. And before you ask – no, it’s not edible! Not poisonous, but simply tastes bad. A shame because it wouldn't take long to fill a bucket with them.

The trees laden with moss and lichen give a good indication of the prevailing climate in this part of the world - damp and relatively mild.

Hard to believe that this view incorporates mining evidence dating from the 1300s (the flat floor of the valley due to early tin streaming) to the late 1800s (the 'line' seen running across the photograph above the stream is the course of an old leat carrying water to power wheels for various mechanical processes). All gone now and the sites reclaimed by nature.

One small boy. One large puddle. Fun.