St Andrew’s Hall has occupied a central role in the civic life of the City for nearly 500 years, and before it became a secular meeting place it was part of a Dominican friary. Every kind of public event has taken place there; I myself have sung from the choir benches as child (though in what circumstances I forget), and as a thirty year old I played there in the orchestra for the opera The Merry Wives of Windsor. In less refined company I have been there with my friends to the Norwich Beer Festival; St Andrew’s Hall, together with the adjacent Blackfriars Hall, constitute the largest non-religious gathering place in the City. There have been calls for a modern hall to be built for the citizens, and maybe this will one day come to pass, but there is no immediate prospect of St Andrew’s Hall giving up its time-honoured rôle. Even if such a modern concert hall were to be built it would not occupy so central a location in the City; there could not be a better place for the citizens of Norwich to meet than St Andrew’s Hall. I should think there is hardly a citizen of Norwich who has not attended some function at St Andrew’s Hall the last half millennium.
The Dominican friars (also called the Blackfriars from their austere form of dress) moved onto the site in 1307, having first set up a friary in Colegate eighty years earlier. The chancel of the friary was originally dedicated to St John the Baptist. and it was named St Andrew’s Hall from St Andrew’s Church that stands across the road after the Reformation. In medieval times it became a popular place for the rich an influential members of local society to bequeath large sums of money for the erection of memorials within its walls. These included the Paston family, and Sir Thomas Erpingham; the arms of both are preserved around the building.
With the closure of all religious houses by Henry VIII the City Corporation petition the king to buy the former friary in 1538. The hall with its adjacent conventual buildings has preserved the most intact medieval friary left in the country. The buildings cost the Corporation £81, with an unexpected extra £152 for the lead on the roof; as anyone who inspects the exterior of the hall today will recognise, the roof is nowadays made of copper. A print was made in the seventeenth century which shows St Andrew’s Hall and Blackfriars Hall with a central tower. This fine structure was demolished at some time, but when is unclear.
This Hall has provided the backdrop for civic occasions ever since the 16th century; the first recorded event to take place there was in 1544, with the Mayor’s inaugural feast. The Earl of Warwick stabled his horses in the Hall when he came to crush Kett’s rebellion five years later. When Charles II visited the city in 1671 he was entertained to a lavish feast in St Andrew’s Hall. In 1695 it was used as a mint during the great recoinage of that year. The building was used as the City’s Corn Exchange before a purpose-built Corn Hall was erected in Exchange Street. It was also at one time used as the local Assize Court. In 1824 the first concert of the Norwich Triennial Festival took place in St Andrew’s Hall. A quarter of a century later the opening of the Railway to London was the occasion for a great feast and many speeches. The holding of feasts there seems to have fallen off in recent times, but concert are as popular as ever. When Question Time visits the City the team of broadcasters set up their equipment in the ancient meeting place. There simply is nowhere else in Norwich where such an event could happen.
THE BLOG FOR HISTORY OF EAST ANGLIA
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More than ten generations ago my ancestor George Peachey was born in Mildenhall in Suffolk. I do not know what his occupation was, but as all his descendants (right down to my great-grandfather Phipp Peachey) were warreners, I think it highly likely that he was too; rabbits were virtually the only crop that could be harvested from the sandy soil around the Brecks, until the 20th century ushered in forestry and provided a substitute in the form of timber. George Peachey was born in 1662 and grew up during ‘Good King Charles’s golden days’. The reason I mention this monarch is that he was a regular visitor to Newmarket to watch the horse racing on the heath. The town is only 16 miles from Mildenhall, and George may well have seen the king as he made his regal progress into the town.
For more than seven generations the Peacheys lived in Mildenhall, or the adjoining parish of Lakenheath. In this sedentary lifestyle they were not unique; indeed such a lack of mobility was commonplace for many centuries. Others members of my ancestors, for example the Jones family who lived as farm workers within a few miles of Ludgershall in Buckinghamshire, were equally settled. The Rivetts are buried in Norfolk’s Shipdam parish churchyard from the 17th to the 2oth centuries, and members of the Mason family still live around Stone in Staffordshire. The Rutters appear to have been bakers in Suffolk throughout the 19th century and into the middle of the 20th. The Buxton family were farm labourers in the Norfolk village of Easton, and their relatives were landlords of the village pub (the Dog) for most of the 19th century. A Buxton was servant to the curate in the adjacent village of Weston Longville in Parson Woodforde’s time, and there is no doubt in my mind that he too was a distant relative of mine.
All these bloodlines would never have met had it not been for George Stephenson and the coming of the railways. Even before the first trains ran into the West Country, an ancestor of mine (a young Buckinghamshire man working as a railway navvy) had met and married an orphan in Cornwall. Domestic service also provided opportunities for employment across the land, now that universal education allowed all to read the adverts for servants and the penny post let them write a letter of application in reply. The trains provided the easy and quick access for the servants to travel to their new jobs. Not all travel was by train; this was the norm, but my uncle’s father arrived in Grimsby from Denmark by boat in the nineteenth century. Physical mobility came first, and social mobility soon followed.
All this concerns my own relatives as you might have guessed. Over the last two hundred years I can point to relatives of mine in Dover and St Austell, Stoke on Trent and Stradbroke, Fenny Stratford and Bishop’s Stortford. They have been coal miners and railwaymen, drapers and wheelwrights, pigmen and gardeners, carpenters and bricklayers. There have been no ladies or gentlemen, no clergymen or army officers. They have been ordinary working people in ordinary working class jobs. This was true until the 20th century, when all this began to change. The opportunities for social mobility expanded exponentially, so that by the 21st century the grandson of a fishmonger is a recently retired banker; the granddaughter of a waitress was a university professor. The grandson of a policeman travels around Europe on behalf of British research foundations. Other relatives have worked in the medical and teaching professions; as architects or engineers, actors and musicians.
The study of family history is very popular nowadays and many people must be able to relate similar tales. It is a tribute to the nation that all these changes should have been going on in science and technology as well as society, that enabled the population to spread their wings. Not all have taken advantage of the opportunities on offer, but they are there for the taking; this simply wasn’t true in the past.
THE BLOG FOR THE STORY OF THE PAST
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What has happened to style in dress? What has happened to style in general? Now that we could all easily afford to dress well and travel in style, we ignore these niceties of life. Back at the beginning of the last century, when most people were really poor, they comported themselves with dignity. How we laugh at that today, but it was preferable to going round dressed as slobs.
This isn’t about the obesity epidemic, although that is a related problem; it perfectly possible to be fat and stylish, though this is more difficult to achieve than if you are thin. The thing to remember (for women particularly) is that if one is rather overweight you must wear loose clothing. Unfortunately many of these larger ladies seem to have the mistaken notion that tight clothes make them look thin. This untrue; in fact the opposite is the case. Leggings in particular are a bad idea for ladies of ample stature, but they are almost universal these days for all shapes and sizes of women.
For men neckties seem to be on the way out, but nobody has any idea about what should replace them. Merely removing the tie leaves a pointless turn-down collar gaping where the tie once was. A tee-shirt would be more sensible and hardly less stylish. Back in the Swinging Sixties ties were already seen as old-fashioned accessories, but the alternative was the polo necked sweater. This was stylish, but style has been ditched along with neckwear this time round. The veteran broadcaster Nicholas Parsons made a heartfelt but vain plea recently to replace the necktie with the cravat. This would indeed be a stylish alternative, but the very word reeks of the past. Nicholas Parsons may wear a cravat with style, but nobody younger than him does so.
This picture of my great-grandfather proves how even the poor could still dress well, and he certainly was poor. He worked with animals all his life, latterly as a carter for Colmans mustard. In this picture he is wearing collar and tie, suit and hat with waistcoat and button down collar, all for a stroll in his garden. His father had been a tailor back in the mid 19th century, which might account for some of his dress sense. We might think him rather overdressed for the occasion, but this was the norm in 1920. Everybody wore these clothes – for holidays even more than for work, when a slightly less formal kind of attire or a uniform might be required.
Don’t forget either that the task of laundering clothes was a huge one in those olden days. There were no washing machines or tumble driers. It was still a major undertaking in the mid-20th century, when it took up one day a week (Monday). In earlier centuries it took up a whole week, once a month. I doubt that anything was added to the hot water to help clean the laundry, because soap was a luxury then, taxed throughout the 18th century. Linen sheets and garments would be scrubbed in hot water, left on lines and hedges to dry and bleach in the sun, and then ironed. The laundry maid needed to heat the iron by the fire, so imagine how hot this would make the job in summer. In the winter drying the washing would be the problem, when the short hours of daylight and frequently damp weather made hanging the laundry indoors essential.
You can see the trilby hat my ancestor is wearing. Top hats, bowlers, deerstalkers and flat caps, all had their place in the complicated world social status. You touched your hat to acquaintances, and removed it entirely when greeting your superiors. Hats disappeared from British heads in the early 1960s; now only the baseball cap is worn by some young people (normally back-to-front). This headwear still has things to say about the social status of the wearer; I don’t think we will see Prince William wearing his baseball cap back-to-front any time soon. In this country we ought really to wear cricket caps instead of baseball caps, to put us on a par with our American cousins, but these are never seen except on cricketers on match days. BBC reporters may never appear with any form of head covering apparently; even when speaking outside the Kremlin in the dead of winter, the poor saps must speak to the camera with their heads open to the elements. (No Russian would do anything so foolish.) A warm furry hat with ear flaps would not obscure the reporter’s face, and I am sure they don something like that as soon as they are off camera; otherwise they would rapidly lose their ears to frostbite. What is the dress code that forbids broadcasters from wearing headwear? (Except for the headscarf of course.)
THE BLOG FOR THE HISTORY OF DRESS
We have no rocks here, except for the carstone of West Norfolk, and that only appears through the topsoil to reveal itself in the stripey red and white cliffs at Hunstanton. The stones found in Norfolk are nearly all flints. I recently had an interesting correspondence with a lady in the US about flint; it is strange to consider that this material which is so pervasive in East Anglia is so rare in North America. Flints are produced over millions of years by the rainwater seeping through the chalk. The quartz-rich sediment is absorbed by fossilised sponges which are normally found in layers in the chalk. The flint grows around these sponges, and if you break one open you will normally find a formerly porous part at the centre. Chalk is formed from the shells of myriads of sea creatures, and the sponges represent an ancient seabed. In the neolithic flint mines of Norfolk known as Grimes Graves the best flints are found in the third layer from the top, which lies about 40 feet below the surface. Two of these ancient mines have been excavated and are open to the public. These stone can grow to 50 cms or more in length, although the stones and pebbles found on the surface are much smaller. Flint is a very hard material, but a sharp blow will shatter it; this process is known as flint knapping. The ancient miners tunnelled along this third layer to extract the flints which they made into tools – axes and spears. The use of flint as a building material came much later, but its appearance in the middle ages gives the landscape much of its distinctive character, particularly in the many churches of Norfolk.
Outside the Lake District there are no mountains in England; you might characterise the flat landscape of Norfolk as dull, but that would not be true. Mudflats are not the most romantic of surroundings, but the profusion of seabirds that gather in huge numbers to search out their food by the water’s edge have a certain grandeur. Inland the remaining expanses of sandy rabbit pastures interspersed by Scots pine, that mark out Breckland, have a bleak charm. The acres of forest around Thetford, that have replaced much of this heathland, stretch for miles; but being Forestry Commission plantations they are not the most interesting of woods. The marshland, heathland and woodland are all typical parts of the Norfolk landscape, but its real beauty lies elsewhere.
There are tree-lined commons, gently rolling hills and copses, and many acres of pleasant cornfields bordered by little becks. Many hedgerows have been grubbed up since the war; I can remember when the large field behind my childhood home was three smaller fields, all divided by hedges. The blackberries and field voles that once lived there had been banished long before it became what it is now; a housing estate. This building activity had been talked about for at least 50 years before it actually happened, so the changes to the landscape are slow in coming. We always moan about new houses, but they is still plenty of land left in Norfolk. However I would far rather see one or two new properties across fifty villages, and not have one community swamped by 100 new houses; that however is not the way things are done nowadays.
I have not yet mentioned the Norfolk Broads. If you like waterways, reedbeds and the wide open sky then this is the landscape for you. The Broads are a phenomenally popular holiday destination, so they must float many people’s boats; a high proportion of the country’s boating holidays are spent on the Norfolk Broads. I think the lack of landing places rather restricts the possibilities of Broadland holiday. The canal system allows you to get out of the barge anywhere you want and walk along the towpath as a companion steers the narrowboat. The Fens are even more of an acquired taste than the Broads. Although some are closed by sluices, many of the waterways are open to boat traffic; the prospect of miles and miles of dead straight drains with high banks that make distant views impossible is a daunting one. These high banks are a necessary part of the landscape, for the water level in the channels is many feet above that of the surrounding countryside. This Fenland landscape is a relatively recent one, having been created in the last three or four hundred years. In those places where the old vistas have been restored you may get a flavour of the old Fenland.
Of all our many landscapes in Norfolk I like the coast the best. I love the cliffs and sand dunes that run for miles and miles around our county. For my holidays give me the seaside at any time of the year. The sandy beaches give way from time to time to pebble banks and mudflats. After the cliffs of Hunstanton the coastline soon changes to creeks and islands that run from Thornham through Brancaster to Burnham Overy. At low tide the sandy expanse of beach at Holkham goes from the pine trees on the dunes to the distant waves. Salt marshes and sand spits suddenly change at Weyborne to the steep glacial hills of the Holt-Cromer Ridge. This in turn gives way to the flat sandy expanses that run down the east coast to the raucous holiday fun of Great Yarmouth’s Golden Mile. Whether your delight is bird watching, gathering samfer, cockling, shrimping, digging sand castles or playing on the funfair you may do it here. Roll out the pleasures of the Norfolk landscape!
THE BLOG FOR THE STORY OF EAST ANGLIA
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What records would you take to the BBC’s fabled Desert Island? The show was invented by Roy Plomley in 1942 and has been going ever since. Roy himself continued to present the show for over forty years, until his death in 1985. The format is well-known; the guest lists the eight records he would like if he was marooned on a desert island. He or she says a bit about each one, a section of which is then played.
In 1964 one of the first 45s I bought was Not Fade Away by the Rolling Stones, so it was obviously a favourite of mine at one time. That was a long time ago though, and it certainly is not a favourite of mine any longer. My musical tastes soon developed, which makes it puzzling to me that so many 70 year olds still like the music they bought when they were teenagers. None of my 8 Desert Island discs would be pop music now; this fact alone shows why, even if I were a celebrity, I would never get invited on the show. I am afraid my choice of music would be rather indigestible for the anodyne tastes of the general public. If I had to choose a pop record it would be one by Abba or the Carpenters; these are attractive and tuneful songs that are despised by many (as they were by me back then), although they would be perfect for the listeners to Desert Island Discs. Karen Carpenter in particular had such a good voice. I have always maintained that a good song is just that, and its format (whether popular, jazz, classical or art song) is irrelevant; it is the tune that really matters.
It is the almost incessant drumbeat that accompanies nearly every pop song that puts me off them personally, so pop music is definitely out of my list of discs. (How old-fashioned that word is!) Light music however is certainly in. There is such a lot of light music that it is hard to pick just one piece. Nearly everything that Leroy Anderson wrote could make it to my desert island, but there is such a lot of marvellous British music in this genre it would have to be one of our composers. The Dam Busters march is too well-known, so I would go for another march by Eric Coates, Knightsbridge.
One down, seven to go; there is some jazz I like, but not enough to make it onto the list, so it is to the music of Schubert that I go next. Some people say Beethoven is the best ever composer, and some say Mozart, but for me it is J.S.Bach, followed closely by Schubert. There was a lot of music written by Schubert, considering that he died so young, but I am going for The Trout quintet. The ensemble includes a double bass after all, and that was my instrument. The string quintet in C major is a more serious piece, and I really prefer that, but it has two cellos and no bass.
After I had passed through my Rolling Stones phase, my friend Bill did much to educate my musical tastes. Nowadays he listens to lot of Shostakovich and Borodin but these composers, although I can listen to them with pleasure, could make it into my top eight. Elgar comes fairly high up in my list. The Pomp and Circumstance Marches are so well known, and so are the Enigma Variations; Salut d’Amour is also pretty well known, but I will go for that. Chopin cannot be omitted either, and both Elgar and Chopin have been favourites for as long as I can remember. I would select Chopin’s 24 Preludes, though if I must restrict myself to only one piece I will go for number one.
Hayden is an underrated composer, and his string quartet are among his best compositions, so my next piece will be his Opus 77, No. 1. Mozart must have a place, and for something a little different I will choose his Sonata No. 10 in C Major, K 330. It is not as powerful as his Requiem Mass, but you do not want to hear a succession of heavy music. If Mozart, then Beethoven too must put in an appearance, although contrary to my opinion of Haydn, I think he is slightly overrated. Like his older German contemporary however, I regard his string quartets as some of his best music; cue the string quartet No. 15 in A minor, Opus 132.
We now come to the last piece, and this must be by that towering genius Johann Sebastian Bach. I have avoided the most serious of compositions until now, but I will end with his B Minor Mass. I avoided listening to this for many years, perhaps being a bit overawed by its reputation, but when eventually I settled down to hearing it I found it tuneful and delightful, and no at all sombre as I had feared it would be.
Bach will always come out on top, but on another day I might opt for an even older set of composers including Monteverdi, Thomas Tallis and John Dowland. I’m afraid I am really that high brow.
FOR MY MUSIC
As the name suggests, this village in South Norfolk is long; over four miles long in fact, though not all of it is built-up. Stratton comes from the Latin word for a street, and this community consists of a long street stretching alongside the main road, built by the Romans. In Roman times the place was already a substantial settlement, if the number of artefacts recovered in field-walking expeditions may be taken as a guide. The ancient route between the Roman towns at Caistor St Edmund (Venta Icenorum) and Colchester (Camulodunum) was known as Pye Road in the middle ages. The section to Ipswich is now more prosaically called the A140. The two sides of the street are bisected by a pretty constant flow of traffic on the A140. This was true even 50 years ago; since then other villages on the same road that were similarly affected by traffic (like Dicklebugh and Scole) were bypassed many years ago. Like them, Long Stratton should have been bypassed too, but it is still on the main road. It not just any old main road either, but the principal highway between the two East Anglian county towns of Norfolk and Suffolk, Norwich and Ipswich. What has Norfolk County Council been thinking of for the last three generations? The traffic in Long Stratton is a disgrace in the 21st century.
Long Stratton is only a village, albeit a large one, but it is far enough from Harleston (the nearest town) to have a good range of shops. It is about equidistant from Diss, Bungay and Wymondham, and Norwich is not much further. Besides having a car sales showroom, a Co-op and a dairy, it has several other shops; the head offices of South Norfolk District Council are located there. It also has a full range of schools, including a High School.
Back in the early 1970s my father and I went to Long Stratton every Tuesday evening to dog training classes at the village hall. This stands opposite St Mary’s church; there is another church, St Michael’s, in the village, which proves it has always been a large one. Fido was about nine months old when he began his evening classes. Eventually we had to leave the hall and transfer our meetings to Newton Flotman, which wasn’t so interesting. The village hall in Long Stratton was used for serving dinners to the Junior School children, and Health and Safety were just beginning to influence our lives; hygiene requirements meant dogs would no longer be allowed in the hall. Newton Flotman had lost its local school long before, so dogs were OK in the hall there. The dog training club was run by a lady called Myrtle, a Long Stratton resident. She would travel all over the country to dog shows; her own dogs were German Shepherds.
Like almost everywhere else, the population of Long Stratton is growing; in 1870 it stood at just 743, although that made it a large village for the time. It is now well over four and a half thousand. Until Dr Beeching the village was served by the railway station at Forncett, just two miles to the west. This had a regular procession of passenger trains, and goods like milk and other farm produce were handled in season. The interruption to the express service from Norwich to London was becoming increasingly inconvenient however, and in 1964 all the stations between Norwich and Diss were closed, although lesser used stations on other lines in Norfolk remain to this day. Most of the residents of Long Stratton commute to Norwich, and I am sure that if a station were to be reopened at Forncett it would attract many of these travellers, who now struggle in to work by road.
THE BLOG FOR MEMORIES OF EAST ANGLIA
SLEEPING UNDER CANVAS
I remember the small white canvas tent I crept into in those long-lost summers when I was a lad. It was a real tent for two, but I never actually slept in it. However it was fun to do the things that were ancillary to spending the night there, like arranging the ground-sheet and slackening the guy ropes when it rained. These are things that would puzzle most people today. Wasn’t the ‘ground-sheet’ part of the tent? And guy ropes; – why did they need slackening if it rained? I won’t bore you with the answers, but believe me, if you didn’t take these things into consideration you would have spent a wet night under a heap of collapsed canvas.
I didn’t begin real camping until I was a teenager. For most youngsters this would probably have entailed being a Girl Guide or a Boy Scout, but I was never a Scout. Instead my camping was done as an Army Cadet. Things had hardly moved on since Victorian times in terms of the technology employed. Heavy wooden poles held the tent up, and for the larger tents the pegs were still wooden wedges that had to be hammered in with a mallet. The tents I slept in were bigger than the one I had put up on my lawn at home, but you still had to watch those guy ropes and make sure the ground-sheet wasn’t outside the tent (and so letting in the rain). The canvas of an army tent was very tough, and so they were very heavy. Consequently, on one expedition, the four of us cadets decided to do without a tent at all, and sleep under the stars. It was midsummer, and the worst problem was the heavy morning dew. We did take a ground-sheet with us, and therefore slept under it instead of on top!
Some of my camping took place in Norfolk, but mostly it happened elsewhere. When I was sixteen we went on a three-day exercise from Sennybridge, a large army base that still exists in the Brecon Beacons in Wales. This time we did load our packs with tents. We also had to take a map and a compass, and we were given a map reference to rendezvous with our CO three days later. All our food we had to carry on our backs; this consisted of tinned Compo Rations army style. On the other hand, all our water was provided by the mountain streams. This was fine until we discovered a drowned sheep a few metres upstream of our watering hole; this was after we had filled our water bottles and taken plenty of swigs!
Much of my camping was done under the auspices of the Duke of Edinburgh Award Scheme, but the effect was just the same. Once I had left school my camping days were almost over, but after I had joined the Territorial Army this part of my life was revived for a short period. The experience of spending the night outdoors was not an enjoyable one in the TA; I only had a waterproof poncho for protection, and sleeping was out of the question due to fire-crackers being let off all through the night; added to that, the threat of a tear gas attack was not conducive to a good night’s rest.
I returned to the joys of camping when I was over fifty, because by then our children were in their late teens and ready for the outdoor life. We had gone to Sheffield (where they both were to attend university) to spy out the land. We spent a couple of nights at a campsite in Monsal Head. This is a beauty spot in the Peak District, and this is near Sheffield. By then the technology of camping had changed beyond recognition. None of it resembled what it had been in my youth; cotton canvas had gone, and no longer were tents cumbersome but light and compact affairs. Strong but insubstantial tent poles could be erected in seconds and separate rubberised ground sheets no longer existed. Their function was integrated into the tent itself. Sleeping bags, which once had been filled with kapok (a natural fibre that was warm enough but heavy to carry) are now made of man-made material that is both lightweight and easy to stow. I was really far too old to go camping on this occasion, but apart from the fact that my air-bed slowly went down overnight (some things hadn’t changed), it was an agreeable few days. The fact that we had our car with us meant there were no heavy backpacks to be humped across the country; our camping trip wasn’t one of the arduous kind. When we finally loaded up the car for our return home that really was my last night outdoors. I cannot say that I am sorry that this chapter in my life is now well and truly over.
My son and his girlfriend recently spent a few nights camping. We still had the equipment we had used in Derbyshire, and lent this to them. The weather was fine, and they had a good time round the fire-pit as the sun went down. Although she is Dutch, his girlfriend has lived all over the world from Hong Kong to Venezuela, but she found the attraction of North Norfolk very special.
THE BLOG FOR MEMORIES OF THE PAST
The Volkswagen Beetle was the car that our family doctor Heppie – a Scot whose real title was Doctor Hepburn – used to come out to see me when I was very young. I was suffering from those childhood ailments, like whooping-cough, measles and mumps, that have now been largely consigned to the past and banished from our lives. Injections against these diseases were not available when I was a little boy. Although uncomfortable, these illnesses were not regarded as anything other than the necessary adjuncts of growing up, but apparently they were life-threatening. A new black Beetle was a superior motorcar in the early 1950s – the sort of car you would expect your GP to drive in fact.
My earliest experience of riding in a Beetle was on the occasion when my father’s car was out of action for some reason, and he hired a Beetle from Robinson’s. Robinson is still the Norwich VW dealership, but in those days it was located in a garage just opposite Bishops Bridge in Riverside. The garage is still there, now a branch of a tyre fitting company. At one time it was used by a firm called Godfrey’s as a DIY shop. We needed a car because my father had arranged to do an ‘out-test’ (he was an optician and this was his phrase for a domiciliary visit) for Mrs Fakes in Hemsby. Mrs Fakes had kept the village shop in Hemsby when my father had been a regular visitor there before the war. His father (my grandfather) had built a wooden chalet which he erected on the sand dunes. The sands had been under the sea a few years before, so there was no question of buying the land from the previous owner; I think he just bagged it (Poseidon could not be contacted).
What I recall about the car was my discovery of a narrow slot behind the back seat which was meant for luggage. VW Beetles retained this feature to the end; when I first discovered this narrow aperture I was small enough to crouch inside it. I happily rode home there. I did not need to worry about my not wearing a seat belt in the car – they did not exist then. My father, who was quite safety conscious, had one fitted to our Hillman Husky in about 1961. They were very new at the time, and were entirely optional; most people pooh-poohed the very idea. Whatever do you want one of those silly things for? The first seat belts were just a single transverse strap from the pillar by your shoulder to the floor, and my father only had one put in for the front seat passenger; even he thought one unnecessary for the driver; the steering wheel would protect him in the event of a crash. There was no strap across your lap, so in a pile-up you could easily have slipped out it the he belt had not been tightened by hand; when you were closely restrained at all times. The automatic tensioner that locks you in if the car suddenly decelerate was a much later development.
Fast forward over thirty years and the VW Beetle was still going strong; it had been phased out of production in Europe, but it was still being made in South America. My father-in-law-to-be had just bought a new VW Jetta, and he passed on his faithful old red Beetle to Molly, his daughter and my fiancée. He had bought it in 1973 when they were still being made in Germany, and had kept it for a dozen years or so. When I married her about 18 months later I also married her Beetle! My own car was an old Ford Escort estate, and as it had recently failed its MOT. I got rid of it, and we relied on the Beetle as the family car. For personal transport I got myself a moped.
We must have kept the Beetle for almost 10 years, all through our children’s childhood. The place to go for servicing and repairs was by then Woolley’s Garage in Hingham. Mr Wooley specialised in Beetles. Once I had a go at removing the air cooling duct myself, to replace some parts, but the fiddling with endless screws while lying on the ground convinced me to leave this job to the experts in future. It is a journey of 17 miles from Norwich to Hingham, so it was quite a trip there and back. We certainly didn’t wait in Hingham until the work on our Beetle was finished. I cannot remember how we got back home again, but I suppose Mr Wooley lent us a replacement vehicle – another Beetle of course! It was pleasant to have an excuse to look round the small market town (more of a large village) of Hingham. In those days it had a splendid old ironmonger’s shop, and a secondhand emporium that was worth a browse. It was from Hingham that Samuel Lincoln, the ancestor of America President Abraham Lincoln, left for a new life in the New World in the year 1637.
Eventually we sold the Beetle. With two children, almost teenagers, we had outgrown it, and it was over 20 years old by then. It still had some years of life left in it, but it was in need of a thorough overhaul. I last saw it for sale on a garage forecourt in the village of Felthorpe.
THE BLOG FOR MEMORIES OF EAST ANGLIAN LIFE
This pretty village has some dark periods in its history. At the time of the Black Death Ringland was used for burying the dead of Norwich; on the way to Costessey, Ringland Lane used to be known as Black Lane and the Woodland behind is still known as Blackhill Woods. The area was a huge charnel pit, where after more than 600 years this grisly memory is kept fresh. The bodies would almost certainly have been brought here by boat, as this part of Ringland lies adjacent to the river Wensum.
The village has a population of 260; in the year 1845 it was half as big again. In 1920 it was a larger village than its neighbour Taverham, where the major paper mill had closed twenty years before and the non-resident squire had yet to sell the land in the village. Now Taverham has a population of over 10,000 and is a dormitory for Norwich. The nature of Ringland has changed too, from a community of poor farming families and tenants to one of wealthy owner-occupiers.
Ringland Hills are unusually steep for Norfolk and were formed as a terminal moraine in the ice age. My earliest memory involves being taken to Ringland Hills in my father’s Singer car. By the time I was 8 he had bought a brand new Hillman Husky, so I can’t have been more than 7 and was probably much younger. Now the grassy slopes where I used to picnic are overgrown with brambles. During the 1930s they were a popular place for holding both motorcycle trials and sports car events. Since then Ringland Hills have fallen into dereliction; even the assault course which at one time used the hills is now no more. Now cars squeeze along the narrow lanes of Ringland and cut up the verges. They use the road as a short cut to the A47; a sign says ‘NO ACCESS TO TAVERHAM’, but however much the authorities would like this to be true it is a lie. There is no law that I know of which only allows residents of Ringland to use the road; it is either a public right of way or it is not, and Ringland Road is a public right of way.
During the First World War my father was brought to Ringland Hills for a Sunday afternoon treat. They are fairly close to the city and so Ringland Hills were a popular place for a stroll from Norwich. In those more energetic days when there were no cars for ordinary folk, a hike for a few miles into the countryside from the city meant a few hours well spent. My grandparents and their two young children walked all the way from the last tram stop on the Dereham Road; I think it must have been too far for the little legs of the boy, who must have got over tired. Anyway, he misbehaved himself, and was rewarded by his father removing the leather strap round his waist and giving his son an almighty belting. Corporal punishment was the norm in those days; nevertheless it must have made a deep impression on my father, as he still remembered it fifty years later, when he used to recount the experience to me.
A hundred years ago, when my father was taken to Ringland Hills, the bridge across the river Wensum was just a flimsy wooden footbridge, as it had been for many years before that. A field was rented out to provide funds for its upkeep. Anything heavier than a pedestrian had to ford the river, and you can still see where the road went across the green opposite the Swan pub. This popular Ringland pub is where we took our daughter Polly for a meal on her 18th birthday. The setting was marvellous, but the meal was disappointing. Then it was Australian themed cuisine called ‘The Taste of OZ’. The owners have since returned to the Antipodes, but the quality of the dining has not improved to any extent.
Recently the church held a medieval festival with an exhibits of some of its ancient records. There was a concert of medieval music, and the church was almost full for the performance on Saturday, which was great. (It was well attended for the medieval Songs of Praise on Sunday evening too.) In the chancel was displayed a piece of the medieval rood screen, severely damaged by the sixteenth century iconoclasts, but still hauntingly beautiful. Also on display was the marriage register from the 1780s, where one may see the signature of James Woodforde, parson of the adjoining parish of Weston Longville. The current marriage register dates back to 1843, and the church warden has recently had to buy a replacement! The church was begun after the Black Death, except for the tower which is slightly earlier in date. Some churches are austere and rather forbidding, but Ringland church is a friendly place. It has a peaceful airy quality and has a high number of original stained glass panels. The glory of St Peter’s church is the wonderful hammerbeam roof, and it has many carved angels looking down on the congregation.
THE STORY OF EAST ANGLIAN LIFE
AUGUST 30 1887 – AUGUST 25 1958
Further to my earlier account of Aunt Millicent, I have assembled this picture gallery of her life. The first picture is of Millicent aged about ten; her mother Rebecca had died when she was only seven years old.
She was brought up by her step mother; her father needed help to bring up his young family and he soon married his housekeeper Alice Farrow. Alice went on to have five more children with Millie’s father Charles Mason. At the age of twelve Millicent was still at school, but she was just about to embark on her first job.
This photograph is a portrait of Millie sitting at a table. She may have been still working as a parlour maid in Norwich at Strangers Hall, where her employer was Leonard Bolingbroke, the solicitor who gave the house to the City. Her hairstyle does not seem suitable for the nursing profession; it would not fit into the hat that was an essential part of a nurse’s uniform. However she was soon to abandon her work in service and begin her ascent to the very heights of the nursing profession.
This next picture comes from her time as a pupil nurse in South London. In spite of her still youthful appearance she was in her early thirties by then. As a relaxation from her arduous occupation as a nurse she is taking part in an amateur production of the Beggar’s Opera, with the lead female rôle of Polly Peachum. The Beggars Opera, first performed in 1728, had a phenomenal professional revival in London in 1920, with a run of nearly 1,500 performances. This photograph was taken at Christmas time in 1923, shortly after Aunt Millie had qualified as a midwife. She was living in Balham in the Wandsworth area, just south of the river.
Balham is well served by transport links, with both Underground and Overground stations. It was thus fairly easy for her to get on a train to visit her family in Norfolk. The postal service was cheap and efficient in those days, and you could send a postcard for as little as a ha’penny. There were nearly 500 of these ½d coins to a pound, and even if you posted your card late in the day it would arrive at its destination the next morning without fail. Would that this was still true.
Her place of work was St James’ Hospital in Balham where she had been enrolled as a pupil nurse in 1920. (The official title of the Infirmary was indeed St James’ with no final ‘s’, although the nearby street is correctly called St James’s.) It was a large hospital with over 600 beds, which had been opened in 1910 on the site of a former workhouse, and the building included accommodation for nurses. It finally closed after nearly eighty years in 1988. Millie moved to another hospital in 1926 and eventually progressed to working in Harley Street, the top location for medical advice in the country. There she became the favourite midwife of the highest echelons of society.
The picture above shows Aunt Millie in her nurse’s uniform. Always rather short-sighted, she was still wearing rimless glasses, but by the 1930s she had changed to a heavy round black horn rimmed frame, a style that she wore for the rest of her life. Our first picture of her wearing these glasses was taken in 1936 in Trowse, where she had returned for a short break to spend some time with her father who was then in his late seventies. The two are shown here in his garden. She was already becoming well-regarded in her chosen career, and I think you can tell her father was immensely proud of her.
In 1953 Aunt Millie was employed by Timothy Colman at Bixley Manor, his home a short distance to the south of Norwich. He had recently retired as Lieutenant in the Royal Navy and was settling down to married life. This was an important appointment as Millicent was to look after his first-born child, a daughter called Sarah, cousin to the new Queen Elizabeth.
Millie took the opportunity of living near Norwich for a few months to visit family members in the vicinity. We went to Bixley Manor to see her from our home in Poringland, and although I was only four I remember clearly what she said to me; perhaps my family reminded me in later years. However I recall her appearance as that of a very old lady, but in fact she was a young looking sixty-something. She also journeyed into Norwich to see the Withams and the Berrys, her half sisters’ families and doubt other family members too; there were plenty of Masons living in the Lakenham area of the city. Unlike today, Council Houses with large gardens were being built in huge numbers after World War I, and the Masons took full advantage of this fact.
For the Christmas of the previous year she had sent out this studio portrait of herself to acquaintances and members of her family. She had made many friends through meeting the parents of new babies, and in spite of being a single woman I get the impression that her retirement in Kent was not a lonely one. She would have chosen this area to retire to because both her brothers who had remained in Norfolk had already passed away, while her two sisters Nellie and Bessie were both living in Kent at the time.
The final picture I have of Millie shows her in the summer of 1953 in the home of her half-sister Edith Berry (née Mason) in Pilling Park, Norwich.