“Everything has already been thought and said: we can at best express it in different forms.”
- Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe (1749-1832), German poet, dramatist.
Peter Green was a brilliant team
player. As well as a gentle soul and unique genius.
The original Fleetwood Mac demonstrates this in spades: 3
brilliant guitarists with their own unique styles, with the solid
Fleetwood/McVie rhythm section holding it all down.
The Peter Green Splinter Group saw the man re-emerging with
all the old powers in place, with a band of musical excellence and mutual
nurture.
Examples:
The original Fleetwood Mac at their zenith
The Peter Green Splinter Group 2003:
[ YouTube Link: Copyright reasons disallow the video itself to be embedded here, sorry! ]
Behind the music there are all those stories. And in the
music, and its inter-song presentation in the second video, there is food for
woke vigilantes to chew on.
These are a few snatched images from old notebooks and albums stored away for almost a half-century. How well I was looked after - with my travelling buddy Bob - by the Burnham family in those Summer 1972 days! It was a special time. Why I took no more photos is a mystery. Though of course, a Kodak Instamatic and a couple of 24-frame film rolls was all I seemed to think was enough for a 3-month sojourn in the USA. But in recompense, the memories of Sebago Lake remain fixed vivid in the mind.
How we enjoyed creating this! Long gone now I'm sure
Wind-in-Pines
Not far, though it seems an age; yet
No eternity, just an instant in time.
Here is another country; here
City vapours vanish, and sweet air
Whistles the wind-song sifting in Pines.
The rain is music in the forest trees
And the mingling of a past and present falling
Softens the carpet of ground for a transient listener.
Here is a new song, yet scarcely
Dare I listen, dare
Scarcely touch the brittle stems
Perennial
Yet only of a moment’s time.
Hampton Gay is one of those unusual and fascinating places where railway, canal and river all meet, to indicate every possibility of progress and prosperity. But these days, Hampton Gay is a hamlet down a simple track, a few cottages, a church, and several shapes in the ground which are all that is left of former dwellings. A major feature is the ruined 16th Century manor house, now a scheduled monument, which answers to any description such as "picturesque", "haunting", "eerie" or "evocative".
The Manor
We took a few hours on the last day of 2019, to explore this place, walking from the nearby village of Hampton Poyle in December half-light. The idea was to visit the ruined manor, but also to pay small homage to my grandfather, who spent a couple of years with his wife and growing family, as a cowman here just before the Great War Like many villages nationwide, Hampton Gay's population was more numerous in medieval times. Post-Black Death, the decline was almost complete by 1428 when the village was exempted from taxation because it had fewer than 10 householders. But there was always the mill. And the development of the wool trade. These two elements to the growth of Hampton Gay were the source of its prosperity from the 16th Century, until a series of 19th century disasters overtook the village and brought it to its current incarnation, a place of memories, but also of contemplation and a livelihood for a few families in the current, prosperous-looking households. Economic and Social History Hampton Gay had a water mill on the River Cherwell by 1219, when it became the property of Osney Abbey. It was converted to a paper mill in 1681, working with the converted corn mill at Adderbury Grounds, 12 miles upstream of Hampton Gay. The mills originally produced pulp, and from this, the paper was made in batches by hand until 1812. Then in an upgrade, Hampton Gay mill was re-equipped to manufacture paper mechanically and continuously. Then even more development and prosperity came in 1863–73 when the paper mill was rebuilt with a gasworks, steam engine and other machinery. But then, a disaster: in 1875 the mill was destroyed by fire. But it was restored to production in 1876, and further to this, in 1880 it had both a water wheel powered by the river and a boiler-fed steam engine. Production rose to about a ton of paper per day. The Mill and the Manor The tenants running the mill during these upgrades, were a J. and B. New. With the manor house nearby gradually going past its prime, it was divided, and the New partners became tenants of one side. However, by 1887 - coincidentally with the terrible fire which ripped through the manor in that year - the News went bankrupt and the mill and associated property were sold to settle unpaid rent. The Manor The Barry family built the manor house in the 16th century. Their money came from wool, and the fortunes of the manor and its upkeep followed the pathway of the demise of the wool trade with the development of the Northern cotton mills. And so, the manor kept its Elizabethan style until the 19th century, but by 1809 it was in a state of neglect, and well past its former glory.
And so it was, in the 1880s the house was divided, and its final demise came in that fire of 1887. The house has never been restored and remains an ivy-clad ruin. Enclosure and Agrarian Revolt In the mid-16th Century, with wool still a major source of wealth, the Barry family enclosed land at Hampton Gay for sheep pasture. In 1596 Hampton Gay villagers joined those from Hampton Poyle to join a revolt against the enclosures. The rebels planned to murder members of the landowner family and then to march on London. But the plot was foiled, and five ringleaders were arrested and taken to London for trial, and one was sentenced to death. But the Government of the day also recognised the cause of the rebels' grievance and determined that "order should be taken about inclosures...that the poor may be able to live". Parliament duly passed an Act to revert the land enclosed since 1588 to arable. The problem of enclosed land, of course, reared its head again in the late 18th century, but by then the focus of prosperity in Hampton Gay had firmly switched to the mill. Rail Disaster The Oxford and Rugby Railway, built in 1848–49 ran between Oxford and Banbury and adjoins Hampton Gay. The nearest station at Kidlington was closed in 1964, but the railway remains open as the Cherwell Valley line. The Shipton-on-Cherwell train crash, one of the worst accidents in British railway history, occurred near Hampton Gay on Christmas Eve 1874. Workers at the paper mill in Hampton Gay assisted the injured, and the inquest took place at Hampton Gay manor. Full details appear in an Oxford Mail retrospectivehere.
The Church Hampton Gay had a parish church by 1074, with restorations and additions during the 13th Century. It was completely rebuilt in 1767–72, though the architectural style is somewhat piecemeal and unprepossessing. In the context of the current state of the village, it has its own charm and is a reminder of busier and more fortunate times. Epilogue!
Why did I record this here? I guess only as a small homage to my Grandfather, and his time here which I first learned about, as most of us with Ag Lab forebears do, from research into family ancestry.
Edwin Betterton at Hampton Gay
. Here is his image, from a larger photo of his father and brothers, in the Oxford Journal Illustrated August 30th 1916.
Start of the Easter Story Sequence: South Newington
Occasionally it happens that an oddity emerges during a visit to any number of the churches I come across in my increasingly unstructured attempts to understand more about these buildings. The church of St. Peter ad. Vincula in South Newington near Banbury was and is no exception. I expected to see its marvellously-preserved wall paintings and was not disappointed. They are sometimes breath-taking in their detail, and have clearly been the subject of a great deal of care and skill to keep them as they are today.
Madonna & Child South Newington
Martyrdom of Thomas Becket
South Newington
But what caught my eye among all this medieval ecclesiastical finery, were a set of small, framed black-and-white documents on the wall of the north aisle. These turned out to be 17th and 18thcentury certificates of "burial in shrouds made of wool". These rather macabre documents recall a period when it was a legal requirement to bury the dead in woollen shrouds, and of no other material.
Burial in Wool Affidavit: South Newington
The certificates are decorated with symbols of death and mortality, including hourglasses, skeletons, coffins, a scythe, arrow, and bodies wrapped in shrouds.
The Burial in Woollen Acts 1666-80 were Acts of the Parliament of England which required the dead, except plague victims, to be buried in pure English woollen shrouds and never any foreign textiles. The driver for this restrictive practice was the perceived and real decline of the woollen industry throughout England. For centuries the woollen trade had been important to the wealth and prosperity of the country, but with the introduction of new materials and foreign imports, the wool business was under threat.
So, the idea was to create and to protect a new market for woollen cloth. It was a requirement that an affidavit be sworn in front of a Justice of the Peace (usually by a relative of the deceased or some other credible person) confirming burial in wool, with the punishment of a £5 fee for noncompliance. Parish registers were marked with the word affidavit or with a note 'A' or 'Aff' against the burial entries to confirm that affidavit had been sworn, or marked 'naked' for those too poor to afford the woollen shroud.
The declarations included the words: "No corpse of any person (except those who shall die of the plague) shall be buried in any shift, sheet, or shroud, or anything whatsoever made or mingled with flax, hemp, silk, hair, gold, or silver, or in any stuff, or thing, other than what is made of sheep’s wool only."
Failure to comply meant a fairly hefty £5 fine. Half of this money was paid to the informer. The other half was handed over to the Poor Fund of the parish where the body was buried. Within 8 days of the burial, an affidavit had to be provided declaring that the burial complied with the Act. The affidavit had to be sworn in front of a Justice of the Peace or Mayor by two worthy persons. If the parish did not have a JP or Mayor, the parson, vicar or curate could administer the oath.
This Act was obviously unpopular with many people as they wanted to buried in their finery as opposed to a cheaper garment or shroud in an off-white colour and of very thin material. And so here's a trick... Many were prepared to pay the £5, and a member of a family would become an informer so that in effect only half of the fine would be paid.
This concern at being buried in wool can be found ridiculed occasionally in literature.
"Harkee, Hussy, if you should, as I hope you won't, outlive me, take care
I ain't buried in flannel; 'twould never become me, I'm sure.
Richard Steele: The Funeral, a play 1700.
"‘Odious! in woollen! 'twould a saint provoke!’
(Were the last words that poor Narcissa spoke).
'No! let a charming chintz and Brussels lace
Wrap my cold limbs, and shade my lifeless face" Pope: Moral Essays, Ep. I.
Narcissa was a Mrs. Oldfield, an actress, who died 1731. Pope wrote this after reading that she was buried in "a Brussells lace head dress; a Holland shift with tucker and double ruffles of the same lace, and a pair of new kid gloves."
The Act was repealed in 1814, but was generally ignored after 1770.
This postcard was found in a lever arch file which also contained copies of legal papers in a wardrobe in my mother’s spare room at Pulling Close, Faringdon in 2010. The papers all related to disposal of assets from the estate of her mother, Ethel Emily Smith. The card was sent to my grandmother (aged 17 in 1919) from her sister Elizabeth. Such material in my mother’s archive is rare. Her photo albums are a jumble, with little clue as to dates and places. This card is a reminder of a life of expectations which seem remote from the austere family life in Marcham or Stanford-in-the-Vale in the 1930's and 1940's, to which my mother often referred. Nice to see Elizabeth had 10 shillings for her birthday. Looking at Measuring Worth
this was worth £20.50 based on historic RPI. Relative to the earnings of an average worker of the time, it was worth just over £76. As Elizabeth says .... "Not so bad"...
The gift was from "Mrs" - referring without doubt to the lady of the household where Elizabeth was in service at the age of 23.
Vivien Eliot Headstone : Reads “In Loving Memory of Vivien Haigh Eliot Died 29th January 1947”
Vivien Haigh-Eliot (formerly Vivienne Haigh-Wood) is buried in Pinner New Cemetery, North London. She was born in Bury, Lancashire on 28th May 1888, and famously was the first wife of modernist poet, author, playwright and publisher T. S. Eliot.
At the time of her death on January 22nd 1947, she was resident at Northumberland House psychiatric hospital in Finsbury Park, having been sectioned in 1938 after a period of erratic and unpredictable behaviour. The cause of death was given as a heart attack.
The green band attaches the headstone to two upright posts to the rear. This is a health and safety measure to avoid accidents caused by toppling headstones which have become prey to subsidence. There are several of these in the cemetery.
Register of Burials with the Listing for Vivien
Vivien Haigh-Eliot 1888-1947
A sad reflection of the care afforded to her memory, was that although she died in fact on January 22nd, no-one saw any reason to ensure the correct date was recorded on her headstone.
A Visit
I visited the grave on November 25th 2011, and so recalling the visit now after several months is a task fraught with the risk of false notes – no, not a risk, but a certainty.
I asked for help at the site office, to find Vivien’s grave. The distance between the cemetery office and the plot is a short one. I was accompanied by the cemetery groundsman, the young man of whom I made my initial enquiry. We walked in silence, he looking from side to side as he walked, verifying the letters and numbers on some mentally-configured grid; and I, simply pacing a step or two behind him, in deference to his knowledge and quietly pleased to have found such a willing helper.
We reached the grave. I made a brief exclamation, the words of which I dare not recall because of the risk of a false note. The gap between anticipation and reality is understood as a shadow which has no definition. The moment of seeing Vivien’s grave for the first time was layered with every element of that gap.
I was in awe of the moment: here was the grave in its simple, physical reality: yet the moment of first sight opened up and absorbed a backwash of surprise and puzzlement, of melancholy.
Immediately obvious was the faded inscription – Vivien’s name is difficult to decipher. Weathering has taken its toll. But equally obvious was the presence of a bright green band of plastic, encircling the headstone and holding it to two wooden stakes. My impromptu guide/groundsman explained the health and safety regulations which create the need to secure those headstones which are prone to toppling due to subsidence. Vivien’s headstone is amongst the several thus affected. A metaphor perhaps for the support of strangers as institutionalised life takes hold.
I was grateful still for the presence of the young man who was helping me. I was curious as to how many people had come, like me, to visit the grave. In his six years in the role, he told me, he had seen only two people before me. I thanked him for his help and let him get back to his work.
We learn today that David Bowie has released a new record after 10 years. I was never a fan in his earlier incarnations, though was aware of the effect he was having on the new wave of youth which I was already leaving behind at the time. And because his music is woven now into the fabric of the past 45 years, it is impossible to deny his brilliance, and the huge paradox of his revolutionary, esoteric art combined with his appeal to a huge mass audience.
I really like this song “Where are we now”, which is an honest exploration of how it is to start feeling older. The video with it is extraordinary. No vanity, much depth. I particularly like the images of Berlin in the late 1970s, where Bowie lived for 3 years. I feel lucky to have had several trips there in the same era. Didn’t see him though!
The announcement of Bowie’s record was on BBC news in the morning. In the same programme they had Andrew Motion on to talk about a Poetry competition for teenagers. At the end of the interview, and weaving in an earlier comment about age and Bowie, he chose a Hardy poem, which I found I half-remembered as I had learnt it verbatim for my college exams.
I Look Into My Glass (Published 1898)
I look into my glass,
And view my wasting skin,
And say, "Would God it came to pass
My heart had shrunk as thin!"
For then I, undistrest
By hearts grown cold to me,
Could lonely wait my endless rest
With equanimity.
But Time, to make me grieve,
Part steals, lets part abide;
And shakes this fragile frame at eve
With throbbings of noontide. - Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)
No withering into the truth there, then.
Oddly enough, as part of the focus of past couple of days, on themes of growing older, I was looking at some poems of Yeats, including the short 4-liner above. This one seemed highly appropriate
An Acre Of Grass (Published 1939)
Picture and book remain,
An acre of green grass
For air and exercise,
Now strength of body goes;
Midnight, an old house
Where nothing stirs but a mouse.
My temptation is quiet.
Here at life's end
Neither loose imagination,
Nor the mill of the mind
Consuming its rag and bone,
Can make the truth known.
Grant me an old man's frenzy,
Myself must I remake
Till I am Timon and Lear
Or that William Blake
Who beat upon the wall
Till Truth obeyed his call;
A mind Michael Angelo knew
That can pierce the clouds,
Or inspired by frenzy
Shake the dead in their shrouds;
Forgotten else by mankind,
An old man's eagle mind. - W.B. Yeats (1865-1939)
This was part of his “Last Poems” written in 1939, the year of Yeats’ death, and 20 years after “The Coming of Wisdom with Time” (1919) . Here, rather than withering, he is calling out in his old age, to become like these raging figures of old, who “beat upon the wall” to get truth to show itself, so that he can express it, externalise it (in poetry). for fear that his “eagle mind” is forgotten to posterity.
