Showing posts with label People. Show all posts
Showing posts with label People. Show all posts

Monday, 22 June 2026

Namesake Novel

There cannot be many people who unexpectedly discover a forgotten novel bearing their own name. Yet that is precisely what happened to me recently.

Quite by accident, I learned of a little-known novel published in 1931 by His Honour Judge Ruegg KC entitled David Betterton. Given the rarity of the surname Betterton, I was astonished that I had never heard of it before. The discovery immediately raised a number of questions. Who was David Betterton? Why had Ruegg chosen the name? And what sort of story lay behind this curious literary namesake?

My Copy of Judge Ruegg's Novel

The novel has long been out of print and appears to have escaped the attention of modern literary historians. Contemporary references describe it simply as "A Novel of Staffordshire," and one rather dismissive review in The Spectator [ Link here in new tab ] referred to blackmail, socialist villains, and dreams involving Queen Mab. The description sounded eccentric enough to provoke curiosity but gave little indication of the novel's deeper concerns. But of course, I hunted it down and bought a copy.

As I read through the novel, however, a more interesting picture emerged.

The story begins not with David Betterton at all, but with a young man named Fred Dominey. Leaving home in search of a future, he falls in with a drifter named Jim Owlton. Penniless and desperate, the two decide to rob a house. Owlton persuades Fred to carry out the burglary while he remains at a safer distance.

Fred is caught.

At this point the novel takes an unexpected turn. The owners of the house do not summon the police. Instead, they take pity on the young man and allow him to go free. Legally, the matter ends there. Morally, however, it has only begun.

Although forgiven, Fred cannot forgive himself. The guilt of the attempted burglary follows him as he travels to London, where he hopes to pursue a career on the stage. Through a series of fortunate connections, he finds lodgings with a sympathetic couple whose theatrical contacts help him gain a foothold in the profession. His talent is recognised, a manager takes him under his wing, and he is given a new stage name: David Betterton.

Fred becomes David Betterton [ Click /Tap to enlarge ]

The transformation appears complete. Fred Dominey disappears and David Betterton rises to fame.

Yet the past has not vanished.

As Fred’s life as David Betterton flourishes,  Jim Owlton reappears, impoverished but armed with knowledge of the long-forgotten burglary. He begins a campaign of blackmail that grows more demanding as David's success increases. The higher the actor rises, the more vulnerable he becomes. Alongside this central conflict run a love story and later experiences of military service during the First World War.

The  plot is a melodrama. Yet beneath its surface lies a surprisingly coherent exploration of guilt, identity and redemption.

The burglary itself is not really the subject of the novel. It functions as the original moral wound from which everything else proceeds. Fred's crime is serious, but Ruegg presents him less as a villain than as a weak and impressionable young man led astray by a stronger and more unscrupulous character. Jim Owlton, by contrast, becomes the embodiment of corruption, feeding parasitically upon another man's success.

More significantly, the novel turns upon an act of mercy. The household Fred attempts to rob chooses not to prosecute him. In conventional crime fiction, punishment would provide the story's resolution. Here, punishment never arrives. Instead, the burden passes inward. Fred's real struggle is not with the law but with his conscience.

This perspective helps explain one of the novel's strangest features: the recurring dreams of Queen Mab. At first glance these seem whimsical, even eccentric. Yet they may serve a serious literary purpose. Rather than functioning as fantasy for its own sake, the dreams appear to externalise Fred's inner life, charting feelings of guilt, fear and self-reproach that he cannot easily articulate in waking life.

The change of name is equally significant. Fred Dominey and David Betterton are not merely two names for the same person. They represent two identities. Fred is the private self, burdened by memory; David is the public self,  admired by audiences. The tension between these identities becomes the novel's driving force. The more successful David Betterton becomes, the greater the threat posed by Jim Owlton's knowledge.

In this respect, the novel belongs to a familiar literary tradition. Like many stories of hidden pasts and divided identities, it asks whether a person can ever truly escape what he has done. One thinks of Great Expectations, where Pip cannot escape the origins he wishes to conceal, or even The Picture of Dorian Gray, where a secret history lurks behind a public persona. Can a new life erase an old failure? Can forgiveness received become forgiveness accepted?

The First World War is also interesting.  David – and  Jim – serve in the war, Ruegg uses military service as a kind of moral testing ground. The war becomes a crucible in which earlier social distinctions and personal failings are exposed or transformed.

These questions become all the more interesting when one remembers that the author was a judge. Ruegg understood legal guilt professionally. What seems to interest him here, however, is something beyond the reach of courts. The law settles Fred's offence early in the novel. The deeper consequences continue for hundreds of pages.

As for the name itself, Betterton is an uncommon surname with historical associations in both Gloucestershire and Staffordshire. That second possibility caught my attention because David Betterton as I mentioned earlier, is explicitly described as a "Novel of Staffordshire." If Judge Ruegg was writing about the Potteries and the surrounding district, then choosing the surname Betterton may not have been accidental at all. He may have regarded it as a recognisably local Staffordshire name. 

It is also, of course,  the surname of the celebrated Restoration actor Thomas Betterton. Given that David Betterton is a stage name adopted by an aspiring actor, one wonders whether Ruegg deliberately chose it for its theatrical resonance. Whether that is true or not, the choice seems unlikely to have been accidental. And it is clear that the name 'David' references the renowned 18th century actor David Garrick, as is made clear through the words of theatre manager Mr Abraham, who chooses the name in the story.

Portrait of Thomas Betterton

Whatever the explanation, there was something delightful for me about encountering my own name unexpectedly in a obscure  work of fiction. What began as a moment of curiosity became an exercise in literary archaeology. The result was not merely the discovery of a namesake, but of a novel – though melodramatic in tone and scope – nevertheless is more thoughtful and morally ambitious than its obscurity might suggest.


Friday, 29 May 2026

Ambling in Clanfield

I spent most of the day today, from early morning until lunchtime taking a wander around the village of Clanfield. I had recently discovered a campervan service, repair and conversion business tucked away at the end of the long track-like road called Mill Lane. A fascinating find. 
One might call it an industrial estate, though unlike any I have ever visited. At the end of the lane, and into the complex, I was met with the extraordinary sight of several beat-up, half-cannibalised cars, all, or mostly, of high-end branding - Mercedes, BMW and the like. And in a large covered area, a couple of Rolls Royces, including the classic 'Silver Cloud', in states of disrepair. Cars such as these were built to defy time, yet here they were, reflecting time's passing as old barns or weathered gravestones





My reason to visit was less exotically interesting - I was here to get a repair done on my campervan. The campervan business was across a small wooden bridge over the stream called Broadwell Brook, among other enterprises including upholstery, welding, guttering and the like - a busy place.
I was met by Paul, an engaging guy who filled me with every confidence that the pop-top roof repair on my van was nothing like the terminally problematic issue I had feared. After a quick check on some details, Paul gave me a 3 hour window of opportunity to take a wander back along Mill Lane to  the main village of Clanfield, whilst he did the necessary work.
I enjoyed the 20 minute walk , and sought out the church, as is my wont when coming to any village. And as always with such church visits, St. Stephen's did not disappoint - it offered, as all churches do, the unusual and unique embedded in the familiar styles and layouts of these ancient buildings. 
St. Stephen Statue, Clanfield Church

Immediately engaging was a very eye-catching large figure carved in an angled niche in a corner of the tower. This was St. Stephen, carrying a pile of stones and maybe a book. Walking up to the South door entrance, I was met by a friendly lady who introduced herself as Ros, and she immediately alerted me to a pile of plaster on the entrance floor - the result of water damage finally doing its worst. Not easy to dawdle and enjoy the Romanesque tympanum over that South door! But my chat with Ros convinced me that another visit would be a good idea...there is much to see and enjoy in St. Stephen's. 
I learned from her that she was just tidying up after a group of Zen Buddhists had enjoyed a night's sleep on the church floor - using carefully-arranged kneelers as mattresses. It seems this is not an unusual occurrence for such folk on their spiritual treks along the Thames path and environs. 

My chat with Ros led me to share some local history knowledge, and she told me about a unique character called William Tayler, who hailed from the hamlet of Grafton, close to Clanfield. He went to London and entered into service in a household in Marylebone, London in Victorian times, and kept a diary which is published as The Diary of William Tayler (1837). This journal offers a candid look at the daily routines, gossip and hardships of a 19th century servant. It offers local historians a picture of the contrasting lives of the rural working class poverty in the Clanfield and Grafton area with the structured reality of the rhythms of urban domestic service.

Ros's parting gift to me apart from a gratis copy of an old leaflet describing the highlights of the church, was the recommendation to visit Blake's Kitchen in the village, and enjoy one of their signature cinnamon buns! 
And so I wandered along to Blake's and enjoyed a coffee and bun as recommended. A fine place, with outdoor and indoor space, an on-site post office, and a friendly atmosphere. An excellent way to await the call from Paul, which duly came to let me know that the job was complete on my van. It was time to wander back along Mill Lane, check the job, grab the invoice and say my grateful goodbyes.
What to say about this visit? And why, really, have I narrated these details? In simple terms, I guess I might say the walk was a pilgrimage of sorts. This village, which yes, I've driven to through a few times, but which until this day I have never explored, was the birthplace of my father in August 1920. 
He was the 7th child of my grandparents, who went on to produce 3 more offspring. My grandfather was a cowman/farmworker, and by all accounts did not settle for long in each place where he found employment. By serendipity, the campervan business was here in the village, and I was glad to be drawn here for an enforced couple of hours. 
Here I was able to absorb the  contrasts and a sense of a place known by the likes of William Tayler. Here was a place which had not substantially changed in the 100 years between his time in Grafton, and the time of itinerant farmworkers in the early 20th century. And I was able to reflect on how those workers' cottages have now become desirable Cotswolds residences for folk with leisure time to enjoy coffee and genteel socialising. And how Zen Buddhists and the grandson of one such worker are blessed with the time to wander free and comfortable among the pathways his ancestors trod in a whole other world.

----------------------------------------------------------

Postscript ( June 9th 2026)

A review of the 1921 Census tells me that in that year:

Edwin ( b. Hatherop, Glos ) worked at Northcourt Farm
The Farm manager was a Mr F Bowden
His co-workers were:
  •             Alfred Benfield  b. Grafton
  •             George Shayler b. "Oxfordshire"
  •             William Temple b. Clanfield
  •             William Parrott b. Clanfield
Edwin lived at The Green in Clanfield. No house number/name is recorded.
    He lived there with his wife Mary and children:

    •                         Edwin Jesse b. 1910 "Oxfordshire"
    •                         Pam   b. 1911 Hampton Gay
    •                         Rupert b. 1913 Hampton Gay
    •                         Alice b. 1914 "Oxfordshire"
    •                         Percy b. 1916 Kencot
    •                         Hector b. 1919 Bampton
    •                         Kenneth b. 1920 Clanfield
    ... and the story continues.

    Restored workers' cottages 2026 , The Green , Clanfield

    The Green, Clanfield 2026

    Northcourt Farm for Sale 2026: PDF Here (May 2026)



    Thursday, 21 May 2026

    H.W. 'Bill' Tilman Remembered

    I have just returned from a fine event arranged with great tenacity and dedication by Nick Parker, my good friend and friend to many. Appropriately called "The Tilman Experience" , the event was a 50th anniversary commemoration of Major H. W. 'Bill' Tilman’s final departure aboard his Bristol Channel  Pilot Cutter 'Baroque'.  The programme proved to be a memorable and  enjoyable weekend experience. 

    The event brought together former crew members (including Nick himself, John Shipton and Bob Comlay), admirers of Tilman’s achievements, and friends old and new, in a spirit of companionship, shared remembrance, and adventure.

    The event, May 15th to May 18th, centred around the Bristol Channel Pilot Cutter 'Letty', with two separate southbound and northbound passages out of Barmouth. Former Tilman crew members,  accompanied one or both of these trips, offering participants a rare opportunity to share first-hand recollections of sailing in Arctic waters during Tilman’s later expeditions.

    On Friday evening, the programme at the Dragon Theatre in Barmouth provided both historical depth and personal reflection. I was glad to have been able to attend the evening with my wife. A talk by Bob Comlay after Nick's introductory remarks (in Welsh and in English) kicked off the evening . Bob traced Tilman’s remarkable life, from the trenches of the First World War to the Himalayas, wartime operations in Europe, and his celebrated Arctic and Antarctic voyages aboard Mischief and Sea Breeze. 

    Bob was one of a very select few who travelled on two separate voyages with Tilman, and so was well-placed to capture Tilman’s characteristic simplicity of approach, summed up in the famous observation that “any worthwhile expedition can be planned on the back of an envelope". Bob also shared some of the letters Tilman had written to him which demonstrated a no-nonsense approach to recruitment planning.

    The interval allowed attendees to mingle socially while viewing exhibits of traditional navigation and photography from the pre-GPS era, alongside reprints of Tilman’s books. The second half - which sadly I could not attend - featured John Shipton’s perspective on Tilman through the experiences of his father, Eric Shipton. This was  followed by warmly received recollections from surviving members of Tilman’s crews from the Baroque years between 1971 and 1975.

    Saturday’s sailing aboard Letty gave participants a practical sense of the type of vessel and seamanship associated with Tilman’s voyages, while Sunday’s minibus excursion to Bodowen, Tilman’s former home above the Mawddach estuary, provided a fitting conclusion to the weekend. 

    The kindness of Bodowen's current owner, Chris Harrison, in welcoming visitors to the house was greatly appreciated. His hospitality extended to a fine buffet spread, cocktails in beautifully presented goblets and a souvenir gift for all. I was pleased to join the several participants who completed the weekend with a guided walk from Bodowen back to Barmouth via the Panorama, enjoying fine views of the estuary and coastline that Tilman himself knew well.

    Barmouth at the conclusion of the Panorama walk


    Throughout the weekend there was a strong sense not only of commemorating an extraordinary explorer and seaman, but also of celebrating the enduring fellowship, curiosity, and spirit of adventure that Tilman inspired in others. The occasion combined history, storytelling, sailing, landscape, and friendship in a way that would probably have bemused Tilman himself, but was nevertheless a humble and fitting tribute to his memory.

    Bristol Channel Pilot Cutter (Impression)


    Sunday, 10 May 2026

    Aung San Suu Kyi, Ordered Loves, and the Shape of a Life


    I came across these few lines from 2013 while clearing out old files — fragments from long‑ago notes that I can never quite bring myself to delete. They have the same quality as forgotten photographs: a recognition and reminder of the people we were and the times we lived in.

     I just heard Aung San Suu Kyi and her Desert Island Discs. I enjoyed the choice of Here Comes the Sun, and of Pachelbel’s Canon. I was intrigued by her choice of a Tom Jones standard, which actually she had not heard before (!). I was not so happy with John Lennon’s Imagine – sadly becoming more of a dirge which has not stood up to time, I think. 

    I was very struck by her assertion that her father was her “first love and best love”. She was two years old when her father was assassinated, so I am fairly sure her memories of him are all received ones. I then think of her reasons to “love the army” – which essentially centre around the fact that this is “his” army, her father’s army

    Her life and drive thus seem to me to be a powerful meditation on all-pervading presence of an invisible, absent father ( who, moreover, was sacrificed in blood for the sake of a people) from whom she feels blessed by an unconditional love. 

    Maybe because of this, those Bible readings she did for her ailing Grandfather spoke to her in equal measure to the teachings of Buddha. Either way, what also comes through – and her voice betrayed this often – is a hardness against sentiment and familial love, which, in her life, has had to play second fiddle absolutely. I wonder how her sons are doing.

    The life which Aung San Suu Kyi embraces is one which puts the whole business of family life and personal relationships in a second-place perspective. 

    The programme is here

    Friday, 8 May 2026

    Churchill, Confucius, and the Question of How We Judge the Past

    Today, on VE Day, I’ve been reflecting on how we might look at Churchill — and leadership more broadly — through a Confucian perspective that asks not for perfection, but for the fulfilment of one’s role with integrity, courage, and a sense of the moment.

    That reflection is outlined here. It’s not about defending or condemning Churchill, but about asking a deeper question: How should we judge the past, and what do we owe to those who carried burdens we can barely imagine?

    Thursday, 12 March 2026

    Virtue, Order, and the Confucian Imagination in an English Civil War Life

     

    Here is a meditation around the role of Thomas Fairfax as a model of authority in a moment when England was searching for order. It is written following a talk at a recent meeting of my Local History Society.

    There are moments in history when the fate of a nation seems to hinge not on constitutions or armies but on the character of a few individuals who, without seeking it, become the custodians of order. Thomas Fairfax belongs to that small company. He was a general of rare ability, yet his life after the Civil War suggests something deeper than military competence. It suggests a man who believed—instinctively, quietly, without philosophical flourish—that authority must rest on virtue if it is to endure.

    This is not the language of seventeenth‑century England. It is, however, the language of Confucius, who taught that harmony begins with right relationships: ruler and subject, parent and child, word and meaning. A society is not held together by force or cleverness but by the moral coherence of those who lead it. When that coherence fails, disorder follows, no matter how elaborate the machinery of the state.

    Fairfax lived through precisely such a failure.

    The Aftermath of Regicide: Power Without Moral Centre

    The execution of Charles I in 1649 was, for many Parliamentarians, the necessary climax of a long struggle. For Fairfax, it was something else: a rupture in the moral fabric of the kingdom. He had fought the King’s armies, but he had not fought for the King’s death. When summoned to sit as a judge, he refused. Lady Anne’s cry from the gallery—“He is not here, and he will never be here”—was the public expression of a private conviction: that authority cannot be built on an act that violates the deeper order of things.

    Confucius would have recognised the moment. When the ruler loses virtue, the state becomes a theatre of confusion. Ritual becomes empty form; words lose their meaning; power becomes self‑justifying. The Commonwealth, for all its talk of liberty, soon displayed these symptoms. Parliament dissolved and reassembled in bewildering combinations. Financial abstractions multiplied. Ideological noise drowned out the quieter claims of justice and moderation.

    Fairfax watched this with a kind of sorrow. He had fought to restrain arbitrary power, not to replace it with a republic of abstractions. The regicides had removed the monarch but failed to cultivate the moral order that might have replaced him. They had, in Confucian terms, lost the Mandate of Heaven—not because they lacked legal right, but because they lacked moral right.

    Fairfax  resigned his commission. It was a gesture Confucius would have recognised: the withdrawal of the junzi—the exemplary man—when the ruler no longer heeds the Way.

    Fairfax and Cromwell: Two Models of Authority

    The contrast with Oliver Cromwell is instructive. Cromwell was a man of immense gifts—decisive, visionary, unafraid of power. But his authority, for all its religious fervour, rested ultimately on force: the Army, the Protectorate, the machinery of the state. He governed through a kind of English Legalism, believing that order could be imposed if only the right structures were in place and the right men held the reins.

    Fairfax’s authority was of a different kind. He governed by example, not decree. He listened more than he commanded. He refused to act when conscience forbade it. He stepped aside when power demanded what virtue could not supply. Cromwell believed in the transformative power of institutions; Fairfax believed in the transformative power of character.

    The Collapse of the Protectorate: A Nation Without a Centre

    When Cromwell died in 1658, the Protectorate began to crumble almost at once. Richard Cromwell lacked his father’s authority; the Army fractured; Parliament bickered. England drifted, weary of experiment and hungry for stability. It was a moment when the nation seemed to have lost not only its institutions but its moral grammar.

    Into this vacuum stepped General George Monck, the military governor of Scotland. Monck was no ideologue. He understood power, but he also understood its limits. His instinct was for order, not upheaval. He marched south not as a conqueror but as a man attempting to restore coherence to a country that had forgotten how to govern itself.

    Fairfax, watching from Yorkshire, recognised the moment. A rising in the north threatened to ignite wider disorder. He mounted his horse once more. The sight of him—this modest, battle‑worn figure—was enough to steady the county. Men followed him not because he commanded them, but because they trusted him.

    This is the Confucian ideal of authority: not the authority of force, but the authority of character.

    The Restoration as a Work of Moral Repair

    Monck, recognising Fairfax’s influence, consulted him closely. Fairfax did not dictate terms; he did not seek office. Instead, he lent his name—still one of the most trusted in England—to the one solution that could end the cycle of coups, dissolutions, and military interventions: the Restoration of Charles II under conditions that would protect the liberties for which the Civil War had been fought.

    Fairfax’s support reassured former Parliamentarians that the Restoration need not mean revenge, and reassured Royalists that reconciliation was possible. It was a gesture of national healing from a man who had once commanded the army that defeated the monarchy.

    Virtue as the Ground of Authority

    How far, then, can we say that Fairfax embodied the Confucian idea of authority grounded in virtue rather than power?

    • He subordinated ambition to conscience.
    • He refused to participate in acts he believed morally corrosive.
    • He exercised power lightly and relinquished it easily.
    • He believed that right relationships—between ruler and subject, army and Parliament, victory and mercy—were the true foundations of harmony.
    • He acted not to dominate events but to steady them.

    In a century of ideological noise, Fairfax’s life reads almost like a counterpoint: a reminder that the stability of a nation depends less on the brilliance of its institutions than on the character of the people who inhabit them. He was, in that sense, a kind of English junzi—an exemplary man whose authority flowed not from office or force but from the quiet coherence of his own conduct.

    His memorial says it plainly:

    “He might have been a King but that he understood
    How much it is a meaner thing to be unjustly great
    Than honourably good.”

    In the end, Fairfax matters because he shows us that virtue, even when it refuses the stage, can still shape the fate of a nation.

    Friday, 13 February 2026

    The Bettertons of Hatherop, Gloucestershire: A Family History Snapshot

     

    In the late eighteenth century, the quiet Gloucestershire village of Hatherop was home to a small cluster of families whose names appear again and again in the parish registers. Among them, the Bettertons stood out — not because they were wealthy or titled, but because they were numerous, rooted, and unmistakably woven into the life of the Cotswold countryside.

    At the centre of this family was Richard Betterton, born around the middle of the 1700s. He lived in a world of small farms, malt houses, and inns that served the coaching roads between Cirencester, Fairford, and Burford. Richard’s sons — including William (born c.1775) and Thomas (born c.1779) — grew up in this landscape of agricultural labour, brewing, and village trade. Their lives would set the course for two very different branches of the family.


    The Rural Branch: William’s Line

    Richard’s elder son William stayed close to home. He raised his family in Hatherop, and in 1803 his son John Betterton was baptised in the parish church. John lived the life of a Gloucestershire working man, moving between Hatherop, Cirencester, and the surrounding villages. His children — including Daniel Betterton (1843–1932) — carried the family into the Victorian era as labourers, tradesmen, and smallholders.

    This branch of the family remained firmly tied to the land. Daniel’s son Edwin worked in the Cirencester area before settling in Oxfordshire and Berkshire. Edwin’s son Kenneth William Betterton was born in Clanfield in 1920 and continues this line today. I am reminded of my family’s modest means, and deep roots in the rural counties of Gloucestershire and Oxfordshire.

    Kenneth Betterton: 1920-2000 My Father


    The Ambitious Branch: Thomas’s Line

    William’s younger brother Thomas, however, took a different path. While still connected to Hatherop, he moved into the world of publicans, maltsters, and smallscale brewers trades that offered opportunity to those with energy and ambition. By the early 1800s, Thomass family had left Gloucestershire for the Midlands, where brewing and malting were expanding industries.

    Thomas’s son, also named Thomas (born 1807), established the family in Leicestershire and Warwickshire. His own son, Henry Ince Betterton, continued the upward trajectory, entering business and public life. And it was Henry Ince’s son — Henry Bucknall Betterton, born in 1872 — who completed the family’s remarkable rise.

    A successful barrister, Member of Parliament, and later a key figure in government during the interwar years, Henry Bucknall Betterton was elevated to the peerage in 1935 as 1st Baron Rushcliffe. From a Hatherop maltster’s son to the House of Lords in three generations — a striking ascent by any measure.

    Henry Bucknall Betterton, 1st Baron Rushcliffe
                                                                                                                     © National Portrait Gallery

    Two Branches, One Origin

    Though their paths diverged, the two branches of the Betterton family share the same roots:

    Richard Betterton of Hatherop, the eighteenthcentury patriarch whose sons carried the family name in different directions.

                 William’s descendants remained close to the land, forming the line that leads to myself and siblings today.

                 Thomas’s descendants embraced trade, industry, and public life, culminating with the creation of Baron Rushcliffe.

    The story of the Bettertons of Hatherop is, in many ways, the story of England itself: rural beginnings, the pull of opportunity, the rise of industry, and the persistence of family ties across centuries. Even as the branches grew apart, they never lost their shared origin in that small Gloucestershire village where the name Betterton first took root

    Edwin Betterton 1880-1941: My Grandfather


    Daniel Betterton 1843-1932: My Great-Grandfather

    Tuesday, 25 October 2022

    The Village of Pusey

     

    From the "Life of Edward Bouverie Pusey"

    "Pusey and its estate had considerable effect upon the young Edward Bouverie-Pusey. Geoffrey Faber in his Oxford Apostles wrote of the Georgian house ''. . . standing where manor house had followed manor-house for a thousand years, looking over water and trees and the miles of Pusey land to the unchanging outline of the downs, house and church and tiny village keeping company together as they had done for centuries - all this spoke to the boy of a permanent, immutable yet gracious and living order, the soul of which was the living mystery of a religion once and for ever revealed. Pusey today, perhaps even more, exudes this feeling''. 


    See also in the : Life of Edward Bouverie Pusey by Henry Parry Liddon, http://anglicanhistory.org/pusey/liddon/1.1.html

    "There was not much society at Pusey...... Of this limited society, however, the children naturally saw little in their early years: they made their first acquaintance with the world when they went to school".


    All Saints Church, Pusey

    Pusey Gardens 

    Pusey Estate: View Towards the Downs

    Home Farm House, Pusey. Betterton Family Lived Here 1956-1970

    "We shall not cease from exploration
    And the end of all our exploring
    Will be to arrive where we started
    And know the place for the first time."
                         T.S.Eliot - Little Gidding

    Monday, 27 July 2020

    Peter Green

    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.

    None of it matters. There is transcendence here.

    Friday, 31 January 2020

    Wind-in-Pines Remembered


    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.

    Sebago Lake, Maine
    June 22nd 1972

    Monday, 13 January 2020

    Hampton Gay: Small Place, Big History

    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". 



    Hampton Gay Manor
    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 retrospective here. 




    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.  

    Edwin Betterton August 1916






    Saturday, 26 March 2016

    Woollen Shrouds: A Grave Case of Closed Shop Practices

    
    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.