Of Mice & Ladies

Inspeximus : Ragged Society Outing Sat 24 April 2010

On this sunny afternoon a small party, with Lady Arnolfia as most charming guest, enjoyed a pleasant outing to Stratton Strawless, where they availed of the "Open Bluebell Wood" event.

Each Spring this plucky little Norfolk community generously opens a small area of private woodland to all, with tea & refreshments, to enjoy the first bluebells of the season. The few pennies asked for admission goes entirely to the upkeep of their historic local church. Is it not exactly such spirit as this of which healthy societies are made?

The quality of the culinary welcome was not lost upon the antiquarians, with Esotericus leading unerringly through blossoming trees & garden chairs to the Tea Tent. The two cheerful ladies were kept busy with Members most of the afternoon, on a rough count of sixteen cups of tea, twelve slices of cake, three flapjacks & sundry pots of homemade jam. Some moments of concern arose upon Gregorius announcing he would pay for everything and then disappearing, but he was soon tackled.

Lady Arnolfia proved herself a formidable ceramics connoisseur at the bric-a-brac table, and other members had fortunate encounters with some much sought after items. Major Hodgeforth (Retired) declared himself extremely pleased with a wooden giraffe, one of which he had "…been after for bally ages, by Jove."

Esotericus created a much talked about impression by producing his treasured prehistoric tool for the raffle ticket lady, kept snugly in his pocket as always. Members then enjoyed the delights of the woodland paths, where the bluebells, while not yet making a carpet of dazzling Spring blue, were to be seen readying themselves for the great burst of life soon to come.

Sadly, it must be reported that some other visitors were so disgruntled by Nature's failure to provide full blossom on demand as to actually lodge complaints with the organisers. Shame.

Naturally adventurous, the antiquarians explored to the furthest westerly edges of the woods, enjoying magnificent views across open country to Hainford Hall. During this ramble, Curmudgeon raised two elegant deer, grazing amongst the woods, their warm brown pelts blending perfectly into the trees as they tripped lightly away. Major Hodgeforth's suggestion of tracking au naturelle - which he vouched as the best method of communing with Nature's mysteries - was declined.

Young Maximillian, aroused by sight of those two magnificent animals, was determined to make his own discovery, and in no time at all had brought the party to view a dead mouse. The little creature lay upon the tilled earth in warm sunshine, remarkably fresh & unscathed, with no apparent cause of such mors praematura. Major Hodgeforth offered an impromptu lesson in Transvaal survival skills, which apparently enabled Boer Commandoes to live for a week on such tiny morsels, but without any takers.

The gentle toll of church bells roused antiquarian instincts, of course, and the day concluded with a visit to the excellent church of Stratton Strawless, St Margaret. Like all churches, it has it's own fascinating peculiarities and treasures, but the quality of it's welcome to all must be surely almost unique. Clean, cared for facilities to make tea & coffee await the visitor, with excellent flapjacks to boot, and the door seems always open. Confetti littered the gateway - that very day it had given it's ancient blessing to yet another joining of lives, proof enough it can still play a part in this busy world.

Lady Arnolfia's excellent taste of course led her to remark upon the chandelier, which Mortlock & Roberts believe of exotic eastern European origin. It graces the well lit nave splendidly, almost causing one to miss the fine stained glass, amongst which is a delicate angel's head looking as contemporary an image of beauty as if made yesterday. Esotericus used his new fangled gramophone-recorder instrument to sample the churchyard birdsong. At last, with much reluctance, the party gathered itself to return to more mundane cares, leaving the warm stones bathed in early evening sunlight.

haec olim meminisse juvabit

Contributions Secretary


To return to main blog, click HERE

Barton Turf Church - Thoughful, welcoming touches...

Please click on images in order to enlarge

The church of St Michaels and All Angels at Barton Turf  is the most welcoming church I have ever visited. Even as you approach the main door, you are greeted with a thoughtful personal touch (please note, the hand does not feature on every visit) ...

Upon entering your eye - or 'eyes', if you are fortunate enough to have two! - will be drawn to the exquisite Rood-Screen...

The Heavenly Hierarchy 

In my opinion, the paintings here are the finest medieval paintings of the Heavenly Hierarchy which have survived in England. What we see here is the result of painstaking and expert restoration/conservation work which was undertaken, in phases, from the 1950s through to the 1980s. In particular, we are indebted to the conservator, Miss Pauline Plummer, for her expert work here (and, similarly, on the Despenser Reredos in Norwich Cathedral)

Saint Apollonia holding a tooth in a pair of pincers... 

However, in addition to the inherent treasures within and without, the church is made to come come alive to visitors by the quality of the interpretation and facilities which are offered. 


For instance, as well as modern toilet facilities, you are invited to make yourself a hot drink...

The leaflet is also the best that I have seen in a church. It features a numbered floor-plan which locates the 'stories' featured in the text. 

Floorplan provides orientation. Pastel colour paper, excellent
for visual access. 'Hand-written' font gives an informal feel. 

Instead of presenting the church as a sequence of architectural features, it relates the story of the church and its development through time through stories of people (see above - click on image to enlarge). 

Medieval Daisywheel

This is a great way to help people to relate to the space. The human story of the church is told and human touches are everywhere...

Barton Turf church is just such a wonderful place to visit. I commend all those who have put so much thought and effort into opening it up into such a welcoming space. 


As I left on that extraordinarily beautiful April morning, I took one last photograph; a view of the verdant fields and azure skies beyond the church's lychgate...

There is poetry in these spaces!

~ Munro Tweeder-Harris, Esq. ~ 

April 23rd, 2010

Addendum:
Barton Turf church has its own webshop. If you are making online purchases, go through this, and at no additional expense to you, money will be raised for the church. Click here

Bird Song in Stratton Strawless Churchyard

Ragged Ramblers April 2010 Jaunts...

Norwycus Ultra Aquam

Let the evening bells of Mancroft sound

And soothe the head of Thomas Browne,

A bronze doctor gazing from his high chair,

On greed, despair and designer wear.

Tread the empty market with a twilight heart

Think slowly in the arch of St John Maddermar't,

Would your ribs were finely vaulted stone

Not this warm, tremulous, inconstant bone.

Ponder on St Greg's, the dark west-work doors,

In contemplation, retreat from worldly flaws

And down long, quiet St Lawrence Steps,

Gently worn as each century wept,

Find the river. Where it always was,

And cross in reverence to St Michael Cos.

North, north city, you are there, I know,

Dane burnt, road ravaged, your cherry trees grow.

Richard the Heremyte

Victory V at Thompson Church

April 15th 2010:

From within the church in Thompson in South-West Norfolk the Antiquarian Food Surveillance Team (AFST), Unit 251, were in place to observe the antiquarians as they sipped their tea and consumed cake. Here is their report:

"Arriving at Thompson church at around 15:04 p.m. two antiquarians were observed assembling a portable stove, on which was placed a small silver kettle. Whilst this took heat, the antiquarian known to us as 'Esotericus' (code 211) was seen to take a large sandwich from his shoulder bag and begin to eat it. Meanwhile the other - as yet unidentified figure - consumed an apple - discarding the core (subsequently retrieved by the Unit) into a nearby hedge. Using our directional microphones we were able to ascertain that they were discussing the possibility that, on their next venture out, they would bring along bacon and a frying pan. The is a potentially 'game-changing' development!

Throughout the years we have been undertaking our study, the antiquarians have never yet cooked food on location. We will be closely monitoring these developments, and this will be noted in this months report to AFST Central Office. 

Current trends would seem to suggest that consumption patterns are changing. Whereas, during last season, there was a marked tendency to imbibe Tunnock bars and Scotch eggs, early evidence would suggest that the antiquarians are moving towards Dundee Cake and pickled eggs. Analysis of samples collected in the wake of their departure,  indicated that the sandwich consumed by Esotericus contained dry cure ham with mustard. A curious ovoid substance which the Unit were unable to identify visually, was subsequently shown to be the discarded remnants of a liquorice-flavoured lozenge, which we now think to be a Victory V. Laboratory analysis revealed that this fragment contained significant traces of ether and chloroform.


Addendum: analysis of the cake crumbs suggested Dundee Cake, but, in terms of our agreed scientific research framework, this would have to be deemed 'inconclusive'"

The Diary of Cornelius Hump, Esq. - A Purchaser of Pillows!

April 19th, 1761...

Huzzah! Dan Tangle has confirmed to me that, this Friday next, he will bring a carriage to the door of my abode, for we are to travel along the lazy lost lanes of Norfolk as we seek to harvest new corne from olde fields. We are to go a-churching once again and, having just thumbed through my volume of  Didcot Cockermouth's "Large Erecktions in Norfolke", I am prodigously excited!

Thus aroused, I feel the sap rising and, adorning my finest frock-coat, I walk swaggeringly on my way to the Angel as if I were the Norfolke Dandy himself. Upon entering that establishment, I step over the prostrate form of poor Robert Dominic Maltravers, and make my way to the table next the window, where Dan Tangle stares transfixed at the remains of Jimothy Ditheridge's half-eaten cake. I join them and I too find my self staring at the moist morsels, wondering how it can be that a man can cast aside such delights. I know too that I am playing a waiting game. Eventually, Jimothy makes his excuses, adjusts his cuffs and lollops off and out of the inn. 

"How d'ya do it Hump!" cries Mr. Tangle.

"Don't know what you mean Sir" says I, indignantly, chewing the cake that, rapier-like, I had stuffed into my fissog. 

"You always get his leavings - it in't fair!" protests Dan.

"Don't sulk Dan, your face will fall into that plate. Look, if you want to grow one of these (tapping my belly), then you need to strike quick and then chew slow."

Whereupon I patted my lips with the table-cloth and began to discourse upon the subject of a man who leaves morsels upon his plate ...

"You see Dan, it is a French affectation - nay, a disease Sir... an affliction in fact. An Englishman should be a sturdy beast, fed full and well on beef and cake and other felicitous fecundities, whereas the Frenchman... well, he is lean and rickety, much like poor Jimothy there. Do you know that I heard that he recently purchased a pillow?"

"A pillow!" cried Dan, shocked...

"Yes, a pillow, damn and blast it!"

"It cannot be Cornelius... most perplexing..."

© Cornelius Hump, Esq.

Noli hoc praeterire...

Are we not enriched in exultia through the efforts of our fellow antiquarian Curmudgeon? Do we not owe gratitudus infinitesima to this our brother in study? Few can know the diligence, the determination, with which over many years he has sought, located and then selflessly shared the further fragments of that remarkable diarist, Cornelius Hump Esq. (Posting April 9th)

Are we not blessed with these rare, fervent glimpses not just into eighteenth century life, but into the very minds & thoughts of antiquarians past? Gentlemen, don your wigs and stockings! It is as if we walk arm-in-arm with this most genial of hosts, through his affectionate care we see, we hear, we smell, the Norfolk of the Enlightenment, caress the pages of books alas no longer known, sup the "nog" of Norwich ale wives, ruffle the hair of a trusted flunkey.

Far, far be it from me, dear friends, to claim such depth of authority as to make comparisons, but allow me I beg to simply say "Pastons… Pastons," fellow county folk of that good gent, and leave it there.

And oh what books the intrepid Hump brings us near! Perhaps his true value lies, like Kirkpatrick before him, in the glimpses he provides into the lost sources of his more fortunate age, before the town planner and the bourgeoisie did spoil the temple of antiquity.

Foremost, surely, must be the towering figure of that most enigmatic of all Norwich sons, Pariah Greengrass. Do you know, I have often been assured, by many a member, that to sacrifice many a modern source, such as "Geo-physics", would be more than worthy in exchange for just a few moments of his company and conversation? The erudition to be gained forthwith has tempted many an acquaintance, in a passion, to remark they would even proffer up their wives & daughters to an obliging deity!

Greengrass - whose insights & suggestions, often at first glance and to the ill-informed so implausible as to seem derisory, have set many a cat amongst many a flock in this current decade...

Thus, we seize hungrily on this latest morsel: the suggestion regarding the origin of a fine, and particularly large, tower as long predating it's later ecclesiastical function. We shall come to the slightly questionable "Boudica" connection presently, but initially, is the notion not wholly continent with many another example in this country and abroad? That early clerics were consciously attempting to overlay, subsume, ingest, places of long established pagan significance into their own practice and re-structuring of their target societies, is no longer in doubt.

Celebrated examples such as Knowlton in Dorset show a mediaeval church placed squarely within an earth "henge" of Neolithic significance, as deliberately as a new shopkeeper replaces the sign board of his predecessor with his own advertisement of trade. Is not London's venerated St Paul's an acknowledged site of pagan worship, long before even it's earliest incarnation in (undoubtedly) Romanesque stone?

This worthy gent was so often ahead of our and his own time, that it is surely not beyond temptation to ponder, to ruminate thus: what was the extent of Greengrass' knowledge of those examples within his own verdant shire?

Consider the site of Burgh Castle, now clearly identified as a Roman fortress, on the south shore of the Sea of Gariolanus. These days it is now considered in scholarly milieu as the possible location of a very early Christian establishment of Dark Age East Anglia, granted as such to the Irish saint Fursey by King Sigbert in the seventh century. Did Greengrass come hereto before us?

Further west, he was assuredly familiar with the great enclosure known in his time only as Caistor St Edmund, but now firmly revealed as Venta Icenorum, only a few miles south of his native urb.

We can only speculate upon what remains were then still visible to his piercing eye. Yet I have no doubt that as he ambled upon that vast enclosure, perhaps on occasion with the good hearted Cornelius, he knew he trod the very streets and alleys of the Roman heart of Norfolk.

But wait! For this water may be deeper still...

Within the walls of the Fine City itself, of which he knew every cobble, passage & crack, lies an example which has only been recognised in speculatio by recent scholars, but was undoubtedly perceptible to a man of his rare insight.

The pleasant Norwich church of St Michael at Plea was once known as St Michael Motstow. From documents (alas now lost to us), Greengrass would have been fully aware that this is Anglo Saxon in origin: Motstow from "mot" as "moot" and "stow" as "near the market". A Saxon moot, near a market, overlooking an ancient thoroughfare which itself had been of importance since Roman times, then becoming a church?

Consider: if only in the course of that longed for fictional conversation, one could place in his palm the recently uncovered sherds of pagan burial urns from beneath the chancel, what would the great man's reaction be? A murmured nod of unsurprised recognition, I do most humbly speculate. Do we improve upon our predecessors, my friends, or perhaps only follow in their path…

Thus we may entertain with all hospitality the possibility of the ancient tower of East Lexham church being older than it's time, when Mr Hump and his somewhat frivolous companion did view it, as vouchsafed in Greengrass' precious manuscript.

A somewhat more cautious welcome, however, should be offered to the somewhat lurid suggestion then proffered as to it being a place of truly hideous executions - a most unfortunate blemish upon a hitherto fine visage, I regret. Such lurid concoctions of peasant fancy, linking places of antiquity with the most striking local legend to be found, was a constant danger of such times, and it is a sadness to see Greengrass revealed to be on occasion as fallible as his lesser fellows.

But all is not lost, in darkness may gleam a jewel, for it serves to delineate Hump in almost too exquisite pathos, as he reports upon his tenderness towards "…those poor fallen babes."

What matter no such tragic fall took place - for such all embracing humanity, reaching us across the hush of centuries, are not some cold pork & tobacco much deserved?

in tremulous anticipation of further fragments, I crave your indulgence;

Gregorius

[NB: The ancient monument of Knowlton, Dorset is in the care of English Heritage: www.english-heritage.org.uk

To sample the delights of the excellent bookshop & cafe in St Michael At Plea Church, Norwich, search www.networknorwich.co.uk

Contrib. Sec. RSAR]

To Make A Tower Tumble...

It only takes a 

tremble to make a 

tower tumble

A crack and

then a rumble

to make the 

tower tumble

All that toil 

and trouble

becomes a

heap of rubble

And all that hope

and all that art

eventually

it falls apart

... eventually it falls apart

yet 

Still

remains

a kind of

Art

Isn't it...

© Jurgen Gavin

The Diary of Cornelius Hump, Esq - Jebediah, Where Are You?

February 19th, 1761...

Travelling in the modest carriage of my dear friend, Jebediah Mondrake, I arrived at the fine old church of East Lexham in Norfolke around midday. On this crisp winters day snow lay all around, and I spied a solitary Robin Red Breast standing like a  sentinel upon the Holly bush yonder; poised the little fella was, as if to salute our arrival. Before my stockinged leg had even stepped beyond the aforementioned vehicle, Jebediah had gamboled off into the churchyard, bandy-legged like a Spring lamb.

Recorded within the handsome calf-skin bound volume, nestled snugly in the pocket of my frock coat, were notes about the church composed by the learned antiquarian, and fellow member of the Ragged Society of Antiquarian Ramblers, Pariah Greengrass...

"Whilst the ignorant ploughboy is oft tymes heard to proclaim that this construction be the relict of a well remayning from the tyme of the flood, this is clearly erroneous. Rather, the rigorous endeavours of certyaine notable Antiquarians have indisputably established this to be a Roman Slaughter Tower, from whence the daughters of the red-headed queen Boadicea were cast off into oblivion!"

There I stood, transfixed, looking up at the vertiginous tower, whilst those poor fragile creatures, conjured to form in the wings of my mind's eye, fell to their ghastly end. Whereupon, aghast at the thought of such brutality, I felt compelled to go and investigate the soil proximate to the tower to see if there was still some impression left by the impact of those poor fallen babes. There was not.

I was carefully examining some curious mossy growth on the tower, when a bony hand clasped my shoulder, causing me to shriek out loud like Mrs Briggs herself...
"Aieek!" cried I.

"Nature's art forms Sir!"

It was Jebediah, returned from his frolics in search of snowdrops and other such winter wonders. 

"Art forms?" answered I, perplexed.

"Yay indeed Sir. Even in such seemingly unpromising mossy compositions as these, if you take your eye-glass and look closely, a jewel-box of forms will be revealed - a jewel-box I say! "

We fell to silence, and, recovering from my momentary reverie, I noted that Jebediah stood, head back with mouth gaping open in wonder as he stared fixedly up at the tower...

"What a truly splendid erection this is Cornelius! I have not seen one as large or as long lasting as this in a long time." 

And then he was off again, scuttling out of the gate and off into the small woods proximate to the church ; in search of  small creatures, the beauty of nature - and a place to piss no doubt!

I am writing this entry some five hours after Jebediah's disappearance, and although dusk has dimmed our lights he is still nowhere to be seen. I have eaten Jebediah's cold pork cuts and  pasties, and drunk a good swig of Nog. Sitting here in the carriage with a blanket on my knees, warmed only by my prodigious farts and the embers of my pipe, I find myself remembering Dan Tangle's verdict upon poore Jebediah - 
"He is a perfect jobbernob Cornelius - as much use to a man as a one-winged butterfly!"
In reply, I had discoursed at length about the virtues of both Jebediah and one-winged butterflies, but alack, now...
Now, I am very much afeared that I may yet be waiting here for some considerable time...  
© Cornelius Hump, Esq.

A Spot of Historical Perspective

It strikes this writer that some people hold their so called "ramblings" in rather high regard. Thus the following may be of useful enlightenment, so do pay attention.

In September 1841 John Sell Cotman, husband, father of five, Norwich man and artist of true genius, wrote to his old friend, the Rev James Bulwer. Cotman was planning a trip back home to Norfolk as a break from his job as Drawing Master of King's College, London, and knew exactly what kind of action he was looking for.

"Get your sketching maps in good order, my dear Bulwer, for I meditate a descent on you: 'tis hard if, between us, we don't demolish a church or two."

Bulwer, now settled in his native Norfolk as curate of Blickling after years in London, was a gentleman with antiquarian passions. Or, to put it commonly, he was mad about history. Norfolk history in particular. He was also a dab hand with a watercolour brush, and many of his crisp, clean watercolours survive in national collections. Colourful things, with a good eye for the country surrounding those churches he loved to visit and examine. Would have made a good artillery man, I'd say.

So, Cotman looked forward to a much needed furlough of tracking down Norfolk churches with his old chum, sketchbooks in hand, the two of them scrutinising ancient portals and cooing over Decorated windows like grannies at a christening. Cotman was a master of ancient architecture, and for thirty years had produced stunningly original watercolours, etchings and drawings of ruined abbeys, crumbling cottages and various tottering piles, to the admiration of fellow artists. Nobody could capture the tricky curves of a Romanesque arch like Cotman.

Unfortunately, the blasted public couldn't see what was good for them. Brave & brilliant artist, but an awful business man, he never managed to chip himself out of the bunker of having to teach for his family's living. How he must have looked forward to that trip. His eldest lad, steady old Miles, would take care of the job while he was away.

He came by boat, London to Yarmouth, up the slow curve of the East Anglian coast, loving every minute of it, I'd say, as he knew boats. He would spend the next few weeks travelling all over north Norfolk, with the energy of a man half his age, undaunted by atrocious weather and heavy floods, and drawing, always drawing. British Museum's got a load of'em, pencil & chalk, landscapes on Mousehold Heath, views of grand Norfolk country houses, trees in Blickling Park, all of them ideas for pictures to be painted later. And of course, a church or two - old pews in Aylsham, Bulwer's home patch, the ancient wooden door of Tuttington, the light in the vestry at Marsham falling onto an old communion table.

How often Bulwer & he drew side by side, none can tell. There's one definite known example of the same subject by both, some old poppyhead pew ends in Wickmere, but let's hope the old sketchers managed to demolish more than just one or two together.

And what were those "sketching maps", one wonders? In 1841 there was no tootling down to the local stationers to buy an OS map, you know. Norfolk didn't get it's first till about 1838, so hardly widely available, or cheap. Bulwer's intelligence was probably the outcome of many a fruitless reconnaissance along boggy byways, and endless conversations with some rough old yeomanry. Finding your way to over grown ruins would need local knowledge, so need to speak the local lingo - can be hard enough today, what?

Just listen to Cotman describing a much earlier Norfolk journey he made, admittedly with a carriage & ladies to complicate the job:

"We went on & on till down went the horses… We took the ladies out, the horses fresh kicked & plunged until… they laid down quietly.. and were dug out. We turned and took another road… it was only five miles and we were three hours going."

Doesn't sound conducive to fitting in a few hours sketching, or even keeping your paper dry. Just all the travelling alone would have done in most of you chattering classes. Most of it on horseback, nothing but a hat and greatcoat to keep the rain off. None of this "rambling" by motor, with a thermos and sandwiches - best a chap could hope for then was a hip flask and a few slices of beef jerky, tough as a Scotsman's wallet.

But none of this sort of thing stopped Cotman, and his letters from that autumn visit bound with enthusiasm for re-discovering his own county: "Oh rare & beautiful Norfolk!"

How reluctantly he must have returned to London that November. Back to the grind and the worries (two of his younger lads had turned out very wobbly). The drawings would have been crucial to him, to be discussed and considered later, lying always in his mind like seeds in Norfolk earth, waiting to be grown into paintings.

But the galloping dream of that visit was to be his last. Cotman would not push open the heavy wooden door of a silent Norfolk church again, and the drawings remain only drawings to this day. Dead, within the twelve month, of "natural decay", according to the quack, at the age of sixty.

So open those plentiful maps & guide books with some blasted humility, for oft' times we follow with ease in many a hard-won footstep.

Major S. G. Hodgeforth (Retired)