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Yes, I remember Adlestrop,

The name, because one afternoon

Of heat the express-train drew up there

Unwontedly. It was late June.

The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat.

No one left and no one came

On the bare platform. What I saw

Was Adlestrop – only the name

Edward Thomas

And so begins Adlestrop, gentle, uneventful and simply one of the most beautiful poems in the English language, do read more. But as well as the perfect description of the stillness that can settle on the English countryside on a hot summer afternoon, it also shows a fascination with one of those aspects of England that we who live there often forget, the wonderful legacy of names.

Adlestrop – only the name

For Thomas understood the inherent poetry of names, another of my favourite poems of his begins.

If I should ever by chance grow rich

I’ll buy Codham, Cockridden, and Childerditch,

Roses, Pyrgo, and Lapwater,

And let them all to my eldest daughter.

For English names can be wonderful, they can provoke humour because of apparent crudity. Living on the downs above the river Piddle I know how so many laugh at villages that take their name from the river. Names have been changed, would the pioneering trades unionists be so well known if they were the Tolpiddle martyrs? They could have been as Tolpiddle was the older name of the village, Tolpuddle becoming the standard form only by the mid nineteenth century.

The ‘road’ to Frome St Quintain

Some can be beautiful, Rhyme Intrinsica or Frome St Quintain a tiny village where there is now no road to the church (there used to be but the houses alongside were demolished a couple of hundred years ago, and the land turned into a field with a footpath to the church).

Others are decidedly odd, Margaret Marsh sounds more like the name of a gym teacher, than a hamlet in Dorset at the end of a long road that goes nowhere else.

And when names are invented, unselfconsciously, not trying for anything grand the effect can be wonderfully poetic. My favourite group of this type of names can be found in varieties of fruit, especially apples. A list of old varieties almost forms itself into poetry.

Crimson Newton, D’Arcy Spice, Downton Pippin and Easter Orange.

Emneth Early, Feltham Beauty, Goodwood Pippin and Hanwell Souring

You can feel the local pride in the Keswick Codlin. Or perhaps imagine Mrs Lakeman, in the final years of Queen Victoria’s reign cutting the first apple from her new tree (Mrs Lakeman’s Seedling or Lakeman’s Superb) and saying, ‘I think that will do.”

As Kipling was to write in another ‘name’ poem, this time on herbs.

Excellent herbs had our fathers of old,

Excellent herbs to ease their pain,

Alexanders and Marigold,

Eyebright, Orris, and Elecampane,

Basil, Rocket, Valerian, Rue,

(Almost singing themselves they run)

Vervain, Dittany, Call-me-to-you,

Cowslip, Melitot, Rose of the Sun,

Anything green that grew out of the mould

Was an excellent herb to our fathers of old.

And with the names ‘singing themselves’ I will end this three quotes in three days challenge set by Willowdot21, many thanks for the idea, and no I won’t be throwing a big book either at you, or down in disgust (I would never do that anyway – it might damage the book).

I keep six honest serving men,

They’ve taught me all I know,

Their name are What, and Why and When,

And Where and Who and How. Rudyard Kipling

As you may have guessed, from what I have already written, I keep the honest serving men well employed.

I love curious and bizarre information, and when I come across something really odd it tends to stick in my mind. For example, in the plethora of newspaper and magazine articles on the Battle of Waterloo one small story caught my imagination. When the Unites States ambassador, John Quincy Adams, read Wellington’s dispatch after Waterloo, it was so understated that he thought that the allied army had been defeated!

If I am always using the honest serving men, so are my children, and they use them on me, even now when they are grown and long since left home. I suppose I only have myself to blame, being able to answer a question like.

‘How big was Charlemagne’s empire?’

When asked at the breakfast table, might suggest to my children that I am a suitable repository of knowledge. My younger son, known in the blogsphere created by my brother and I, as the Teacher, was perhaps the best, or worst, at asking questions.

The Teacher, and the Civil Servant (Mrs Teacher)

‘Dad, what’s the difference between the Arian and Pelagian heresies?”

Was one of his best, however after I had explained, he commented.

‘Oh, the Pelagian is similar to the Arminian heresy.’

Even after he went to university I was the source of useful information. One afternoon I received a phone call, asking me where a quotation came from. I heard noise in the background and asked him where he was.

‘I’m outside the Bod.’ (the Bodleian Library, Oxford)

‘You are outside the greatest library on Earth, to which you have free access.’ I responded, ‘and across the road is one of the finest academic bookshops. In both you will find a book called the Oxford Dictionary of Quotations, where you can easily find the answer. Why don’t you look it up instead of ringing me?’

‘You are much quicker.’

A little while ago willowdot21, nominated me for the Three Day Quote Challenge

The rules of the challenge are:

Post your favourite quotes or your own quotes for 3 days in a row.

Thank the person who nominated you.

So thank you willowdot21.

Also the Teacher commented that I had written about our dog, but never mentioned him. So I have here.

An old road on the edge of the village, earlier today.

The Way through the Woods

They shut the road through the wood, seventy years ago,
The weather and the rain, Have undone it again,
And now you would never know,
There was once a road through the wood.
Before they planted the trees,
It is beneath, the coppice and heath,
And thin anemones. Only the keeper sees,
That where the badgers roll
And ring doves take their ease
There was once a road through the wood.

But if you enter the wood,
On a summer’s evening – late,
When the night air cools, on trout ringed pools
And the otter whistles his mate
(they fear not men in the wood, because they see so few.)
You may hear the beat, of a horse’s feet,
And the swish of a skirt in the dew.
Steadily cantering through, the misty solitudes,
As though they perfectly knew.
The old lost road through the wood.
But there is no road through the wood.
Rudyard Kipling

At the bottom of the garden, a gate led onto the field. On the other side of the field was a wood. Her parents told her that she should never go into the wood, though she had heard her grandmother say.

“Oh, Mary’s a polite little girl, she would come to no harm in the wood. SHE would never harm her, in fact she would probably like to see her there. I saw her several times, and it did me no harm.”
Mary didn’t understand, but kept away from the wood all the same.

Until one summer afternoon, she had been walking across the field, and came to the old fence that ran round the wood. The field was so hot, and it looked so cool in the wood, the dappled sunlight was so beautiful. In a patch of sun she saw big black and white butterflies gliding across the glade. She slipped through the fence and walked into the glade, there was a path leading deeper into the wood. She followed it, deeper and deeper. Then suddenly she felt afraid, looked around, and suddenly realised that she couldn’t see the path back. She was lost. She turned and tried to find a way though the trees, but there was no way. She pushed between the trunks, branches tried to catch her, they pulled at her dress, they caught in her hair. Suddenly there was a lighter patch in front of her, she forced her way through the branches and found herself on an open ride, a broad strip of grass.

She fell on her knees, grateful to be free of the trees, and burst into tears.
She knelt there sobbing, and didn’t notice the noise of a horse approach, in fact she was so wrapped up in her misery that she didn’t notice anything until she was gently tapped on the arm. She looked up to see a young woman looking down at her.

“Whatever is the matter pretty maid?” The Lady asked, Mary knew she was a lady.

“I’m sorry.” She gulped through her tears.

“Why are you sorry?”

“Because I was told not to go into the wood. I am so sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, you can come into this wood whenever you like.” The Lady smiled, and raised her head.
“You are free of this wood for as long as you live, do you understand?”

Mary nodded, but she had the strangest feeling that the Lady wasn’t talking to her, rather she was talking to the trees. As the Lady bent to her again, the wind whispered through the branches, as though acknowledging the Lady’s orders.

“Now what would you like?” she asked.

“I want to go home now, please.”

“Of course you can.” The Lady replied, and pulled her to her feet. Mary now realised that the Lady was dressed very oddly. She was all in green, in a long old-fashioned riding dress. She put one foot in her stirrup and pulled herself up on the saddle. Seated side-saddle she bent down and pulled Mary up onto her lap, she was certainly very strong. They cantered down the ride, Mary felt completely safe and very happy.

Suddenly they were at the edge of the wood, the Lady lifted her and gently placed her on the ground, then she felt in her pocket and gave Mary something, before she could say anything she heard her mother calling her name. She turned to look, and when she turned back to thank the Lady, the Lady had vanished.

As she told her mother the story, her mother went very silent. She didn’t say anything, but rang Mary’s grandmother as soon as they got back to the cottage. The grandmother listened to her story and smiled.

“I knew she would be safe.” Then she turned to Mary. “Now you can go in the woods whenever you want, you will be safe there, as long as you are polite to her, and I know you will be.”

Mary suddenly felt a weight in her pocket and pulled out a large, bright coin.
“The Lady gave it to me.”

Her father looked at it closely.
“It looks brand new – and its more than one hundred years old.” He said quietly.

This story began in the traditional way of many stories, I made it up to tell my children, after they wanted to know more about the wood in the poem. They would naturally ask further questions, but my reply was always the traditional one – ‘That’s enough for now, it’s time to go to sleep.’

I was nominated to take part in this photo challenge by my brother, TanGental. He considered that my ‘eclectic mix of pictures and stringy thinking is sure to entertain us’ – well I hope I manage it.
The rules of the Five Photos, Five Stories Challenge are:

1) Post a photo each day for five consecutive days.
2) Attach a story to the photo. It can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, or a short paragraph. It’s entirely up to the individual.
3) Nominate another blogger to carry on the challenge. Your nominee is free to accept or decline the invitation. This is fun, not a command performance!

Every so often the newspapers record a new ‘literary discovery’, these fall into three categories;

Real discoveries like previously unknown letters (these are very rare).

Something that had been known for years, but the ‘discoverer’ wasn’t as well read as he or she thought (these are quite common).

Complete and utter twaddle (the great majority).

A few days ago it was announced that the first ‘contemporary portrait of Shakespeare’ had been discovered. The initial publication was made through the unusual medium of the magazine Country Life (for those outside the UK this is a very upmarket countryside magazine {and I mean upmarket – the house adverts at the front of the magazine rarely include properties going for less than one million pounds}) .

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/newstopics/howaboutthat/11614625/William-Shakespeare-Newly-discovered-image-revealed.html

http://www.theguardian.com/culture/2015/may/19/shakespeare-writer-claims-discovery-of-only-portrait-made-during-his-lifetime

I am afraid that I think that the theory falls into the third category.

The portrait is one of four on the title page of the first edition of The Herball or Generall Historie of Plantes by John Gerard, this is one of the most important botanical works ever published, and is a still a wonderful read. The identification is based on the discovery of various clues and ciphers in the picture, but the discoverer gives no good reason why Shakespeare should be on the cover of a book about plants. I tend to agree with the head of the Shakespeare Birthday Trust in doubting any combination of Shakespeare and hidden ciphers, these are the favourite sources of ‘evidence’ for those who think that Shakespeare didn’t write Shakespeare, but someone else did.

On the other hand if someone had said they found evidence that Shakespeare had read Gerard’s Herbal, I wouldn’t be at all surprised. Shakespeare clearly loved plants and his works are full of references to them. Indeed some of his references to plants provide additional evidence that William Shakespeare (or at least someone who had spent a long time in the countryside of the West Midlands) wrote Shakespeare.

For example Honey Stalks for clover is found in Titus Andronicus, whilst outside the play it has only ever been recorded once, in the late nineteenth century, in Warwickshire. Whilst the beautiful couplet from Cymbeline;

Golden lads and girls all must,

As chimney-sweepers, come to dust

Makes sense when one knows that in Warwickshire and Gloucestershire a Dandelion flower was known as a Golden Lad and the seed head was a Chimney Sweeper.

                   A Golden Lad

Three Chimney Sweepers

The traveller, on the road between Dorchester and Wimborne Minster in Dorset, will occasionally glimpse the silhouette of a tower on the top of a remote hill. A hundred years ago the same sight was visible from the train. It was this view of a lonely tower that inspired (if that is the right word) one of Thomas Hardy’s rightfully lesser known novels Two on a Tower. Despite the questionable literary quality of the novel I have long been curious about the building, but it lies in the middle of Charborough Park, with no public access.

However this weekend the woodlands were opened for charity and, at last, after wandering through a wonderful collection of ancient rhododendrons in full flower, I glimpsed the tower in the distance. As I approached it looked stranger and stranger. I knew it had been built in the 1790’s, but hadn’t realised that it had been built in such a strange form of gothic revival (I tend to call this gothick).

An octagonal tower with weird windows and curious beasts carved on the label stops, the addition of mobile phone aerials on the top only adds to the strangeness of the creation.

As soon as I saw it I was immediately reminded of pictures I had seen of the great tower of Fonthill Abbey. This was built at about the same time as this building, fell down twice before being finished. It towered 90 metres (300ft) high, and dominated the surrounding countryside for a few years, before finally collapsing in 1825, destroying Fonthill Abbey in its fall.

If this tower was little known, the other one is very well known. Clavell’s tower stands on the cliffs above Kimmeridge Bay on the Dorset coast. It had been built as a summerhouse, became a coastguard look out, then was abandoned and fell into ruin. A few years ago it was in danger of collapse as the cliff it stood on was crumbling. A campaign to save it was started, with high profile support from the crime writer P.D James.

Clavell’s Tower before restoration

She got involved because the tower had been the inspiration for one of her novels. The story she told was that she was on holiday with her family, everyone else was admiring the view of the bay, whilst she imagined a man in a wheelchair falling over the cliff (she also claimed that she had thought like that all her life, on hearing the nursery rhyme Humpty Dumpty, she wondered if he fell, or was he pushed). This was the stimulus for The Black Tower. When a TV company came to film the novel they found that, in reality the tower was grey, so it was coloured black with food colouring as this would wash away in the rain.

The tower today, the ring shows where it once stood.

The very unusual holiday home.

Clavell’s tower has been saved, was moved away from the cliff edge and rebuilt – and is now a very unusual holiday home.