Alf’s Gone: the boy who fell off Tattershall Castle

 ‘Alf’s Gone’- The Boy who fell off Tattershall Castle 

A few years ago, whilst researching something unconnected. I spotted a reference to, “a declaration of Mr Alfred Elmitt and others as to a fall from the top wall of Tattershall Castle.” Unfortunately I could discover no more than this teasing reference at the time. However, my interest was sparked and trawling the internet I discovered a document in the Devon County Archives. It is dated -28th June 1909- and has the name ‘Clitherow and Son, Tattershall’ written in a neat, copperplate style at the foot of the page. Only the image of the document’s cover is accessible online although there is an indication that the declaration extends to over seven pages. Further enquiries suggest that another copy may reside in the Lincoln Archives. 

 

Being raised within site of the castle (albeit over the river in Coningsby) I was curious to learn more about Master Alfred Elmitt’s claim to fame. There was nothing to be gleaned from the National Trust either online or making enquiries using the property website. However, I managed to trace Alfred through the census returns from 1871 through to the 1911 census. These suggested Alfred was born on 21st September 1870  at Tattershall Thorpe (to Charles Elmitt and Mary (Mastin) of Lawn House, Coningsby). Although it appears Alfred married Emily Creasey (1900) and died in 1934 very little is revealedregarding his early life or his adventures at Tattershall. However, I did find someone has uploaded an Elmitt family tree onto a genealogy site with references to not only the declaration statement but also to newspaper cuttings from the 1930s which reveal a few of the details surrounding Alfred’s accident.

Published in 1933 under the heading ‘And Lived to tell the Tale’  articles in the Lincolnshire Standard and Boston Guardian revisit the eventful occasion in 1879 when Alfred Elmitt left his home (2 Princess St, Boston) on Whit Monday (June 2nd) to visit the castle. He journeyed with his three brothers; Henry, George and Joseph because Henry had been commissioned to make some drawings of Tattershall Castle for his employers, Messrs. Bellamy and Hardy of Lincoln. The group of lads managed to climb to the top of the castle keep and it was whilst stepping across the south-east corner of the battlement terrace that Alfred believed he either “slipped or turned dizzy and fell to the bottom” a distance of 76ft down the inside of the keep. This might sound confusing to those who know the castle today but one should remember that allthis was all prior to the castle being renovated by Lord Curzon (and subsequently the National Trust) when it must have been in a pretty ruinous state. Indeed the castle is described in one of the articles as having ‘no floors or roofs.’ George Elmitt told reporters that he heard his older brother Henry exclaim, “Alf’s gone” and remembered “hearing a thud at the end of his brother’s fall.” Nine year-old Alfred was taken straight to his home at Lodge Farm (Tattershall) where he was attended by a Dr Blades. Some believe Alfred must have been severely disabled by the fall but the cuttings suggest that luck was on his side and he suffered no more than a pronounced limp.

 

That would have been the end of the tale were it not for local historian, Phillip Skipworth who spent a good deal of his free-time showing visitors around the castle in the early years of the 20th century. Again this was prior to the efforts of Lord Curzon in 1910 to see the castle saved from decay and pillaging and long before it was restored and handed over to the National Trust (1925). Apparently few visitors would believe Mr Skipworth when he told them a boy had fallen off the keep and survived. Mr Skipworth recalls being told to ‘tell it to the Marines’ and got so tired of being disbelieved that in 1909 he had the affidavit drawn up by Clitherows (Horncastle solicitors) and signed by many of those connected or witness to the incident. One of the deponents was Mary Jane Unthank, of Castle House, Tattershall, who had been the caretaker and keyholder at the castle for nearly 40 years. Another, Alfred’s brother George, by this time the Rev. George Elmitt of Stockton Manitoba (Canada), was contacted so his signature could be added; perhaps in the hope that none would dare question the word of a cleric. Even Alfred’s schoolmaster, Mr Richard Seed, recalled an entry he made in the school log-book for June 5th 1879 which read, “Alfred Elmitt, a boy of about nine, absent from school through a fall from Tattershall Castle, a distance of upwards of seventy feet.”

Sadly Alfred died at what we may regard as the relatively early age of 64 on November 22nd 1934 it seems only a few newspaper cuttings survive to bear testimony to his fifteen minutes of fame and amazing escape from death.

 

Mark Temple

10th March 2019

 

Poirot’s Christmas Carol

An air of gloom surrounds Whitehaven Mansions,

Where England’s great detective used to dwell.

For Monsieur Hercule Poirot has decided to retire

And leave behind his life in Clerkenwell.

He is planning to grow marrows but he doesn’t have a clue

And stuffing one, that’s really not his style,

By Christmas he’ll be bored to death with no more crimes to solve.

And country life is bound to prove a trial.

 

And sure enough when Hastings pays a visit to King’s Abbot

He finds Poirot in a state of some distress.

“My word you’re looking dreadful and your moustache needs a trim.

You must return with me to convalesce.” 

Captain Hastings makes a toast. “This night is Christmas Eve.

Tomorrow’s Christmas Day we should be merry.

So whilst you go and pack your bag, I’ll brew a pot of tea

Or would you like a glass of cooking sherry?”

 

“That's the trouble with you Hastings,” snaps the great detective.

“Extravagance and excess are a sin.

Christmas is a humbug! Now I've told you that before.

It tastes of mint, is hard and in a tin.”

Poirot’s feeling stubborn and throws Captain Hastings out.

“Zut alors, you’re wearing out the mat.

I’ve no reason to make merry for I have no case to solve 

So I’m staying in my bed, and that is that.”

 

Poirot retires to his room, and soon falls fast asleep.

‘Til a fearsome sound is heard to pierce the night.

Then the spectre of a woman, emerges through the mist;

Miss Lemon, makes her entrance, dressed in white.

She tells Poirot that some spirits, will visit him quite soon.

And says he ought to listen to their tale.

“The first will come at one o'clock, I’m sure he’ll be on time.

Despite the latest strike on southern rail.”

 

Just as she said, at one o'clock, the mantle clock doth chime.

At which point Poirot’s nerves are rather weak.

He slowly sips his tisane as the spirit form appears

The Ghost of Roger Ackroyd starts to speak.

“Come with me Hercule Poirot to that time so long ago

Where innocence and youth you knew so well.

Although you helped solve many crimes, at Scotland yard they snubbed you. 

Perhaps they couldn't stand that garlic smell.”

 

The spirit slowly fades, like some artificial tan,

Poirot’s left confused and full of fear.

Upon the wind a second chime, then blinding lights above.

As ghosts of other victims soon appear.

They remind him of the crimes he’s cracked at Styles and on the links,

On planes and on the orient express.

Involving counts and countesses, an actress and a nurse

And sneaky crooks reluctant to confess

 

They drop in on a family, together in their hovel.

Inspector Japp lives here. It’s rather grim.

Mrs Japp’s called Mabel, she’s a backside like a table.

And the weakling in the corner’s Little Jim.

When Poirot left, Japp lost his job and started drinking gin

The crime rates started rising to a peak

Miss Marple moved into a home and Father Brown lost faith,

When Clouseau joined Scotland Yard last week.

 

Japp hasn’t got much pension so he can't afford a goose.

And they're worried Little Jim’s just growing thinner.

They might have to dig that budgie up they buried in the spring

And stuff it with some birdseed for their dinner.

When the third and final spirit comes, Poirot’s left bemused

For once again the home of Japp they pass.

He's pointing to the churchyard, and a grave that’s freshly dug, 

Inspector Japp’s there, kneeling on the grass.

 

Without a diagnosis Little Jim just won’t survive

And Poirot’s quick to notice that nearby

Upon another gravestone his own name has appeared 

So unless the future changes both will die  

Then all at once the mist swirls round and Poirot’s in a swoon

Realising he has fallen out of bed.

He rushes to the window and opens up the shutters

A good job or he would have banged his head.

 

“My little grey cells, I must use, to help save Little Jim, 

For I noticed he was sick straight after tea 

My dear Japp, I am such a fool. I should have known at once, 

Little Jim, he needs a diet, gluten free!” 

So Poirot goes to buy the biggest turkey he can find 

When Japp’s wife sees the bird she has a fit.

With some stuffing made from rice flour, Jim climbs inside the beast 

And sleeps there til they put it on the spit.

 

So Poirot’s quite determined to visit Scotland Yard

To urge the force that Japp be reinstated

He helps him solve a spate of crimes involving abc 

Within two weeks the culprit is located

Poirot has been quite transformed, his life is turned around.

He’s taking Capt Hastings for a break

They’ve booked the S.S. Karnak for a cruise along the Nile

I’m hoping that this isn’t a mistake.

 

Our tale now is over, and all has been resolved

The sun is up, all swirling mists have gone,

With Japp returned to office and Poirot to his flat

It’s time to say “God bless us everyone.

Isolating with JB

When faced with any crisis we should always be prepared

To take the right precautions ‘gainst the threat.

So I’m locking doors and windows and I’m isolating now 

For that pesky virus hasn’t got me yet.

I’ve found a bar of lifebuoy and some wet wipes in a box

There’s fairy liquid somewhere ‘neath the sink

With that double pack of Andrex on the airing cupboard shelf

That should be enough ‘til summer, I would think.

The fridge is rather empty though the freezer’s nearly full

With gluten-free puff-pastry, kale and bread

There’s some kippers in there too, but I think they’re out of date

So I’ll have to raid the biscuit tin instead.

I’ve got a plate of nachos and a bowl of salsa dip

And I’ve made some milky cocoa in a mug

I’m putting on my onesie-the purple fleecy one,

With the heating turned to twenty, I’ll be snug.

I’m recumbent on the sofa with some hobnobs and a gin 

For I couldn’t find a single thing to cook

There’s not much on the tele apart from more repeats

So I’ll settle down and try to read a book.

I want a book of poetry, I’m thinking something light

For I need to raise my spirits at this time.

I’m avoiding T.S.Eliot, and Larkins far too dour,

I’m just yearning for some Betjemanic rhyme

With Betjeman it’s sense of place that really draws you in

Be it urban sprawl or craggy mountain peak

As the rhythm of his poetry paints pictures in my head

I’ll just relax and let the master speak.

So though I’m isolating, staying in and all alone

Within a house that’s locked at every exit

A daily dose of Betjeman should keep my spirits up

And at least I’ve now forgotten about Brexit

The Ballad of the Pier and Louise

There’s a famous seaside place called Skeggi,
That’s noted for fish, chips and peas
And Mr and Mrs Lockwheaton,
Went there with their daughter, Louise.

Louise was a right little madam
With her ringlets and ribbons of silk
She’d a pink little nose like a piglet
And a voice which could curdle the milk

Lou didn’t think much to beachfront
“You can’t see no waves for the mist.              
 That fisherman doesn’t look jolly
Quite frankly he looks round the twist.”    

Still the prom was quite crowded with trippers
In their “kiss me quick” hats, what a laugh.
No doubt on a ‘jolly’ from Leicester
For their chance, once a year, of a bath.

The stroll ‘long the front proved quite bracing
Then Pop said he fancied a beer
So mother suggested the cafe
That stood on the end of the pier.

Now Lou, knew the pier was a long ‘un
So whilst pa was fetching the tea
Lou suggested a stroll to the pier head
To wave at them Dutch ‘cross North Sea.
   
But Ma claimed her seat, near the window
To get a fine view of the place
Then a young lad arrived with his parents
And a scowl on one side of his face.

The boy was young Albert Ramsbottom
His parents were with him as well.
Lou turned her back on ‘em and mumbled
About the peculiar smell.

They ordered pork pie and some pickles
And plum loaf washed down with some tea
Some brawn and stuffed chine with a slice of brown bread
They wasn’t that hungry you see.




“This Skeggie’s a bit of a dump,” said the lad.
They ain’t got no tower, nor zoo
Them donkeys, they’ve all got arthritis
And t’sea here’s the colour of poo!

“I just can’t believe what I’m hearing.”
Said Pa in a voice loud and clear
“And where, might I ask, do yer came from
For there ain’t no place better than ‘ere?”

“We’re here on a day trip from Blackpool
“It’s finest resort on west coast.
We’ve one of them towers, like Frenchies
And winkles and pilchards on toast.”

“So what?” said Louise, “We’ve a pier ‘ere,
That’s longer than any you’ve seen.”
“You’re kidding.” The young lad retorted
“Look yonder and see what I mean.”

So all of them gazed through the window
The pier-head was stuck out at sea
But a great chunk o’ pier was just missing
Pa pondered, “Now, where can it be?

Louise, she had heard about piers now.
That they should be fixed to the ground.
“Some vandal’s been here and they’ve nicked it.
So come on, it’s got to be found.”

Now the coastguard looked older that Moses
he’d no idea where it had gone
Lou thought they should call out the lifeboat
So that was decided upon.

God bless the brave crew of the lifeboat
All risking their lives on the sea
But with no wrecks and nobody drownded
Most were home, having their tea.

And as for the crew at the boathouse
Some were already in bed.
So Lou and her parents decided
They’d take out the life-boat instead .

“I think that the pier has been stolen
So our mission is perfectly clear
We need to find out where it’s got to
Cos It’s clear that our pier is not here.”


Young Albert persuaded his parents
That they should assist in this quest
“All we need is a large picnic hamper.    
And an orange inflatable vest.”

Their search went from Cromer to Yarmouth
Past Walton-on-Naze and Southend
Albert said, “P’raps they have disguised it.”
But Lou said, “You’re quite round the bend.”      

For three days and nights they kept sailing
Past Kent and the Isle of Wight
They turned a sharp left after Cornwall
But Skeg’ pier was nowhere in sight.

Then Albert’s Pa shouted, “There’s Blackpool
I know it because of yon tower.
So you’d better slow down in the ‘arbour
Cos we’ll crash if you don’t reduce power.”

It was Albert who spotted the headline
On a billboard, it read, “I confess.
Ship’s captain pleads intoxication.
I was driven to drink in Skegness.”

 Albert then found a newspaper
“‘Twas a ship, the Europa, I fear.
It says that the captain weren’t looking
And drove his boat straight into pier.”

“We wouldn’t want your pier in Blackpool.
We’ve three of ‘em here, as it is.”
He’d a Polaroid snap just to prove it.
Which put Louise in a right tiz.

Lou’s dander was up when she realised
“Three piers in one town, that’s not fair.”
Then a thought crossed her mind, “We should take one
For nowhere needs more than a pair.”

Steel ropes wrapped around with silk ribbons
She tied to the legs of the pier
And t’other end fixed to the lifeboat
The throttle Lou put in first gear.

Slowly the strain it was taken
And soon the pier, broke away free.
Full-steam ahead, they went northwards.
They hadn’t no compass you see.


So somewhere out there on the oceans
Where a pier and those Skeggi folk roam
Should you spot a flotilla approaching Manila
Just tell them it’s time to go home.

The Fifties - a commercial break    

Remember, remember the fifties, the festival?
Science, art, industry all put on show.
Beacons of change arrayed on the south bank,
Pavilioned in splendour, and British you know.

The modernist skylon, and dome of discovery
Welcomed the masses to Festival Hall.                    
Iconic images plastered on posters,
Brands from an age we just love to recall

Our new baby Belling, in shining enamel,
The iron’s a sunbeam, that kettle’s a swan.
A goblin teas-made should wake us up early,
That slumberland mattress might let us snooze on.

The sofa and chairs are from Gimson and Slater
The sideboard is G-plan, now that isn’t cheap
The Axminster’s grufty but who needs a hoover
I’m trusting our Ewbank will make a clean sweep

Picquot-ware teasets with sycamore handles
Toby’s from Doulton and tureens from Spode
Models of spitfires, in kit-form by Airfix.
A new Raleigh cycle to whiz down the road

Guinness is good for you, Craven ‘A’ wasn’t,
Mappin and Webb produced best Sheffield plate.      
Vases from Whitefriars, Ercol-made furniture,
Midwinter pott’ry designed by Miss Tait

Lean-leaded windows, inspired by Mackintosh?
Tana-lawn fabrics and Liberty prints
Willow by Morris on Sanderson wallpaper,
Bring in the Conran and throw out that chintz.

Only two years ‘til the Queen’s coronation
Our new Bush tele, the first in the street.
“Remove all those nets Stan, the neighbours are gathering.
Tell Nan to hurry or she’ll lose her seat.”

Somerset ciders and gorge-ripened cheeses
Ales from Burton and Kippers from Peel.              
Melton pork pies with Long Clawson Stilton
Pudding or Tart? What’s the real Bakewell deal?

Lyons Maid mivvis and McVitie penguins
Caramac, Spangles and Quality Street.                                          
Fry’s Chocolate Cream, they’ve all came off ration
And few can resist such a sugary treat



Some drinks for the kiddies? We’ve Vimto or Tizer.
A small ‘gin and it’ should satisfy Nan
The Bristol cream’s empty. Mum’s found the Babycham
Get out the Mackeson for the old man.

Now feeling off colour? Well, try Pepto Bismol.
There’s no Andrew’s Liver Salts left in the tin.                      
For Nan’s jippy tummy we’ve milk of magnesia.
She should stick to tonic and leave off the gin.

Home Service fav’rites each day on the wireless,
John Snagge, Nan Winton and Cliff Michelmore
Dimbleby, Alvar Liddell and Fyfe Robertson,
William Hardcastle and Corbet Woodall.

On the light program Dick Barton, Paul Temple,
Hancock’s Half Hour, Appointment with Fear.
Mum likes the series that’s all about country folk,
It’s called The Archers, but won’t last, my dear.

The kiddies watch Crackerjack! Ivor the Engine,
Sooty, Blue Peter, Noggin the nog,
Muffin the mule, Rag, Tag and Bobtail,
The star of the Woodentops; old Spotty dog.

We listen to skiffle on records from Decca.
Dear Ivor Novello and Jolson are dead.
So stick Nan’s old gramophone up in the attic
We’ve got a new Dansette with speakers instead.

Mother knows best with all products domestic.
Tide, Daz or Omo when clothes need a wash
Bricks of carbolic like Lifebuoy and Sunlight
Imperial Leather, to make us smell posh.

Your favourite comic, the Dandy or Beano?
Beezer or Topper? The Eagle was mine
Fans of the Bunty, remember Four Mary’s?
And that headmistress who kept them in line.

Ladybird books, we’ve plenty to choose from
Tootles the Taxi and Lost at the Fair
The Gingerbread Boy, What to look for in winter,
Piggly Plays Truant, The Tortoise and Hare.

‘O’ gauge by Bassett-Lowke, Triang and Hornby
Clockwork’s outdated now ‘lectrics the thing
Boys with Meccano, tin-plated creations
Off’ring a glimpse what the future may bring

Every girl dreams of a new pram by Silver Cross
Fine Witney blankets in salmon or peach
A doll’s house in plywood, some boxes of Bayko
A seersucker costume to wear on the beach

Palettes of paints straight from Windsor and Newton
Crayons by Lakeland and gummed paper squares
Boxes of plasticine, Painting by Numbers,                            
 ‘Don’t stretch that Slinky or fall down them stairs.’

Paintings by Piper, some sketches of Shropshire
Shell-guided journeys their latest book shows
JB has captured each village and hamlet
Pen portraits of people and places he knows.

Only last week I caught up with Betjeman
Took out the Morgan to meet him in Wells.      
Cheese and herb scones at the Tudor-house cafe
List’ning to extracts from ‘Summoned by Bells’

“We’ll try the Earl Grey dear, with some of that Parkin,
The third programme hopes for an excerpt next week.
But the section on Marlborough is barely half-finished
The chapter on Highgate? That still needs a tweak.

The poet once said that, “childhood is measured...
By sounds, smells and sights” from times long ago
Gathered, preserved in the vast vaults of memory
Before the “dark hour of reason can grow.”

So gone are the fifties, that childhood of innocence
The Hand-knitted swimsuit, the Cotton-string vest
We’ll see them no more but can treasure the memories,
Knowing those times were prob’ly the best.

Mark Temple.

The Parish Visitor

It's no use hiding from him in the wardrobe or the loo

For he seems to know by instinct when you're in.

He never gives you warning, otherwise you could pop out 

You may as well give up, you just can't win

It's not that he might hurt you, or try to steal your things

He's not coming for your vote or any money.

But still you dread those visits wishing he would go elsewhere

You always feel on edge, and that's not funny.

You tried to put him off last month by saying you had mumps

But he said that he had had ‘em years ago.           

So then you said the drains were blocked and smelt like rotten eggs

But he said, "I'll fetch a plumber that I know."

Each September you may spot him at the horticulture show 

He'll be stalking the refreshments as a rule.

He turned up at your wedding and you couldn't keep him out

He creeps into assemblies at the school.

Your neighbour, Mrs Fawcett, says she saw him yesterday

He was down in the allotments with the barrow

She saw him kneeling down so she thought he was at prayer,

'til he asked her if she'd like to see his marrow!

His visits make you nervous and last month he made you swear

You must admit you muttered, "Ruddy hell.”

What's that? You can hear footsteps, he's approaching down the path

Any moment now he'll knock or ring the bell.

"How are you Mrs Scarbro', what a lovely day it is

I was passing so I thought I'd look you up."

"Oh it's very nice to see you, I'm about to make some tea

Now then vicar, shall I pour us both a cup?

The Shepherds' Ballad

Some say it's cos we swear a lot and others that we smell
Cos we doesn't wash from one week to the next
Whatever is the reason, the townsfolk call us 'scum'.
And shunned by all is summat we expects.

To then be called "the chosen few" was quite a turnabout
And many said it shouldn't have been so,
"Them shepherds don't deserve it, so why should they be first?
Let's face it they're the lowest of the low."

But first we were, no doubt you've heard, upon them blasted hills
Where night by night we'd shelter on the ground
From out the dark and silent night, there came this shining light
And the glory of the heavens shone around.

I don't mind saying, we were frit, and many sheep far-weltered.
Despite that voice saying "Do not fear"
It's not a thing you often find, the sky jam-packed with angels
All singing, "Alleluia" in yer ear.

For quite some time the mighty dread then seized our troubled minds
Until the message came forth loud and clear
That God's Son would be born that night, a saviour for mankind.
In Bethlehem, Yes! God had chosen here.

"Now get you off down yonder, your sheep will all be safe"
Is what them angels then went on to say.
"And there you'll find a stable where the Christ Child has been born
You'll find him in a manger, in some hay.”

Now we're quite use to stables, we're shepherds after all
But a stable's not a place for God's own son
Yet that's how we found the babby, within an ox's stall
Above his head, a star that brightly shone.

But what could lowly shepherds bring to offer to the bairn
We had one newborn lamb, that seemed just right
His mother smiled sweetly saying, "That's the perfect gift
To bring to him, the Lamb of God, this night."

Frim folk and Yellowbellies

 

Some famous names, that you may know, have dwelt in Lincolnshire

That we should celebrate and name with pride

Come forth you men of science, politicians and the rest

From beneath those rocks and bushels where you hide.

Let's hear it for those Methodists, the Wesleys, Charles and John

Who brought about revival in this land.

Another good samaritan, Chad Varah was his name.

Who saw the need to lend a helping hand.

From Revesby came Sir Joseph Banks who made his name in Oz,

Like explorers Matthew Flinders and George Bass. 

From Spilsby there's John Franklin, who sailed in Arctic seas

As he searched through northern ice-flows for a pass.

Let's talk of Isaac Newton and of Maggie Thatcher too

Who left the streets of Grantham in their prime

Not forgetting Mr Parsons, that's Nicholas of course

Who gave us Just a Minute of his time.

I calculate that many folk won't know the name, George Boole

Who proposed a logic theory based on maths.

In contrast there's that teacher who featured in 'Please Sir'

John Alderton's brave efforts raised some laughs.

Remember Richard Todd, the actor known for busting dams

And big Geoff Capes, he put his shot nearby.

Not far away at Sleaford, Miss Saunders made us roar

She was Absolutely Fab, you can't deny.

Lord Tennyson from Somersby, composed a poem or two

The one about Child Harold left me bored

He wrote at length about some girl he took a fancy to

Down the garden he asked, "How about it, Maud?"

Before he made 'endeavours' in the town of dreaming spires

Colin Dexter lived in Stamford town.

The same place where Sir Malcolm Sargent spent his early years

As he practised promenading up and down

When Billy Butlin planned to build a campsite by the sea

Just north of Skeg he chose a 'bracing' site.

Yet the poem by Jean Inglelow it told a gloomy tale

Of a shoreline breached by storm and tidal might.

Cusha, cusha, cusha, calling; overture, beginners please

Come, Dame Sybil Thorndike take your bow

Miss Dickson sing your socks off, Joan Plowright strut your stuff 

Don't miss your cue, the limelight beckons now.

Jim Broadbent won an oscar and a bafta and a globe

He's an actor, not a runner in a race.

Tony Jacklin likes his birdies which does upset his wife

So he's under par, she's slapped him in the face

Now we've not seen much of royalty since Bolingbroke was here

Perhaps they never think of us as posh.

After crossing through the fens old King John turned up his toes.

He were miffed, he'd left Crown jewels in the wash.

Patricia Hodge and Robert Webb, some names you may have heard

Guy Martin's yet another off the 'telly'

But a better claim to fame is the fact you may have missed

They were fortunate to be born 'yellow-belly.'

So next time someone visits or stops you in the street

Just slap them on the back and call them, 'Fellow' 

Offer them a slice of chine, or better still, plum bread

And show them that your belly's rather yellow.

Mark Temple

Time 'for a song' gentlemen, please

When was the last time you enjoyed an old fashioned singsong down at your local?  I have thought it is rather sad that these days communities rarely have the chance to share in this enjoyable British tradition. Although we have numerous, trendy, wine bars and clubs offering karaoke these are quite different. They may give Tina Turner or Barry Manilow wannabes the chance to strut their stuff with their friends after a few drinks but these aren't community singalongs. I remember, as a student in the seventies, calling in a couple of loughborough, town-centre pubs where they still had an old upright piano in one corner of the public bar and where, for twenty minutes or so, twice a week, an enthusiastic local would sit down and reel through a repertoire of old songs. Specifically I remember, Mr Clarke at the Old Packe Horse (recently given a makeover and renamed the Organ Grinder). If I recall he had a rather gravelly voice which he used to launch most songs (largely to insure the revellers recognised which song he was currently playing)  before the whole room joined in. He rarely played with sheet music in front of him and songs were strung together with smooth dexterity. Every taste was catered for. Irish melodies were integrated with music hall ballads and wartime hits. Everything from Ivor Novello to Buddy Holly.  Occasionally soloists would be encouraged to lead a verse or two whilst the audience waited eagerly for the chorus. I remember he would pick out one of his personal favourites, which maybe less well-known, and he would continue to sing them through before returning to those more recognisable items. And I never heard him give up on a song even if no-one else in the room seemed to be singing.  

So, what has happened to this very British tradition? I heard on the radio a few weeks ago that a group in London (I think they were called PIPS: Pianos in Pubs for Singalongs) were trying to reintroduce pianos and pub singalongs into a couple of city pubs citing the fact that out of nearly 1000 London pubs surveyed only 7 still had pianos used regularly to accompany occasions of this type. I read in a magazine last year that in the Richmond area of Yorkshire, two students, just for a little bit of beer money in the summer holidays, were trawling around a number of willing inns nearby with an old piano in a horse-trailer simply to provide the locals with an opportunity for a good old-fashioned singsong.  I doubt there is any pub in my own county of Leicestershire that still has a piano available on the premises to be used in this way (I'd love to be corrected). It is very sad that this should be the case, more-so given the fact that one local lady, back in the 1960s, became a national treasure when her particular style of pub piano playing hit our television screens and rocketed her to stardom. I'm speaking of course of the village of ‘Our Glad’ also known as Hathern's Mrs Mills. I am no fan of jukeboxes playing incessantly in bars or restaurants and personally I shy away from pubs where football is screened non-stop from an overhead screen. Surely once a week a few minutes of live music, played by an enthusiastic pianist, would add something positive to the ambience and community spirit of any local hostelry.  The cockney 'knees up' had something of a revival in the eighties and nineties with the likes of Chas and Dave appearing on the Television but did it survive outside the confines of Shepherd's bush? Hardly. However, on a trip to London recently, I was pleasantly surprised to see that in the busy concourse within the St. Pancras and King Cross stations, several brightly painted, upright pianos had been installed to allow members of the public to play. Whilst sitting in one of the station cafes we heard several people playing a wide variety of pieces; songs from the shows alongside well-known, classical pieces. A crowd gathered for a few moments before disappearing again. Sadly there was no singing. 

The only time we get close to sharing anything like this in our village of Woodhouse Eaves is when a few locals gather to sing a few carols each Christmas in one of our village pubs. Such a pity, for back in the 1980s I recall going into a the Curzon Arms on more than one occasion to be entertained by a local amateur pianist and joining with the locals in such standards as, 'You are my sunshine, Pack up your troubles and forgotten classics like, You can't keep a horse in a lighthouse. They don't write 'em like that anymore.

Discovering Stoneywell

If you should pass through Charnwood on a sunny afternoon

You might just spot a sign to Stoneywell

And there beside the hornbeams and the heathers you will find

A haven with some tales still to tell.

James Bilson found a site to build in 1897

Two cottages for workman was his plan

Ernest Gimson, architect, was asked to do the job           

But he wanted someone else to share the land.

Gimson most admired the views he found at Ulverscroft.

At Chitterman, he toiled for just a year.

Then his brothers who were keen to leave the Leicester smog behind

Were persuaded they might come and settle here.

So Ernest set about the task of building yet again 

Two cottages for Mentor and for Syd.

Lea cottage, white and dressed in thatch, adjacent to the road

And Stoneywell secluded and well hid.

With the stable block behind you a footpath stretches forth.

Past fortresses where youthful limbs once played. 

Through the bilberries and ericas the sheep-walk leads you down

To a summer home where memories were made

The site that Ernest favoured lay beyond a twisted rowan

Thus a house was born, emerging from the granite

Along a zigzag path she stretched, tumbling down a slope.

Only genius would have the gaul to plan it.

Not only was he 'architect' he furnished them as well

From his workshop in the Cotswolds as his base

So he needed someone special to supervise the build

That's when Detmar Blow was brought in on the case

Now Detmar had a habit if he spied a rock he'd grab it.     

He'd take them from another fellah's land

He'd knock down some stone-wall, then he'd make it up again

So you might say, 'stones he used were second-hand.'

Strolling through this home so many wonders are revealed

It's a 'curious and enigmatic place.'

Where artistry and craftsmanship are skillfully combined

Giving glimpses of the past in time and space.

Though this cottage is spectacular its style remains vernacular

Simplicity and workmanship are key

An architectural gem that's distinctly arts and craft

But I've said enough, so now you come and see.

A Walking tour through the Woodhouses

Proceeding from the hilltop overlooking Woodhouse Eaves,

Here, the remnants of a windmill can be seen.

If the viewing platform's open you could see to Loughbro' town 

If it wasn't for them Outwoods in between.

Descend the leafy bower from the windmill and you'll find

A wayside chapel, lower down the lane

Through a trio of arched windows, do I spy a wisp of smoke?

Mrs Mollart's burnt the welsh-cakes yet again!

 

Across the road to Maplewell, you'll spot a timbered hall 

Where the lib'rals often met, in days of yore.

Here they spouted rousing speeches from the balcony above,

Even though the peasants found it quite a bore.

From this hall of liberty, raise your eyes towards the arch

That still stands below the summit of Nanhill.

As a tribute to those lads who went off to fight a war

Gone forever, though the memories linger still.

There lies a hidden gem, just beyond these hedges tall

A roundhouse, 'neath the thatch, to store the game.

What sort of game? I hear you ask, I haven't got a clue

But the balls must have been massive all the same.

A stroll along the donkey slip, which posh folk call 'Church Walk,'

Leads us on towards the rect'ry of St. Paul's.

For those who like their facts, 'twas the home of Basement Jaxx

Though no longer does their music rock these walls.

The "stone hole" lies behind the school, some folks call it a cave

Where the village children played come rain or shine. 

But I think it is a shame, that they removed the old school bell

I would want to nab it back, if it was mine.     

The Forest Rock has bit the dust, the Pear Tree is still serving

They have pastas, pizzas even panacotta.

But I mustn't say much more now or they'll say this is an 'ad'

Yet given half the chance, I'd eat the lotta.

The charming Slaters' Row is quite a picture to behold.

Hydrangeas grace each plot and cottage door. 

All those blooming flowers, don't they make a lovely show?

'Bet you've rarely seen such bloomers here before.

With barely one more hop, you're at Oakwood, Chemist shop 

Where the staff dispense advice with caring smiles

They'll never make a fuss as they sort you out a truss 

Or recommend a cream for all those piles.

On your right, the village hall, just in time to make a call

If we're lucky we might find they've got a rummage

Young farmers, guides or cubs have been scrounging round the pubs

Get there early or it can be quite a scrummage.

The surgery lies straight ahead, they strive to keep us healthy

The Methodists, next door, will deal with sin.

And if you cry, "But I am fit and pretty close to perfect." 

Then you're a 'better man than I am, Gunga Din.'

Stroll across the King's Field, picnic here or watch the cricket.

To Woodhouse next, with little time to rest.

Through meadows, passed old Rawlins' school and on to 'Pepper Lane'

To that cottage which, quite frankly, is a Pest.

For here lived Thomas Rawlins, who escaped a horrid death

When a pedlar called for rest and B and B.

Thank goodness he did not unpack his rucksack full of plague

But carried on to Eyam after Tea.

With Garat's Hay behind your back, approach the Welbeck site

No photographs! They'll slap you in the cooler.

The milit'ry security is pretty tight round here.

So we don't mess with the forces, as a rule-r.

The Old Bull's Head is looming up, we've no time for a snifter

For it's on towards the Beacon we are bound.

If you jog up to the summit then back down to Broombriggs' walk

You must follow all the signs to bring you round.

There's a new fence round an orchard where they've planted sapling trees,

Autumn fruits; like damsons, pears and cherries

So don't try any scrumping, for it just ain't worth the risk 

And the warden of the trees might squeeze your berries.

Returning past the windmill. Many thanks, the tour is ended.

I'm heading for the Curzon, it's down here.

Oh! My wallets in the pocket of the coat I left at home,

So I'm hoping one of you will buy the beer!

Disappearing Dogs along the Danube

Last year whilst enjoying a city break with my wife in Italy I explored the way florentine artists and sculptors had used our canine companions in their works. So this year when we had chance to travel to Hungary i thought it was an opportunity once again to seek out a few examples of dogs in art and stone from around the fine city of Budapest. How wrong I was. Although rich in pieces of public sculpture and art, examples of dog statues seemed few and far between. We did see plenty of pet dogs around the city several Bichon Frise and Shar Pei. There seems to be a custom of walking dogs without leads, testament perhaps to good training methods used by local owners.  

I have learnt to be subtle in my quest to seek out dog monuments as my wife has caught on to the fact that i will trek miles and end ways in my searching. She loves dogs but the barking and scampering variety; dog sculptures are not her thing. So this time, rather than leave it to chance, i decided to use the internet first to discover if and where I could find statues of dogs around the city. I was pointed in the direction of two sites. Firstly I noticed there existed a really sweet statue in bronze simply entitled, Girl with Dog, to be found close to the cafe France on the river embankment. As this was meters away from where we were due to embark on a short river-cruise I felt I could comfortably sneak off for a couple of minutes to snap a photo of the work. It took longer than a couple of minutes in fact after 25 minutes I had still seen neither hide nor hair of the little rascal. I returned to where I'd left my wife , by this time stamping her foot demanding a latte machiatti to placate her for being kept waiting. I explained what i was about and that said dog was not evident. She joined me, with my tablet containing photo of missing mutt, to assist in the search. Well, we found the lamp-post around which the bench should have been, on which the girl should have been sat, playing with her pet. It just wasn't there. I approached a young chap in a red tee shirt trying to entice passing tourists into the nearby cafe. Did he know the location of the statue of Girl with her dog? Yes, he did but it had been removed at Christmas when the city council decided to renew the paving slabs along this short stretch of the promenade through Vigoti Square. The statue had not been reinstated although another statue of a little princess, along the railings of the adjacent tramway, was by the same sculptor and was "very fine." Fine, it may have been but unless the little princess was a cocker spaniel I wasn't particularly interested. So that was failure number one. The next day we were on the city bus-tour passing through Elizabeth Square, the location identified , on the Web, for Budapest's famous Doberman statues. These should be really impressive! Two statues, each standing over twelve feet high, constructed on a metal frame out of wooden blocks by the modern hungarian sculptor, Gabor Miklos Szoke. We arrived at midday at this central location. We couldn't find the dobermans. I spotted three dachshunds and two greyhounds having 'walkies' but definitely no dobermans. I sort out a tour guide. The dobermans had indeed been there but as they were redeveloping the whole park area the statues had been removed, foiled again!

 However faithful reader before you gasp in despair I must reveal that my journey was not a total disaster for on the third day we were approaching the grand edifice which was once the royal palace on Buda hill. Approaching the building one sees a fine baroque fountain flanking one of the wings of Buda Castle. The Matthias Fountain (Mátyás kút), probably Budapest's most famous fountain was designed in 1904 by Alajos Stróbl. It depicts a scene from the legend of King Matthias and the beautiful peasant girl Ilonka. Rather brutish for modern taste it shows the king sat in triumph over a stag accompanied by his four hounds. One the right is the Italian chronicler, Galeotto Marzio who lived in King Matthias' court. A large deer-hound is resting at his feet and a falcon sits on his arm. We learnt that after much of the palace was destroyed in the second world war it was not until 2010 that the fountain was put back in its original state; I suppose we must consider ourselves lucky that these statues were restored at the same time!

Then on our final day would you believe I managed to locate a brand new statue, unveiled as recently as March 2014. It is of a Bassett hound and his equally famous owner, the legendary star of the TV crime series, Colombo. Yes, amazing as it is, there is a statue of the actor Peter Falk and his doggie companion only a stones throw from the St. Margaret island bridge. It is on the corner of a street aptly named Falk Miksa utca in Budapest’s District V and which was named after a 19th century Hungarian academic, newspaper editor and politician. According to the urban legends, he was the great grandfather of Peter Falk, whose jew ancestors – as it is written in Falk’s autobiography - came from Eastern Europe.

It sounds great but the problem is that there no any evidence for this. Nevertheless the statue made by Géza Fekete, a sculptor who conveniently lives just across the road, was commissioned because of Columbo's continuing popularity on Hungarian TV.  For the quiz enthusiasts among you, what was Columbo's dog called? No idea? Well, believe it or not it was Dog. Pathetic isn't it? all those little grey cells to solve crime and he couldn't even bother to give his dog a proper name.

The King's Pooch

For centuries man's best friend has also proved popular around the corridors of the world's grandest houses and palaces. From ancient times members of many royal households have lived alongside dogs of all shapes and sizes. 

Many were regarded as high-status symbols. For example, in Imperial China the Emperor was the only person allowed to own a PEKINESE and the death penalty awaited anyone foolish enough to try and steal one. An ancient breed they can be traced back to the Han Dynasty 206 BC - 220 AD. 'Lion dogs,' as they were known, were kept in great numbers at the courts but only the finest were allowed into the Emperor's private chambers. It was only after 1860 that this breed emerged in Europe

 Similarly in Tibet only the highest dignitaries in the land were permitted to own certain breeds. The LHASA APSO is believed to be one of the world's oldest breeds possibly dating as far back as 800BC. Developed from the Tibetan Terrier and the Tibetan Spaniel they were bred exclusively at monasteries and only rarely permitted to leave the country. A few were given away as special gifts, usually to other royalty, and were always male so that reproduction of the species remained under Tibetan control. As in China with the pekinese the LHASA APSO were revered as lions. They provided protection for Buddha and guarded monastic treasures, participating in religious ceremonies whilst enthroned on silk cushions. 

The SALUKI was considered "the royal dog of Egypt". In ancient Egypt, their bodies were sometimes mummified alongside their royal owners. The Saluki is a 'sight hound,'  is very fast with a reputation as a strong hunter capable of taking down prey like gazelles.

The BICHON FRISE was re-introduced to Europe from the Canary Islands in the 14th century and by the 16th century they became fashionable at the French and other royal courts like several of the toy breeds. 

Although the BRUSSELS GRIFFON were first described in medieval french writings they were a favourite of the Belgian royal family. The late Queen Astrid loved these little dogs which almost became extinct after the First World War but because of royal support regained popularity in the 1930s.

Already well-established in other European courts, before being brought into England in the late 1500s, CAVALIER "KING CHARLES" SPANIELS reached the height of popularity with Charles II.  However, Elizabeth 1 and Mary Queen of Scots had also kept them and just before her execution at Fotheringay Castle in 1587 one dog, hidden under Mary's skirts, was not discovered by the executioner until after her death. As well as companions they were known for their tenacity and sporting ability. The first Duke of Marlborough developed some of the larger sporting dogs and it is from these the BLENHEIM spaniel evolved.

The PUG became extremely popular in Victorian times yet again many european royals had been championing the breed for years. Their patrons included Henry II of France, Marie Antoinette and The Empress Josephine. Originally from the Orient they were brought to the West by merchants trading with China. It is thought that the breed was introduced into Great Britain by William III and Queen Mary when they ruled this country in 1689. George III's wife kept pugs of german origin. Queen Victoria, an avid dog lover, had a particular favourite named Bully, a fawn dog, which was a present from Prince Albert. In the mid-twentieth century they found favour again with the Duke and Duchess of Windsor.

Some royal pets have even merited their own portraits in various palace collections. When Queen Victoria’s COLLIE, Noble, died at Balmoral in 1887, he was buried in the grounds of the castle and given his own gravestone, which read:

'Noble by name by nature noble too

Faithful companion sympathetic true

His remains are interred here.'

Caesar, a WIRE FOX TERRIER was a devoted companion to Edward VII. He was allowed to sleep on a chair next to the King’s bed and even wore a collar that read “I am Caesar.  I belong to the King”.  After King Edward VII’s death in 1910, Caesar attended the funeral and walked in the procession ahead of nine Kings and several other heads of state.

The current Queen is, of course, associated with the CORGI. The breed was introduced to the Royal Family by her father, King George VI, in 1933 when he bought a Corgi called Dookie. The animal proved popular with both princesses and soon a second Corgi was acquired called Jane who had puppies, two of which, Crackers and Carol, were kept.

For her eighteenth birthday, The Queen was given a Corgi named Susan from whom numerous successive dogs were bred. Some Corgis were mated with dachshunds (most notably Pipkin, who belonged to Princess Margaret) to create ‘Dorgis’. At present, The Queen owns two Corgis: Willow and Holly and two Dorgis: Candy and Vulcan.

As far as other royals are concerned Prince Charles and the Duchess of Cornwall own several JACK RUSSELL TERRIERS including the Prince's favourite, "Tigga" 

Princess Anne has owned a string of BULL TERRIERS although a couple of them have, over the years, attracted notoriety in the press for unwarranted attacks on other dogs. 

The latest royal pooch to hit the headlines belongs to the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge and is Lupo, a black COCKER SPANIEL. He was adopted by the couple just before Christmas 2011 from a litter allegedly born to the Middleton family dog, Ella.  The dog replaced a black LABRADOR named Widgeon, who was given to Prince William by his mother Diana, Princess of Wales, shortly before her death in 1997. 

Lupo also achieved some notoriety recently when a story in one newspaper revealed that Lupo had eaten a pair  of pearl earrings given to the Duchess by Prince William. However, this rumour was swiftly quashed by a royal spokesman so it seems Lupo's reputation is safe: for the moment at least.