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.

Royal Flush

I’ll tell yer about Kings of England 

Along with a handful of Queens 

And, who followed who, in each century

All claiming blue blood in their genes.

The French sent the first Bill in 1066

After skirmish near old Hastings Town.

Next William Rufus, then Henry the first

Afore Stephen fought Maud, for the crown.

Now Henry Plantagenet, can you imagine it , 

Found himself next chap in line.

Next Richard the Lionheart, lacklander John

Then Henry the 3rd, who was nine.

Edward the First was the ‘hammer of scots.’

Edward Two just brought chaos and hassle

And noat more was heard from Edward the Third

After trip down to old Berkeley Castle.

Richard the Second took crown for a while

But was frankly a bit of a louse.

So got overthrown by Henry the Fourth, 

The first of the Lancaster house. 

Henry Five and then Six,  both entered the mix 

As the War of the Roses began.

From York in the north, came Edward the Fourth 

And he was a very tall man.

His sons were both princes in London’s white tower,

The elder became Edward Five.

But sadly he wasn’t around very long,

‘cos folks didn’t want him alive.

For hundreds of years they blamed Uncle Dick

Or Richard the Third as he’s known.

But Henry the Seventh ’s more likely the rogue

Who helped all them Tudors claim throne.

Now Henry the Eighth, that’s the bloke with six wives,

Though none were much help with the chores.

So he ranted and raved on for 38 years

Wouldn’t you with six mother-in-laws?

His nine year-old son became Edward the Sixth 

Soon followed by Mary, his daughter.

Then after her death came Queen ‘lizabeth 

Who ruled as her father had taught her.

Then Stuarts took over in 1603, 

With James , who was really a scot.

He nearly went bang in 1605 

All thanks to the gunpowder plot.

The next king was Charles, well he soon got the chop, 

After roundheads and Cromwell barged in.

Charles the Second felt merry and sometimes poor Nell

‘specially when tanked-up on gin.

The second King James lasted only three years 

Then together reigned William and Mary 

Queen Anne was the monarch with cabriole legs

Although I believe one was hairy!

Hanoverian George was offered the crown 

Though his English was said to be bad

A second George followed and later a third

Whose fifteen kids sent him quite mad.

With his Dad ‘off his trolley’ they brought in Prince George

And for nine years we had us a Regency

At his pad, down in Brighton, he’d party ‘till dawn

So hardly a picture of decency.

In spite of the beers, George the fourth had ten years

Then William the fourth became king.

But “Sailor Bill” died, without any brood

And that proved a most awk’ard thing.

His niece became queen, at the age of eighteen

So started the reign of Victoria. 

Prince Albert she wed, then the poor chap dropped dead 

Thus ending her chance of euphoria.

With the house of Hanover, decidedly over

A new royal household was found

So the throne went on offer, to SaxeCoberg-Gotha

When Edward the Seventh was crowned

Dislike of the Kaiser was rife in the war

So a new ‘Windsor’ house was created.

After Mary of Teck said, “I’ll marry, by heck.”

And the heir to the throne was elated.

So George took the throne when his father, Ted, died

And the fifth king to have such a name

But when Edward the Eighth was offered his chance

A crisis occurred, such a shame!

It just wasn’t his thing, for he wanted a fling 

With a woman who couldn’t be queen.

He soon abdicated, the throne was vacated 

So George the Sixth entered the scene.

Throughout the war King George held the throne

Until in the fifties he died

Since then we’ve had Lizzie who keeps very busy

With Philip, her Prince, by her side.

For sixty odd years she’s remained at the helm,

Whilst Charles calmly waits with his gal.

Yet Liz knows Camilla quite fancies her villa

Which stands at the end of the Mall.

Call the District Nurse

  Recently there have been a couple of television dramas exploring the lives of doctors and nurses working out in the community and these have reminded me of the numerous stories and anecdotes that my mother would tell of her experiences as a district nurse working along the edge of the Lincolnshire fens in the 1960s and 70s.

Nurse Jessie Temple (formerly Shaw) started her time on district work just when my brother and I had started at primary school. She was approached by a couple of local GPs to see if she would like to return to nursing, a career she had taken up during the Second World War. Before going off to study nursing she had worked on the family farm at East Keal for a time. She had tried out a few other jobs; acting as nanny to a couple of children at Langton Hall, cycling to work at a laundry at Skegness. She had not really enjoyed working on the land and talking to a couple of cousins, who had also chosen to train as a nurses, she found herself lodging with an aunt and uncle in Wisbech whilst she completed her training at the North Cambridgeshire Hospital. After marriage in the early fifties and a gap of 10 or so years she found it quite a challenge to pick up the reins of nursing again. However, she found working in the community was very different from working as one of a team in a hospital ward. Nevertheless, I think she was soon in her stride and remained on the district, in one capacity or another, until she retired in her late sixties.

 The job brought her up against many of the people with whom she had grown up; the farmers and folk who made their living from the land. She was less impressed by wealthy townies who had bought up country cottages only to ‘gut’ them and turn them into characterless weekend retreats. When she started out we didn’t own our own phone so every evening about a quarter to six she would stand in the telephone box which stood about fifty yards along the road waiting for the call telling her who required a visit the following day. It sounds odd but it was about two years before the health authority agreed to install a phone in our house. Oddly enough we were given a 2-party line so every time we needed the phone we had to press a button to take over the line. Curiously she was only supposed to use the phone for the first 30 minutes in every hour before our opposite number had precedence. As before the senior district nurse, Nurse Taylor, who lived within the grounds of Tattershall Castle, would ring daily to dole out patients to the three or four nurses under her charge. I recall in the mid sixties a Nurse Jackson covered the Woodhall Spa stretch and later on Nurse Mitchell, Nurse Eyre and my mother were brought in to share the increased work-load. My mother was not a midwife so she usually attended geriatric cases and long-term patients. The geographical area covered by my mother’s team was vast.  It stretched from Anton’s Gowt in the south (just outside Boston) to Horncastle and from Burgh le Marsh near Skegness to Billinghay just over the River Witham in the west. During the summer holidays I would travel with her on occasions reading my comic or listening to the radio whilst she visited some remote farm cottage out in the fen.

 On one occasion however I found myself in a right mess when, having fiddled with the car’s ignition, I caused the car to burst into life and it shot like a ferret after a rabbit right across a gravelled yard and through a low privet hedge. Although dramatic amazingly my escapade did little serious damage to both car and garden although my mother was none too pleased.

 As district nurse she visited some quaint places and met dozens of interesting characters over the years.

One lady she nursed, a member of the Lilley family, had been born and brought up in Teapot Hall, a unique, most curious example of vernacular cottage construction that stood just outside Dalderby off the Horncastle road. It was supposed to have been owned at one time by a retired captain of a tea clipper- hence its name. It was a timber-framed, thatched building shaped a bit like a section of Toblerone -  a prism in fact. Sadly it stood empty by the time of the Second world war and was burnt down in a fire in 1945 thought to have been started by some airmen celebrating the end of the war. The lady explained to my mother that at one time there were eight children living in the cottage with an outside privy (also thatched) and water only available from a pump outside the back door.

 Another patient was a former gamekeeper from Revesby Abbey who, at the time, still lived on the estate. He regaled mother with tales about shooting parties and grand dinners at the abbey when he was a young lad. Before the war his mother had worked in the kitchens of the great house and he would earn sixpence for assisting the chauffeurs polishing the cars of all the guests whilst visiting the Hall. He told her one story about a young lad from a local farm who was normally paid a few shillings to assist in ‘beating the bushes’ when visitors to the hall were invited to join a shooting party on nearby land. The lad was unlucky enough to get sprayed with shot on one occasion by one of the house-guests.  Fortunately he wasn’t badly hurt and as consolation for his injuries received a silver watch and chain from the guilty party.

Another of her patients was a descendent of George Jennings, one of the pioneers of the flush lavatory. I remember her telling me they still had a toilet and cistern decorated in blue peonies which they were still using every day in the 1970s.

After she retired she was still involved in caring when she joined the ranks of The Marie Curie and Macmillan nurses looking after terminally ill in the local community. She was also employed doing something that at the time I felt quite uneasy about; she would go out, often in the middle of the night, to assist the local undertakers, J.W. Sivill, in the laying out of the deceased. Only now can I look back and appreciate how hard she worked and how dedicated she was to serving her patients.

The Spaniel and the Mushroom Soup

 A lady was planning a supper party at her home for some close friends. She was a bit of a society snob and always liked to try and impress her dinner guests with the best locally sourced ingredients. She employed a cook who had a reputation for good, home-made rural fare. Unfortunately, on the day of the dinner, the cook was suddenly taken ill and couldn’t prepare the meal. The hostess knew that the maid was too inexperienced to be entrusted with preparing an impressive supper for her guests, so she decided she would have to prepare it herself.  She chose to serve a simple collation of the finest cold meats and cheese from the larder but thought she would also make a warming soup using a selection of mushrooms that she had found and picked in the adjacent woods whilst out walking with her pet spaniel . The maid queried this idea saying that Cook had often warned her that there were, “Many poisonous mushrooms in the woods that look just like the edible ones and perhaps Madam should reconsider serving wild mushroom soup.”

Madam, however, was having none of this and said she had made sure that the mushrooms she had picked were perfectly safe as she had given several pieces of the mushroom to the dog.

When the guests arrived she told them about the soup she had prepared and her way of testing the mushrooms. She went on to assure them that the dog was feeling fit and well. Supper went off very smoothly but a few moments after the dinner the maid suddenly ran screaming Into the dining room and shouted,

“Oh Madam, the dog is dead!”

The maid was instructed to ring for a couple of ambulances and after they arrived all the guests and the hostess were rushed to the A and E unit at the local hospital. After arriving at the hospital they all had their stomachs pumped using a nasogastric tube and a wash of activated charcoal, which was administered to prevent the absorption of any mushroom toxins. In addition, a strong bowel preparation of Colyte and magnesium citrate was given to all those who had partaken of the soup.

After a couple of hours the guests, feeling somewhat drained and weary, returned to the house of their hostess. The hostess ordered the maid to bring all her guests some strong coffee and brandy. When she returned with the drinks the maid said, ”Oh! by the way, the lorry driver is here to talk to madam.”

 Her hostess turned to the maid and asked, “What Lorry driver?”

The maid replied, “ The one who ran over the dog!”

Dog in a Suitcase

 About a year ago I recounted a true story about the pitfalls of owning a robotic floor cleaner in a house with a dog. It was only recently that I had occasion to meet up again with the person who had told me this story, my G.P. As I departed his surgery I happened to remark that if he had any more amusing dog stories he should let me know. Imagine my surprise when the next day, after my wife nipped into the surgery for a repeat prescription, the doctor called her in to recount the following rather sad doggy tale he’d been told.

A close friend of my GP had, after retiring as a doctor, been living abroad for several years in a small flat within an apartment building in Rumania. She was friends with a British couple in a village nearby whom she regularly visited. They owned an affectionate bulldog called Dexter, to whom she was equally devoted. Whenever her friends went abroad on holiday or came back to visit family in the UK she would dog-sit Dexter in their home. But as both Dexter and his minder got a little older and less agile Dexter started to spend the time when his owners were away staying in the lady doctor’s own flat.  Pets were not really permitted in the apartment block but as Dexter was docile, quite arthritic and not able to walk far, the doctor was able to accommodate Dexter without too much trouble and this arrangement suited both parties. As Dexter got frailer his owners were understandably more reluctant to leave him. Unfortunately, a family crisis one summer meant they needed to come over to the UK for several weeks and so arrangements were hastily made to leave Dexter with their friend. Sadly, whilst they were away, Dexter, aged 18, passed away peacefully. Dexter’s death was not only a sad event but left the doctor in something of a dilemma.  Being summer she urgently needed to dispose of the dog’s body in both a discrete and compassionate manner. There was no garden attached to her flat and she knew her friends had talked about their intention of having Dexter buried in their garden under an apple tree. She decided to break the news of Dexter’s death in a letter to her friends back in the UK but did not say anything else other that she was making arrangements to have Dexter buried in their garden. She went to their home and getting a spade from the toolshed attempted to dig a hole under the apple tree. Almost immediately she realized that this was not going to manage this chore on her own. Luckily Her friends employed a local man once a week to work In the garden and he who was able to pop round later that day to complete the digging of the hole.

She decided she would have to take Dexter there herself but as discretely as possible. In order to get him out of the flat she decided the only way she could do this was by putting his body in a large brown suitcase she kept on top of a wardrobe. As a doctor she coped with this chore with less difficulty than many others might have done. Getting the suitcase out of the apartment prooved more problematic as the lift in her apartment block was not working and she found herself having to lug the heavy suitcase down four flights of stairs.

She was quite relieved therefore, when a young man appeared in the stairwell and she decided to ask for his assistance. As he carried the suitcase for her, he remarked that it was very heavy and asked what she had inside. To avoid the embarrassment of explaining the true contents, she said that the suitcase contained an old computer and some software. At this the man suddenly gathered up the suitcase and ran off with it, out of the building  and down the road never to be seen again. The woman was left dumbfounded when she realized what had happened and wondered how she was she going to break the news to Dexter’s owners.  She decided, rightly or wrongly, that losing their beloved pet would be upsetting enough never mind having to explain that his body had been stolen. She decided that the best thing she could do was to find another old suitcase which she put in the bottom of the grave filled with some old magazines and books so that when the gardener popped back to fill in the hole he wouldnt inadvertently discover an empty suitcase where there should be a full one. Everything went to plan and not long after they returned from their trip all three friends gathered beneath the apple tree to say their farewells to Dexter. As far as my GP knew his old friend never let on what had really happened to Dexter. We can only imagine the shock that the suitcase thief got when he came to open the suitcase to examine his ill-gotten gains.

The Ballad of John Smith and Pocahontas

Some ‘ud say to be called Smith is rather boring

And what is more, to then be christened John

But a chap with such a name was destined for great fame

An explorer and a hero, all in one.

Just a farmer’s son from Willoughby near Alford

For many years he sailed the Spanish main

Amassed a fortune soldiering in Turkey

Then adventure beckoned westwards once again.

Plans to colonise Virginia for profit

Brought Captain Smith to land at Chesapeake

Soon settling in the spot we know as Jamestown

That grew along the shores beyond the creek.

Yet times were tough and many folks were starving

Apart from this they’d neighbour trouble too,

Some Indians of Powhatan were bruising for a fight

They  weren’t too fond of anybody new.

Now Captain Smith then tried his best to calm things

He went to have a parley with the chief.

But some redskin with a knife tried to finish off his life

And poor John lay there shaking like a leaf.

Yet one amongst the natives gathered round him

The daughter of the Chief, was most concerned.

She threw herself across his shakin’ body

As John Smith said, “I think me luck has turned.”

Now the maiden who had saved him, Pocahontas

Had kept him from a scalpin’ to be sure.

Soon the rumours started spreading that there soon could be a wedding

And together they would be for evermore.

But I tell you sommat now, that’s noat but rubbish

And Disney, they’re the folks we have to blame

For some other fella married Pocahontas

A tobacco planter, Thomas Wolfe 'is name.

So you cant believe the things you see at ‘pictures

Pocahontas  simply wasn’t  John Smith’s date

For starters when they met she was eleven

And Captain Smith, were pushing twenty-eight!

The Werewolf of Dogdyke

Ev you ‘eard o’ the Werewolf o’ Dogdyke?
It’ll be news to you, I’ve noa doubt.
A creature of legend you’re thinking
And noat to get fretted about.

Now many folk gab about werewolves.
‘It’s mere superstition,’ they say
But I knowed of an ode boy who seen one,
I’ll tell you his tale, if I may.

Way back in the twenties it ‘appened
This scientist feller, called Jones
Was delvin’ in Langrick Fen peat bog
When he dug up some very queer bones.

He carried ‘em back to his kitchin
And scrubbed ‘em to see what he’d found.
The skeleton looked pretty human
But the ‘ead was the skull of an ‘ound!

It rattled t’ode chap for a moment
He thought that it must be a hoax.
P’raps travelling fair-foak had left it
To put the wind up local folks

He was supping the dregs of his Horlicks
Whilst sorting the bones on the floor.
Summats out on the causey was scratting
And lifting the sneck o’ the door.


The noise from the causey alarmed ‘im
What on earth could be maakin’ the din?
He decided to peer through the winder
To see who was trying to git in.

For there i’ the glow of the moonlight
A glimpse o’ a figure he caught
A creature i’ black and all crooked
‘Ahh, that’ll be parson,’ he thought.

Then a ‘ideous face manifested,
The face o’ some creature from hell.
Jones ran to the petty and bolted the door
I suspect ‘e was feeling unwell.

Whilst the snarling and clawing continued
He lay back far-weltered and frit.
He weren’t gonna argle wi’ werewolf
‘e’d leave him to cool down a bit.

When dawn came Jones felt a bit better
He listened for sound o’ the beast.
“Perhaps he’s calmed down and gone home now”
Though he wasn’t convinced in the least

Then he stopped and he started to think why
The beast was in such a bad mood.
P’raps werewolf was just a bit hungry
And all that he wanted was food.


He decided to make ‘im some breakfast
Some cheese and plum loaf  ‘ud be fine
If only he’d been there last Sunday
He might ev enjoyed stuffed chine

He unbolted the door of the lavvy
Wi’ his stick he approached kitchin door
Now what if the beast were still in there
If he was, he ‘ud give him what for.

With ‘is hand on the sneck he just waited
And then in he bu’st at a pace
But there wasn’t noa beast to be found there
Just glass, smithered all ower the place.

I can’t say ‘e felt disappointed
That the beast had returned whence ‘ed came
But his paintwork ‘ud need touching up now
And ‘e’d only got hissen to blame.

So straightway he gathered the bones up
And returnin’ ‘em back to the fen
He hoped that the beast ‘ud forgive him
And not damage his paintwork agen.

So if iver you’re passing through Dogdyke
And walking your dog on your own
Doan’t let ‘im run off in the peat bog
He might cum on back wi’ a bone!

The above is my attempt at Lincolnshire dialect to retell a tale told to me some forty years ago by Mrs Rudkin of Toynton.

Ethel H Rudkin (1893-1985)

Mrs Rudkin, was a respected local historian well known during the last century throughout the length and breadth of Lincolnshire. Born Ethel Hutchinson in Willoughton, she was a dedicated collector of Lincolnshire ephemera. She was active not only in the fields of local history but in archaeology, local traditions, music, folk-lore, and dialect. From the age of 12 she kept a detailed diary which she continued to write up until her death at the age of 92.

The first part of her diary to be published recounted her early life in Willoughton where she lived with her family.  There was a gap during the first world war when in 1915 she married George Rudkin of  Folkingham. Then sometime after he died in the influenza epidemic of 1918 she became housekeeper for his brother and helped to run the family farm. Her own house at Willoughton became a virtual museum, a place of pilgrimage for many researchers, packed with artefacts, farm implements, and memorabilia, as well as books and manuscripts. Several farm wagons and other agricultural vehicles that she had rescued, but which she had no room for, were stored in a variety of farm buildings belonging to different friends in nearby villages. Her main folklore collecting, in the 1920s and 1930s, was made directly from the people of the villages up and down the county and covered a broad range of topics. In 1927 she helped C.W. Phillips in revising the ancient monuments for the Ordnance Survey maps containing snippets of local information, conversations, historical facts and accounts of interesting journeys in her Bull-nosed Morris.

A string of articles published in the Folklore Society's journal included descriptions of many local customs which were celebrated at different times of the year in villages throughout  Lincolnshire. Much of her own research involved beliefs in witches and devils, stone-lore, and over a dozen ‘Black Dog’ stories one of which was that of the hound/werewolf of Dogdyke. She spent little of her long life away from her native Lincolnshire yet although she wrote many papers and contributed articles to a variety of magazines yet with little recognition or encouragement. She only wrote one book, Lincolnshire Folklore. This was published at her own expense in 1936.

She wrote in the second volume of her diary, which covered just one year, 1932 It contained tales of many Lincolnshire characters she’d encountered. One story is of her visit to the hamlet of Scredington where she met an old lady, Mrs Carter, who still dressed in traditional Lincolnshire Victorian style and could neither read nor write. She wrote an account of a visit to the deserted village of Gainsthorpe near Hibaldstow and retold the legend of Byard's Leap. She made several trips to healing wells and springs in north Lincolnshire, many of which in the years just before the Second World War still displayed rags and bandages on the bushes nearby as tokens from those who claimed to have been cured.

In later life Mrs Rudkin moved to a small cottage in Toynton All Saints where she continued her digging and archaeological studies for many years with the help of her friend and companion, Lucy Arliss. After building a larger bungalow to accommodate more relics she continued her researches, working on the site of the nearby manor of Eresby and the brickworks at East Keal. It must have been during in the early 1960s when I was introduced to her by my aunt and uncle (Fred and Jean Shaw) who at that time owned Brickfields Farm at East Keal and which had previously been my mother’s childhood home.

 

 

The Paints bright-the future's orange

 During to the Paralympics, one of the students at the special school where I work, a keen table tennis player with hemiplegia, asked me which was my Paralympic sport. I explained that the Paralympics were for people who had some form of disability and I wouldn’t be able to take part as I didn’t have a disability. He looked puzzled and then said, “You have sir, you’re colour blind.” Although I laughed at the idea he was evidently quite serious and thought such a condition was a definite disability. We then discussed what sort of sporting event people with colour blindness might compete in; striking matching coloured bulbs flashing on a light-wall perhaps. I suggested stepping on a predefined sequence of colour-coded floor-tiles that light up like those you found in some discotheques in the 70s; he had no idea what I was talking about.

Over the years it has amused numerous students when I have coloured leaves brown or the sea-water purple. Some imagine I see things only in black and white or ask me such questions as what colour is the grass? When I say, “Green of course” the response I get is usually, “Well you’re not colour blind then.” It’s as if I was trying to stir up some compassion by posing as a victim of colour blindness. Describing colour blindness to someone who isn’t is pretty difficult. It was only after I picked up a copy of “Ishihara’s Tests for Colour Blindness” in a second hand book shop that my own kids finally realised the extent of my disability. It’s all a question of shading and context. In certain lights certain shades of brown, red, green, blue and purple prove hard to distinguish. My wife still likes to tease me about some trousers I once bought, before we were married, which I thought were a subtle beige cheque but which she tells me were mustard and made me look like Rupert Bear. I cannot say it is a handicap but it does raise problems. Electrical wiring can be tricky and clothes remain a bit of a dodgy area in relation to any attempt at coordination. My own children have remarked on occasions, “Did you put those things on together or has mum had to sort you out.” Choosing and matching items in the décor around the home has never been easy for me which brings me to the subject of DIY. Leaving colour blindness to one side I have never been adept at DIY. Drilling holes normally results in a series of test bores before one is achieved that is of the right size and diameter to fit the screw and raw-plug. Shelves usually have a habit of sloping at a jaunty angle. Even furniture from a well-known Swedish superstore that’s all about clean, straight lines in my hands ends up looking rather less than chique when I have constructed them. Once I managed to mank pieces together in such a way that empty screw holes remained visible on the exterior when none should have been showing; and my Billy bookcase looked more like a Kevin. My wife and I do share painting tasks; she doing everything up to a height of 5ft 2 and me using all of my 6ft 4inches to finish off everything above her height. This normally gets us over any difficulty with colour matching. However recently I came unstuck.

  We own a small chalet about 4 miles in from the Norfolk coast. Our family refer to it as the ‘shack’ so you may infer it is nothing grand, more like a garden shed really. It stands with others on a small holiday park out in the marshes surrounded by willow trees. About fifty years old it is constructed of what I believe is called shiplap; lengths of planed, overlapping timber strips. Waterproofing is essential in any location so near the North Sea and this is achieved using a paint treatment which also stains the timber. There is understanding on the site that the chalets are painted every 5-8 years using one of a range of 5 natural colours. These come with such names as rustic oak, forest green, autumn brown and red cedar. Having discovered an old can in the chalet labelled ‘red cedar’ we assumed that this was the colour used by the previous owners.



So after nearly ten years without painting we were obliged to visit our local hardware store to buy a new supply of preservative. It wasn’t an easy task as there were dozens of products to choose from. After some close scrutiny of the colour chart my wife plumped for a can of ‘Rich cedar’ as the one she thought resembled closest that used previously.

 

Chalet Before 'Orange' upgrade


I was a little nervous at being sent to carry out the repainting mission on my own.  I was doubly unsure after opening the tin and observing the bright orange liquid within. I then thought, ‘No its your colour blindness it must be brown.’ I painted a panel about two feet wide on the rear wall of the chalet and then paused. It still looked orange. I was losing confidence so I decided I needed a second opinion. I went and knocked at the open door of a chalet nearby. An old boy of around seventy emerged and I asked him if he could spare a moment to help me out of a dilemma.  I asked him to glance over my handiwork and reassure me that what I was using was the right colour of wood preserver. He followed me to the rear of our chalet during which time he informed me that he was a retired painter and decorator; I knew I had the right chap for the job. Around the back of our chalet the professional took a sharp intake of breath before saying, “Oo-yer that’s a bit orangey.” My heart sank. I showed him the tin and even fetched the empty can from out of the rubbish bin. He agreed that although the names of the shades were similar my paint was distinctly more orange than that which had gone on before. He then launched into a lecture about burnt sienna and ferric oxides which lost me. We decided that I might do better taking a sliver of painted wood showing the original colour down to the local ironmongers’ to see if they had any alternative timber stain. I was pretty peeved having already splashed out on one expensive tin of stain but decided it was the only option. My visit to the ironmongers’ proved a little confusing as they had another range of fancy-named products; American walnut, harvest brown etc. Using the wood sliver I’d taken we found one that seemed to match. Fortunately the shopkeeper told me I could return the product unopened if I decided it wasn’t right.

Returning to the chalet I was confused. The patch of timber wall I had painted two hours earlier was now darkening. My expert from the chalet next door was equally puzzled how the orange seemed to be ‘fading back.’ What was I to do? I decided to plough on with the original treatment. But things did not get easier. I continued painting whilst sensing the perplexed glances of the odd passer-by. This was all right as no one commented until a precocious child came around the corner holding a football, he looked up at me and without hesitation said, “Why are you doing it orange?”

I retorted, “It’s rich cedar, but it’s not dry yet.”

“Cedar’s a tree isn’t it, is it an orange tree?”

“No, It’s not orange it’s got a magic ingredient in it that makes it go brown when it dries.”

“Oh” said the brat and vanished.  In response to a, “How are things going with the painting?” text message from the wife I sent a reply to say all was fine and I’d finished one side of the chalet. I decided against sending a photograph.

After a night’s sleep I rose early to see if the colour had subsided. It wasn’t as bright anymore but there was still a definite glow to the newly painted rear wall. I proceeded to paint the front wall but had only been at it twenty minutes when the first group of local critics hove into view. Comments included, “Gosh that’s bright you’ve been tangoed….well that should make it stand out among the rest …isn’t that the colour they use on the Happisburgh lighthouse?” I simply smiled. I was anxious to finish so that the sun could do its work drying out the timbers thereby allowing the orange paint to ‘fade back’ to a warm brown. I returned the unopened can of timber paint to the local ironmongers, they were very understanding and nipped into a local café to have an all-day breakfast as my reward for a job well done. Who should come into the café but the decorating expert neighbour from the other chalet plus wife. “See you stuck with the orangey stuff then.” I smiled and explained that I thought it would probably be all right when it dried. Whilst he went off to the counter to place his order his wife turned to me and made her first and only contribution to the conversation. “It looks fine, me duck, I shouldn’t take too much notice of what he says anyway, he’s a bit coloured blind!

The Princess, the Railway and the Donkey

Recently I heard a most curious tale about a polish princess, a railway crossing and a donkey. No, it’s not a joke but a true story dating back some 50 years. By the banks of the river Stour in the hamlet of Rodbridge there stood a railway crossing. In the early sixties the small white cottage nearby was occupied by a crossing keeper with a pretty unique history. She was a middle-aged polish émigré but what was unusual was that she was descended from royalty. Her name was Her Royal Highness Princess Madelein von Dembinska. Since the end of the First World War her family had been exiled but her mother had continued to fight to try and reclaim property in their homeland of Poland. Unfortunately they had not succeeded in their fight and when their mother died the the princess and her brother (Prince Eric) and sister had fallen on hard times and had been forced to take up employment in order to live. The princess was a well known local character in the villages around the railway crossing and she got on well with her neighbours.

Until that is the day that a local farmer called at her cottage to say that one of the shafts on his donkey cart had broken and he needed to leave the donkey in the meadow adjacent to the level crossing whilst he took the cart to the local blacksmith to be mended. He wanted to know if the princess minded just keeping the donkey’s water topped up whilst he was gone. The princess agreed. A couple of days later the farmer returned to collect the donkey. He called in the crossing cottage to thank the princess. He found her in a bit of a tizzy and asked what was the matter. She told him that she had not slept well for two nights. She explained that at four the previous morning she had rushed down to open the crossing gates, her alarm had not gone off, in fact she was only alerted to the fact that the express mail train was approaching because she had been woken by the strident two tone warning siren of the train. But when the train didn’t arrive she realised she had risen an hour and a half too early. After returning to bed she went back to sleep until her alarm went at the correct time and she opened the gates. She said for the 5:30 train. The same thing had happened that morning aswell. She had been woken by the train siren in the early hours. Again she had rushed down to open the gates. The farmer commented that she was very diligent to react in such a quick and conscientious manner. But the princess explained that this time she soon realised that it was not the siren of the train that had been waking her but the donkey heehawing in a similar fashion. Consequently she was insisting the farmer removed his donkey as quickly as possible.

Paws for Thought

Over the years I have come across numerous stories from pupils that have made me chortle and not always for the right reason. A few years back I thought I ought start recording some of the real gems. Searching through them I selected a few that relate to the keeping of pets, and which I thought warranted sharing with a wider audience:

‘ My granddad has a dog called Bruce, he is very old and sometimes he has to wear a lampshade… he smells but you can’t hear it.

‘We have five dogs, two cats, two budgies, two russian hamsters, a rabbit, a lizard, a rat, three goldfish and four mice.  I want to have a stick-insect but Dad says we haven’t got the space.’

‘ Our dog is Russian she is called Olga she came from Skegness.’

‘Polo is a Jack Russell he has three legs because one of them at the back fell off when he ran into a car. He doesn’t mind now.’

 ‘Greta is our greyhound when she lies down she runs in her sleep because she thinks she is chasing rabbits.’

On occasions I have asked my students to tell me why they would like to have a dog and what sort of dog would they would prefer to own. Amongst their answers have been the following:

‘ I would like a pet with short legs because we like in a bungalow.’

I would like a dog that can play football with me when my friend can’t go out because he has lost points at school for fighting again. If he could be in goal that is best.


Topliss Family Dog Church Gresley c.1920



We had a big dog to stop bad men robbing our house….but she had a bad eye and then she died.

I would like a little dog but not one that bites me.

I like those german dogs that sound like rotten they would guard my house.

I would like a pink cat

I like the cats with squashed faces.

I like big hairy dogs that have fur that can be cut off to make brushes to paint walls. (Old English Sheepdog?)

On another occasion I asked the kids, if they were pets what would life be like for them. These are just a few ideas:

 I would like to run and chase birds but I would not kill them because I do not like eating bird.

I think it would be good to be a pet in a big house if I could sleep on a proper bed and not in the utility room with the washing machine on at night.

If it was cold and wet or snowed I would not want to go outside to do a wee and poo.

I once asked my class, why is your dog the best dog in the world? These were some of the more humorous responses.

He isn’t.

My dog is the best dog in the world because he is the best in the world.

Robbie can bite his tail and roll over hundred of times. He watches TV …and when the Simpsons is on he howls. He sometimes pukes up on the rug which is bad.

Our dog Sheba is the best dog in the world because she is part of our family and is just the same age as my brother. She is better than my brother because she doesn’t argue or break my things and is never mean.

When I spoke to my wife about collecting together these doggy tales she sought out one of her own school books in which she had recorded some of her memories of her own pet dog, Tina.

We went to see a man about buying a dog. My mum said to the man we want a dog that doesn’t smell, doesn’t shed hairs, doesn’t bark and doesn’t bite. The man said we would be best getting a goldfish. But we didn’t. We got Tina and she is a dachshund.

She is very clever and when Aunt Jane comes to see us Tina starts barking before the bus comes round the corner. She doesn’t like when the letters come in the postbox but she likes spaghetti hoops. We have to give her cat food because she makes smells when she eats dogfood.