Colin Palmer: English Channel Relay Swimmer

March 29th, 2011

Guest-blogger Colin Palmer’s blasé account of his Channel-swim preparations disguises the fact that he is a man of steel and one of the wild swimming élite – none of which could be guessed from his amiable appearance and manner. Whatever exotic location I think of to swim, I find that he has preceded me, though not if there is any risk of an ‘instant ice-cream headache’. Colin tells me that cross-Channel swimming is firmly discouraged by the French authorities, and exhausted swimmers are liable to arrest when they step ashore. Not the sort of man to be put off by foreign pettifoggery, Colin is undaunted and valiantly supporting a worthy cause.

From Soho down to Brighton I must have swum them all.

I did not realise that signing up for an English Channel Relay swim would quite take over my life in such a major way.  I haven’t quite swum in every pool, lido, river and lake between the aforementioned Soho and Brighton but it is beginning to seem like it.  Although Tadley is my default pool where I often talk swimming to Rupert, every trip away from Berkshire means scouring the internet looking for new challenges, places and people to swim with.

I am undertaking the challenge with Aspire, the Charity that works with people with spinal chord injuries, and so I have a ready body of team members (Aspire has five teams of six people doing the Channel this year) to swim with. So far our location of choice has been London Fields Lido, a hidden jewel deep in the heart of Hackney.  The fact that the lido is heated and open all year is its great appeal, but the after-swim coffee and chat at the Hoxton Beach Cafe – you will detect the irony if you have spent any time in East London – are well worth the trip into London.

The Soho link is my solitary training trip to the Oasis pool in Endell Street,Central London, more Covent Garden really but close enough to use Pete Townsend’s lyrics, and Brighton will be our weekend’s cold water acclimatisation in the sea in early May.

I have already managed some early cold water acclimatisation when joining the massed ranks of the South Wales section of the Outdoor Swimming Society (three hardy souls) last Sunday (27th March) at Caswell Bay on the Gower peninsula.  Although the calves froze on impact with the sea, after a while it became fairly comfortable. Front crawl was impossible however due to the face freezing on contact with the water, creating an instant ice cream headache.  Feeling good I saw off a couple of the experienced hands and managed a creditable 25 minutes immersion.  It was not until out of the sea and the onset of uncontrollable convulsive shivering whilst changing that I realised the wisdom of experience, as the old hands were able to chat and drink coffee in the beach side cafe whilst I shook quietly in the corner. A thirty minute drive with the heater on full blast did the trick and thawed me out before Sunday lunch and had me looking at the calendar for the next chance of a weekend swim in Wales.

This weekend I am aiming to take my first dip in the Thames,  a 1/2 mile section in Goring, one of the many stretches I hope to do in the following months (I am sure David Walliams must have overheard my plans).  Next week I am in Cluj, Rumania, and so I am working out how I can access the University’s 50-metre pool.  What is Rumanian for ‘must I wear a swim hat?’. I will be in Cologne over Easter so I have to check the temperature of the Liblar See (an old quarry) and whether or not the owner of the campsite will let me swim in her lake. She looks at me very strangely when I turn up in the middle of summer and  and so my appearance in April will lead to much wailing and gnashing of teeth.  Unfortunately my limited German, ‘ein Bier und ein Käsebrötchen mit Zwiebeln’, is of little help at such times. Later in the Summer I will have the joy of two weekends’ swimming in Dover Docks, with real Channel swimmers, before the big day in July – August.

As you can see I am looking for tips for interesting places to swim and people to swim with so if you fancy a dip, or maybe just a walk along the towpath when I am doing a section of the Thames, drop me an email. I am more than willing to share the fun.

If you are interested in helping Aspire then you can donate through my website http://www.justgiving.com/Colin-Palmer3.

The Uniqueness of Rupert Willoughby

March 14th, 2011

The uniqueness of Rupert Willoughby appears to have been short-lived.

It began on 2 September 2010 with the death of my only known namesake, Rupert A. Willoughby of Cleveland, Ohio – though apparently there have been other Rupert Willoughbys in America, including one born at Lafayette, Indiana, on 2 February 1889. The musical director of the City of Sunderland Millennium Orchestral Society, Rupert Willoughby Hanson, has otherwise been the nearest approximation to a namesake that I have ever come across. (There was an earlier Rupert Willoughby Hanson, too, appointed a Companion of the Order of the Indian Empire in 1927.)

Willoughbys are numerous in England, yet none seems ever to have borne so distinctive and euphonious a combination of names. Since the death, last year, of Cleveland Rupert, I proudly bore it alone.

All that has changed since the birth, on 23 February 2011, of Rupert James Hugh Willoughby, younger son of James and Lady Cara Willoughby (nee Boyle). James is the grandson of Lord Middleton and Cara is a daughter of the Earl of Cork and Orrery.

We belong to different tribes of Willoughbys. Their earliest-known male-line ancestor was William Willoughby of Willoughby-in-the-Marsh, Lincolnshire, in the time of Richard I. Mine was an Elizabethan yeoman, John Wilby of Colchester. ‘Wilby’ was a common variant of ‘Willoughby’: see, for example, the famous MS of the arms of the English nobility, now in the Bibliotheque de l’Arsenal in Paris, where the arms of ‘de Wylby’ depicted (second row from bottom, second from right) are those of the Lincolnshire Willoughbys. Though these arms were also borne by a George Willoughby who was living at Colchester at the same time as the yeoman John, my stock may just as easily derive from Wilby in Suffolk as from Willoughby in Lincolnshire – not to mention the Wilbys in Norfolk and Northamptonshire whence they might also have come.

As all these villages were within the Danelaw, our shared Viking ancestry is, at least, beyond reasonable doubt. The eponymous ‘Willa’ who gave his name to the ‘byr’ or ‘by’ in each of these counties was no doubt some sea-rover or ‘creeker’ who had daringly penetrated far inland, founding the homestead or single farm that had developed, over time, into a village. The movements of these settlers, throughout the British Isles, can be traced very conveniently through the place names that they left behind.

My father, Christopher, had many namesakes and was regularly confused in military circles with Brigadier Christopher Willoughby, young Rupert’s great-grand-uncle. However, it is likely to be some time before the lad is lecturing on the Bayeux Tapestry, writing books about Basingstoke or preparing his own website. I am therefore delighted to welcome him into the charmed circle of Rupert Willoughbys.

Peter Fleming and Nettlebed Church: Reflections on Mortality

February 7th, 2011

 

After lunch with my enchanting, hospitable cousins at Nettlebed, Oxfordshire, we repaired to the adjacent churchyard. I was interested to see the grave of Peter Fleming (1907-1971), one of my literary heroes, as the epitaph inscribed on the headstone, composed by Fleming himself, is a particularly fine example of this art form.

 
He travelled widely in far places:

Wrote, and was widely read.

Soldiered, saw some of danger’s faces,

Came home to Nettlebed.

 

The squire lies here, his journeys ended –

Dust, and a name on a stone –

Content, amid the lands he tended,

To keep this rendezvous alone. 

 

 R.P.F. 

 

 

Peter Fleming, who lived at Merrimoles House on his 2,000-acre estate at Nettlebed and was married to the actress Celia Johnson, is best known for his Brazilian Adventure (1933) and for accounts of his travels in Asia. His wartime service was with the Grenadier Guards and as head of ‘D’ Division in south-east Asia.

In a single sheet of instructions headed ‘R.P.F.: FUNERAL ARRANGEMENTS’, Fleming anticipates that the epitaph ‘may require a “Faculty”, and involve a skirmish with ecclesiastical bureaucracy’, but any such impediments were, happily, overcome. This is said to have been ‘the only serious poem he ever wrote’. (Duff Hart-Davis, Peter Fleming: A Biography (London, 1974), pp.400-1.)

Such panache even in death! Fleming was fortunate also to have John Piper as a near neighbour, who designed this beautiful stained-glass window (top) as his memorial in the church – and it boasts a second, even finer Piper window in memory of Dr Robin Williamson, also illustrated here (left).

The best epitaphs are those which cause one to pause and reflect on mortality. With incredible coolness and composure, Sir Walter Ralegh recast the final verses of his earlier poem, ‘Nature that washed her hands in milk’, on the eve of his execution in 1618. He is said to have left them ‘att the Gate howse’ of Whitehall Palace, as if intending them as an epitaph:


Even such is time which takes in trust

Our youth, our Joys, and all we have,

And pays us but with age and dust:

Who in the dark and silent grave

When we have wandered all our ways

Shuts up the story of our days.

And from which earth and grave and dust

The Lord shall raise me up I trust. 

Perhaps the finest example of an epitaph in the English language is that of W.B. Yeats (1865-1939) on his headstone at Drumcliffe, County Sligo –


Cast a cold eye

On life, on Death.

Horseman, pass by! 

– though these are actually the last lines of one of Yeats’s final poems, ‘Under Ben Bulben’, and were not composed specifically as an epitaph.

I have recently come across a touching epitaph from a place near Melitene (Malatya, Turkey) in the Byzantine period, when the local population were bilingual in Greek and Arabic and tolerant of each other’s religions. A stranger from what is now Iraq had settled there and had befriended a local man, possibly a doctor. When the stranger died, his friend had him buried according to Islamic custom – oriented towards Mecca – and had the following Arabic verses carved on his tomb:


I went on long journeys,

travelling hither and thither in search of wealth,

and the misfortunes of time overtook me,

as you can see.

I wish I knew whether my friends cried

when they lost me

or whether they even knew. 

(From The Book of Strangers: Medieval Arabic Graffiti on the Theme of Nostalgia, trans. Patricia Crone and Shmuel Moreh (Princeton, 2000), p.40.)

However, the pithiest epitaphs are from the classical world, the most famous of all being that by Simonides, which, according to Herodotus, was inscribed on a slab on the burial-mound of the Spartans at Thermopylae: 


Go tell them in Lacadaemon, passer-by,

That here, obedient to their word, we lie.

Macintosh versus Burberry: Basingstoke’s Greatest Contribution to World Culture?

January 18th, 2011

Mr Toad models Burberry

The Daily Telegraph has reported (13 January 2011) the ‘Stylish return of the mac’. Apparently, ‘classic Mackintosh (sic) looks from the archives’ are to be re-worked by the Japanese company that has bought the brand, and sold in up-market shops.

However, the true pioneer of the raincoat was not Charles Macintosh but Thomas Burberry, the Basingstoke draper. The rubberised ‘Macs’ were sticky, smelly, easily punctured garments, apt to melt in hot weather and to stiffen in cold – a crude concept compared to Burberry’s silky ‘Gabardine’. Burberry’s ‘Trench Coat’, originally intended for officers in the Great War, came to be considered the height of sophistication and chic, but no person of fashion has ever dreamed of wearing a ‘Mac’.
 
Burberry modelled his gabardine on the peasant smock, which in the 1870s was still a common sight in Basingstoke. The story of Burberry is told in my new book, Basingstoke and its Contribution to World Culture.

The Search for Sophy: Sophia Hayward and the Naming of Margaret River

January 18th, 2011

The remarkable story of John Garrett Bussell (1802 – 1875), one of the pioneering settlers of south-western Australia, is included in my new book, Basingstoke and its Contribution to World Culture. Margaret Whicher of Petersfield, the young cousin whom Bussell hoped to marry, was to live in Basingstoke for fifty years, in the fine house on Church Street that was later known as Queen Anne House. Jan Matthews and John Alferink of the Margaret River District Historical Society have established that, under other circumstances, the river that Bussell named after her might well have been called ‘Sophia River’. Jan here describes the quest for Sophy Hayward, Bussell’s other lost love.

Margaret River, in the south-west corner of Western Australia, is a beautiful place, named after the river on which it sits. And the river in turn was named by early settler and explorer John Garrett Bussell after Margaret Whicher of Petersfield.

The Historical Society in Margaret River was interested in researching the facts behind this naming, and have indeed found them to our satisfaction, but the story we wished to present had an untidy thread dangling and we thought it should be neatly tied off.

And there began a fascinating and – so far – totally frustrating search which we have come to think of as “Whatever Happened to Sophy Hayward?” 

Sophia (Sophy) Hayward was the childhood sweetheart and heiress whom John Garrett Bussell left behind when he sailed for Western Australia in 1829, and it was a long eight years later that he made a return trip to England with the intention of marrying his Sophy and bringing her back to Australia. It can be seen from extant letters that the reunion was less than a success and neither Sophy nor John’s friends at the time saw the match as propitious. John wrote one letter to Sophy in which he states that he no longer loves her as he once did, but is still prepared to marry her, which does rather sound like a defence against a breach-of-promise suit and hardly likely to set a maiden’s heart a-flutter. The relationship foundered.

John Garrett Bussell went on to marry Charlotte Cookworthy and sail back to Western Australia and it has to be said that Charlotte was an excellent and highly suitable wife. But Sophy?

One of the most poignant letters that we unearthed in our search was one written by Sophy to a cousin and friend, asking her if she would offer a batch of visiting cards to her friend Mrs W. Bussell. These cards Sophy had had printed, she wrote, at a time when she had expectations of becoming a Mrs Bussell and, as “Mrs Bussell” was all they had inscribed on them, they could in fact be put to use by Mrs. W. Bussell.  This was in 1841 and is the last we can find of Sophy.

Investigations have turned up the surprising information that Sophy was the illegitimate daughter of one James Morgan, himself the son of an impressively wealthy James Morgan senior, of Bath, details of whose Will we have accessed. Sophia was born in 1806 and her brother James in 1810 and their father died in 1809. It would seem that both children were born, and their father died, in India. James-the-most-Junior states his birthplace as Bengal on a later census, and information from a family tree on the web indicates that his father spent extended time in India on more than one occasion. Whether this was government, trade or military we have been unable to elicit, but we fancy not military.

When Sophia and James’ grandfather died in 1810 they were mentioned in his will (actually the will mentioned three children, but we have only found trace of two) and baldly described as the illegitimate children of his late son James. They are commended to the care of their Aunt Elizabeth Morgan who indeed cares for them until her death in 1825. Elizabeth bought Loudwater House in Rickmansworth (still existing as luxury flats; one does wonder at the thought of Sophy swapping this for a slab hut in the Australian wilderness!) and James inherited it when Elizabeth died. It is here in the 1841 census that we find Sophy living with her brother and his family. We have traced brother James to his death in London in 1875, but of Sophy there is not a single footprint.

Sweet reason would have her marrying, of course, but using the resources available to us on the web we have assiduously pursued all the likely records to prove each of them inapplicable, one after another. Ditto the deaths.

From our position, using only web resources we can, for instance, see the offspring of Sophy’s brother James and in some cases their offspring, but sleuthing opportunities dry up as records become more current. The privacy aspect is completely understandable, but oh! so frustrating!  We’ve even done some “shoot an arrow in the air” letters to people in the phonebook who we think might have the right name to be related to our Sophie and James, without luck.

We did find that one of James and Sophy’s uncles emigrated to the US with his family and we have as a result of enquiries an emailed copy of a lovely portrait of his son, who would have been James and Sophy’s cousin, of course.  Close, but no cigar. Actually it’s hardly close even, but it’s amazing how excited you can get at the remotest of relationships! We did fantasise that Sophy may have moved to America with her uncle, but can’t find anything that would confirm this.

One of the most intriguing aspects of the story we’re researching here is that Sophy and James are openly admitted to be illegitimate and one would have thought that a family of such obvious substance as the Morgans would move in social strata that concealed rather than revealed these things? We may be well out of touch here with the mores of the time and situation, but it does seem to us that there might well be extenuating circumstances to their illegitimacy. We’ve been unable to trace anything like a birth registration for either of them in India and are completely, completely in the dark as to the identity and situation of their mother.

Yes, this was just a loose end to be followed up and tied off. It’s been over a year of sleuthing so far but we’re not giving up…

Bring on the Wall!

January 13th, 2011

I am delighted that my letter of 17 February 2010 to the Daily Telegraph has been included in Iain Hollingshead’s compendium, I Could Go On. As the original letter has been severely pruned, I am taking the opportunity to publish it in its entirety for the amusement of my loyal readers.

They will recall that the new ‘scanner’ reveals nude images of travellers. These are so graphic and detailed that examples have had to be ‘pixillated’ before publication in the media.

Sir,
 
If the new airport body scanners are intrusive (report, 16 February), why not issue all passengers with Lycra body suits like those worn on television’s Bring on the Wall?
 
Thus attired, ‘celebrity’ contestants are challenged to avoid being tipped into a pool by a polystyrene screen. Nothing in these outfits is concealed or, indeed, left to the imagination.
 
Passengers unwilling to wear them would have to submit to the scan.
 
Yours faithfully,
 
Rupert Willoughby
 
 
I cannot understand why my suggestion has not already been taken up by the airport authorities.
 
For details of I Could Go On, visit
 

A notable anniversary: ‘The Hill’ by Rupert Brooke

December 30th, 2010

Re-reading this poem, I noticed that it was written precisely a hundred years ago, in December 1910. It wears remarkably well. I particularly relish the Swinburnian lines, ‘We shall go down with unreluctant tread/Rose-crowned into the darkness’. Brooke was to do so in April 1915.

Breathless, we flung us on the windy hill,

Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass.

You said, ‘Through glory and ecstasy we pass;

Wind, sun, and earth remain, the birds sing still,

When we are old, are old …’ ‘And when we die

All’s over that is ours; and life burns on

Through other lovers, other lips,’ said I,

‘Heart of my heart, our heaven is now, is won!’

‘We are Earth’s best, that learnt her lesson here.

Life is our cry. We have kept the faith!’ we said;

‘We shall go down with unreluctant tread

Rose-crowned into the darkness!’ … Proud we were,

And laughed, that had such brave true things to say.

– And then you suddenly cried, and turned away.

Adam’s Wild Swim to Holy Island

November 23rd, 2010

Adam Rattray, the daring adventurer and wild swimmer, resolved, with two companions, to match Robson Green’s recent achievement in swimming the icy waters between the Northumbrian mainland and the Holy Island of Lindisfarne.

Both men chose to disregard the conventional means of access to the island – the causeway of which Sir Walter Scott writes, where

‘Twice a day the waves efface

Of staves and sandalled feet the trace’

– but Green is a tough Northumbrian and Adam half a Viking, descended, no doubt, from some of the fierce marauders who sacked Lindisfarne Priory in 793 and again in 875. According to the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, the earlier sack was presaged by ‘whirlwinds, lightning storms and fiery dragons seen in the sky’. The seas were hardly enticing for Adam’s visit – in September 2010 – but at least the dragons stayed away. Here is his typically modest account of the feat:

‘It was a little rough. Force 5-7 winds do horrible things to the North Sea so we changed the time and angle of the crossing. Dave (one of our party) drove four hours on the morning despite a 3 a.m. text from me that told him there was no chance that we would be able to swim (the wind was howling, and the coastguard irritated). When we finally started swimming it was actually not too difficult – we had seals to accompany us – but I had foolishly smeared vaseline over my hands and face; this then got onto my goggles so I swam in a greasy mist with little idea where I was going. Reaching the shore line was a relief and we raised over £600 for charity.

Wish-list of domestic accessories

November 13th, 2010

A magnificent library with two rare volumes from Corfe Castle and a display of its keys …

A quirky loo …

A politically-incorrect pot stand …

Leather wall-hangings …

… and ‘tented’ wallpaper.

God bless the Bankes family of Kingston Lacy for their whimsicality, beneficence and impeccable taste!

Reclaiming our Rivers: Swimming in the Thames and Medway

October 20th, 2010

 

Swim at Pangbourne Meadow, 11 July 2010

Stanley Spencer’s 1935 oil on canvas, ‘Sunbathers at Odney’, was inspired by his boyhood swims, in the early 1900s, at Odney Weir, Cookham. Improbable as it now seems, Spencer and other village boys  used to join the ‘city gents’, about to board their morning train to London, for early-morning dips.

Spencer, who was to speak of Cookham as ‘a village in Heaven’, captured his memories of those days in his series depicting the Baptism of Christ. He wrote: ‘we all go down to Odney Weir for a bathe and a swim … I feel fresh awake and alive; that is the time for visitations. We swim and look at the bank over the rushes, I swim in the path of sunlight, I go home to breakfast thinking as I go of the beautiful wholeness of the day’.

Spencer perfectly encapsulates the pleasures of river-swimming. It is a tonic that should certainly be recommended to today’s stressed commuters. Spencer has them lounging about and stretching, all naked and uninhibited, like the dons of old at Parson’s Pleasure. Presumably the real-life commuters, being out of the sight of shockable females, disregarded the late-Victorian convention of wearing drawers, which they may have felt only applied at the seaside. It is a wonderful, innocent scene.

Our rivers today are a neglected playground. Why are people so reluctant? Concerns about pollution no longer apply. There is a horrible condition called Weil’s Disease, spread by the urine of rats and other animals: I am advised by a microbiologist friend, who lets me swim in the Thames from her own private slip at Burcot, that the risk of contracting it is greatest in stagnant waters, where it is unlikely that one would wish to swim. The chances of being trapped by hidden undergrowth are equally slim, as long as one is sensible. The Thames this summer has been deliciously warm, fresh and clean, with a wonderful peaty smell – fun for all the family, though passers-by have often intimated that nothing would induce them to join us. The main hazard is from passing boats, though they are usually extremely careful; and the atmosphere is unfailingly jolly, for those on board share in the secret and all oarsmen seem unconsciously to assume parts from Three Men in a Boat.

This year I have added the Medway to my repertoire of swimmable rivers – a deep, warm, hidden delight, where friends and family and I swam early one morning, before cooking an enormous breakfast on a stove on the riverbank. Such are indeed times, as Spencer knew, for heavenly visitations.

To see an image of ‘Sunbathers at Odney’, visit www.stanleyspencergallery.org.uk.

For good swimming locations, visit www.outdoorswimmingsociety.com.