Summertime...

And the living is easy. So George Gershwin wrote so beautifully about the life in slave-ridden Deep South of Porgy & Bess. Well, this is a village in the North York Moors National Park so it's rather different. Yesterday was a warm day for us so I decided it was time to take you all on a walk up and down our garden.

Some of you will remember the story of how we bought our current house. Whether you know or not, you might like to dip into my old 'The Old Chapel' blog. It was once a Wesleyan Methodist Chapel but when the various Methodist disciplines began to merge, it closed and everyone then went to the bigger Methodist chapel just around the corner. This also closed when chapel attendance fell away and was eventually converted into 3 separate properties. (The times we get deliveries and visitors for The Old Methodist Chapel!)

Anyway, back to our Old Chapel - as it's simply called.  It had already been converted into a house in the 1960s,  I think, and the garden was acquired. It was then altered several times. When we first viewed it, it had been uninhabited and for sale for quite some time. We decided not to buy it then but, one year later, we I spent a week in a holiday cottage nearby and fell in love with the village and persuaded Jon that we had to buy it!  Eventually we signed the contract and then began the slow progress that such a project needs. When work began more than a year later, it was  gutted it back to a stone barn with the help and guidance of our great architects and especially our local builder- with whom we have not only remained on speaking terms, but regard him and his family good friends.

To explain our garden... are you sitting comfortably?

Imagine our house at the bottom of this blue isosceles triangle (ie the garden) This elongated trangle lies between the second steepest road out of Rosedale Abbey called  Heygate Lane or Bank (R) and a field (L) on which,is held the annual Rosedale Show. As the widest part of the triangle is the nearest to the house, we wanted a lawn there but didn't like the very steep slope there. So small earth-moving vehicles were used to level the land and make drainage workable make workable drainage, too.  But we can't alter the fact that as the garden extends to its apex, it rises steeply as it narrows. With me so far?

In my Old Chapel blog  -  dated 2009 (almost at its end which, as is the way with blogs, is easily found at the beginning!) I took you for a walk up and back the garden. So I've decided to bring it up to date to show how it's matured since then.
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So now it's few words and let the pictures tell their story with a caption or three.

Outside our east-facing conservatory is the terrace and steps up to...

the now-flat lawn 

..with its  herbaceous border on the lane-side

Look at our 'small' sequoia, 'chair' bench and the pond to the right...

Where we have friendly visitors every so often

up through the yew hedge

where I stop and admire the Gunnera

To the other side is our mini-orchard and little meadow (which as just been mown)

up again past our little knot garden and the copper beech hedge which hides the compost heaps...

...and onwards and upwards to a welcome bench, our 'famous' rock, maples and azaleas.

I'm finding it hard to balance now,  so to avoid falling over, I'll turn round and go down back through the maples

and over to the ditch - often dry in on summer days

and back to 2 more shots of the herbaceous border

and so back to the terrace and conservatory and a cup of tea. Care to join me?

Life goes on.

As I write that, I find myself, as you do, imagining I am a Roman centurion from anywhere in the Empire, but let's say for the sake of of it, North Africa who might find himself posted to the far edges of the Empire against his will and is shivering on Hadrian's Wall, demanding olives, blazing sunshine and er, a woollen cloak and thick socks. I mean, it is nearly July now and we were there in good weather despite one day of low cloud and drizzle last Sunday before things improved considerably and heralded the current mini heatwave.

For anyone not used to Northern Britain, moorland and its driving sleet and blasting winds any time between October and May, it can take a bit of getting used to. It is often bleak in June.

I love it! But then, I am an adopted northerner and wouldn't live anywhere else. Hadrian's Wall  is less than a two hour drive from our doorstep...

Here you will find - not the White Rose of Yorkshire but the fried egg and tomato sauce breakfast that is Northumbria's stunning flag:

So, we camped at the stunning friendly and comfortable Hadrian's Wall Camping where, in the snap below, you can spot the flags fluttering at the entrance gates and see our van basking in the sun despite the thin cloud cover:

And, only a hop, skip and a jump away is this...

Can my trusty Roman expert friends recommend a historical novel featuring a homesick, freezing cold soldier, wife or girlfriend or even camp-follower up here? Don't say I have to write it for myself!

Elegy

St Mary the Virgin, Mainwell, Northamptonshire

We all know the Thomas Gray's Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard that begins: 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

         The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,

The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,

         And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

   To me, this poem is the perfect elegy for my brother. Chris was quiet, unassuming, loved to contemplate the countryside or the sea. But is too long to quote here in its entirety although the following lines are perfect.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene,

         The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:

Full many a flow'r is born to blush unseen,

         And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

    So I shall pause a while and remember his sweetness and end with the poem's closing epitaph.

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth

       A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown.

Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth,

       And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,

       Heav'n did a recompense as largely send:

He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear,

       He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,

       Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,

(There they alike in trembling hope repose)

       The bosom of his Father and his God.

Christopher Seymour Roff (May 1947-June 2015)

My beloved brother died in his sleep on Sunday Morning - cause as yet unknown. Born in the days when mentally handicapped' was the only name given for someone like him. This became 'special needs' and later 'learning difficulties.' Autism was not heard of at all. Not so long ago, I contacted The National Autistic Society as I believed he was a classic 'savant' although he was always too vulnerable and naive to be left alone. They said they could do nothing without a diagnosis. However, it was deemed too late for that. He had gone to 'special' schools and received what education that could be provided - which was very poor asnd inadeqate. (The family story is that I taught him to read and write by playing 'schools' with him.) The family alone knew to be patent, kind and never to shout or reprimand him in any way. And never did.

He was living recently with the best carers he's ever had: Bob and Brenda. They, too, are totally devastated. Ever heard of a beefy bricklayer? I have. I salute them. If I can I will recommend them both for an award.

Chris was a saint: always polite and uncomplaining, never ever angry, jealous or demanding.  He loved his TV - not satellite - as he never leaned to cope with the digital age. Best of all, he was forever tuned to one of 3 radio stations - BBC Radios 2 and 3 and Classic FM. He loved all music, especially classical. He was an encyclopaedia of information. Every birthday and Christmas, he asked for an LP - then CD - of classical music. From Strauss waltzes and Bizet operas to Beethoven quartets. He knew them all. He never missed a 'Prom' on the radio and, when we lived in Herefordshire, he attended one at the Albert Hall. He would have been thrilled to attend a first or last night but could not haver coped with being a 'promenader'. We always bought him a programme, year after year. There's probably still a collection in a cupboard somewhere. He never threw anything away.

He was also the family encyclopaedia. He knew the date in detail of every family member's birthday. His memory was phenomenal. He could give you chapter and verse of every childhood holiday we ever had.

For the past twenty years or so he was cared for through Northampton Council. Five days a week, he attended centres that provided exercise, gardening, painting craft-work and social skills of all kind. They all loved Chris and he was very very happy there.

Finally, I promise look at every tweet or Facebook message or blog comment I can. I regent, however,  I will not be able to reply. As my mum is very elderly, she is even more devastated that I am and needs my support. that is where I am devoting my time and attention. I apologise.

Sentimental Value

Never fear, fellow writers. This blog post does lead to an idea I have for a collection of short fiction. But until I get there, please allow me to indulge in a little sentimentality. Or should I rephrase that and say that I find myself in a reflective mood lately. I think I've mentioned before that my mother has recently celebrated her 91st birthday. Here she is with my lovely Dad (who, alas, is no longer with us) celebrating their golden wedding anniversary in July 1996.

I was with her other week, glasses of wine to hand and, as one does when mellow,  we began to discuss her wishes when she eventually passes away regarding items of sentimental value; money and valuables have already been taken into consideration.

The chat was not in any way morbid. We were enjoying reminiscing and chatting about the trivia we all collect through life that mean nothing to anyone else but we wouldn't dream of throwing out. Fis instance I already own the art nouveau epergne given to my grandmother by her best friend of that time who had married a conscientious objector. There's the jug (broken and patched together) which once belonged to my great-great grand-father and was used to collect milk from the farm down the lane when my aunt went to visit.

My mum with her older siblings, Nina and Eric.

On my mum's lading sits an empty carved wooden box we call the thunderstorm box. She knows I adore it. It has no monetary value whatsoever.It's Indian, made of an unidentifiable wood elaborate carvings on it, including a fierce oriental dragon devouring a deer in its jaws on the lid. (Probably a folk tale I do not recognise.)

It now stands on a table on my mum's landing. When I was a child, it stood on her dressing-table and woe betide anyone who moved it! Why? Well, my dad bought it in India while on active service in India. He sent it rolled in a carpet to mum whom he married in 1946 two years before they married. I also remember the Indian carpet as it lay on several hall floors until pounding feet, sunlight and moths did their worst. Anyway, the story goes that my mother took delivery of this huge parcel during one of the most violent thunderstorms she ever remembered. Dad added that he dispatched  it during the monsoon season. And here myth begins to take over from reality. Every time the box was moved - even to a new shelf or table, it caused a thunderstorm. If you ask me, I would say, I happened time and time again. I was there!

My maternal grandmother, Laura.

Over twenty years ago when I started to write fiction, I wrote a short story called The Dragon Box and it was published somewhere. (I no longer have a copy or remember the name of the publication.) It did not have anything to do with my life., It is not about childhood in any way. But it did have the box and a thunderstorm.

So you see - threads of fiction are always weaving themselves together in a fiction-writer's head. I'm now even thinking of writing  a collection of linked stories under the working title 'Sentimental Value.'

However, I do worry how the word "sentiment" and its derivatives has been denigrated over recent years. How often do we read a book, watch a movie or even listen to a piece of music only to dismiss it as "sentimental" as if it's a bad thing. Critics are always sniffy about sentimentality.

Sentimental. I found these synonyms. mawkish, cloying, sickly, saccharine, sugary, syrupy, romantic, heart and flowers, touching, pathetic etc etc

Is this how I'm feeling?  Surely not. What do you think? Have you a better description of what I'm talking about.

Back to Books

Anybody would think, from my recent blogs, that I had abandoned reading and writing. Not so. Last weekend was exceptional. Mind you, you'd have to be a Yorkshire person (whether by birth or adoption) or a fan of top-rank road cycling to appreciate what an totally wonderful and uplifting occasion it was. I was in our village and boy, what a party is was. It was even more of a spectacle on the hill-climb further up the dale, which the French organisers have now named "La Cote de Rosedale Abbey.  That's where hubby, Jon went with his video. It's on YouTube here. Only a few yards further up, by the cattle-grid it was heaving with people (as was the village.)



Anyway, enough of excitement. Back to more sedate delights.

I read a wide selection of books; my favourites being what is dubbed as 'literary' fiction, more often than not of the historical variety. I love the British landscape and even more so when history, whether it be ancient or more recent, But first, I'd like to mention a book I've recently enjoyed that is neither.  Tilly's Moonlight Fox by Julia Green will appeal to young people, especially girls who may resemble the girl I was between the ages of 8 and 12 with my pressed (then legal) pressed and dried  wild-flower collection, my doll's house, my love of the countryside and Victorian clothes. This was all before I became temporarily distracted by boys and eye-liner! Tilly is a somewhat solitary girl because she has just moved into a strange old house. Her parents, whilst loving and caring, don't want to worry her unduly but by not telling her all the facts why her mother's pregnancy is making her feel unwell, she becomes subject to fear and anxiety. It is an atmospheric, slightly ghostly delight.

And now for something completely different. I am a fan of Polly Samson's short stories and was therefore looking forward to her novel The Kindness. I was not disappointed. Polly Samson has excelled herself. The protagonist is Julian. A promising English student, he comes across volatile and slightly older Julia when he comes across her on the South Downs flying a falcon. Symbolic or what? He immediately falls head over heels in love with her, thereby abandoning his girlfriend Katie, whom he practically grew up with. He is also in love with his childhood idyllic countryside  home, Firdaws until a legal tangle means it has to go . He gives up his studies for Julia when she tells him he is pregnant. Julian becomes equally besotted with the resultant daughter Mira. And so Julian's and Julia's life begins to unravel, first when Mira becomes dangerously ill and Julian has the chance to own Firdaws and bring his wife and daughter to enjoy it. Only Julia hates it.. There are some heartbreaking scenes set in Great Ormond Street Hospital for Sick Children. When Julia and Mira are lost to him, Julia falls to pieces, alone is his beloved Firdaws where he can't bear the windows open to smell hid beloved jasmine. This is a many-faceted story of love, betrayal and recovery. Exquisitely written, as Julian's memories are stirred by what hwe sees and remembers, The Kindness is redolent with the sightds and smells of the country, the harm we do to each other when aiming to be kind, is a delight from start to finish. It is witty asnd funny even when atmospheric. Like me, you will find you are annoyed and pleased with Julian and Julia in turn. But you can't help loving Mira. With suerpising twists along the way, I hope The Kindness with enthral you too.

The publisher, Little Toller first came to my attention when they published Deer Island the second book by Neil Ansell, the fine writer I had got to know online. And so I was hooked by all their books. I have alreasdy enjoyed several of their wonderful volumes on landscape, flora and fauna including On Silbury Hill and The Ash Tree. They publish brand new books as well as reprints of classics, such as The Pattern Under The Plough and Gavin Maxwell's Ring of Bright Water.

I recently ordered Rena Gardiner: Artist and Painter. A new name to me, this talented Dorset-based artist and printmaker illustrated many guidebooks with her idiosyncratic linocuts, paintings and pastels. This stunning volume contains 200 illustrations, many of them previously unpublished. This volume, compiled by her advocates Julian Francis and Martin Andrews, can be read from cover to cover or dipped into whenever the soul needs refreshment.

I am also hugely looking forward to receiving my copy of Mermaids: a study of their mythology and folklore throughout the world. Mermaids have featured in my fiction and will most likely do so even more.

That's enough for now. And I still haven't mentioned any historical novels I have enjoyed recently! Happy reading.

Rosedale Abbey is ready for the Tour de Yorkshire. Are you?

You've all heard of Le Tour de France. Of course you have. Well those lovely people  in charge of that major spectacular have launched Le Tour de Yorkshire. No. I've not made a mistake in its Frenchness. It's officially called that and May 2015 marks its inaugural outing. Three days of spectacular cycling beckon. 
And guess what?

Although a triathlete, Alistair Brownlee would be great at this event - if you added in swimming and running plus and a proud Yorkshire lad, to boot!

Well-known cyclists, including Bradley Wiggins, and prestigious teams such as Sky pass through our village on the first of the Tour's gruelling stages. On Friday May 1st, it traverses the North York Moors National Park (A very round trip from Bridlington to Scarborough with its stunning coastline and stunning moorland in the centre.) Then on the 2nd May, it's the turn of the lovely Yorkshire Wolds, beginning in Selby and its abbey and finishing in York with its Minster. The last day is further south in the old wool manufacturing heartland of God's Own County, then onto the Dales which was such a hit in the Tour de France last year and then culminates in Leeds. So, naturally we have all dressed up in blue and yellow, the official colours of Le Tour. The only sad thing is that the live TV coverage on ITV 4 and Euro-Sport channels does not begin until half an hour after the peloton has just passed through our village and its environs and will have seen Young Ralph, Castleton and and be its way to Whitby - and another famous abbey.

The Tour has named this part of the road north with its fine view of the dale as "Le Cote de Rosedale" which leads across the moor to...

...Young Ralph...

...Castleton...

And then into Whitby, then Robin Hoods Bay and finally - Scarborough. Phew!

SO,  let's linger for a while to admire what Rosedale Abbey has done to welcome the riders!  Come and join in the fun on Friday. And please drive carefully.

Here we are.

Oops! But don't turn up there! Even professional cyclists fear the dreaded Rosedale Chimney Bank!

Come on in!

You can stay at one of our camp-sites.

But don't cycle here - it's a private garden!

But stop for a pot of tea and enjoy Anne's wonderful cakes!

...or relax on the green with home-made Yorkshire ice-cream

Rosedale School has very imaginative artists. 

And what's this guy doing?

Not a lot. He's been waiting patiently for a while for the cyclists

But where's he disappeared to now?

Here?

There?

Oh sorry. He's had to attend to a call of nature. Hurry up! These cyclists are fast.

We're having a celebration. Why not come and sample the delights we have to offer. Cakes, ice-cream, and fine glassware to buy. Have a drink at The Coach-house Inn, The White Horse Farm Inn plus the welcome re-re-opening of The Milburn Arms. And much, much more. Enjoy!

Secret Rosedale

Did you watch Secret Britain on BBC One yesterday? If you did you would have seen Rosedale in all its glory and in particular the short piece about the brief period in the 16th century when Huguenot glass-blowers worked here.

A Huguenot on St Bartholomew's Day.

As usual, the programme was too disjointed for my taste and it jumped about from one area to another without any coherence. So I would like to use this post to write about the brief appearance of Huguenots in Rosedale and the way stunning hand-made glass-making has now re-established itself in Rosedale Abbey.

I have been researching the brief appearance of Huguenot glass-makers in Rosedale in far more detail than appeared in the TV show for my next novel set in Rosedale during the reign of Elizabeth 1st. This research is personal and probably incorrect but I am a fiction writer and it's plausible. At this time the Cistercian Rosedale Priory I wrote about in my previous and unpublished novel, The Rosedale Miracle, had long gone and Protestantism was in ascendant. However, the people of this part of Yorkshire's North Riding were mainly secret Roman Catholics. I can imagine people who are confused and have to watch their step. For instance, did they know about the Huguenot settlers and, if so, what did they think of them? Answers to such questions are what create a plot and characters which are currently taking shape in my head and I am currently doing much background reading about the French Huguenots in England.

Here is a brief account of my personal theory of why some Huguenots settled briefly in Rosedale which I have given to Rosedale's History Society. I am no historian. I have no proof. It is mere speculation which is why I am prefer to be a fiction writer.

So here it is - with footnotes.

The discovery in 1968 of a glass furnace in Rosedale raises more questions than answers. Joseph Hurst[i] has researched the subject and has provided important evidence of the presence of Huguenot glass-blowers from the church records held at Lastingham Church. The site of a 16th century kiln can be visited by following the track that leads from The White Horse Farm Inn towards Lastingham. (A brief account and history, including a walk around Rosedale is available as a North York Moors National Park booklet[ii] and the reconstructed furnace can be visited at The Ryedale Folk Museum, Hutton-le-Hole.)

            There is little doubt now that between the approximate dates of 1567 and 1597 several Huguenot[iii] families lived and worked in Rosedale. They did not mix with the indigenous population of farmers and tradesmen and would appear to have disappeared without leaving any trace. Joseph Hurst discovered entries of births, marriages and deaths with French names in the records of Lastingham Church.[iv]

            Why these families moved to Rosedale in the first place is a matter of conjecture. It is true that the locality provided everything they need to make glass. Sand, potash (produced by burning bracken), timber (to fire the furnace) were all available in abundance in  Rosedale at that time. That they were Huguenots is evident in the style of glass produced and the design of the furnace that has been reconstructed in the Ryedale Folk Museum.

            The history of the Protestant Huguenots is complex. Even the origin of their name is subject to speculation. The immigration of Huguenots to England was not straightforward either. The first wave of immigration to England began after their lives in France became intolerable for them, particularly in the wake of the St Bartholomew’s Day Massacre in 1572 and the Wars of Religion that followed.[v] This was the period in which the Huguenots settled in Rosedale. The main wave of Huguenot immigration actually came a century later. Then, most settled in London (mainly Spitalfields) but also in areas such as Macclesfield, where they were also known for their silk-making.

            So why did they come to Rosedale? And why, having arrived here and build a glass furnace, did they leave after a mere 30 years? I can only speculate using circumstantial evidence. So the following, although based on facts, has no corroborative evidence. It’s a theory. No more.

            When Elizabeth 1^st ascended the throne in 1558, The Manor of Rosedale was owned by Charles Neville, the 6^th Earl of Westmorland (who also owned Kirkbymoorside Castle.) A Roman Catholic, he was one of the leaders of The Rising of The North in 1569 (Also known as the Rising of the Northern Earls and the Northern Rebellion). Their aim was to depose Elizabeth, rescue Mary Queen of Scots from captivity and place her on the English throne. The endeavour failed and the leaders arrested and some executed. Neville was stripped of his lands and titles and fled to the continent where he died in poverty.

            In 1576, a Protestant queen was on the throne and the manor of Rosedale was then granted to the Protestant, Ambrose Dudley, 3^rd Duke of Warwick. The elder brother of The Queen’s favourite, Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, he was also one of her most staunch supporters. Earlier, in 1562-3 he had commanded the army sent by the Queen to Le Havre to support the Huguenots in the First French War of Religion.[vi] The venture ended in failure and Dudley suffered a severe leg injury which curtailed his career and eventually led to his death 13 years later.

Did that failed venture and his Protestantism, followed by the granting of Rosedale manor (at that time, the whole area was known as a hotbed of Catholic recusancy) make him ponder the possibility of bringing Protestant Huguenots into the area—for the same reasons, perhaps, that Protestant Scots were moved into the north of Ireland?  I am sure that on acquiring the manor of Rosedale he would have commissioned a report on the area and its resources and must have known it would possibly be a suitable area for glass-making, one of the crafts at which the Huguenots excelled. Perhaps he thought he could establish a thriving community of Protestants in Rosedale? Did his continuing ill-health prevent him from following this plan through with sufficient care? We shall never know. But what is known is that Queen Elizabeth was notorious for granting trade monopolies and that in consequence the Rosedale glass-makers would actually have been working illegally.

            Whatever the reasons and however it came about, the glass-making venture did not last. the Huguenots, records of which only last for about 30 years, remained isolated and disappeared without trace. When, in 1592, the monopoly on glass-making in England passed from Jacob Verzelini to Sir Jerome Bowes, the end was in sight as he was far more assiduous than his predecessor in closing down illegal manufacture and trading.

            Ambrose Dudley died in 1590; Queen Elizabeth in 1601. In 1615, James I, concerned by rapid deforestation and the increasing need of timber for ship-building, issued a decree banning the burning of timber, thus bringing to an end any last vestige of glass-making in Rosedale.

---

[i] Joseph Hurst. The Rosedale Glass Furnace and the Elizabethan Glassworkers. 1970. Ryedale Folk Museum

 [ii] In Search of Rosedale Glass

 [iii] The Huguenots were French Protestants who followed the teachings of Martin Luther. Their constant moral battle with the ruling Catholics eventually led to a series of wars during which many of them fled to Protestant countries during the 126^th and 17^th centuries.

 [iv] See endnote 1.

 [v] 23^rd August 1572. King Charles IV of France (some say on the orders of his mother, Catherine de Medici) ordered the killing of Huguenots leaders after the assassination of. Admiral Gaspar de Coligny. This led to mob violence by Catholics. It is estimated that anything between 5 and 30 thousand French Protestants were killed in the ensuing massacre.

 [vi] 1562-1598

So it pleases me greatly that traditional and top-class glass-making has returned to Rosedale twenty years ago with the contemporary glass artists, Kate Jones and Stephen Gillies who feature in the TV show.

Gillies Jones is one of the most celebrated glass-artists in the country and exhibit at many major galleries in  the UK, including The V&A. They are based at what was once the village blacksmiths. If you're lucky, you can see them blow glass but you can always marvel at their artistry and then take a little bit of Rosedale back home with you and follow them @GilliesJones.