Wednesday, 12 April 2017

Red, White And Green

As I wrote in my last post about the Fellows' Garden at Trinity College, there were other impressive flower beds to be seen throughout the site. The colourful display below could be seen alongside the path which leads from Queens Road to Trinity Bridge and on to the college itself. And it could all be seen for free by anyone caring to wander that way. You will notice that things can get rather crowded down by the river on fine days. There's not much else to be said - just let three simple colours talk for themselves....


























Take care.



Monday, 10 April 2017

Trinity College, Fellows' Garden


Cambridge is a city of parks, gardens and green spaces, many of which are open to the public for most, if not all, of the year. But not this one. The Fellows' Garden at Trinity College is only accessible to uneducated peasants like me occasionally; like on Sunday when for a small charge (which goes to charity anyway) I could wander unimpeded through this little bit of paradise.


Perhaps I ought to explain who these Fellows are. They are the senior members of the college who, under the leadership of the Master of the College, run the whole caboodle. They also include some long-serving retired professors - presumably no one wants the job of telling them that their services are no longer required. Along with their many responsibilities come certain privileges: the honour of dining at the top table in the college hall,  a room within the college and the right to wander about in the Fellows' Garden (though nowadays access to the garden is extended to others at Trinity).



In 1871 Trinity bought this plot of land, which had previously been an old arable field, from the University and had a garden laid out by William Brodick Thomas, who also worked on Sandringham House and Buckingham Palace. From then on the development of the garden has been in the hands of the many great men (and recently great women too) who, besides their academic studies, had an interest in gardening.


The philosopher, Ludwig Wittgenstein, found time to write a twelve-page letter of advice about the gardens which included his belief that "tulips of all contradicting colours...look gaudy and vulgar". He wouldn't have cared for the bed photographed above!


Wittgenstein also troubled his enormous intellect with the course of the paths which the gardener cut through the wildflower meadow. He did not merely criticise however but laid out what he thought was a more pleasing scheme, which is followed by the paths to this day. 


A E Housman, who is best remembered as a poet, also took a great interest in the garden when he was not writing authoritative works on Latin texts. 


Others were more like F J Simpson, who started off as one of the leading scholars of his day but, having done enough to get himself installed in this great seat of learning, spent the rest of his life wandering around the gardens pruning the roses.


The garden has a path running around its periphery which gives the area its informal name of The Roundabout and was designed for these great men to engage in thoughtful perambulation while refining their ideas and theories. One can't help but wonder how many world-changing inventions and insights were formulated beneath these leafy boughs.


At about this stage of the afternoon my own mind was formulating a vision of tea and cakes. Fortunately my needs had been foreseen by the local Girl Guide unit who were on hand to administer the required sustenance at very reasonable prices.


The gardens seem to be open at around this time every year as part of the National Garden Scheme. Details are published online on the NGS site, which also gives details of all other gardens open under the scheme throughout the year - a useful resource for anyone with an interest in gardens. You may need to know that the Fellows' Garden is on the opposite side of Queens' Road to the College. Though there are some remarkable plantings there too. I'll show you some in my next post.


My brother and my mother complained that I only showed their back view when we went to Thriplow to look at the daffodils recently. So here they are in glorious full-frontal view - my mum Flo and my brother Les.



Take care.



Monday, 27 March 2017

Barrett Browning, Snowboard and Rip Van Winkle







On Sunday afternoon I went for a stroll with my brother and my mother around Thriplow in Cambridgeshire to view some of the thousands of daffodils that line the village roads. We could have gone the week before and joined the crowds at the Thriplow Daffodil Weekend, but the miserable weather dampened our enthusiasm. Though the craft stalls, music and morris dancers are no longer there, the daffodils are still putting on a show. In fact access is a lot easier without the jostling crowds (especially for wheelchair users like Mum).


Some people wonder how they always manage to plan the daffodil weekend to coincide with a fine display of daffs. Probably it's because they have so many kinds and they don't all flower at the same time. And Barrett Browning, Snowboard and Rip Van Winkle are just three varieties which have been added recently and had small signs to enlighten uneducated visitors like myself. For the record Barrett Browning is photo 3, Rip Van Winkle is number 6, while Snowboard is the eighth picture from the top.


Take care.





Saturday, 18 March 2017

Late News From Our Roving Reporter

More snappy snippets of news and knowledge spotted from the saddle of a rolling bicycle as I trundled through the British countryside last summer. We like to be up to date so here we include items from nearly 300 years ago alongside more recent items that are only a year or so out of date 








Injustice

In May I wandered in the vicinity of the village of Southill. An ornamental lake can be glimpsed through a gap in an estate wall and, further along, a perfect little church stands among trees. Just the kind of paradise that could be enjoyed by the privileged families of old England. But what I couldn't have guessed at on that beautiful spring morning was the dark cloud that has hung over the scene for 260 years.


For Southill was the home of the family of Admiral John Byng. Byng was baptised in the village church and at 13 years of age joined the navy, working his way steadily through the ranks to eventually become an admiral. It was a successful if unremarkable career, but Byng's story should be as well-known, if for entirely different reasons, as that of Nelson.

In 1756 he was put in command of a hastily assembled fleet of ships sent to prevent the French from capturing Minorca, which was under British control at the time. The whole expedition was ill thought-out, poorly manned and equipped, and too late in setting out to be effective. After a skirmish with the French Byng realised how hopeless his position was and, following a meeting with his senior officers, he decided to withdraw to Gibraltar to have his ships repaired and form a better plan.

When George II heard of this he accused Byng of cowardice and ordered him to return to Britain. He was arrested and found guilty of ‘failing to do his utmost’ to carry out his orders. He was sentenced to death by firing squad. The King could have overruled the verdict but chose not to. The Prime Minister and senior navy men were happy to have a scapegoat to cover for their own ineptitude and so the sentence was carried out despite many people realising that it was a complete miscarriage of justice.

Voltaire heard about the case and summed it up with these words ‘in this country, it is good to kill an admiral from time to time, in order to encourage the others’. Maybe it did "encourage the others"; it certainly casts the bravery of Nelson and later heroes in a new light to realise that failure to attack the enemy may have resulted in the severest punishment.

Byng's family, who had a long association with the navy, were understandably outraged and erected this memorial in their church: 


They are still seeking a pardon from the navy some 260 years later.



A Mansion For The Poor



This magnificent, elegantly-proportioned building stands in the village of Onehouse, just outside Stowmarket. It dates from around 1780 and was commissioned by several of the wealthiest members of the community, but not for themselves. It was known as "The House For The Poor Of The Hundred Of Stow" and was a workhouse for the homeless and destitute of the area. Every community had some sort of provision for the penniless but few were as palatial as this. Many of the Poor Law commissioners lived in the area and naturally wanted to enhance the character of their home area. Some may have even been jealous of such fine architecture; it's doubtful they would have enjoyed working under the strict regime within.


Mr Goose


You know how I like a good village sign. And this one from the Hertfordshire village of Sandon is a favourite of mine. It features a large white goose and might lead you to expect some quaint old English folk tale about a magical bird from long ago. But no, this is (or was) a real flesh and blood goose from quite recent times.



This goose used to inhabit Sandon village green and could often be seen sheltering inside the telephone box. What's more this goose firmly believed itself to be a duck and could sometimes be seen ushering ducks and ducklings across the village street. At other times it could be as grumpy as any of its kind.




But no more. A year ago the much-loved bird was reported to have been cruelly shot and the local police were called upon to investigate. Hard evidence was hard to come by as the corpse had been buried by a well-meaning parishioner. Police exhumed the body and found that it had actually been killed by a blunt instrument. As yet the murderer remains at large.




Out Of Sight


In 1610 work began on a new watercourse to supply fresh drinking water to the people of Cambridge. Thomas Hobson was one of those who organised and paid for the work and the new stream became known as Hobson's Conduit. Once in the town the water was channelled by way of roadside runnels and underground piping. In St Andrew's Street the sharp-eyed may spot this cast-iron cover marking its course.


I've mentioned before that Hobson is also remembered in the expression "Hobson's choice". He hired out horses from a stables within the town and rotated his horses strictly so that none was overworked. If you hired a horse from Hobson you had to accept the animal he offered you. So "Hobson's choice" means no choice at all!


This Little Bird


Cley-next-the-Sea in Norfolk is one of the many great places to watch birds in North Norfolk. It's quite a small place but it has an enormous church. This is a much more frequent state of affairs in East Anglia than one might expect and it's usually because these sleepy little villages were centres of the woollen industry in Medieval times. Here though the wealth was generated, not by wool, but by the wonderful port facilities that used to exist at Blakeney Haven, before the channels silted and sanded up.


So now the village has this huge church to look after (and pay for!). A little help is always appreciated.

And help came in the tiny form of an American White-Crowned Sparrow which, in 2008, flew 3,000 miles across the Atlantic to assist. This extremely rare visitor to these shores soon got all the many bird-watchers in the area very excited. A charity collection among the birders was made and raised £6,378 which paid for the restoration of the church's west window.

The little bird is now remembered forever in a small stained-glass panel in the window.






Take care.



Tuesday, 14 March 2017

Man Falls In Love With Door



It's often the case that when one pursues great beauty that something plainer but altogether more interesting captures the attention. Last week I was out taking pictures of spring flowers and blossom when I noticed an old wooden door.

It's tucked away behind one of the buttresses that support the tower of Grantchester church and gives access, presuming that it still opens, to the belfry. It's not even the most famous old door on the building; the door to the porch is rightly celebrated as being very ancient and historic. But this obscure little entrance is the one that has won my heart.

So here's a selection of its hidden charms:



















I've really no idea how old this little door might be; it's rather exposed to the wind and weather so maybe it's not so ancient as it looks. However it has a similar construction to the porch door which is reckoned to be about 300 to 400 years young. The design of the nails and other fitments make it look old too, and it's whole width is achieved with just two planks of wood which must have been hewn from a venerable old tree.

*************

A quick update on my home circumstances: I'm still taking care of my 87-year-old mother who is needing a lot of assistance with all aspects of her day-to-day life. As a result I'm not getting out and about very often, so this blog will be rather irregular for the foreseeable future. I'm still reading your blogs and enjoying your photos though I don't always manage to comment on them. Thanks to all those who have expressed their concern but, by and large, we're doing OK.


Take care.