Vintage Woodie

The end of last year brought a new incumbent to the garage. It is a 1928 Alvis (a 12/50 to use the nomenclature) and it's rather lovely station wagon body was added in Shropshire in 1938 by the first owner, a local doctor. By the time he sold the car around 1970, the venerable conveyance was said to have covered over 300,000 miles! The new owner then thoroughly rebuilt the car although the woodwork was mostly (and surprisingly) sound. I became the third owner from new when I relieved him of the Alvis at the tail end of last year. Thanks to his considerable mechanical skills, the car is in fine fettle.

Travelling in a vehicle of this age is reminiscent of being in a pre-war railway carriage - all leather,  wood, and sliding up and down windows, ebony handles and nice levers to pull and push. There are traps for the unwary - the gearchange lever is to your right with what looks like another one next to it. This is a device for manually dipping the headlamps and by pulling or pushing, they tilt up or down. Another vertical lever actuates the handbrake. The resulting group is akin to a railway signal box. The accelerator pedal, not wishing to be left out of the fun is positioned in the middle between the clutch and the foot brake. Although I have driven many cars of this era and am reasonably proficient in the black art of double-declutching, my trial drive with the previous owner was hopeless. I simply failed in every attempt to progress from 2nd to 3rd gear in the aptly named 'crash' gearbox, my halting progress being accompanied by hideous graunching noises. After an hour of this misery in the country lanes around the Midlands countryside we gave it best and returned to the vendor's home - he now driving effortlessly and changing gear silently the while. Confessing to my wife my inability to perform the most basic function on this car she dismissed it with a cheery wave and said that she was sure everything would be alright, having utmost confidence in my driving skills! We bade our farewells to the trembling vendor and his wife exhorting them to process to the rear of their home, less to be able hear the ghastly progress of their much-loved vehicle. As it happened...nothing happened...or at least I magically changed gear almost silently and we were on our merry way back to Sussex via Essex. Put it down to nerves and stress. The previous owner had the vehicle for over forty years and knew every inch of it and I think it was preying on my mind. 

Now we've had a chance to get to know one another better, the Alvis and I, the relationship has settled down a bit. Gear changing is still no bed of roses and if I miss that all-important shift from 2nd to 3rd there's nothing for it but to stop, no matter where, and start all over again...embarrassing to say the least. We've had some magical moments though, like the first time we took three of the grandchildren out on a jaunt, they were absolutely convulsed with laughter at my attempts to change gear and at the attendant comic mechanical noises. Or the picnic on the village green at Staplefield where, with the tailgate let down and the gas stove on and kettle whistling, tea and bacon sandwiches were dispensed  to grateful chums. The battered aluminium kettle was perfectly in keeping, but had we been using a nice burnished Primus stove instead of Camping Gaz, the scene could have been pre-war.

Now we're looking for signs of Spring.

From Greenwich with love.

New Anzac, or Peacehaven as it's now known has the singular (and I use the word deliberately) distinction of having the Prime Meridian pass through it. On its long journey around the world this imaginary but important line passes through Peacehaven and on through France and Africa until it eventually comes knocking at the back door of the Royal Observatory in Greenwich again. 

Charles Neville, the 'founder' of Peacehaven saw, as he did in most things, a PR opportunity of being able to walk from one hemisphere to the other in his 'Garden City by the Sea', and duly erected a wooden structure looking much like an oil drilling well-head. This was replaced by the slightly more tasteful monument shown here. Neville himself unveiled this and due to cliff erosion it has been moved twice since then. Quite what the health-giving or social benefits are to be gained from cross-hemispherical perambulations has yet to be discovered by medical science, but, as was so often the case, Neville was ahead of his time. All I know is that it's possible to play darts between the East and West in a certain establishment there. Who knows, maybe there is, right in the microscopic centre, a piece of international no-mans-land where all the world's disputes could be settled. Or not.

Beetlemania

It's 1959 and we were the proud owners of an oval window Volkswagen Beetle. A sort of metallic grey colour (although the term hadn't fallen into common usage at the time), it was a delightful little car. My dad's standing there in the prime of life and obviously delighted with this German motoring masterpiece. An aircraft engineer by profession and a car and motorcycle nut by choice, he'd had dozens of vehicles, most of which he'd fixed up himself, but this was the first he'd bought from a recognised motor dealer. Not new, it was but a very few years old and in great condition. Its maximum speed, around 70mph, was also the cruising speed and its flat four air-cooled engine made a delicious sound from the back. A particular curiosity was the (and a first for us) windscreen washers being powered by compressed air drawn from the valve in the spare wheel located under the bonnet. Too many rainy days and it was advisable not to have a puncture. The poor car was grossly overloaded in this photograph carrying the remnants of the contents of my grandma's home - we were about to set off on a sixty mile trip, and as far as I can remember nothing fell off.


The Beetle was a source of fascination to him, and as he had to know how everything worked, he pulled the engine out one day on some pretext or another - satisfied, he put it all back together on the next. Eventually of course he tired of this faithful servant and bought a nice, but thoroughly corroded Borgward Isabella ts - another German car but nowhere near to being in the same league as far as build quality was concerned, yet satisfying his latent sporting motorist pretensions. By then his predilection for falling asleep at the wheel (he was a flight engineer and obviously suffered from what we now know as 'jet lag' but was then 'propellor lag') on his long drive home from trips abroad, saw the Borgward vanish down and along a construction trench in the road, never to exit. He wasn't injured and neither were the surprised pipe-layers who gentlemanly helped him from the steaming wreck after he'd almost killed them.


Oval window Beetles, like their earlier cousins the split window models, are much sought after these days and command huge money. I can't remember what we paid for ours but it wasn't more than a few hundred pounds, although that seemed like a small fortune at the time. I learned (illegally) to drive in it aged ten, and having been seen doing so was  reported to the police - fortunately having recently broken my arm, the old man managed to talk the sergeant who'd come to see us, out of the threat of prosecution, pointing to my left arm in plaster.


Here's to the VW Beetle, designed under Hitler but turned, thank goodness, to more peaceful use by the British occupying forces who took over the Volkswagen factory. They got the production lines going again after the war, thus paving the way for VW to become one of the world's most successful car companies. Ironic, eh?

A Temple to Science

Housed in the old priory of Saint-Martin-des-Champs in the 3rd arrondissement of Paris, the Musée des Arts et Métiers contains a wonderful collection what can only be described as 'stuff'. Scientific instruments rub shoulders with Nicolas Cugnot's steam propelled 3 wheel gun carriage - believed to be the first road going locomotive. Ancient aircraft are hung as if they were Airfix models in a young boys bedroom, from the vaulted and domed ceilings, whilst murals adorn the walls. Primitive motorcycles and early motor cars abound, there's even Focault's Pendulum. It's the Science Museum but without quite the emphasis on entertainment. The building naturally has a sepulchral quality completely in keeping with its exhibits which have an 'oily rag' quality and are reassuringly unrestored. Objects here are viewed with reverence and one feels should never (in the ghastly preference of modern historians be spoken of in the present tense - why do they do that? - example..."Napoleon is virtually within the gates of Moscow"...can't stand it, I suppose they think it makes all sound hip and relevant...which it is without resorting to time-shifting). For a museum that has been open since the 18th century it has moved with the times but not so much that that its style triumphs over substance - a good balance I feel. It's well worth taking in if you're 'en Paris' for a couple of days.

Tom Sayers

Funny the things you find tucked away, probably in most towns. I found this though in the 'City' of Brighton and Hove a couple of weeks ago. This memorial to the great Tom Sayers, prizefighter extraordinary, is just screwed to the wall of a shop near the North Laines area. A relatively small man, Sayers was born into poverty in Brighton around 1826 and moved between London and Brighton in his trade as bricklayer. Becoming a professional fighter in 1849 he won the bout against Abe Couch. He maintained winning form for a while but failed as a pub landlord. This prompted the need to earn more money, but fights within his own class were becoming difficult to arrange due to his dangerous reputation. He fought out of his weight against heavyweights Paulson and Bill Perry - The Tipton Slasher! and won on both occasions. This was the precursor to The Big Fight, celebrated in ballad, against the challenger, the American, Heenan, known as The Benecia Boy.


Although the fight game was by now illegal nothing could prevent this huge contest at Farnborough, Hants on 17th April 1860. Sayers was nearly three stones lighter, five inches shorter, and eight years older than Heenan. Early on in the bout Sayers' arm was disabled but he managed to close Heenan's eye...they fought like tigers for forty rounds taking over two hours, only ceasing combat when the police moved in and closed the contest. It was declared a draw. Ulitmately both men were awarded the championship belt.


Sayers retired and a public subscription raised over £3000 for him. He made some unwise choices of female companions and a daliance with the circus failed too. After a fairly dissolute period of heavy drinking he died in 1865 and his funeral was attended by 100,000 people. Buried in Highgate Cemetery his memorial is a sculpture of his dog 'Lion'.


A true son of Sussex and bold as you like. 

Francois Chevalier

Whilst visiting the Rétromobile exhibition of Vintage and classic cars in Paris last week I had the enormous pleasure of meeting the extraordinary Francois Chevalier. This beguiling gentleman is a self taught artist, caricaturist and sculptor of great talent. Having run the famous Paul Ricard motor racing circuit for many years he has turned a hobby of making drawings into his main profession. He always has a small booth tucked out of the way at the show but those in the know make a beeline for it. Here you will be entertained, for he is almost as good a raconteur as he is an artist and there is always a drawing of his that is affordable and appropriate. If you're lucky there's a glass of wine on offer too. His loose style of drawing belies an innate understanding of exactly how things work, and therein lies his great skill. Sometimes he jokes with us through his monstrous inventions and adaptations of famous and historic cars....his six-wheel Bugatti Royale transporter being a great example. At other times his drawing is reportage and you are convinced that HE WAS THERE, when the event in question was aeons ago,

He doesn't confine himself to cars either. The drawing here is of a Vincent motorcycle having its clutch attended to - an event not unknown in my experience. And just look how he captures the wiseacres standing around 'assisting' the mechanic in blue with ever more helpful suggestions. The sculpture is in bronze and of Lockhart's Stutz Black Hawk in which he was killed aged but 26 years. The book jacket is of his superb 'Le Petit Bugattiste Illustre' a volume of 'cartoons' and captions.

He's a lovely chap and a fine and often humorous draughtsman. Do seek him out.

Moonscape

A recent stroll along the cliff top at Saltdean brought a view of this 1920's futuristic house. It's a real survivor although it's singular pedestrian entrance way is no longer used. The door circled on the photograph leads to a flight of steps which passes up through the cliff to the garden in front of the building. This is ably demonstrated by watching the wonderful Pathé News clip from 1928. My late dad-in-law went to school with the son of the builder of this house and confirmed the several fascinating features. It sits above the main South Coast Road, the A259 in an area euphemistically named 'Rottingdean Heights' by hopeful estate agents.

http://www.britishpathe.com/record.php?id=9881

Oh my head!

Now is the time to beat a path to the achingly wonderful Harvey's off-licence. Stocking up on Christmas booze from our favourite local brewer - Harvey's of Lewes is one of life's great pleasures. A visit to Lewes is a treat in itself but get thee to Cliffe High Street and really put the brandy butter on the Christmas cake! The low black and white building has large windows displaying every kind of refreshment you can imagine plus breweriana in the from of jugs, glasses and clothing sporting the name of Sussex's finest. Enter through the narrow doorway and step down into the shop - I like stepping down into a premises - so sort of Wind in the Willowsy somehow. You are met with a cornucopia of beer wines and spirits, a temple to tipplers who are there for no other reason than to be tempted. A small glass-paneled office sits beyond the counter where things are still entered in large ledgers...by hand. Helpful staff will nip out the back to the brewery proper and draw off whatever draught beer you want into your container or theirs. Dropped 'bright' this stuff tates better if consumed quickly which all adds to the obligation to polish it off with due dedication. All the bottled beers are there too including the brain-zapping Christmas Ale, which at 8.1% ABV will send grandpa off to the Land of Nod whilst you play a noisy hand of Happy Families - "Mr Bun the Baker" - "Sorry, not at home" - answering with a mere "No' will incur severe penalties in our house...the niceties must be observed. The comically ugly portraits on the Victorian Jacques cards always make the kids screw their faces up with revulsion. Anyway, back to Harvey's. Never ones to waste their profits on uncalled-for slick graphic design, they tend to adopt a minimalist approach and push the boat out on special occasions, and even then you get the impression that the whole operation is more Letraset driven than having had a computer anywhere near it. When you think of what a brewer like Adnams of Southwold, whom I also admire, must spend on their marketing, it makes the Harvey's operation even more remarkable. They don't really advertise at all for goodness sake but do they win prizes...yes they do...by the Tun (TUN..pun) geddit? and deservedly so. You may purchase beer online from Harvey's...I urge you to try it...incidentally I have no commercial association with them...save that of passing them large wads of cash over the years in pursuit of their excellent product.

Lewes November 5th

Well here's the jolly rhyme which traditionally accompanies Bonfire Night...quite gruesome as you can see.

Tonight Lewes has its night and the town becomes really quite anarchic...you have to be there to 'get it'.

Remember, remember the Fifth of November

The Gunpowder Treason and plot

I see no reason why Gunpowder Treason

Should ever be forgot

Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes 'twas his intent


To blow up the King and the Parliament


Three score barrels of powder below


Poor old England to overthrow

By God's providence he was catch'd


With a dark lantern and burning match


Holler boys, holler boys, ring bells ring


Holler boys, holler boys, God Save the King!

A penny loaf to feed the Pope


A farthing o'cheese to choke him


A pint of beer to rinse it down


A faggot of sticks to burn him

Burn him in a tub of tar


Burn him like a blazing star


Burn his body from his head


Then we'll say old Pope is dead

Hip Hip Hoorah!


Hip Hip Hoorah!


Hip Hip Hoorah!

Raise the Standard!

The North Kent Coast has always held a fascination. From the Dickensian locations to Mr. Jorrocks' trip to Margate...there's a deep attachment. We decided to share this enthusiasm with some American friends who soon became equally entranced. From the wonders of the fabulous architecture of the Chatham dockyards via Faversham to the recently Islingtonised Whitstable (which succeeds, despite all, in clinging strongly to its roots) - Reculver, with its own twin towers of great antiquity and on to the new Tate Gallery outpost in Margate. The Tate I feel works better than its cousin in St.Ives, although maybe lacking the views, it enjoys better gallery space. Blessed with fine weather we enjoyed every moment. No trip for me is complete without a little automobile archaeology and the now quite rare gem shown was unearthed behind some buildings in Whitstable. It's a Standard Ensign the basic model of the Standard range introduced in 1957 and made up until the mid sixties. It seems that few of these bread and butter cars have survived and the Standard motor company has dissolved into that great scrapyard in the sky. I rather like the old Avery scales weight used as a chock in front of the offside wheel. Surprisingly she appears relatively rust free although it would require some diligent work to enable her to cruise the 'B' roads once more. Break open the Erinmore, suck on a Callard & Bowser boiled sweet, open the AA road book and discover the North Kent Coast!

Bugger!

Last weekend, for reasons too curious to mention, we found ourselves at The Beautiful Days Festival in Devonshire. A well run event sponsored by The Levellers, it provided bands for all tastes in music. As I trekked about the site there were, as you can imagine, many sights of a highly entertaining and diverting nature to provide distraction - let alone ample opportunities for refreshment. The combination of slippery wet slopes and pouring rain made progress 'random' to say the least. As I slithered down one particularly damp incline I saw a fellow struggling, and he was struggling, to walk up it. Far from being able bodied he was using two walking sticks and clearly had severe disabilities. Hearteningly, several young people offered to give assistance, which he politely declined with good grace and a cheery smile, preferring his independence. As he got closer I could see that the t-shirt he wore carried but a single word message on it - BUGGER. How stoical, that message spoke volumes about his condition - to my eyes almost as bad as it gets but which he portrayed as a minor inconvenience - how brave. I could have wept, and I certainly wouldn't have dreamed of taking a photograph.

Arlott country

We had the extreme good fortune to spend last weekend in Hampshire. Now although Sussex is our home...Hampshire runs a close second and my wife's family spent two idyllic years in the charming village of Cheriton back in the 1950s. We stayed in nearby Alresford (pronounced Awlsford) once home to John Arlott and possessed of one of the most lovely streets in all of England. Of course the town is famous for its watercress and even today it's a large industry. Our accommodation was the Bell Inn on the High Street, run by young, enthusiastic Frenchmen, serving good food and wine with a smile and witty repartee. A short walk took us to the railway station and the preserved Watercress Line which runs to Alton...the day we visited there was some sort of wartime re-enactment going on, peopled by elderly, time-served policemen (2), vicars (several of these), agricultural labourers (one), spivs (2), ARP Wardens (2) and ladies of indistinct casting although very much of the nylons and fox fur persuasion (many). After foregathering, this unlikely ensemble all boarded the train together - as if! in the day! But all good fun, and I particularly liked the camouflaged Austin 7 box van with which to defeat the might of the Third Reich's Panzer divisions.

Sunday found us driving, just for the sheer pleasure of it, through the quiet narrow winding lanes that are such a feature of this area. A look in at Hinton Ampner House and gardens gave us the sight of the unusual church tower in the grounds. The views to the South are fabulous, stretching, unspoilt for miles. A pint at The Tichborne Arms was a delight. The locals are still entitled to The Tichborne Dole, a charitable donation to the villagers of Tichborne and Cheriton of a gallon of flour for adults and half a gallon for children. Originally instituted in around 1150 by the ailing Lady Tichborne, her mean and spiteful husband didn't share her generous plan and came up with the novel scheme of agreeing to it on the basis that produce would be made available from land around which she could crawl whilst holding a burning torch. The plucky lady managed to gird twenty three acres until the flame died - an area still known as 'The Crawls'. Like all good stories there is, rightfully, a mathematical/child bearing curse attached to it which runs thus: If the family decided to stop providing the dole, then it would first have seven sons followed by seven daughters and then...zilch! the family name would vanish forever. Well blow me down, it was banned because it had become too rowdy a ceremony - the then baronet was (you're there before me) the seventh son and he had seven daughters. In order for the curse not to take effect the dole was restarted and from then onwards the details of the family inheritance became confused, tragic and convoluted...culminating in the famous Tichborne inheritance trial...one of the most celebrated in English legal history involving a false claimant to the family title.

The countryside and cool chalk streams of the Itchen valley are magical at this time of year. Taking the time to stop, look, and listen, has been a most theraputic experience. Try it.

The Garden City by the Sea

I am reminded over on Philip Wilkinson's excellent blog 'English Buildings' of the plotland developments which took place in various parts of England. As this blog is named for one such, it's worth a mention. New Anzac-on-Sea was the prizewinning name resulting from a competition, set by Charles Neville, to christen his baby town. Later of course it became Peacehaven, a place reviled by planners throughout the land. Some plotlands grew up as a result of like-minded religious or political groups wishing to establish very basic self-sufficient communities. The homes they built were often rudimentary and made from that most adaptable of materials, corrugated iron - often redundant railway carriages were purchased and, devoid of their wheels, set Rowland Emmett-like upon railway sleepers - to my mind a most attractive and commodious dwelling. A wonderful hangover of this 'adaptation' still sits, not in a plotland at all, but in the chocolate box village of Slindon West Sussex, where one such carriage is wonderfully preserved and thatched to blend into its surroundings. Peacehaven however was born of no such social or altruistic intentions, rather it was the brainchild of the entrepreneur Charles Neville a land speculator whose sometimes questionable interests had taken him to Canada, Australia and beyond. During the Great War he purchased his first tract of land which comprised some of the coastal strip running from Rottingdean in the West to just shy of Newhaven in the East. Ever the grand publicist Neville used press advertising and direct marketing to great effect and one of his first stunts was to run a competition to name what he would later describe as his 'Garden City by the Sea' and from some 80,000 entries, the name 'New Anzac-on-Sea' was chosen, it is said as a tribute to the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps who served so valiantly in France. The prize for naming was £100 and the runners-up were to receive building plots to the value of £50 each...the straws were in the wind however and instead of there being just a few second prizes, there were 12,500! and these were then asked to pay various 'registration fees' . Once these were gathered in the number of takers dropped considerably and eventually Neville made a considerable profit on his 'Free' plots. Subsequently with the backing of The Daily Express 150 plotholders succeeded in suing him for fraud and he was forced to pay back his ill gotten gains. Ever the fighter, Neville counter-sued the Express for libel and won £300 damages. This then was the inauspicious birth of 'The Garden City by the Sea' - I will return to its history for as well as being an object lesson in how not to plan a town, some of its early social manifestations were luadable in their intent. As I think John Seymour said, what was so awful that men returning from the horrors and carnage of The Great War should spendtheir pathetic little gratuities in an attempt to find calm for their souls and troubled minds in such a perfect South facing strip of Sussex downland.

By the way, the picture of the thatched railway carriage is by Simon Carey and used under The Creative Commons licence.

Sea Cloud

A brief glimpse into the past. Last Friday, the 360 ft full-rigged ship 'Sea Cloud' docked at the nearby port of Newhaven. Her passengers (for she is luxuriously equipped) apparently were whisked off to Brighton to savour the City's charms. She made a fine sight too moored at the East Quay as the sun went down with her white hull shining brilliantly. The towering masts gave just a hint of how the port must have looked like when sail held sway. Poor old Newhaven - abused, neglected and largely ignored, is such a historic port and town deserving far better treatment. An unwise town centre development in the 70's placed a blight on the once-bustling high street and since then it has failed to recover. We still have a ferry crossing to Dieppe which is a blessing and a boon, although sadly, busy Dieppe only serves to highlight Newhaven's current state. Sea Cloud returns briefly on the 30th May where once again she will moor adjacent to the scrap metal wharf!

Ooh er missus!

What do you think is going on here ? We are all travelling at 60mph plus; this was taken on a recent road trip through North Carolina, I took it on an iphone...clearly I didn't die unless this is being sent from the spirit world...

Land on Sea

Down here in the sunny South we have seen many wonders, but one of the most extraordinary must surely have been 'The Daddy LongLegs'. Designed and built by the man who gave us Britain's first electric railway (also in Brighton), Magnus Volk's scheme was to extend the line from Black Rock to Rottingdean across the seabed. Track was laid on concrete blocks which formed the sleepers and many are revealed, ghost-like at low tide. The device was virtually a giant Victorian drawing room standing high above the sea on four legs through which were driven the bogies. Power was supplied from overhead cables and the thing resembled a teetering tram on stillettos. A sort of show plough arrangement was fitted to clear the shingle which inevitably washed over the track. Travellers could enjoy the saloon and chintzy comforts of 'The Pioneer' (for that was its name) or take the air around the deck...in plan view it was boat-shaped. Trippers ploughed the raging ocean to the inventor's son's seaplane station at the terminus of Rottingdean some 3 miles distant. Sea travel without sea sickness! Marvellous on a fine calm day but hopeless in any sort of 'weather', the whole plot was virtually scuppered only a month after its opening when a storm wrought huge damage. Undeterred, Volk rebuilt, but various sea defence and groyne works by Brighton Corporation meant deviations and alterations to the track which proved beyond his resources. The car was eventually scrapped around 1901 and so ended surely one of the most curious railway experiments ever. Volk himself was a true pioneer of electric transport and his 'Volks Railway' still runs its Victorian carriages between Black Rock and the Palace Pier Brighton...he even supplied an electric dog cart to Sultan Abdul Hamid of Turkey. What I'd give for a one way trip to Rottingdean on The Daddy LongLegs today.

'The Right Crowd and no Crowding'

That was the slogan of Brooklands motor racing track...so clearly related to its horse racing cousins, it even had bookies. Here are a couple of snaps taken recently at the old place. Although a shadow of its former self, the pre-war banked circuit survives in part. The Club House and the tuning sheds plus a few hangars have been restored and are in use being managed by the Brooklands Trust. Part of the old concrete track still lives. When it was built I believe it was the largest concrete project in the world, its length being 2.75 miles. Hugh Locke-King constructed and completed it in record time; the opening was on 17 June 1907. This was a great British first - the original purpose-built banked motor race circuit - Indianapolis was to follow later. The place still oozes atmosphere and it requires little imagination to hear the roar of the cars and catch the aroma of Castrol 'R' on the breeze.

It's worth a visit if you have any interest in such matters...lots of old iron to drool over in the sheds and charming vignettes of the class-ridden society of the 20's and 30s in the gentlemans clubby atmosphere where drivers and their guest drank and made merry...the stiltedly precise english of the signage brooks no flouting of the rules.

When I was there I took the opportunity to capture the image of the radiator badge of a delightful Vauxhall 30/98 with its reminder that proper Vauxhalls, after their namesake were made in London before Luton.

Carols at the forge

Very very rarely do you stumble across an event so life-affirming it makes you take stock and want to re-arrange your priorities. Last night was one of those however. A simple gathering in a blacksmith's forge. Mulled wine, chestnuts roasted on the hearth and carols, sung with a compelling sincerity. The smith, a talented man whose hands forge weather vanes, gates, hooks, latches and all the impedimenta surrounding local rural life. His wife, a happy contended hard working woman, organising, bustling and contriving to make their lives rich in experiences of simple artistry. The darkness of the forge, the heat from the fire playing on our faces, and the warming glow of the spiced wine conspired to successfully charge us with a hankering for simplicity, making and growing things, and being extraordinarily thankful and content with our lot. A very Merry Christmas.

Ironing in Orford

I do like a nice bit of corrugated iron.

Getting rarer in our relentless pursuit of having the countryside made all spick and span, this quintessential man-made building material seems to adapt very well to its surrounding environment. Providing it is not bothered by regular applications of paint and the natural galvanised finish is allowed to weather and lose its effect,then nature takes over in a most delightful way. This example was spotted in a lane which spurs off the road leading from Orford Village down to the quay and I especially admire the equally distressed ventilators. Goodness knows what it once was, certainly not a church, maybe a dwelling although quite large, or maybe even a hall. It looks empty now but I suspect that it's still tinder-dry inside and houses (in my imagination) all manner of redundant garden machinery, paraffin stoves (Aladdin of course), half used tins of prewar paint, old 'Flit' guns and maybe the odd Lister or Blackstone engine. Rusting spanners are hung from nails on the matchboarded walls and coils of proper binder twine still festoon the rafters. Sadly I didn't have the nerve to enter the property so it's probably had a second carcass built inside and furnished with all the latest from IKEA. If you know, please tell me.

Remember, remember...

"Look out there's a Health and Safety inspector about", mother's saying to father.
There's not long to go now. Lewes is preparing itself for the big night once again. The tradition continues despite efforts over the years to emasculate it. For the Bonfire Societies this will be the culmination of a year's planning and excitement will be running high - who will be the 'enemies of bonfire this year' - always topical, the huge effigies of these unfortunates will be dragged through the streets of the town before being consigned to the fire. Cameron and Clegg maybe? we'll have to wait and see.