Shiver me timbers

The Ghosts of Lynn

Goodnight, sweet prince,

And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!

Hamlet

 Act 5, Scene 2

The town of Lynn, once Bishop's Lynn and then, thanks to Henry VIII, King's Lynn, might possibly be related to Dublin and Lincoln, through their connection with pools of water, which may have been used to collect salt. It probably isn't related to Linford Christie, Gary Winston Lineker, my old cock linnet, or Der Lindenbaum, 

Am Brunnen vor dem Tore,

Da steht ein Lindenbaum;

Ich träumt’ in seinem Schatten 

So manchen süssen Traum,

But those are other stories.....  What you may be surprised to know is that there is a very plausible connection to William Shakespeare, probable author of such witticisms as:

We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep.

The Tempest 

Act 4, Scene 1

And what, I hear you cry, is this? The Swan of Avon, washed up on the banks of the Great Ouse?

Sweet Swan of Auon! what a sight it were

To see thee in our waters yet appeare,

And make those flights vpon the bankes of Thames,

That so did take Eliza, and our Iames!

Ben Jonson

Yes, well, the likelihood is giant. And its footprint is in King Street, in St George’s Guildhall, which is owned by the National Trust and managed by King’s Lynn Borough Council and which is now confirmed to be the oldest working theatre space in the country.....

Until recently the interior of St George's Guildhall looked like this:

Currently, it looks like this:

And you may visit it any day (except Sundays) until August 31st to see and hear about the history of the building (built in 1419 and containing the largest area of 15th century timber floor in the country).  

So, what's this got to do with his Bardship, you moan? Well, this is the thing. Tim FitzHigham, Creative Director of the archaeological project to restore the theatre, has this to say: These are the boards used by Shakespeare’s company during the plague closures of 1592/3, making it a site of international cultural significance.....

And for proof we have....?  Well, this is what the Guildhall's website has to say:

There has been a long tradition that Shakespeare played at the Guildhall in King’s Lynn. People in King’s Lynn were told this by their parents who were told this by their parents and grandparents. This is not new. For example, in 1766 the pub next to the Guildhall (now called Shakespeare House) was named the Shakespeare Pub and had a picture of Shakespeare on the front of it to reflect these links. There are several things which support the oral tradition of the town. In 1592/3 the company associated with Shakespeare, the Earl of Pembroke’s Men, were paid to play in King’s Lynn when the theatres in London were shut due to the plague. At this time Shakespeare was an actor as well as a writer according to a work by Robert Greene of 1954 [1594?   Ed.] calling Shakespeare an ‘upstart crow’ [Not to be confused with D Mitchell's creepy smug TV stuff.  Ed].

Shakespeare’s comedian Robert Armin [Not to be confused with his grate nuncle, Idi.  Ed]  was born in King’s Lynn one street from the theatre..... Armin was a very close collaborator of Shakespeare’s and was the first person to play many of the most famous comedic roles Shakespeare created ['Til Deaf us do part; Dad's Barmy; Faulty Powers; et al. Ed]. Documents from Shakespeare’s lifetime reference an event that occurred in the theatre in ‘Linn, Norfolk’ which is said to have inspired Shakespeare to write part of the plot of Hamlet....

So, it is more than a random chance that Shakespeare actually ducked through this doorway (notwithstanding the semblance that they could be bricked up - Crollalanza era un mago!):

And maybe even this one:

Peered out of this window:

Stepped through this passageway:

And took the air (or had a pipe) in this courtyard:

Which includes an Art Gallery in memory of Lord Fermoy, whose wife provided for the until recent theatre seating, thereby ensuring the survival of the building through the latter part of the twentieth century and into the current secolo..... 

If it be now, ’tis not to come: if it be not to come, it will be now: if it be not now, yet it will come: the readiness is all.

Hamlet

Act 5, Scene 2

All the world's a stage

And all the men and women merely players.

They have their exits and their entrances; 

And one man in his time plays many parts.

As You Like It

Act 2, Scene 7

So, what else was there in Lynn 400 or so years ago?

The Minster and Priory Church of St Margaret, St Mary Magdalene and all the Virgin Saints was founded as a Benedictine Priory in 1101 by Herbert de Losinga, the first Bishop of Norwich. For 400 years it was the monks’ home as well as the Parish Church for the town. It was always known as St Margaret’s and would not have been very different, despite efforts by H8 [You mean Henery the Eighth; not hate, surely?  Ed] in Shakespeare's time from what we see now:  

I am one who loved not wisely but too well.

Othello

Act 5, Scene 2

[No.... that's a different story....Ed.]

So we also have the largest chapel-of-ease in England, St Nicholas Chapel (rebuilt between 1380 and 1410 but currently closed because of a problem with one of the roof beams [Elf and Safety gone mad?  Ed]) which would have been architecturally (if not from a glassware point of view) much as it is now.

Another building that was definitely here in the time of WS, is the Red Mount Chapel. It was built in 1485 as a wayside chapel for pilgrims landing at King's Lynn; a place to stop and pray before undertaking the overland journey to Walsingham, or to pray before leaving England after a visit to the shrine. It was/is known as the Chapel of Our Lady of the Mount, and is to be found in The Walks.

Then, although wrecked and suppressed (in 1538) by Enery and his 'enchpeople there would have been at least the Tower of the Greyfriars' Priory:

And while in the late 16th century the Trinity Guildhall housed a prison, the finely windowed first floor would have been there.....

And below stairs in several of the riverside buildings there were cellars which originally may have had direct access to the quayside or even to the river with the potential for rewarding import/export businesses.....

And all compacted into a relatively small area alongside the Great Ouse, making Lynn one of the most important ports in England.  From the 13th century Lynn had been a part of the Hanseatic League, and, though trade had declined by Shakespeare's time it was (and still is) an active port.

With narrow lanes leading to the riverside.

Out, out brief candle!

Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more; it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

Macbeth

Act 5, Scene 5

Back in the undercroft of the St George's Guildhall, it isn't hard to sense the spirit of Crollalanza in the blind arches and niches, in the ancient timbers and hand-made bricks. Is that the ghost of Banquo?

Prithee, see there. Behold, look! How say you?

Macbeth

Act 3, scene 4

Or does King Hamlet lie there?

Whither wilt thou lead me? Speak. I’ll go no further.

Hamlet

Act 1, scene 5

So....  What does this add up to?  Does it matter?  Well, in my 'umble opinion, yes it does.  We need to recognise our past and to learn from it.  Without history and heritage we are lesser creatures, with little reference by which to gauge our actions. Whether William Shakespeare himself ever actually drew breath in Lynn is, in itself, not necessarily going to alter what we do or think, but to register the continuity of human endeavour and to recognise the achievements, and the mistakes, of our forebears, inevitably makes us richer in many ways.  And had St George's Guildhall been pulled down and turned into a car showroom, for example, we would all be, in some ways, poorer.

Is this nothing?

Why then the world and all that’s in’t is nothing:

The covering sky is nothing, Bohemia nothing,

My wife is nothing, nor nothing have these nothings,

If this be nothing.

Leontes

The Winter's Tale

 Act 1, Scene 2

So, if you can get to see the exposed timbers and be guided round St George's Guildhall you won't regret it. Then, perhaps in 2028, we will all be able to enjoy performances in the restored oldest working theatre in England.  

The rest [For now. Ed] is silence.

Hamlet 

Act 5, Scene 2

*****

For further information, please see:

https://stgeorgesguildhall.com/heritage/

Dedicato alla memoria della nonna di CJS 

(ed anche a CJS stessa)

I had a dream.....

Darkness Visible…..

 

Paradise Lost 

 

Him the Almighty Power

Hurled headlong flaming from th' ethereal sky 

With hideous ruin and combustion down 

To bottomless perdition, there to dwell 

In adamantine chains and penal fire, 

Who durst defy th' Omnipotent to arms.

 

Book 1: Lines 44-49

 

Sometime early on Wednesday morning, November 4th 2020, I woke with a start, frightened.  I had been dreaming, which for me is rare, or, at least, to remember my dreams is rare.  And I woke suddenly breaking off a three dimensional, vivid but very short dream.

 

It went like this:  I was looking up to a platform, high atop a steel structure.  On the platform stood a man, dressed in light tan trousers, a pale green sort of puffer jacket, like American flyers sometimes wear. His back was toward me, but I could see longish fair hair falling from under his dozer cap.  The platform was reached by a vertical ladder, and it must have been about thirty metres high.  There was no safety net, and the man was alone.  In front of him, sloping up at around ten degrees, was a wire, maybe about four metres long.  He seemed confident, and started to walk up the wire, his small hands outstretched in balance.  As he gained height, however, he began to falter, and his feet, close in front of each other, trembled a little, then switched several times from side to side, while his body remained upright, but his head looked down.  He grabbed out for a long horizontal pole in front of him, which was cradled at the end of the wire, but it slipped from his hands, and fell away.  His feet and the wire went quickly to the right, and he slipped, catching the wire under his arms as his red hat disappeared.  He seemed to shout, but I couldn’t hear.  He swung awkwardly with his head just above the wire, then slipped down towards the platform, his legs flailing under him above the void.  Somehow, he managed to bring his feet onto the edge of the platform and to hoist his body up, then he was lying flat on his back, his head off the end of the plank, his face toward me, upside down, his mouth open, his hair flopping in the air, his arms flung out on each side, his palms open.  He was barely balanced, the plank seemed narrow, and I knew he was about to roll and fall.

 

It was a scary dream, and I had no idea where it sprang from.  I woke disturbed, frightened of the fall, puzzled by this strangely vivid image of a man on his back about to slip off a very tall steel structure with no safety harness, no net, no guides, no friends.

 

I carried this dream around all Wednesday, and all Thursday, without seeing the blindingly obvious. 

 

Then, this morning, Friday, 6 November 2020, we went for a walk near Redbourn.  It was a misty, cold, autumn morning, and we walked along a muddy path, under oaks, and under a strangely cloudy sky.  Then, as we followed a lane near a place called Nirvana, I heard a faint hissing, crackling sound, or perhaps a sort of buzz, like a hive of bees in the distance.  Looking up, I saw power lines and a great steel pylon, the cables rising up to the peak at an angle of about ten degrees.  This was the high wire, the tall structure.  This was the height of power.  

 

And the man had achieved greatness, and dominance, and then, as he approached the zenith, with the possibility of sliding down the other side into the future, he fell back, like Lucifer, or Satan….

 

Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven…..

 

Or Macbeth, whose vaulting ambition…. o'erleaps itself and falls on th' other

 

Or perhaps like many others, too numerous to name, where ambition and pride precede an ignominious fall.  Politicians, warriors, businessmen and businesswomen, CEOs, tribal leaders and stars, brought down by some tragic flaw.

 

And life, as we know it, goes on, without a blip.  Careless of the flailing legs that momentarily stick out from the sea as the body sinks.  While the ship sails on, and the ploughman continues his daily toil.

 

Him the Almighty Power

Hurled headlong flaming from th' ethereal sky,

With hideous ruin and combustion, down

To bottomless perdition, there to dwell

In adamantine chains and penal fire,

Who durst defy th' Omnipotent to arms.

Nine times the space that measures day and night

To mortal men, he, with his horrid crew,

Lay vanquished, rolling in the fiery gulf,

Confounded, though immortal. But his doom

Reserved him to more wrath; for now the thought

Both of lost happiness and lasting pain

Torments him: round he throws his baleful eyes,

That witnessed huge affliction and dismay,

Mixed with obdurate pride and steadfast hate.

At once, as far as Angels ken, he views

The dismal situation waste and wild.

 

John Milton, Paradise Lost, Book 1

Thank you.  You have a lovely, happy time.....

Amanda

Dream on......

Highlands

Pretty much a long way from most places!

My Heart's in the Highlands

by Robert Burns

(1759-1796)

Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North,

The birth-place of Valour, the country of Worth;

Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, 

The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here;

My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;

A-chasing the wild-deer, and following the roe,

My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.

Farewell to the mountains high covered with snow;

Farewell to the straths and green valleys below;

Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods;

Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.

The Falls of Shin

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here;

My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;

A-chasing the wild-deer, and following the roe,

My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.

 

Daniel Defoe, in his A Tour through the Whole Island of Great Britain observes that this frightful country of Scotland, can be divided into four quarters: The South Land (which is south of the River Tay); The Midland (from the Tay up to Lake Ness and the Aber, including Isla and Jura); The Northland, and The Islands. He goes on to say, as he enters the third division, that the mountains are so full of deer, harts, roebucks, etc.... also a great number of eagles which breed in the woods.... the rivers and lakes also in all this country are prodigiously full of salmon.....

Red Grouse

OK. So there's deer. So there's salmon. But there are also birds. Don't forget the birds. Wonderfully varied, impermanent, characterful, elusive, frustrating, but ultimately so worth the watch......

Lapwing

And not just the powerful, elemental, grand birds that dominate.  There are birds to suit all tastes (?) - and I am not including young Gannets here - and interests. I wrote something about Ospreys in another entry, and alluded to some visitors in writing about Islay, but on the shores here, of loch and coast; in the heather and on the rocks; in the air and on the water, the Highlands abound in wildlife, much of it in avian form.....

A Redshank skims the waters

And the ubiquitous red-eyed oystercatcher seems different here, purer, perhaps more at home. The last ones I saw were busy on the lawn of my hotel in the Isle of Wight, but here they seem to have time to linger, basking in the cool light of their own reflections.....

Some are more difficult to see close up, and without the advantage of the high-tech, extremely high cost, equipment of the SpringWatch team, it is still possible to appreciate the colours and temperaments of rarer species, such as Slavonian Grebes bobbing on Loch Ruthven....

And flitting, resting, watching, feeding, there are so many beautiful species, just being, like this upright Wheatear among the heathers......

But then it is not only birds, either. Off the shingle of Chanonry Point, we watch dolphins tumbling in the tidal rip. Defoe reported the fishing of porpoises here, but our sport is in watching these creatures doing what they do, without obligation....

I love Scotland, and I shall personally grieve if it detaches from me in any way.  Like Robert Burns I am not a Highlander, nor am I a frequent visitor, nor can I offer this frightful country anything in the way of appeasement, but something of my heart is in the Highlands, for personal reasons...

As recounted in an earlier piece, entitled The Battle of Blenheim, and of a very different nature, I lived for a while in Dunrobin Castle, on the shore just north of Golspie.  In early 1969 I took this picture:

And in 2014 I took this one:

Better camera, perhaps; better weather, certainly.....

Inside there is still the same questionable opulence:

And from the rooftops I imagine the dusty vistas are as they were when Garibaldi docked at the quay:

It was weird to roam that Gormenghast-like castle freely. The thirteenth century core had been consumed by additions aeons ago, and the servants' quarters were crawling with nothings to remind even the dust of shames long past.  For an impressionable youth it was very impressionable.  From the haunted chamber, where perhaps a young woman had had a fatal accident with a sash window, to the Duke's bathroom, where a wicker seated commode communed with a claw footed bath, the world was eerie, detached and strange. Fulmars launched themselves from my window-sill; the raven himself was hoarse....

Come, thick night,
And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell,
(My brother had thanes on his mind)

By th' clock ’tis day,

And yet dark night strangles the travelling lamp.

It was extraordinary to be so far north. When I arrived, not yet eighteen, it was deep winter, and the days were so dark you needed a torch to read at midday. The sea was spectacular, hurling spray at my window fifty feet or more above the gardens. When I left, in late summer, you could read without a torch at midnight.

That July the world seemed to be whirling out of control through space.  On Tuesday 1st John Lennon crashed his Austin Maxi into a nearby ditch and spend five days in the local hospital, with Yoko Ono and her daughter Kyoko.  John had 17 facial stitches and Yoko 14 (Julian had been with them too, but he was unharmed).  

That same weekend, my group, The Dunrobiners, which had become something of a phenomenon in the area (well, we cut a disc in a recording studio in Wick!) was heading a Ceilidh at the Stags Head Hotel. 

There was talk that John might come down from the hospital to see what was going on, but the delightful Alice Sutherland leaned across to me and smiled, We don't need no John Lennon.  Whisht, you're our Beatles!   Perhaps he heard her.....

Later that month Brian Jones died and Mick Jagger threw butterflies at heaven; and then men seemingly stepped on the moon, while we attended dances at the Drill Hall, an extraordinary example of corrugated architecture, into which the entire village and many more from far and wide would crush, jigging and bopping to the scottish equivalent of a Show Band.....

And we would nightly carouse in the wonderful Sutherland Arms Hotel, fuelling our dreams with Tennants Heavy and ten year old Glenmorangie.....

I loved it there, and on returning recently it was sad to hear that Mrs Hexley, the landlady, had long since passed away, but one of her sons still lives in the village, and most wonderfully I learned that Murdo, the perfect barman, was still around, working now as a guide in the Castle.  

A piece of my heart is certainly there.  As curiously is Bob Dylan's....  apparently, or so he said, in Highlands on Time out of Mind:

Well my heart’s in the Highlands gentle and fair

Honeysuckle blooming in the wildwood air

Bluebelles blazing where the Aberdeen waters flow

Well my heart’s in the Highland

I’m gonna go there when I feel good enough to go

Well my heart’s in the Highlands wherever I roam

That’s where I’ll be when I get called home

The wind, it whispers to the buckeyed trees in rhyme

Well my heart’s in the Highland

I can only get there one step at a time

My heart’s in the Highlands at the break of dawn

By the beautiful lake of the Black Swan

Big white clouds like chariots that swing down low

Well my heart’s in the Highlands

Only place left to go

Curious how Burns and Zimmerman share this sentiment, perhaps.  Maybe it's because Bob and his brother David share a home at Nethy Bridge, in the Cairngorms National Park? But it's good enough for me.....

Well, my heart’s in the Highlands at the break of day

Over the hills and far away

There’s a way to get there and I’ll figure it out somehow

But I’m already there in my mind

And that’s good enough for now

Copyright © 1997 by Special Rider Music

With many thanks to Dr E for all the driving

http://www.richardpgibbs.org/2012/11/the-battle-of-blenheim.html

Inside the Stags Head, 1969
(is that a metaphor?)