A Valediction

A February Morning

The late John Prine, in his song, Illegal Smile, sang:

When I woke up this morning

Things were looking bad

Seemed like total silence

Was the only friend I had.....

I feel like this, sometimes, but John is late, now, and in another song, he had this to sing:

When I get to heaven, I'm gonna shake God's hand

Thank Him for more blessings than one man can stand

Then I'm gonna get a guitar and start a rock and roll band

Check into a swell hotel; ain't the afterlife grand?

[Chorus]

And then I'm gonna get a cocktail, vodka and ginger ale,

Yeah, I'm gonna smoke a cigarette that's nine miles long

I'm gonna kiss that pretty girl on the Tilt-a-whirl

'Cause this old man is goin' to town

When I get to Heaven

Which is certainly more hopeful, though, when I woke early this morning, I had mixed feelings, to be honest. I made tea and read the paper, but pretty soon got sick of the news.

Then Phoebus-Apollo begins to rise, freckling the frosted grass and breathing day into night. I put on my boots and wander to the graveyard, as one does (I take the air in graveyards, when take the air I must ~ Beckett) where, ghost-like, a barn owl stares me down, his mask softly spooky like a konfused klansman:

The stones are still, and silent, and snowdrops are gathered to surround the dead:

It is peaceful.  Just me and the owl and some sleepy memories auf Gottes Acker (on God's acre).  The sun defrosts the snowdrops as the moss crawls across the sword.  If only there could be more such peace....

The owl has no rings, but his/her feathers, coloured from cinnamon to scallop roe, dusted with specks of black pepper above and lace white below are fine enough for me.  

I leave him to the quiet of the churchyard and walk up Eaton Drove, past Limekiln Plantation, on past Eaton Farm and the dusty barn (where the owl roosts) towards Sedgeford. Black-headed gulls, in their winter plumage, pick over the newly ploughed field toward Long Belt......

February is often a cold, grey month, and some years it just gets in the way between winter proper and spring, but today is a bright, sweet day, despite the chill.  I try to clear my head, discarding worries like empty shells, breathing daylight into my blood.  It is enough to be alive, knowing it isn't for ever. Nothing is for ever.  Trump, Putin, Starmer, Farage, Orban - and the rest - will all one day be dust, thank God.....  

It is enough to be alive, and the world around me is spinning - spinning strands of life into a fascinating web of intricacy, beautiful in this light.

I note a buzzard atop a budding tree in Sedgeford Carr. He/she sees me too and majestically lifts into the sky, then floats to heaven along the Heacham River valley, above St Mary's church.

I turn up the track towards Inmere Farm.  Two red kites scan the fields around me by Hardacre Wood, one swooping low as if to inspect me, the tail switching gently to steer the beautiful body across the drafts:

Then, down Fring Road, two hares, mistaking the bright day for March, play a mating game:

Where did she go?

Here I am!

Yes, there is love and wonder in the world, if only you can find it.....
Soon I am home again, and it's still only ten o'clock.  John Prine comes to mind again:

It's gonna be a long Monday

Sittin' all alone on a mountain

By a river that has no end

It's gonna be a long Monday

Stuck like the tick of a clock

That's come unwound - again

And again

Long Monday

But, as ever there are silver linings and there are clouds.  I walked this walk, and wrote this piece, thinking of my friend, novelist Simon Mawer, who died unexpectedly at the age of 76 a few days ago. My thoughts go out to Connie, Matthew and Julia, and to his grandchildren, who will grow without him now.  But I have to think pleasant thoughts of happy times.  Only a fortnight ago Simon contributed to the National Brain Appeal in response to my Coastal Path walk. And only last August we had a happy lunch in Ely.

And forty-five years or so ago we sat on his narrow terrace overlooking the village of Formello, north of Rome, sipping rosso from Torre in Pietra, putting the world to rights while the swifts screamed around, drinking the mosquitoes in the evening air, then mysteriously morphing into bats as the light faded, and night fell.

Now the night has really fallen.

Sleep well Simon.

Snettisham Today

A Snapshot of Snettisham

 

As the new Vicar of Snettisham, the Reverend Dan Tansey, wrote in the February edition of  the church magazine, The Villager, I know I’m not the first newcomer who’s instantly felt welcomed and at home in Snettisham.  

Although I first came to Snettisham as a residential volunteer for the RSPB (at Titchwell Marsh Nature Reserve) quite a few years ago, I moved here with my wife, Amanda, in January 2021, while we were still locked down.  Amanda is badly affected by dementia, even though she is still only in her sixties, and we were indeed kindly welcomed by all around us.  Sadly, last September, it became necessary for her to move into a Care Home in Heacham, so our hopes for a long retirement here have not quite gone to plan.

 

As a result of this, however, I have been able to develop my interest in photography, and, because I want to give something back to the community, I have started a project which I am calling A Snapshot of Snettisham, and, with the support of the Vicar and the Friends of St Mary’s Church, I am gathering photographs which reflect the Village as it is now.

This has been inspired by the wealth of heritage material that already exists, but I wanted to capture the essence of Snettisham as it is now. It is a daunting enterprise - I am not a professional photographer and I don’t want to intrude on anyone’s privacy - but it is taking shape, with pictures of local people and of some of the architecture, and wildlife, that makes this a special place.  

 

As of yesterday (Friday June 2nd, 2023) a selection of pictures (the ones shown here)  is being exhibited in St Mary's, but ultimately, I aim to publish a book, any proceeds from which will go to the Friends of St Mary’s but which will also form a permanent part of Snettisham’s heritage. 

[Should you wish to be a part of this, please don’t hesitate to contact me at richardpgibbs@aol.com .  It may not be possible to include everyone, but don’t be shy – the more the merrier!]

Snettisham is a village and civil parish in the English county of Norfolk. It is located near the west coast of Norfolk, some 5 miles south of the seaside resort of Hunstanton, 9 miles north of the town of King's Lynn and 45 miles northwest of the city of Norwich.

Thank you to all those who let me take their pictures.  I won't name you here, but you know who you are....

*    *    * 

This piece is posted in memory of Jonty Driver, one-time President of the anti-apartheid National Union of South African Students; also  a writer, teacher, headmaster and friend.  

Jonty died on May 21st 2023

My condolences to his wife Ann and his family

The darkness now seems darker still,

and eddies down the edge of sight,

goes twisting down and down, until

it seems so deep it's almost light.

From Still Further

New Poems 2000 - 2020

by C J Driver 1939 -2023

Our House

Our house

Is a very, very, very fine house

Our House, 1905

This is our house. Welcome! It was built in 1883 by John Palmer Benstead (7th June 1828 - 24th February 1887). John was the illegitimate son of Elizabeth Benstead, who married Richard Folker, a farm labourer, in 1834. In the 1841 census John Benstead is recorded as a farm labourer, living alone in Heacham. He then worked for Thomas Savory at the Old Bakehouse in Ladies' Walk and married Mary Ann, his employer's daughter, in 1851. They had seven sons and four daughters, though one of these was stillborn.

Mary Ann, and John, had a bakery in the Market Square from 1851 until Alma House was built, at a cost of £900. In the 1860s and 70s the population of Snettisham was 1,233 and there were four other bakers in the village

Our House, today

When John died the business remained in the family. The photograph of the house in 1905 shows Frederick and Emma Benstead with their young son Bob. Apparently he took over the business from his brother Tony some time before 1930, and maintained it until his retirement in 1967/68.  He married Nellie in the 1920s and had a daughter, Mollie, in 1927 and a son, Alan, in 1930.  

Bob Benstead made bread, cakes and pastries, using a coal fired oven in what is now the kitchen.  

The kitchen as it is today - formerly the bakehouse - some of the ironwork is original.

Bob delivered to Snettisham and the neighbouring villages of Sedgeford, Fring, Ingoldisthorpe and Dersingham.  He had a cart and a donkey, which lived in this shed:

There was no inside kitchen in those days, nor a toilet or a bathroom - the outside earth toilet being beyond the donkey shed, with a large and a small wooden seat. The first bathroom was put in in around 1960.

This room, now a dining room, was the main living room:

And this, now my study, was the front parlour:

Many years ago, when Graham Nash was living in Laurel Canyon at Joni Mitchell's house, she brought home some flowers one day, and he composed a song, which he entitled Our House:

Our house

Is a very, very, very fine house (very, very fine house)

With two cats in the yard

Life used to be so hard

Now everything is easy

'Cause of you

And our

I'll light the fire

While you place the flowers

In the vase

That you bought today

I suspect it loses something in translation, and I should point out that we actually have three cats, but the sentiment (and it really is rather sentimental) fits our very fine house......

Of course we are nowhere near Laurel Canyon, but Snettisham is a fine village:

With, as you can just see in the top left of the board, pride in the Snettisham Hoard, or Snettisham Treasure, which consists of a series of discoveries of Iron Age precious metal, found in the area between 1948 and 1973. The hoard consists of metal, jet and over 150 gold/silver/copper alloy torc fragments, over 70 of which form complete torcs, dating from 70BC. Probably the most famous item from the hoard is the Great Torc from Snettisham, which is now held by the British Museum. Though the origins are unknown, it is of a high enough quality to have been royal treasure of the Iceni.....

The village has a fine church - St Mary's - which, according to Nikolaus Pevsner, is perhaps the most exciting Decorated (ie English Gothic from between 1290 and 1350) parish church in Norfolk, with its 175 ft tall spire (rebuilt in 1895) and its fabulous six-light window in the west front.....

The village also has a handsome 17th century Old Hall, built, like our house, of carstone (quarried just up the road) with brick dressings:

And, in a discreet way that puts most other villages to shame, there is a wonderful book shop, named after the Great Torc:

Perhaps inspired by this, and possibly as an indication that life is healthy here so we don't need a village defibrillator, the telephone kiosk now hosts a book swap:

And though there is no longer a Post Office (the post van visits four days a week), the main post box is a priority one, especially decorated by the WI for the Platinum Jubilee:

And in case you were wondering, there are two pubs, one of which dates back to the construction of the church, as apparently it was raised to accommodate the masons involved in that holy work. 

In addition, in the spirit of Mr Mainwaring, the village has an Old Bank, though it is now a family run restaurant, named The Good Food Guide Best Local Restaurant 2019 for the whole of Britain and soon after was also listed in the Michelin Guide.

The village is near the sea, just a 45 minute walk from the Wash, over 60 metre high Wild Ken Hill (renowned for its rewilding and for supporting the careers of Chris Packham and Michaela Strachan.....) and across the marsh, which used to be (and probably will be again) under the sea.

Indeed, although the weather this year has been dry and warm, there have been times when the heavens have opened:

Our garden, earlier this year

And the proximity of the sea, and the unpredictability of the weather, have taken their toll:

We moved here at the beginning of 2021, and our house is currently our home, for which I have no regret.

I won't claim to be a big fan of Graham Nash, but I recognise his temporary joy in living with Joni Mitchell. I have temporary joy in living with Amanda, though, as with everything, it won't last.

I cannot claim to be a big fan of Madness, either, though that depends on how you define the term. I can now sympathise with Mr Rochester when he fell for Jane Eyre, and I can empathise with Grace Poole (the stout, middle-aged, red-haired seamstress who works as a servant at Thornfield Hall, who is secretly the nursemaid and prison guard for the insane Bertha Mason.....) - though that is not the only reason I drink.....

But I do like Suggs, and Madness's Our House is a hymn of joy:

Our house, in the middle of our street

Our house, in the middle of our

I remember way back then

When everything was true and when

We would have such a very good time

Such a fine time, such a happy time

And I remember how we'd play

Simply waste the day away

Then we'd say nothing would come between us

Two dreamers

Daniel Woodgate / Graham Mcpherson / Lee Thompson / Christopher Foreman / Michael Barson / Cathal Smyth / Mark Bedford

Amanda, stuck at the top of our stairs

I'll light the fire

You place the flowers

In the vase

That you bought today

Staring at the fire

For hours and hours

While I listen to you

Play your love songs

All night long

For me

Only for me

Graham Nash

From Amanda's window

Our house, was our castle and our keep

Our house, in the middle of our street

Our house, that was where we used to sleep

Our house, in the middle of our street

Our house

Our House

Madness

 

 

A Christmas Card from Snettisham

 SEASONAL GREETINGS

This will be our first Christmas in Snettisham, our new home village, in Norfolk, and it's looking pretty. Despite all, it may be a better Christmas than last, though even without another lock down things are ever so slightly grim. 

Last year, on Christmas Day, after we had made remote contact with our daughters, Amanda insisted she wanted to go somewhere, but could not explain where or why. She was carrying something in a bag, and wanted to get into the car, so we set off, me desperately trying to find out what this was about.....

Eventually I twigged, and so, though I knew it was pointless, I took her to the Care Home where my mother had been in the last few years of her life. Of course, owing to lockdown, there was no way we could be admitted, but anyway my mum had died over a year before. Amanda tried the door, repeatedly, and then, sadly, gave up and we returned home.....

So, this year will be different, in several ways.  We are not quite so locked down, but we won't be going far, and we don't have family to stay, nor will there be guests to dine.  To most intents and purposes for Amanda it will be a day like any other.  Routines are important, and we will go out to walk, then rest, then eat, then rest then walk, then bath, eat, sleep - perhaps.

But that's OK.  We have good neighbours, and the Salvation Army over the road, and people  are friendly and will say, Happy Christmas, and Amanda will chuckle and we will go on our way. It could be far worse, and I know it is for many.  I think of those separated from their partners by Covid regulations, or by sickness.  I think of those with no resources - migrants sleeping rough at borders, and those sleeping rough on our streets.  I am not a faithful church goer, but the ever lasting story of a woman giving birth in the dirty straw of a stable should be a message that confirms a belief in a health service which is able to care for those in need.  When I hear of people dying in ambulances or in waiting for an ambulance, I think there is something careless  about government.....

Snettisham is full of light - there's a tradition of illuminating St Mary's and of brightening the market square:

On lighting up night there were fun rides for children:

And sweet stalls and the like: Thompson's:

And Maria's:

And there was music, and dancing and there were carols:

And yesterday, inside St Mary's, the local variation on a theme by St Francis took place, with animals from Park Farm in stalls for all to stroke:

Even down to a variation on the theme of camels:

And a tiny premature baby lay mewling in the manger, to remind all of the vulnerability of some....

While overhead ragged skeins of geese stream towards their roosts on the mudflats of the Wash, winking in the dark of a winter evening:

Though for feasting, some may prefer the humble chicken:

Or maybe just a pint round the fire in the pub, with a moment of comfort and company:

The village is bright. It is good to light the darkness:

Even individual houses down my street glow in the dark:

And all this brings cheer to an otherwise gloomy time of year, with the drizzle and the mud and the cold winds from the North Sea.  It is good to light the dark, and good to share kind thoughts. We are in a good place, and I send my very best wishes to all for peaceful, happy times.....

Oh, and as a footnote, on the subject of light, here's an ancient joke, rehearsed by Anne McElvoy, senior editor at The Economist, in The Observer, yesterday: How many psychotherapists does it take to change a lightbulb? The old answer is just one: but the lightbulb really has to want to change. 

However a new one is that Johnson's party may now decide that the great source of heat and light is fading to black.

There is hope!

Happy Days!