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)

Calling cards from a misspent youth

What larks!..... Let the good times roll!

Today and tomorrow, and yesterday, too
The flowers are dyin’ like all things do
Follow me close, I’m going to Ballinalee
I’ll lose my mind if you don’t come with me
I fuss with my hair, and I fight blood feuds
I contain multitudes

Bob Dylan

I contain Multitudes

Me neither....  His Bobitude has his way of surprising us, which usually means he is both ahead of the game and out of orbit.  But.... If I can hazard a glean, I think there may be a suggestion that at the end of life we look back and see a tangle of strands (I sing songs of love/I sing songs of betrayal....) all of which combine to make up the fibre optic that is our shining light.  (Though shining lights are really blended rainbows....)

Recently I have been prompted to open a jar of memories.  I have been sifting acres of photos, and coming across faces who happened to cross their lives with mine - some briefly, and some deeply.  Some I remember clearly; with some I am still in contact.  Others have disappeared almost entirely and I cannot even recall their names, (let alone their blood types or passport numbers....)

Here's just a few, (with no intended disrespect to any who might wonder why they are not represented here....  This is truly a skate on the thin ice of memory....)

But, I know this one, and where this was.  But when.....  note the ciggies under the chair....  That dates it!

And these guys?  I was on an early bus from somewhere to Ajaccio, and the driver put us down in a mountain village.  The next thing I knew I was raising a glass of champagne to.....  a Saint?  a Hero? 

I still don't know.  But it was a great breakfast......  Thanks guys....

And while we are in Corsica, this stone shed in a river valley in the mountainous heart of the island was where I lived for what seemed like the infinitely expanded present....  

I would still be there.....  I really would.....

Here is a friend of mine from the Canary Isles.  She had an African (Arabic?) name, as she rejected Spanish rule.  

Not unlike my Corsican friends, (who were not enamoured with the French).....

And here, about to be run down by The Cutty Sark, is the daughter of an Italian journalist, who later married an Opera Singer.....

Meanwhile here's one of a number of close friends with a Palestinian connection, though her mother was American (of German heritage).  Father (Mohammed) was a senior official at FAO; elder brother drove a Ferrari to the States on commission, but had a few scrapes on the way.....  Ouch!

But they were such a kind, welcoming family.....

And here's the daughter of one of the Kenyan Flying Doctors, who, despite being employed in Rome (and I think [?] maybe related to someone else I knew....) fixed me up with a terrific safari in East Africa.....

(see https://www.richardpgibbs.org/2017/02/kenya.html

 and 

https://www.richardpgibbs.org/2017/02/kenya-2.html)

And who must have taken this picture of me on the Napoli Express.....

And here's a Jewish girl (from Milan) I met on the ferry from Genoa to Barcelona (when I should have been looking after thirty or so pupils.... Well, they had no where to go.....)

But that's about all I remember.....

I did see her once again in Rome, for lunch, though I don't think I was Italian enough for her.....

'Fraid I don't know who this is either, except she seems to be in my flat in Trastevere.....  I have a vague feeling she was an unhappy au pair.....

Hope she's happy now, somewhere.....

This is Sana. Later involved in the Intifada....   (Not that I know much about Intifadas....)

And her gentle elder sister Wa'fa, who gave me Edmund Burke Feldman's Varieties of Visual Experience, one of my still unread treasures....  I think it was a birthday present, though I was in a dark room at the time.....

Such lovely people - such lovely smiles (and so many knitted jumpers!)  I have been so blessed....  

I mean this.  The variety and colour of life can be found in other people, other places (although it doesn't have to be thus.) In my storybook there aren't many happy endings, but there are lots of good beginnings.....

Here's another scene from the opera buffa that has been my life....  One of the first times I took Amanda to Tuscany, to a remote farmhouse, 600 metres high on Monte Amiata, where peace comes dropping slow (and the ticking of my wristwatch on the window sill would click and clock the break of day....)

I think all the above pictures were taken in the '80s, though I'm not sure exactly.  

This one, below, would have been from ten years before, when I was at Lancaster. 

When I was just setting out.....  

Those were the days my friend

We thought they'd never end

We'd sing and dance forever and a day

We'd live the life we chose

We'd fight and never lose

Those were the days, oh yes those were the days

La la la la...

Yep.... 

La, La, La, La.....

I have been so blessed to have known, and loved, all these people (and more).  All the strands of light from the rainbow that weave the light of our lives.....

Our revels now are ended. These our actors, 

As I foretold you, were all spirits and

Are melted into air, into thin air: 

And, like the baseless fabric of this vision.... shall dissolve

And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, 

Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff 

As dreams are made on, and our little life 

Is rounded with a sleep.

WS

The Tempest

Thank you....  Thank you all....

Once I had mountains in the palm of my hand
And rivers that ran through every day

I must have been mad

I never knew what I had

Until I threw it all away

Love is all there is, it makes the world go 'round

Love and only love, it can't be denied

No matter what you think about it

You just won't be able to do without it

Take a tip from one who's tried

Bob Dylan

I Threw It All Away

Hey, everybody, let's have some fun

You only live but once

And when you're dead you're done

So let the good times roll

Let the good times roll

I don't care if you're young or old

Get together, let the good times roll

Let the Good Times Roll


*    *    *

In Memoriam Mike Wall

*    *    *

RSPB Coquet Island

To the Lighthouse

Dusk falls on the Lighthouse and monastic ruins of Coquet Island

I am bound for Coquet Island, a mile off the coast of Northumberland, just out from Warkworth (Amble) Harbour.  

It's only a ten minute bounce across the waves in the RSPB RIB (Rigid Inflatable Boat), expertly piloted by Paul Morrison, the Warden of Coquet, but, as with Alcatraz, the rocky and turbulent waters would not make an easy swim back to shore.

Warden Paul Morrison and Volunteer Hilary wave goodbye

I say I am bound for Coquet, and the word is apt in its connotations of contract and commitment, as well as that leaping idea that fits the boat's forward movement so well. I have committed to a fortnight's voluntary work on this tiny scrap of rock, and once dropped off there is a real chance that I could be stuck there for weeks, as the wind and tide can combine to prohibit any landing.

I already dream of helicopters.

But it's birds I am there for, even though the real stars of Coquet, the Roseate Terns, and their support act, the clownish Puffins, have all long since flown.

In the breeding season, which is roughly April to early August, there can be as many as 35,000 nesting seabirds on this four hectare (less than one mile circumference) island, and so visitors are not allowed (there is nowhere to step!) and the Wardens and volunteers keep watch, both from hides and via CCTV.

RSPB Coquet Island Bird Hide, currently in London as part of the Camden Migration Festival. The 6ft x 6ft hide began life in 2005 as a basic shelter but has been gradually modified and enhanced over the past decade by its creator, award-winning blacksmith Stephen Lunn.  Externally it resembles a miniature version of the Trinity lighthouse on Coquet Island but instead of a giant bulb, there is a disco ball, which bathes the inside of the hide with shards of light at dawn. Stephen has also installed a wood burning stove, which he has forged in the shape of a clam.

This is to ensure that no one disturbs the birds nor steals rare eggs - surprisingly still a threat to this colony of Roseate Terns, which is the only one in the UK.

And so, once landed, I am Crusoed - though to be fair there are three of us: me, Wesley, the Assistant Warden, and Lee, like me a temporary volunteer. Even so, there is a real sense of isolation as the sun goes down.  There is no traffic, no TV, no running water, and as the moon rises there is a curious feeling of being adrift in space.

The work at this time of year is principally to manage the habitat so that it will be suitable for the return of the birds next spring (rooting out nettles and thistles, cutting and raking hay) and also to clean, preserve and store away the nest boxes for the Terns (remarkably they return - from wintering in Africa - to the exact same spot to nest each year, and some live for up to thirty years!)

Lee and me and our collection of freshly numbered Roseate Tern nextboxes

But there is also time to explore and to observe the natural world, which is by no means dormant...... More than fifty pairs of Fulmar breed here too, and I find one young one on the rocks, waiting for the tide to lift him off (they cannot take off from the ground)....

And I try to photograph these relatives of the Albatross in flight, as they swoop low past me at jet fighter speed, their wings locked, their eyes fixing me for a moment in a mixture of curiosity and menace.....

I count a total of fifty species of birds during my stay, with the most numerous being gulls, Oystercatchers:

Purple Sandpipers and Dunlin who seem to enjoy passing the time watching the waves:

But there are Herons too, 

And numerous Shags, flying dinosaur-like low over the water, then hanging their wings out to dry (to be super fast but also to achieve great depth under water - they typically dive to thirty metres, their feathers, unlike most seabirds, are not waterproof).....

And, though there are few trees of any description (Elder being favourite) there are numerous other varieties, including swallow, robin, such migrants as this young Willow Warbler (I think - please correct me if I have erred....)

You might catch a Yellow-browed Warbler en passant:

Rock Pipits hop about the shoreline, as well as the new-mown hay:

And the occasional Spotted Flycatcher appears as well:

And I spied this (female) Whinchat busily flitting between dried stems:

But it is not just birds.....  insects abound (or there would be fewer birds) and at the other end of the scale there are Atlantic Grey Seals, lying in state on the exposed rocks, lazily flipping flippers to disturb the flies:

Swimming so slinkily Silkie-like in rock pools:

Splashing into the surf in silly scares:

Or snorkelling just out of reach trying to see just what you are:

Humans count for little, though there have been residents here of one kind or another since at the very least the seventh century, when St Cuthbert recorded a visit. Hardy religious types have pitched up here, including Henry the Hermit, a royal Dane who died in 1127, having survived for years taking food only three times a week. During the last four years of his life he ground his barley into meal with a mill-stone, and after moistening it with water, made it into little round cakes that he dried in the sun.  He did not speak for three years and when he died he was found sitting in peace with a candle miraculously burning nearby (there was no lighter, nor matches, on the island).

Wesley Davies, the Assistant Warden, has lived on the island from April to October for five years now.

As with the Farne Islands, isolation has suited the reclusive and the mystic.  For several centuries there was a small religious community here, and remains of their buildings can still be seen.  

The medieval vaulted chamber on Coquet, probably the monks' living quarters, but possibly the original chapel

My room lies within the fifteenth century framework, though it has been completely restructured by Trinity House:

There have been stone workers here (Sion House, the London residence of the Duke of Northumberland, is partly built of Coquet sandstone), and sea coal diggers were said to have been living here in huts in the late eighteenth century.  Then in 1841 Trinity House established the lighthouse, which rises to twenty-two metres.  The designer, James Walker, incorporated parts of the monastery into the fortress-like structure, so that fragments of original wall and a vaulted chamber remain, and the base of the tower has sandstone walls a metre thick.

The first keeper on Coquet was William Darling, elder brother of Grace, the heroine of Bamburgh.  For over a hundred years there were at least two families living here, tending the light and fog signals, and they had cultivated gardens, kept pigs and chickens, and took their children to school on the mainland.  The tradition of family life ended definitively with electrification (in this case in 1976) and in 1990 Coquet was fully automated.  It now runs off solar energy, with a 35 watt halide lamp flashing three times every twenty seconds.  The white lights can be seen up to 19 nautical miles distant.  Trinity House still visit to maintain, but even compared with recent photographs the sense of decay is strong:

During my stay the light became comforting, almost a friendly human symbol to reassure me in the dark of night.  But on the other hand, in dim visibility or rain, the three second blast of the Fog Signal every thirty seconds, audible up to two nautical miles (and therefore very loud if you are close to it!) became very wearing, and this set me wondering about the use of lighthouses at all. We had several very misty days (and nights) and the two small boats I went on during that time navigated by GPS systems.  

While it is clear that the system of light houses, ships and beacons around the coast of the British Isles serve(d) a very useful purpose, I wonder how many mariners rely on their eyes and ears rather than sophisticated Differential Global Positioning Systems these days?  Trinity House's own website carries details of their engineering works to upgrade existing DGPS equipment, and the European Union's Galileo Positioning System is a Global Navigation Satellite System (GNSS) which is due to be fully operational in 2020. We went across to the mainland on a small boat in thick fog, and the skipper relied entirely on two screens by his wheel.  

Another development that Trinity House has embarked on is the holiday let business - I wonder how long it will be before the lights really do go out?

Literary associations with islands are many, with some internationally famous examples such as The Life and Strange Surprizing Adventures of Robinson Crusoe, Of York, Mariner, who lived Eight and Twenty Years all alone in an un-inhabited Island......  In Defoe's novel, Robinson Kreutznaer, was the son of a merchant from Bremen, who settled at Hull, and who rebelled against good advice and sense, and was consequently punished by being the sole survivor of a graphically described ship-wreck.  After making himself safe and as comfortable as possible on his horrible, desolate island, Crusoe assesses his situation, noting down the evil and the good points as objectively as possible.  On the negative side he notes that I am divided from mankind, a solitaire, one banished from humane society..... While on the positive side, But I am not starved and perishing on a barren place, affording no sustenance. And he concludes that Upon the whole, here was an undoubted testimony, that there was scarce any condition in the world so miserable, but there was something negative or something positive to be thankful for in it......

Other tales come to mind: the struggle to keep a fire going as a signal light in Lord of the Flies; Henri Charrière's account of his escape from Devil's Island in Papillon;  D H Lawrence's savage satire in The Man Who Loved Islands; Ben Gunn's traumatic experience in Treasure Island (vividly brought to life by Spike Milligan at the Mermaid Theatre in my youth.....) and Prospero's manipulation of shipwreck in The Tempest, and so on.  The metaphors work well, and society is enriched.....

Wez finds a sea urchin - supper is secure!

My isolation was tempered by good company, and was of very brief duration, but it was extraordinary nonetheless, and even such a short exile from the ways of civilisation is instructive.  I not only enjoyed being stranded here, but I also learnt much, not least in what we so often take for granted.....

Some of the team - Viking leggings are optional

I stumbled out into the dark, the beams of the lighthouse sweeping the night.  A distant whisper of surf brought the eerie sound of seals singing, and a damp breeze tugged at my tee shirt.  The unusually high pitched blast of the fog warning punctuated the quiet world, and the sound of a horse making water caught my attention, as the stream splashed on dry tussock and embedded stone.  

Isolation plays tricks on the mind.

There are no horses on Coquet.

Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises,

Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt not.

Shakespeare, The Tempest, III (ii) 133

http://www.rspb.org.uk/discoverandenjoynature/discoverandlearn/videosandwebcams/film/52379125.aspx

http://www.thejournal.co.uk/north-east-analysis/analysis-news/northumberland-island-curio-goes-show-7840229


http://www.ghostsofgonebirds.com/