Gentry

Near the reception desk of our little hotel in Santorini, there was a bookcase that contained dozens of paperbacks left by previous guests. I happily deposited the crime novel I had galloped through and looked for something else to read - something more intellectually stimulating.

Unfortunately, most of the books on those shelves were, to use a technical term, sheer crap. However, there was one about the English Civil War (1642-1651). I would have liked to read that but the font was microscopic so I ended up with "Gentry" by Adam Nicolson.

I finished reading it on Friday. It considers the landed gentry of England from the time of The Norman Conquest right through to the present day. 

Who are "the gentry"? They are between the nobility and the ordinary populace. The nobility are like The Premier League of the British ruling class - dukes and earls, duchesses and countesses and their progeny. They still own huge swathes of the British Isles and they still have castles and grand houses and wield enormous influence. Below them the landed gentry of lords and ladies and knights with family coats of arms once owned most of the land, requiring their tenant farmers to cough up annual rents as they went hunting across the landscape or wined and dined in the lap of luxury.

The wealth and influence of the landed gentry has been significantly eroded in the past two hundred years. They own far less land than they used to and few ordinary people doff their caps to them any more. But they never went away. Many wealthy families still trace their continuing success back to landowning families that were rooted in the countryside.

On my walks around the British countryside I frequently come across grand houses in which the gentry consolidated their power. Their mark is everywhere. In the building of churches, in the names of country lanes, in the domestic architectures of villages and in the arrangement of farms and woodland. Their ghosts are imbued in the very landscape I tramp across.

Adam Nicolson focused on a handful of gentry families, using documentary evidence to reflect upon their successes, their failures and their evolution or disappearance in modern times. It was an effective means of examination because a comprehensive historical analysis of the entire landed gentry would be nigh on impossible. Better to pick just a few and dig deep.

My ancestors included rabbit catchers, cowherds,  gamekeepers, farmers, milkmen, railway workers and coal miners. There was not even a tiny hint of blood linkage to the landed gentry. They were a class apart, born to govern the land. My people were serfs - born to obey and born to pay.

I found Adam Nicolson's book most fascinating and I am glad that I picked it up. The gentry and their inheritors remain an important feature of what it means to be British. Their influence is woven into our culture like undeniable threads of filigree. You may not like them but they are still there.

Airports

I think it was news to almost everyone that airports existed at the time of the American Revolution (1765-1783). But that fact came up on President Trump's autocue during the soggy and embarrassing July 4th rally in Washington and besides, the great man read it out so it must be right. There were airports at the end of the eighteenth century. Period.

Delving into this surprising nether world, I have uncovered some other historical surprises. For example, did you know that Joseph and Mary watched television on that famous night in Bethlehem 2019 years ago? The kindly innkeeper had set one up in the stable for them and they watched  live gladiator fighting from The Colosseum in Rome. Jesus was born during the second ad-break.

And here's another surprising fact about the Roman Empire. Led by Julius Caesar, the Romans invaded Britain on a P&O car ferry from France and their soldiers did not march north in sandals, they arrived on Volvo buses singing bawdy Roman songs while swigging cans of  Australian lager.

Moving forward in time, it is a little known fact that when voyagers aboard "The Mayflower" made landfall at Plymouth Rock in November 1620, those weary pilgrims checked in at a "Best Western" that overlooked the bay. Rooms were very cheap in those days but hotel fees still included basic breakfasts with coffee in styrofoam cups (British English: polystyrene).

Sometimes you think you have got a proper handle on world history and then all that you ever knew is thrown into disarray. Things are not always as they seem. There were airports on the east coast of America at the end of the eighteenth century along with aeroplanes and baggage handlers, check-in desks and airside stores where bottles of water were sold at exorbitant prices to travellers who had been obliged to discard identical bottles of water before passing through security. 

Alfreton

Yesterday...

I boarded the 10.37 train to Alfreton in Derbyshire. The journey only took half an hour and my cheap day return ticket only cost £8.40. It was nice to give Clint a rest.

It was a warm day but I was prepared - with a litre of cold water in my rucksack, a tube of sun lotion, my sun hat and an apple. What more do you need for an eight mile ramble in July sunshine? Oh - a map and my trusty camera too - along with "The Gentry", a book by historian Adam Nicolson.

And so I arrived at Alfreton Station. I was the only passenger who alighted from the Nottingham train. I plodded through the former coal mining town from east to west passing humble brick terraces and takeaway shops. There was a micropub called "What's Your Poison?" and in the old marketplace a rather impressive war memorial that I have driven past many times, never before stopping to take a photograph of it.

Ahead on the edge of town by Alfreton Hall, I was impressed by my first view of the parish church - St Martin's. It was nice to find the door to this old church unlocked for several ladies of the town were inside busily preparing for the annual flower show this coming weekend. 

One of the ladies, a former church warden called Sylvia, introduced herself and kindly led me around some of the church's most noteworthy features. I was slightly perturbed when she took me into a side vestry where the priest dons his robes each Sunday. There was a velvet chaise longue in there but fortunately I escaped from the little room with my honour intact. Sylvia was round about eighty years old.

Cow at Coneygrey Farm

Soon I was tramping through the countryside to Four Lane Ends and Oakerthorpe. There was a "Roman Fortlet" marked on the map near Coneygrey Farm but there was little to see - just a grassy mound.

Footbridge over Oakerthorpe Brook

On I walked to Swanwick where I stopped to consume a cheese and pickle sandwich and a pint of semi-skimmed milk that I purchased in an Asian convenience store. Then on to Sleetmoor Lane, through an industrial estate and across a main road to another industrial estate where I paused to take a picture of a factory that makes fabrics for the car industry.

When I reached the last factory gate, a very fat man in a "Securitas" jersey accosted me. Apparently, someone had seen me from a window taking the factory photo as I passed by. I assured him that I was not a spy from a rival fabric factory and that I was not an Islamic State terrorist either. The fat man was pleasant so I didn't have the heart to inform him that people can take pictures where ever they go on public footpaths in this "free" country.

More plodding. Through new housing developments. Across the busy A38 road and back to the Edwardian terraces of Alfreton. On Prospect Street, I passed another micropub, creatively titled "Prospect Street Micropub". And very soon I was back at the town's little station waiting for the 15.44 train back to Sheffield.

The railway station  - Alfreton

Detention

Here, on American Independence Day, I was going to rant about the inhumane treatment of economic migrants and asylum seekers at America's southern border. I was going to continue ranting about the secret Facebook page that Border Control agents have been contributing to in their thousands - demonstrating horrible, insulting disregard for the desperate foreign people they are incarcerating in conditions that are not fit for dogs. 

I was going to highlight the way in which small children have been cruelly separated from their parents and the paucity of childcare. And of course I was going to reflect on the way in which the 45th president's nasty attitudes towards migrants and asylum seekers have filtered down to Border Control minions, legitimising racism, sexism and sheer cruelty.

However, I am aware that some American visitors to this blog are Donald J. Trump supporters and out of courtesy I have decided not to rile them on this July 4th by expounding upon the issues noted above. Besides, I am English so arguably I have no right to comment on events happening in the USA. After all, how would I like it if American visitors called by this blog deriding our beloved queen? Yes. These are reasons why I have decided to keep schtum about what is happening at America's southern border. 

Instead, let's just read a slice of what the eloquent New York Rep Yvette Clarke had to say earlier this week: "I’ve heard a lot of language about who these people are on our southern border. Let’s make it clear: They are seeking refuge in the United States of America. We send funding around the world to refugee camps, in nations that are war-torn. And here we have, on our own border, the most horrific detention of humankind in this generation, in the United States of America. We cannot abide with this. We will not abide with this."

In the summers of 1976 and 1977, Skip at "Skip and Ray's" Bar  on Kinsman Road, Novelty, Ohio always referred to me as "The Limey Bastard" and I have no wish to resurrect that nickname so yes, I am going to keep quiet about the migrant detention crisis - leaving it up to others to petition for infinitely more humane treatment of  desperate strangers in "The Land of the Free".

Yvette Clarke: "Those who would prey upon defenceless individuals,
women and children, who are seeking refuge in our nation, must be
purged from our federal service, so that we can recapture who we
are as a nation, which is a nation who has welcomed refugees, a
nation that has welcomed immigrants, and a nation above all
nations, that is great because of its immigrant tradition."

Snapshot

Yesterday...

In the late afternoon, I spent an hour carefully trimming our bay tree. It sits just outside our kitchen window and requires a haircut twice a year. Otherwise, it will block our view of the garden and obstruct the steps that link our two decks. A big pile of bay leaves was left - enough to supply every fine restaurant on this island. Instead, I filled our wheelie bin with them.

Shirley told me she was going to a local church hall to play netball with other "mature" ladies so our evening meal would need to be on the table earlier than usual. In Yorkshire, most of us call that evening meal "tea" for some reason. Most readers of this blog would call it dinner but in Yorkshire lunch is called dinner. Very confusing.

I put six pork sausages in the oven and a fistful of new potatoes in a pan to boil. I prepared a side salad and fried chopped onions in olive oil and butter. Pretty soon it was ready and I took our two plates to the dining room. We always eat tea at the table.

Afterwards, I did some more sweeping up of the bay leaf detritus and chatted with our neighbour Tony over the garden wall. Tony and his wife Jill have  been the best next door neighbours you could wish for and they have been our neighbours for exactly thirty years. We moved into this house on July 1st 1989.

Shirley went to netball and I hunkered down to watch the first half of the semi-final of the Women's World Cup from Lyons in France. England were playing the USA and there was much hope and expectation that we might get through to the final but America struck the first blow with a well-crafted goal finished by Christen Press. Ten minutes later England were level again with a goal from our main striker - Ellie White. 

The halftime whistle blew. I put my shoes on and began my mile long walk to "The Hammer and Pincers" for the Tuesday night quiz. It is mostly up hill - a long steady slog - reaching the flat section by High Storrs School. That's where I encountered my quiz mate Mick and we continued to the pub together.

He has on-going health concerns and is naturally worried about his physical condition and his future. This morning he is having a brain scan at one of the city's  big hospitals. He thinks he may be in the throes of Parkinson's. It is impossible to say to him - "Oh don't worry Mick - everything will be all right" because that might be a lie.

At the pub we  met up with Mike and watched the football match through to its end. It was a hard fought game and a great advertisement for women's football. America came out of it as deserved winners but England left the pitch with great credit. They had fought like real lionesses right to the end and even missed a penalty.

In the quiz that followed, I knew that Boris Johnson's girlfriend is called Carrie Symonds but I wasn't sure about the smallest of The Great Lakes. Was it Lake Erie or Lake Ontario? Unfortunately, it was the latter. And we did not work out the anagram. The clue was "female Oscar winner" and the answer was Marion Cotillard. We had never heard of her.

I caught the 88 bus back to Banner Cross and logged on to this laptop for a while. I read about a Kenyan stowaway tragically falling from an aeroplane over London. His dead body landed just feet away from a sunbather in Clapham. There he was soaking up the suburban garden rays in summery relaxation and "Whomp!" there's a frozen dead man beside him. This is the stuff of nightmares... but luckily I slept well last night and did not dream of falling to earth like a modern day Icarus.

The Clapham garden. See the indentation  in the path.

Imagery

All I have to offer today is a bunch of recent images that didn't make it into previous blogposts. The first four were taken on last Thursday's walk in mid-Derbyshire. The first one is of The Sherwood Foresters' Regimental Memorial near Crich:-

This picture was taken on the footpath that leads from Park Head to Fritchley:-

 This is St Mary's Church in Crich. It is Grade I listed and the initial structure went up  in 1135AD - about seventy years into The Norman Conquest of Britain:-

And below a disused telephone box by Moorwood Moor. The telephone within has already been removed and vegetation is creeping inside:-

And now back to the island of Santorini in Greece. This was a cross above Perissa - the day I scrambled up to the little white church on the mountainside:- 

 The viewing scope above the caldera at Thira looked like a robot or space being to me:-

And this little kiosk at Ancient Thira is meant to accommodate a member of the small security team that keeps an eye on the archaeological site during opening hours:-

And finally this is my old friend Tony on Saturday with the twin towers of Beverley Minster emerging from his skull:-

Legionnaire

In Hotham

Mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun. Well that is what Noel Coward once sang and he was probably right.

On Saturday I was over in Beverley taking photos of my old friend Tony and Pauline - his  girlfriend of five years - ahead of their winter wedding. Afterwards, I headed back over the Yorkshire Wolds and parked in the tiny village of South Cliffe ready to undertake a planned seven mile walk. 

But I had not planned the 32 degree heat. It was the hottest day of the year so far in The People's Republic of Yorkshire. As I left Clint, he was grumbling. "I'm gonna fry bo! Fry I tell ya!"

The ruins of Duck Nest. Hotham Carrs

Sensibly, I had applied suncream to my arms, head and legs before setting off. The walk was mostly through farmland on the edge of The Vale of York and then on to the village of Hotham and along a long farm track to remote Cliffe Dales Farm where a sunbathing mother and her teenage daughter came out to quieten their barking hound - whose name was Bob. I asked if this slavering creature was named after the famous Georgia blogger - Bob Brague but their reply was negative. Astonishingly, they had never even heard of Bob Brague!

When I got back to Clint I was like a French legionnaire who had just made it back to his fort after a week in the desert. I unlocked Clint's boot (American:trunk) and grabbed the water flask within. That cold water descended to my belly like oxygen filling a vacuum. Ahhhh! Lovely.

White horse at Cliffe Dales Farm