Mysteries My Walls Enfold

Built from Cotswold stone, the main part of Snowshill manor dates from the C16th, but its history goes back farther than that. The estate was given to Winchcombe Abbey in 821 by King Coenwulf of Mercia, and was listed as such in the Domesday book 264 years later. It remained part of the Abbey until Henry VIII dissolved the monasteries, and Snowshill Manor was given to Catherine Parr, his last wife. 

Over the years it had several owners and was extended and developed to what we see now. Its last and most notable owner was the gifted eccentric, Charles Paget Wade, who I’d never heard of before visiting the house.

Young Charles Paget Wade  

Creator:  | Credit: Artwork Copyright: National Trust, Snowshill Manor; Photo Cred

Wade was a respected artist, a superb craftsman and obsessive collector, motivated by his motto ‘Let nothing go to waste. The result was a 22000 collection of objects that in some way appealed to him, all of them crammed into the manor - leaving no room in the house for him or his wife to live. He resided in the so called ‘Priest’s House’ adjacent to the manor, his wife preferred the local inn, and both decamped to the West Indies .where his family had owned a sugar plantation, and from where much of his wealth originated. 

A bit gloomy perhaps, but I would quite like to have lived in the original Tudor part of the house.

But gradually the collection grew and grew. Below is only a fraction of what I could have shown, but each photo I found worth studying at home. You absorb an atmosphere in the house but appreciate the detail later in more leisurely surroundings. 

Old Charles Paget Wade

For Wade, beauty and craftsmanship was everything, as too was setting. He eschewed electricity for its harshness. His vast hoard was lit by oil lamps and candle light. 

Snowshill Manor soon attracted interest. Queen Mary was entranced, as was J B Priestly and Virginia Woolf, even perhaps the Great Beast himself, Aleister Crowley, for there was another side to Charles Paget Wade – an intense interest in the occult. 

This chest was inadvertently closed some years ago and no one now can unlock it. If you look below AND at the lid of an open chest in Wade's bedroom shown farther down, you'll appreciate the fiendish complexity of a C17th lock

Wade had a propensity for dressing up in armour and playing peek-a-boo with guests.

Did I say Wade collected everything?

Wade was a master craftsman. This, believe it or not is a doorbell. The figures moved to music when someone knocked at the front door. No one now can get it to work.

Hidden away in the attic is a hidden space named ‘The Witch’s Garret.’ The present owner of the house – the National Trust—were so horrified, they have since done their best to deny its existence. It seems it may once have hosted an active coven, and that Aleister Crowley may well have attended.

Its occult and satanic paraphernalia  is presently housed  in the Witchcraft Museum in Boscamon, Cornwall. All that remains now is a room painted with sinister symbols, a room the Trust pretends isn’t there.

The attic is now crammed with bikes and every form of wheeled vehicle. Just below is a real bone shaker. The twine leading from handlebars to back wheel is the brake!

just to the right out of picture was an innocent looking cot until you approached it. For some reason it gave me the shivers as though something truly bad had happened in it. This was before I knew about the 'witch's room.' 

What they don’t deny though are the various hauntings. Whilst Wade was renovating the manor, a workman housed in the attic left the day after and refused to come back. Perhaps it was the ‘Benedictine Ghost’, the 16 year old thwarted bride in the green dress, the monks that haunt the adjacent lane, or the victim of a dual to the death that occurred in one of its rooms. 

In the words of a short poem written by Wade about the manor: 

Old am I, so very old,

Here centuries have been.

Mysteries my walls enfold,

None know deeds I have seen.'

A relief to step into gardens and sunlight

The Priest house where Wade ended up living. Still a bit cluttered you might think but more liveable than the mansion that housed his collection. 

His fire and cosy covered chair. There was no electricity in the house but to keep abreast during World War II he relented and bought a battery powered radio

Where he ate.

And slept.

His bathroom and toilet - notice the hat from the portrait above

And apologies for the surfeit of photos and for all that I didn't show.

For those who would like a glimpse of his costume collection housed elsewhere click here

Roots and Brass Plates

 

 

 

 

 

The Liverpool bus stop near our house

 

A friend recently expressed surprise when I said I hated the idea of moving, re-locating, setting up house somewhere else. She pointed out how, over a long and happy life I’ve been to so many places, and I travel still though perhaps less adventurously when money allows.

In reality, a reluctance to move and a love of travel complement rather than contradict the other. Travelling is a joy (airports being the exception) when you have somewhere to come home to.  Re-locating on the other hand—except when you’re young—removes the powerful but largely unseen contentment that comes with having roots. 

In Liverpool, I was nurtured in a post war community with a family history rooted in the area. Leaving was initially exciting, moves to Swansea, Aberystwyth, Newport – and America, flitting from bedsit to bedsit, a Jackson Heights condominium, and then a lovely Edwardian house in Newport where, over a period of twenty years or so, new roots were established, to the extent I thought we would be there forever. 

Ribblesdale Avenue where I grew up (no cars then)

Manley road. Behind that top window, my first bed sit in Newport

Our family house in Newport

Two Newport views, the Civic Centre and the iconic Transporter Bridge

And now we’ve been in Monmouth for twenty years and new roots established.

                                                                      Monmouth in mist

But what do roots mean? It’s an easily understood metaphor until you try to explain it. 

For me it's walking into town down a country lane recognising faces, exchanging smiles and a greetings with strangers, because it comes so easily when people are happy and feel they’re in the right place. It’s recognising familiar patterns, the same couple walking the lane, the man with the distinctive fedora, the lady walking her three dogs, attending the same church, observing friends ageing slowly, attending funerals knowing others will attend yours. Above all knowing you’re immersed in goodwill. You may never need nor ask for help but there’s a powerful sense of it being there if or when needed.

Monmouth is pretty, but roots are independent of aesthetics. I enjoyed the same sense of ‘place’  in Liverpool and Newport where roots were inherited or developed.  Anthony Trollope understood roots. For him, every individual was indissolubly bound in an intense, self-perpetuating set of relationships. He expresses it most pithily in his wonderful A Small House in Allington, where every Sunday  ‘One walked over the brass plates of dead Dales in the village church.’ I shall start saving for my brass plate—assuming I don’t move again.

If Music be the Food of Love—Look Away Now

 

I’m cheating. I’ve run out of words. Nothing to say. Blame St Patrick and two concerts back-to-back: one in a pub – the George in St Briavels, the other at Drybridge Community Centre in Monmouth. Sucked me bone dry.

I’m the mandolin player, the little old Irish man in the flat cap at the back. A friend says I always look so bloody miserable when playing, but I’m not. It’s my ‘in-the-zone’ look, trying not to actually think and so avoiding the curse of the millipede wondering in which order to move his legs.

 Distractions are the very devil:- what are we having for Sunday dinner?  Suddenly your fingers realise you’ve loosened the reins and off they gallop in every direction and none. At best the ‘B’ part will end up as that of an entirely different tune, at worst it’s a case of playing ‘all the right notes but not necessarily in the right order.’ 

I have over  200 tunes in my head and some of them are little rogues popping up where they shouldn’t. Keeping 'in the zone' is vital—being at peace with the moment and allowing nothing else in. 

I formed the band with Tony the guitarist without really knowing it—‘The Celtic Collectors.’ That was three years ago  and it’s since become quite an efficient fund-raiser having raised over £16000 in charity. Our secret is to shut the doors and they pay us to stop. Little do they know, I play with two invisible friends,

 These two concerts were very different beasts. I loved the green lighting of the stage, which gives us a neat diseased zombie vibe. Unfortunately, the sound mix is a little unbalanced. The pub was looser, more immediate, more enjoyable.

Back to my usual burbling next week.

Rose Tree / Soldier's Joy / Staten Island

Madame Bonaparte / Cold and Frosty Morn

Grace

72nd's Farewell to Aberdeen. Short version. 

72nd's Farewell to Aberdeen

Young Tom Ennis/Rakes of Kildare/ Lanigan's Ball

O'Keeffe's Slide / Lilting Banshee / Gary's Tune 

Galway/Alexander's Hornpipe / Repeal of Union/ Captain Pugwash

Town I Loved So Well

Tell ya Ma (Belle of Belfast City)

Royal Dunoon

Panning for gold.

 

I’ve always fancied panning for gold, amidst the high Sierras; surrounded by mountains, the deep blue of an American sky, the soaring glint of an eagle, the swirl and gurgle of a fast-flowing stream, peaceful contemplation, hope, something more lucrative than a fish at the end. Instead, I’m scanning our toilet bowl searching for the soft gold gleam of half-digested sweetcorn.

I’m measuring a concept new to me: gut transit time, which sounds like a devolved responsibility of the Minister of Transport. Perhaps another quango is called for, one that will ‘nudge’ the general population to measure the time it takes for food to move from your mouth and emerge from your bottom.

I think it is fair to say that I have been ‘nudged,’ not an unpleasant experience unless you dislike sweetcorn and think there is more to life than measuring the quality of your gut microbiome. My excuse was one of perverse curiosity.

A healthy gut transit time is directly linked to how diverse your microbiome is. ‘Diversity is strength’ a problematic slogan at the best of times does apparently apply to your gut—a  fast or slower  transit time indicating  its health. This does not apply if you’ve just had a Vindaloo.

There is now a plethora of expensive gut health tests, a new and growing obsession with the health of our bowels worth 40 billion dollars globally. It’s easy to see why. A healthy microbiome is linked to a lower risk of heart disease, type 2 diabetes, arthritis and even dementia. I want none of these things. Nor do I want to spend a fortune on bothersome tests.

There is though a cheap and easy alternative. Sweetcorn. A 50p can should do it. 

Give it a try I thought. Why not? Doubt crept in. What if my gut transit time was unhealthy? Would I have to eat kimchi? 

I swallowed my fear, checked the time, and ate my three heaped tablespoons of sweetcorn. I noted the time I’d finished. After that it is a matter of patience, scanning the turds as they plop into the bowl. As I said panning for gold. The moment you see that first glimmer of gold check your watch and  there you have it,  your ‘gut transit time.’ 

Those with a healthy gut pan gold in 24 hours but anywhere over 14 and under 58 hours has a degree of acceptability. 

Where did I get this crucial nugget of information? Some health expert online. Experts. To quote: if it appears within 4 hours, ‘you likely have diarrhoea.’ Really? 

But to the point, the shorter the time - 4 to 12 hours -  the more likely it is that your gut biome is absorbing insufficient nutrients. It may also indicate inflammatory bowel disease or irritable bowel syndrome. 58 hours or over indicates a slow gut transit time which again reflects an unhealthy microbiome. The gut isn’t getting enough of its favourite food ie fibre. 

For those of you who want to go down this route but loathe sweetcorn you can use beetroot in which case you note when your poo becomes a virulent red. Blue stained muffins, and even charcoal are other alternatives, though three tablespoons of the latter doesn’t immediately appeal. 

So, on balance, useful advice— not to be sniffed at.

And in my case, I don't have to each kimchi. 

You Can Take a Girl Out of Newport

One of the great joys in writing Belia was bringing early C18th Newport to life now overlaid by today’s modern and perhaps less attractive city. Far more attractive was its far future reincarnation of deep green meadows, forests and hills. 

 

The other great joy was creating characters. Rafe Sadler, innkeeper, highwayman and Rosie’s father was based upon a well known TV chef who I won’t name but for some, the description might suffice. The scene is Rosie alone in a storm-buffeted inn worrying about her father:

‘In her mind, Rafe Sadler stood behind her now, and she turned, trying to flesh a memory from air: A large, heavy-set man with piercing blue eyes and a smile that made the heart sing. She had seen it employed on both women and men, usually when he wanted something from them, a naughty-boy look and then the smile inviting you to share in his guilt. It worked every time, and Rosie had learned its secret from an early age.

Outside, the wind bellowed, buffeting the windows in long, drawn out wails. Occasionally rain splattered down chimney and hearth, and the stone inn shuddered and creaked, its several small movements putting her in mind of an old giant uneasy in his sleep.’

 

Other than faces and mannerisms observed in the street or on TV another great aid to character and setting is Pinterest. Rosie, for example may have originated as a visual composite of the pictures below but brought alive by her character and her 1710 coarse honesty. You can take a girl out of Newport.. . 

It was fun to transpose her to modern Newport and observe her reaction to buses, people talking to unseen headphones, flushing toilets, and coming to terms with a Rolling Stones T Shirt and jeans.

The real danger comes from that distant,  demon haunted future. 

The lake where Rosie spotted the first speck of parasitic moss on her body. It threatens to spread and consume her. 

Three engineered opals have been created. Two are in circulation, Rosie having acquired one of them. The third remains hidden. 

Belia

Demonic palace

For Belia and the demons, the three gems are vital. Whilst one opal allows restricted time travel, holding all three will allow complete ownership of time. In Abaddon’s words:

“We would have farmed your world through time, established our elites throughout your history, consuming but preserving what we fed upon.” 

“Instead of destroying our present and vanishing back through the fissure.” Belia spoke aloud unable to contain a new anxiety. “You will take me back with you.”

“You worry over nothing,” Abaddon’s tone smooth, reassuring, and convincingly firm. “We will find all three opals whatever the cost. We will hunt and destroy any who stand in our way.” 

Rosie, Jai and Rafe stand in their way.