Lancaster Priory

The Priory. Note the Bell Tower, an C18th addition.

Just a stone’s throw from Lancaster Castle is the Priory, built by Roger de Poitou in 1094 on the site of an earlier  Saxon monastery. Just as Roger’s early Norman building absorbed what had been there before, so too was his priory radically changed by C15^th additions and a large C18^th bell tower. 

Carved slab from the C10th bearing the motif of a hart and hound. The painted version shows what it might have looked like when new. Sculptures of this period were often painted. In this case the carving is quite shallow – ‘pecked’ with a series of blows with a pointed hammer, and so the paint would have emphasised the shape of the animals. 

                          Twelve such crosses survive from the Priory and its immediate surrounds. 

 

Baptismal font

The Victorians were responsible for much of the stained glass, the originals smashed during the Reformation.

Celtic saints next to it he Good Samaritan. 

Main altar window showing St George

The Regimental Chapter linked to those killed from the King's Own Regiment in the Boer War. A good collection of military colours hanging from the roof

Main altar window showing the crucification at the bottom and above it the resurrection

St Thomas's Chapel dominated by St Thomas stained glass. 

Both castle and priory continue to dominate Lancaster from their hill top position and would have shown the early Saxon populace that the Normans had come to stay.

But we hadn’t. It was late afternoon and we had a train to catch, a good meal to look forward to and joggers to entertain us as we ate.

Lancaster Castle

While in Morecambe, we took the train to Lancaster and explored the castle and adjacent Lancaster Priory. Both  stand  on a hill dominating the River Lune, the site of an earlier Roman fort. It seems fairly certain the castle was built by Roger de Poitou who also founded the priory.

In order to control the country, William the Conqueror granted vast areas of land to trusted lieutenants. As a result Roger de Poitou held not just the castle but  The Honour of Lancaster extending from Cumbria to the Mersey.

Entering the castle from John of Gaunt's great gatehouse

 Unfortunately for Roger, he sided with Robert Curthose after William II’s death but it was Robert's younger brother Henry who seized the throne. Roger fled the country and the Crown took over both the castle and the Honour of Lancaster.  

Land and castle passed down from Henry II to Richard the Lionheart and his brother King John who extended the castle and built the misnamed Hadrian’s Tower. Later generations who'd flunked their history lessons assumed the Emperor Hadrian had built it. 

John's son, Henry III built further extensions, but there development stopped for a time

It was John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster who set his seal on the castle by building the large and imposing gatehouse that still stands today.

Another feature that remained until 2011 was its role as a prison, which dates from the late C11^th

Fifteen Catholic martyrs were executed there as were the unfortunate ‘Witches of Pendle.’ 

The witches' cell

 By the late C19^th   Lancaster Gaol enjoyed the reputation of hanging more prisoners than any other prison in the country, largely because it housed the only Assize Court for a county that included rapidly growing cities like Liverpool and Manchester as well as other industrial centres. Between 1782 and 1865 there were around 265 public executions where every man and his dog came along to enjoy the spectacle. The 1868 Capital Punishment Amendment Act ended the fun. From then on hanging became a private affair, the prisoner led directly from the court, past his/her own waiting coffin to the hanging square (later a purpose built shed) within the castle. 

The gaol still in use in 2011

Unfortunately, photographs were banned in the spectacular Court House because it had still been in use until very recently. We did though enjoy a fine cup of tea and a bun in the castle courtyard. 

Morecambe

We’ve just come back from a holiday up North but it involved some soul-searching. The Lake District came to our minds first but the hotels were underwhelming and overpriced. The weather didn’t look promising, and I just didn’t fancy trudging around in the wet surrounded by anoraks, the determined and intrepid. I can’t be doing with intrepid. 

And so, we settled on the seaside. You can’t go wrong with sky and sea, whatever the weather; though you can go wrong with the resort. We settled on Morecambe because of one very distinctive hotel: the Midland, which featured in the Hercule Poirot episode Double Sin in 1990.

We stayed two days with my brother and his wife in Chorley, where we sampled gentlefolkof a certain age playing bowls in Astley Park. 

It was so restful sitting on a park bench with nothing better to do, and later another park bench watching ducks and a fountain doing its thing. I remember, as a child, throwing conkers at old men playing bowls and getting chased. Now here we were, sitting on a bench appreciating nothing in particular and enjoying every moment.

And then on to the Midland Hotel, which didn’t disappoint. Nor did the sea and sky.

Your host for today.

Now you see him.

Now you don't

Courtesy BMK

The Pier

Courtesy BMK

A view of the hotel from the beach, the promenade running for miles past the ground floor windows. Behind them was the restaurant, where we sat eating splendid food watching fleets and battalions of joggers running by. Huge amount of joggers in Morecambe. I remember feeling guilt and a degree of smugness as I tucked into my moules marinière and chips as they struggled and sailed by the windows.

We didn't run but walked in search of the legendary Eric Morecambe. And believe me, the promenade is very long, five miles long. Eventually we found him enjoying the sea air.

Courtesy BMK

The Midland Hotel from the front

Instead of this motley collection of cars, there would once have been Lagondas

The hotel was built in 1932/33 and is an art deco gem with its Eric Gill sculptures and Ravilious murals, now sadly gone.

Inside is dominated by a beautiful spiral staircase, and I imagined walking up it with the legendary penny lodged between my buttocks,* but took the lift instead. 

Such is the fragility of life that by the late C20th this beautiful building was fast fading into a derelict ruin destined for flats or a care home. Thank God for the determination of activists and the visionary hotel group that took it over and brought it back to life.

*David Suchet, the actor who played Poirot, explained how he created the detective's distinctive mincing gait by clenching a penny between his buttocks; whether imagining it or for real, I'm not entirely sure

Life is nasty, brutish and short

Thomas Hobbes

Usk is now a small but pleasant town, but exploring Usk’s House of Correction Keeper’s Book for 1821 – 34 is both chilling and instructive: 

A lady from Llanfoist called Mary Howard was sentenced to a year’s hard labour for bearing a child out of wedlock. There is no record of what happened to the child.

Little mercy was shown to vandals. William Morgan was imprisoned for a month for venting his ‘unlawful and malicious’ rage upon ‘one chestnut tree and one gooseberry tree in a certain garden.’

Welfare claims were not encouraged Richard Powell of Llangibby spent a month in prison for not providing for his family. 

 In 1827, James Williams was given three months for stealing three cabbages, a month for each cabbage.

In 1871, the Monmouthshire Merlin reported the case of William Betts (15) and James Betts (11) and Joanna Betts their mother. The two boys were convicted of stealing a lump of coal from a railway wagon from Newport docks. They were given a lashing and a day in gaol to ponder on their crime. Their mother was given 12 months hard labour because the boys had been her responsibility. She died within a year of her release. 

Twelve-year-old Sarah Hone was sentenced to hard labour for stealing a scarf. Soon after her release, she was sentenced to five years in a reformatory school for sleeping in somebody’s back lavatory in order to escape her drunken father. Rehabilitation clearly worked for her; she died in a Monmouthshire workhouse in 1899.

Jane Ann White was given three months hard labour for stealing some rashers of bacon, Randolph Pearcey six months for stealing six sticks of wood. Gardener George Peglar was given three years for stealing a pair of brass candlesticks. Olaf Hansen, a sailor, stole a mouth organ and was given seven days, and ragman, Will Wiltshire, blew a horn in the street and was sentenced to seven days for disturbing the peace.

One's first instinct is to recoil at the harshness of a previous penal code but, it raises some obvious questions when you consider what now prevails: shoplifting increasingly a lifestyle choice with instances of staff being sacked for trying to prevent it, and whole areas of the country where it is not safe to be out after dark. Will Wiltshire, given seven days imprisonment for blowing a horn, would give a rueful shake of the head if he was to wander Newport now on a Saturday night. 

There is no obvious answer as to whether we are now too lenient or the past over harsh, but it would be foolish to ignore Thomas Hobbes’ dictum that life is ‘nasty, brutish and short,’ and that left to themselves, people pursue their own interests at the expense of everyone else. His solution was a social contract whereby an authoritarian state would enforce obedience in exchange for peace, law and order. 

Different countries offer different solutions. The San Salvador approach might have some merit, at least for those not incarcerated.

The Chinese have adopted a different approach to the problem with its surveillance society and social credit system. There, good behaviour is encouraged by an all enveloping 'stick and carrot' approach.

For me the worst solution is just to ignore the problem. So, what is my solution? I have none other than a warning. In Thomas Hobbes’ Social Contract, the people should no longer feel obliged to obey or accept a government that fails in its part of the bargain. 

 

 

Mr Toad's Folly (No, not really)

 

Last week I discovered my tumour had increased by 2 millimetres. The same day I bought a 65inch wall mounted TV. The alternative could have been worse. A 2-millimetre wall mounted TV would be poor compensation for a 65inch tumour. 

The two events were not directly related, the decision to splurge having been taken a week earlier. We were visiting friends who had one and, rather like Mr Toad, immediately fell in love. I remarked wistfully and with a degree of resentment that our inoffensive and perfectly adequate 43inch Panasonic—twenty years old and still going strong would likely outlive me. The grievance was sharpened by the fact that over the years I had squirrelled away money to buy its replacement when the Panasonic finally flickered and died.

“Then we’ll do it,” my wife said. “We’ll go out and buy one.” She wasn’t too happy about the size, preferring I suspect its smaller 55inch equivalent. 

I spent a deliriously happy week researching technology I’d never heard of before, accessed Which and scoured obscure YouTube videos on the merits of Oled screens vs those powered by RGB min-leds, organic, inorganic, screen burn,  so that when we finally descended upon our shop of choice, Richer Sounds, I wouldn’t look a complete and utter idiot. That was the theory at least.

To my intense relief, my wife was immediately seduced by a large screen—yes 65 inches eye-stopping in its clarity and richness. We both were, until a salesman intervened to reinforce our decision. Yes, he said RGB mini-led technology had its merits. It was less reflective of light, a bonus when watching on bright sunny days, but there’s a price. Such TVs lack the richness and clarity of OLED. He directed our gaze back to the TV we had already set our hearts on—which came with free speakers and a soundbar. 

“Why the good price?” I asked. 

“They’re 2025 models,” he said. “The 2026 model is almost twice the price for—” he shrugged, “fairly minimal enhancements.” 

And so now we await delivery and installation. And my mind goes back to my first TV experience in the mid-fifties when the appearance of an aerial on a chimney denoted an immediate upgrade in status. No. 10 Ribblesdale was the first in our street to boast a small 14 inch black and white TV. From that moment on we wiped their front window clean with our noses, catching glimpses of Rin Tin Tin and Robin Hood. Little did I suspect then the future — nor the future Mr Toad who tends to prefer books to the screen but had to have a 65-inch TV!

My newly buffed feet

Last week I was visited by a chiropodist. In all my life, I never suspected that such a thing would happen – and it took months of persuading. One of the results of immunotherapy is muscle inflammation and a consequent inability to reach my toes. My wife is an angel in every respect but one: toes. She doesn’t do toes. Everyone has their breaking point, and my toes are her Rubicon. 

As a result, weeks passed and my toenails continued to grow until they resembled the fingernails of Cixi, the late Empress of China. She carried on the ancient tradition of long nails denoting status and wealth. Her fingernails were six inches long. My toenails were getting there and denoted nothing but holes in my socks.   

But a chiropodist?  I’m reluctant to get my hair cut or pay for a dentist. Toenails for God’s sake.

Anyway, the great day came. A shiny white car pulled up outside the house. A trim, clever-looking blonde stepped out and immediately reassured. The white uniform helped. Within minutes I was putty in her hands. 

She admired my feet and then set to work with her various implements. Nails cut. Job done? No, not at all.  This was but the beginning. They were next filed and buffed, the crevices between my toes explored, rough skin sanded, and each foot gently oiled. A grown man purring with pleasure. This was indeed the life. What had I been missing all these years?

Buffed feet for one. I now have buffed feet. 

Essence of Kali

 

Algernon Blackwood, Arthur Machen and M R James were the premier horror writers of their day, though Blackwood perhaps the more prolific. He shared a deep interest in the occult with Aleister Crowley, and H P Lovecraft regarded him as a formative influence. One of his more interesting creations was the Occult Detective – Dr John Silence. Think Sherlock Holmes fighting demons and ghosts. With his mischievous black cat named Smoke and a world-weary golden collie called Flame, he battled ‘malevolent ghosts, astral werewolves, fire elementals, the cult of Asmodeus, and other fiends.’ 

I remember enjoying the stories on first reading them and being disappointed that he wrote only six! It’s why I was intrigued by a new and unexpected challenge, and one that paid: an anthology of new John Silence stories. Could I master the mannered Edwardian prose of Blackwood himself – never mind write a convincing story of the occult?

Glad to say, I could, and my story—Essence of Kali is one of seven in an impressive new anthology:

SILENCE

UNTOLD TALES

OF

ALGERNON BLACKWOOD’S PSYCHIC DOCTOR