We went to Hidcote on the hottest day of the year.
The gardens were beautiful, the perfect setting for strawberries, Pimms, and cucumber sandwiches. I though was there for its pasties.
I’m a huge fan of the Cornish pasty, the perfect food. I could be as rich as Croesus and I’d still forgo filet mignon, lobster, and foi gras for a Cornish pasty.
Squirrels remember their nuts, dogs where they've buried a bone. Some people, especially the incontinent, remember toilets, their location and how far away they are from them. I remember the location of pasties.
You can buy a fine Cornish pasty at Paddington Station. Tredegar House in Newport sells a good pasty. But to my mind the Hidcote pasty is the finest of all. So inspired was I by it, that I asked the kitchen where they bought them, wrote it down on a piece of paper and lost it two days later.
The Cornish pasty must never be salty. It must though be peppery. That is essential. But how to eat it?
At Hidcote, I was momentarily flummoxed when they presented it with a knife and fork. I had told them firmly I wanted no green stuff with it. A plain white plate if they insisted.
But when I sat down, I found myself surrounded by the middle-aged, the genteel and a group of elderly Americans—all of them using the cutlery provided.
Talk about peer pressure.
But the pasty is tactile, meant to be handled – it’s what the lumpy end bit is for, an inbuilt handle allowing you to stuff the other end into your mouth – or in my case nibble.
But the peer pressure, those sharp eyed old ladies. I temporarily succumbed out of pragmatism more than anything else. It was just too damn hot, scalding my teeth as I bit into it. Back on the plate it went, the knife and fork proving surprisingly useful in cooling it down while I drank a small pot of tea.
But the joy of taking up the pasty again, pushing plate and cutlery to one side.
Hidcote is great for flowers, not too sure about its vegan scones, but the pasty is wonderful.
Ely Cathedral is more than a place of worship, it’s also a repository of early English and Norman history. Beneath the glow of stained glass, exploring niches and chapels, you absorb more than you fully realise, the process addictive
One of my favourites was St Edmund’s Chapel
Edmund was a C9th king of East Anglia, killed by the Danes in 870 for refusing to renounce the Christian faith. Tradition says that the Danes shot him with arrows and beheaded him for good measure. Legend also claims that a wolf found and protected the royal head until his friends arrived.
The last resting place of the relics of Saxon Christians of the 10thand 11thCenturies
There is also a space dedicated to early Saxon benefactors and a once famous hero, one now largely forgotten. I was going to skip the Saxon worthies, largely bishops, but then I fell madly in love with their names:
Wulfstan Archbishop of York, died 1023; Osmund, a Swedish Bishop died 1067; Aelfwine, Bishop of Elmham, died 1021; Aelfgar, Bishop of Elmham, died 1021; Eadnoth, Bishop of Dorchester, died 1016; Aethelstan, Bishop of Elham died 996; Bryhtnoth, Eoldorman of East Anglia, died 991
Bryhtnoth is of particular import, being the famous Saxon hero who fought the Danes to the death—his final battle is commemorated in the well-known Old English poem, The Battle of Maldon. It was quite a battle. His chest contains a headless skeleton.
The Old English version with subtitles
The Lady Chapel
The mirror below allows a close up reflection of the ceiling—see below
The Lady Chapel is dedicated to Our Lady, the Blessed Virgin Mary, Mother of Jesus. It is the largest chapel of its kind attached to any British Cathedral. Its foundations were laid in 1321 and it was completed in 1348.
High up on the ceiling you can see carvings or ‘bosses’ dating back to the C14th. They are rich in imagery depicting foliage, human faces, animals and mythical creatures. The roof is also decorated with roses. My wife, being from Yorkshire, was a bit miffed by the paucity of white roses, I think I counted only two. Being Lancastrian, I was reasonably content with the sheer number of red roses until I realised the issue was meaningless, since the Chapel was completed in 1348, a hundred years or more before the War of the Roses began.
What then do the roses signify? I accosted a tour-guide who gavely informed me that he already had a tour in tow and I wasn’t part of it. Scousers haven’t yet learnt the meaning of no, so I persisted with the question. He relented with courtesy, saying he was just about to inform his group on that same topic. The red rose is associated with Mary as Queen of Heaven and is a symbol of her great love. The white rose is associated with Mary’s virginity, and so is a symbol of her purity.
In this context, the ceiling reflects Mary’s greater glory as Queen of Heaven, the two white roses reminding us of her purity. There are hidden continents of symbols lost to us now but familiar to the medieval Christian pilgrim.
By the C14th, Mary had become an important focus of people’s devotions, especially women. The elaborate carvings around the walls depicted the Virgin Mary’s story, and pilgrims would have used these to aid their prayers.
And then came the Reformation and the insufferable Dean Goodrich; religious buildings and art were defaced or demolished. The majestic, rich interior of Ely’s Lady Chapel was a particular target for damage. Today, the rawness of the Lady Chapel, is a direct result of the legacy from that time; the empty wall niches, headless statues and faint traces of paint, are all that survive. Although, if you look hard, one statue survived the carnage along with its head.
After 1556, the Lady Chapel became Holy Trinity Church and was used as a parish church for the people of Ely. The walls were whitewashed and its stained windows replaced with plain glass. I'm sure God was delighted.
Note the eight sided tower to the right of the photos
Inside, the central nave of the cathedral with its decorated ceiling
A close up of the ceiling.
A glimpse of its central masterpiece – the Octagon.
The Octagon looking up from below
A close up of the Octagon. Zoom in and notice the attention to detail, which those below probably
wouldn’t see – the wounds to Christ’s body and hands – theologically interesting since He is presumably
now in Heaven – but a reminder perhaps for those who couldn’t actually see what He was reminding them
of.
When the cathedral was first built, it had a square stone central tower. The area beneath this was set aside for use by the monks. Here they would gather, screened off from the hoi polloi to pray—eight times a day including a brief night shift.
In 1332 disaster struck when the original tower crashed to the ground. Fortunately, the monks were not at prayer, and no one was injured or killed. The monks though, faced one enormous challenge— clearing the mass of rubble and working out how to rebuild a much safer central tower.
Over the next twenty years, an octagon rose from the ruins. It was designed by William Hurley, Edward III’s master carpenter, and after all the clearing was done took 14 years to build, coming in at 400 tonnes. An eight-sided stone tower provided firm foundations, for the wooden dome crowned with a Lantern that spanned the wide central space. This oak Lantern was and is unique, a masterpiece of medieval craftsmanship and innovation.
Inside, the gilded paintwork, intricate stone carvings and brightly coloured windows add a rich and exuberant decoration. Very high— at the very apex of the Lantern, a striking carving of Jesus forms the central ceiling boss.
Ely’s monastery closed in 1539 via the Reformation. Vicars replaced monks. While the rest of the cathedral lay empty and unused, daily services continued under the Octagon, neglected and falling into disrepair.
By the late C18th, after 200 years of neglect, the Octagon was at serious risk of collapse. Major repairs averted disaster. The central space beneath was now used for preaching the Sunday sermon.
In the late C19th, further restoration renewed the Octagon’s breath-taking beauty, with new stained glass and repainting of the vaulted ceiling and Lantern
Probably one more post to follow, but Ely has become my favourite Cathedral.
By Jim Linwood - https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=10289518
Etheldreda (also known as Aethlthryth or Audrey) was an Anglo-Saxon princess born in Suffolk about 636 AD. Her father was Anna (a straightforward name but to our ears more puzzling) King of the East Angles.
It is to Audrey that we owe Ely Cathedral. After two political marriages she founded the first monastery on this site in 673 AD.
Etheldreda (can’t say Audrey. Puts me in mind of a soap character) had always wanted to be a nun. Her father had different ideas, marrying her off to Tondbert, a local chieftain. She did though acquire the island of Ely as a present from her new husband.
Two years later Tondbert died and like a dutiful daughter she married Ecgrith, the future king of Northumbria. According to historians, Etheldreda ‘preserved the glory of perfect virginity’ so it is hardly surprising that after twelve years of marriage, Ecgrith released her from her vows.
Free at last, she became a nun at Coldingham, where her aunt Ebbe was Abbess. In 673 she left Coldingham and journeyed south to Ely where she founded her own monastery –a double house—one for both nuns and monks.
Despite or because of a pious life of abstinence, wearing only rough woollen clothing, eating only once a day and praying throughout the night, she died six years later —679 AD—from a tumour in her neck, and was buried in a simple wooden coffin outside the Abbey. Her sister Seaxburga the widowed Queen of Kent, succeeded her as abbess.
Sixteen years after her death, Etheldreda’s body was moved into the Abbey and was found to be ‘incorrupt’ – interpreted as a sign of her holiness. More than that, the wound in her neck where the doctor had tried to excise the tumour had completely healed. From then on, her tomb became a focus for pilgrims and the site of many miracles.
Initially pilgrims were few because Ely pre conquest was an island and necessitated the hire of a boat. The rich though, were actively encouraged. Queen Emma, wife of Ethelred the Unready and then of his successor king Cnut, was an early benefactor, both she and Cnut taking the boat there in 1030.
After the Norman Conquest, William the Conqueror built a road through the marshes, mainly to crush rebellions and subjugate the area.The road, of course, encouraged more pilgrims to visit.
Her tomb became even grander when the Abbey grew into a cathedral in 1109—and grander still in 1252 when the Cathedral was extended to allow more space for the hordes of new pilgrims.
And then came the Reformation and the even more malign Dean Goodrich. With malicious intent he destroyed the tomb so completely her body disappeared and hasn’t been found to this day. A simple stone marks the site of the original shrine.
Ely Cathedral, like all great cathedrals, has magnificent architecture and is awash with magical stained glass. But what initially piqued my interest was less the stonework but more the characters buried within. Stone is pretty enduring, so too is human nature which hasn't changed much over the years. Every one of these men are recognisable types, you could easily fit modern names to them. In this case however, their stories mirror a key period in English history and reveal scoundrels and saints, the vain, the good hearted. I’l leave you to decide who belongs to which category.
Bishop West’s Chantry
Nicholas West, Bishop of Ely 1515 – 1534
The young Nicholas West was apparently a wild one, but age sobered him. He became chaplain to Henry VII and later an important diplomatic envoy for Henry VIII. He truly was a prince of the church, living in ‘the greatest spleandour of any Prelate in his time.’ And yet he also fed ‘warm meat and drink to the excess of 200 people per day.' It was lucky he died when he did, because he was also an ardent supporter of Catherine of Aragon and would likely have been executed like Fisher and More, had he lived.
Dean Humphrey Tyndall Dean of Ely 1591 – 1614
Dean Tyndall was heir to the throne of Bohemia but refused the kingdom saying that he ‘would rather be Queen Elizabeth’s subject than a foreign prince.'
Good man!
His memorial agrees.
His presence, government, good actions and in birth,
Grave, wise, courageous, noble was this earth.
The poor, the Church, the college say here lies
A friend, a Dean, a master true, good and wise
Bishop Thomas Goodrich Bishop of Ely 1534 – 1554 Lord Chancellor of England.
Bishop Goodrich was a rabid reformer who published his intent in 1541: ‘… all images, relics, table monuments of miracles, shrines etc be so totally demolished and obliterated with all speed and diligence that no remains or memory of them might be found for the future.’ It is because of Goodrich that no trace of St Etheldreda remains, that so many figures in the niches were destroyed, and that the C14th and C15th stained glass windows were damaged.
When however, the Catholic Queen Mary ascended the throne, Thomas Goodrich had a revelation. He suddenly realised he was Catholic after all and so retained his Bishopric – though not the office of Lord Chancellor.
Sir Mark Steward, the cousin of Dean Robert Steward, and like him related to Elizabeth Steward, Oliver Cromwell’s mother. He was also touchingly vain. In keeping with his knighthood, he and his family boasted a genealogy to match. His monument suggests that they were not only of Scottish ancestry but members of the royal house of Stewart—which was a load of pleasing nonsense. The family name was Styward, meaning ‘keeper of the pig sties,’ and they came from Swaffham in Norfolk. It might have been embarrassing for Oliver Cromwell otherwise—beheading a relative.
Praying for his lost money.
Dean Henry Caesar Dean of Ely 1614 – 1636
Has an interestingfamily history He was noted for his charity and left a considerable sum of money for scholarships at Jesus College, Cambridge. Unfortunately, the money was subsequently lent to King Charles I at the start of the Civil War. He lost his head and Jesus College lost the money bequeathed by the Dean Henry Caesar of blessed memory.
Dark Fire was my first published book, and I couldn’t believe it. It began as a serious piece of speculative fiction based on reincarnation and Past Life Regression, exploring the linguistic patterns of Jacobean and early Eighteenth language. A hard sell, as you can imagine and rejected by every publisher it was sent to—until an American friend told me what it lacked. Sex. It needed sex. Sex sells, she said with some authority.
Bit of a rum do, but whatever. I pondered for a minute or two and then set to it, first by ploughing through some ‘hot romance.’ Testing the market only, I assure you.
Well, it all seemed straightforward enough and so, with some confidence, I inserted four or five stonking sex scenes. A week later it was accepted by an American publishing house Red Sage, which specialised in sex and spicy romance.
I learnt three lessons from the process—four if you count the obvious—sex sells.
First study your contract. In my case it gave Red Sage indefinite ownership of my story, not a good deal and I should have known better. The second lesson I learnt was that unless you’re a big-name author, by the time the publisher has taken its percentage, you actually earn very little. And finally, you have little say in the design of your cover.
They presented four options, which included a scantily dressed medieval woman in thigh length boots and a whip, I settled on a neutral stock photo and a friend added shadow and flames – the only input allowed.
It was after that I decided to go ‘Indie,’ where I continue to earn a modest amount but more than the traditionally published Dark Fire. In fact I forgot all about it.
The book, though has recently earned a new lease of life. Its original publisher ceased operations, and all rights were returned to the author.
And this is where my daughter, a brilliant but ruthless stand-up comedian, Frances Keyton, got involved. She first pretended shock that her father had written a ‘dirty book,’ and then proceeded to capitalise on the fact, pressurising me to re-release it, so she could use it as part of her act.
All publicity is good publicity, right? Hmm, the jury’s still out, but I live in hope, a cult figure on the comedy circuit? All I know it’s selling again—for the sex or Bunyanesque prose? Who knows.
Major Thomas Mitford of the King’s Royal Rifle Corps, died in Burma on Good Friday 30th March 1945—six months before the war ended. On the 24th March, he led a small force against a Japanese machine gun nest, where he was hit in the shoulder and neck. Forty-eight hours later he was operated on in the field hospital, where a bullet was found lodged in his spine, and so he was airlifted to the better equipped company headquarters in Sagang. Unfortunately complications set in, and he died of pneumonia. He was thirty six years old.
The joy in reading Tom Mitford: A Fearful Old Twisteris how Will Cross snuffles out the obscurest of facts and places the spotlight on the largely unknown. Most people have heard of the Mitford sisters: the Hitler loving Unity, Diana -wife of Oswald Mosley, communist Jessica who settled in America, Pam who wanted to be a farmer’s wife and eventually found happiness with a woman, Debs, who became the Duchess of Devonshire, and perhaps most famous of all, the writer Nancy Mitford, who immortalised the family in The Pursuit of Love.
The young lord and lady Redesdale 'Muv' and 'Farve'
Will Cross makes a convincing argument, that none of these prickly, highly idiosyncratic women would have been so loving or driven had it not been for the now largely forgotten brother, Tom Mitford. He was the golden boy, heir to the dynasty. He had the education, his sisters each other, two eccentric parents and various governesses who flitted in and out of their lives. Tom became the focal point of intense love, irritation, perhaps even resentment from the less favoured sisters who fought to carve out their own destinies; Tom being the catalyst. The sisters had only marriage to look forward to, happy if they were lucky. And they were more than aware of Tom’s advantages, his considerable gifts and equally great failings.Unlike Tom, they couldn’t brandish a penis and boast what he had, and they hadn’t.
And in fairness, he used it. Sexual gratification became a driving force, and his conquests were many with both sexes. Few could resist him, for he was both good looking and could sweet talk his way in and out of most situations. Beneath the charm, though, was a certain coldness, a misogyny he probably picked up at Eton, where masturbation, buggery and beatings were the norm.
On the surface, Tom survived it unscathed. His beauty and charm made him a favoured one. ‘There was usually a line up for second or even third use of Tom Mitford’s bathwater or to help him dry.’ But by this time, Tom had discovered women.
Baba d’Erlanger
At the age of eighteen he was willingly seduced by the twenty-four year old Baba d’Erlanger, Jewish, beautiful and already married. But Tom was also beautiful and needed relieving of his virginity. From that moment on there was no going back; no attractive woman was safe from his charm—nor he from wanton women and predatory men.
Doris Castlerosse
Doris Castlerosse, a dazzling blonde had had Winston Churchill as well as his son, Randolph. Tom Mitford had no chance, but he was far luckier than some of her later conquests. Her husband, Lord Valentine Castlerosse was a violently jealous man and had a reputation for tracking down his wife’s lovers and beating them to pulp.
A blog post isn’t the place for an exhaustive list of Tom Mitford’s conquests or how he navigated between the advances of Lytton Strachey, Harold Nichelson, Tom Driberg et al. I would though suggest looking up the great love of his life, the beautiful Austrian Jewish adventuress, Tilly Losch, actress and dancer. Their romance was obsessive, passionate and destructive; it showed Tom Mitford at his best, his most vulnerable and at his worst.
Will Cross also illustrates how difficult it is to pin Tom Mitford down. Some of the great loves of his life were Jews. At the same time, he admired Hitler, though not as obsessively as sisters Unity and Diana.
He spoke flawless German and as a young man had spent some of the happiest years of his life in Austria. There were many in the upper echelons of British society who had similar feelings, seeing Hitler’s Germany as a bulwark against Bolshevism.
At the height of the war, August 1944, Tom Mitford was asked point blank by one of his oldest friends and unrequited lover, James Lee Milne, whether he still sympathised with the Nazis. “ He emphatically said yes. That all the best Germans were Nazis. That if he were a German, he would be one. That he was an imperialist. He considered that life without power and without might with which to strike fear into every other nation would not be worth living for an Englishman. I absolutely contradicted him. Told him I was an unrepentant pacifist, and would prefer to live in a country of tenth rate power, provided there were peace and freedom of action and speech. The sweet side of Tom is that he never minds how much an old friend disagrees with him. But woe betide an acquaintance."
12th Nov 1944 “Had a glass of sherry at Brooke’s with Tom, who walked in. He tells me he is off soon to Burma at his own request, for he does not wish to go to Germany killing German civilians, whom he likes. He prefers to kill Japanese whom he does not like.”
Before the war and pressured by Unity and Diana, Muv and Farve found themselves gravitating towards Hitler’s immediate circle. Farve was initially hesitant and retained a degree of ambivalence; he never totally forgave ‘the Boche’ for killing his brother in World War I. Muv too was initially cool but allowed that Hitler 'had a nice face.' Gradually, under the influence of her daughters and Hitler’s magnetism, she fell completely under his spell. ‘Never mind, when the Germans have won the war, everything will be wonderful.’
Lord and Lady Redesdale 'Muv' and 'Farve.'
The American journalist, Virginia Cowes recorded Muv and Farve at the Grand Hotel in Nuremberg. 'Lord and Lady Redesdale seemed out of place. Lady Redesdale always seemed to be sitting over her needlework in the corner of the lounge, while Lord Redesdale helped her find her needles or wandered around with a bewildered air as though he were at a rather awkward house party where (curiously enough) nobody could speak English. '
As Farve became increasingly disenchanted and Muv more enamoured, their marriage gradually fell apart, Farve eventually settling on a Scottish island with his parlour maid, Margaret Wright.
Will Cross’s book provides a wonderful insight into a world of bedhopping, cross-dressing and drugs. It reminds us that that human nature doesn’t change to any significant degree and that the crusty old men who dominated politics and society, the men who harrumphed most loudly as the swinging sixties progressed, had their own peculiar pasts. It would have been nice to have seen how Tom Mitford might have fared had a sniper’s bullet not cut him down.
*As in all of Will Cross's books, A Fearful Old Twister has footnotes galore - nearly a thousand, which with the help of Google is a rabbit hole of hidden treasures.
* I would though like to know what happened to Dinky
