A Whip In His Trotter

At the coronation of Henry IV, 1399, the great door of Westminster Hall swung open. In rode a knight on a warhorse, man and animal armed in shining steel: Sir Thomas Dymoke, the King’s Champion. He passed a scroll to one of the heralds, who read its contents aloud in both English and French. ‘If there be any man high or low, of whatsoever estate or condition he be, (who denies that Henry be king) I will give battle with my body and prove that he lie falsely.’ 

His father, Sir John Dymoke, had done exactly the same thing twenty-two years earlier at the coronation of Richard II, for being the King’s Champion was a hereditary honour. Since 1377 it has to this day been held by the Dymoke family through the feudal tenure of Scrivelsby manor, originally owned by the Marmion family. Robert Marmion, the original King’s Champion accompanied the Conqueror in 1066.  When Scrivelsby manor was acquired by the Dymokes via marriage, they inherited the responsibility and have done ever since.

The last full challenge occurred in 1821 with the coronation of George IV, but since then has become largely ceremonial. Instead of offering to fight for the king, it now involves holding the Royal Standard—but only by a Dymoke. So, whilst all eyes were on the statuesque Penny Mordant holding aloft the great sword of state, it was a Francis Dymoke who carried the Royal Standard at the coronation of Charles III in 2023.

 

Continuing the theme of inheritance, the 14^th Duke of St Albans recently died at the age of 87. Descended from a love child of Charles II and the glorious Nell Gwynne, he had neither private fortune nor ducal estate, instead working as a chartered accountant. He did retain one inherited perk. As Grand Falconer of England the 14^th duke was entitled to an annual haunch of venison from Richmond Park—that is until the right was terminated by Tony Blair as a ‘cost cutting measure.’ The duke’s response was a measured denunciation: ‘a pretty poor show.’ 

 

From the sublime to the tawdry or the other way around depending upon party affiliation, you have new though perhaps less colourful dynasties. Condemned as ‘outdated and indefensible,’ the hereditary principle continues to thrive, largely in show business  and ‘working class’ politics. 

Other than the show biz Beckhams and the Fox acting dynasty,  we have in politics, Baroness Jay of Paddington, daughter of Lord Callaghan of Cardiff; Baroness Smith of Cluny, daughter of Baroness Smith, widow of another former Labour leader; Baron Ponsonby of Roehampton son of Baron Ponsonby of Shulbrede, Baroness Morris of Yardley, niece of Baron Morris of Manchester, Baron Sainsbury of Turville, son of Baron Sainsbury of Drury Lane. And let’s not forget Baron Mandelson of Foy, grandson of Baron Morrison of Lambeth. 

From the high offices of state to local councils, the hereditary principle thrives. In Liverpool, my own neck of the woods, the north-western part of the city has been largely dominated by Labour—to be more specific—by just two families: the Mahers and the Dowds. 

Former Linacre councillor Christine Maher, was married to Ian Maher, the then leader, and still member for Netherton and Orell. Their daughter—and cabinet member, Trish Hardy was married to Darren, who soon left his council seat to be promoted as divisional director of housing under the former Mayor Joe Anderson, now facing charges of corruption. The current leader of Sefton council is Marion Atkinson, the niece of Bootle MP Peter Dowd, whose wife, Elizabeth is a cabinet member and councillor for Ford. Peter Dowd’s great uncles, Simon and Peter Mahon, both served as Labour MPs, and their father, Simon Mahon Sr (born 1868) was a local alderman and Mayor of Bootle.

Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, especially when it comes to aping the mores of a ruling class you profess to despise. In the final chapters of Animal Farm, Napoleon swaggered on his hind legs and ‘carried a whip in his trotter.’ Behind him the sheep chanted ‘Four legs good, two legs better.’  

The hereditary principle is human, instinctive. And there is wisdom in tradition, for it is the deep and healthy roots that makes great oaks and cultures strong. Give me the Sword of State and the King’s Champion in preference to the paltry alternatives, and let the 15^th Duke of Albion have his bloody haunch of venison.

The Beery Adventure

When Owen, an American Facebook friend suggested we met up for a pub crawl in Liverpool, it took me all of two seconds to say yes. Facebook friends can be risky, but he loved good beer and was a fellow member of the Anthony Trollope Facebook page, which attracts a better sort of person. Karen, his wife loves Bob Dylan. The stars seemed aligned.

We met up at the Radisson Red Hotel at Lime Street Station, and the adventure began with two short and one long knock on our door—my instructions just to make sure it was him. ‘Where to first?’ he asked. Good, a man who meant business. 

The Vines, just five minutes’ walk away was the obvious choice, Victoriana at its most excessive. The beer, Timothy Taylor Boltmaker was a good pint, the ambience perfection. A follow up beer in Lime Street Station—Wetherspoons— something to eat and then bed. Big day tomorrow.

                     The view from our window, St George’s Hall and Liver buildings in distance.

I aimed to break up the beer with a bit of culture, unfortunately the Walker Art Gallery is closed on Mondays so it meant we started on the beer earlier than intended. This involved a brisk (in my case) slow walk up ‘haunted’* Bold Street and the bombed shell of St Luke’s, then up to the so called Georgian quarter housing cathedrals and some very fine pubs. 

The Catholic cathedral, started in the interwar years and designed by Sir Edward Lutyens, was intended as a vast basilica bigger than St Peter’s in Rome. The Crypt was actually built and gives you an idea of the scale of the original concept. Unfortunately World War II drained the project of money and manpower. Post-war impoverishment saw the end of the giant basilica, and something more cheap and cheerful replaced it—-‘Paddy’s Wigwam’ perched upon a giant underground crypt. 

Culture was again thwarted. The Crypt was closed to the public that day because it was being used as an exam venue for the University. So, beer it was. In this case Boddingtons.

What can I say about the Philharmonic that hasn’t already been said. I’m sure people going to Heaven are asked by St Peter ‘have you seen the toilets in the Philharmonic, lad?’

At the Phil we met up with Georgina, in my case, a virtual friend become suddenly real, but an old colleague of Owen and Karen’s. Everything was coming together. 

Walking through the Georgian quarter we wended our way to the Anglican Cathedral.

 

And here it is, the Anglican Cathedral. (Culture)

And then Kavanaghs’ – a real gem. I’m sure a bottle of absinthe would turn this space into Alice in Wonderland or perhaps just a nightmare. 

I played safe with Abbot’s Ale. None of the other pubs served food so it was back to the Phil for a Bass and a chicken, leek and tarragon pie.

 Over fives miles that day. Never was bed so welcome. 

Drawing the bedroom curtains

Next day was ‘Ferry Across the Mersey’ day, followed by the Albert Docks and the Beatle Experience, a museum that told me nothing I didn’t know, but pleasant nevertheless. 

              The Liverpool waterfront

                               Birkenhead side — ventilation shaft for the Mersey Tunnel

By the time it was over, I was ready for a pint. But first some walking to do.

Legend has it the Liver Bird facing the sea is looking for returning sailors. The Liver bird facing inland is checking the pubs are opened. Google told us they were.

This time we focused on Dale Street and three pubs in particular. First port of call, Thomas Rigbys. Unfortunately no food on Mondays and Tuesdays. Karen and Bernadette needed food. So, we walked to the Ship and Mitre. 

Unfortunately, no  food until five pm. Karen and Bernadette took pity on us and made do with crisps until a promised Vietnamese. Wonderful pub, a beautiful pale ale called Spitfire. Wonderful Vietnamese restaurant in Castle Street. 

Once more into the beer, my friends. Thomas Rigby revisited, 

And finally the Hole in the Wall where I was seduced by a plum porter’s promise of being ‘Smooth, Dark and Fruity.’ Well, it was smooth and dark but, as I suppose the name suggests, tasting of plums. Ah well, you can’t win them all, and it was alcoholic. 

                                                   Mathew Street back in the day

                                                           Mathew Street now

The Grapes was once quiet and scruffy, a place where off duty postmen, the Beatles and other Cavern groups would go for a drink after a show.  I used to love its warm Blackpudding Baps with mustard and a ring of raw onion. I didn't expect to get that 2026. At the same time I didn't expect it to have changed so much.

Mathew Street, a far cry from what it was in my day, but there you go. Then a quiet cup of tea and a whiskey catch-up in the hotel bar with my cousin, Michael. 

Nearly six miles that day. 

So, thank you, Karen and Owen and above all, Bernadette. I hoped you enjoyed it!

*Haunted Bold Street 

 

 

Mud, Glorious Mud!

You can say many wonderful things about Lydney, least of all the Beatles playing there in 1962. But Lydney’s history goes back to Roman times and almost certainly before. 

Lydney Harbour was the gateway to the Forest of Dean and prospered as an iron and coal port during the Industrial Revolution. It is the home of the Dean Forest Railway providing scenic tours of the forest. It houses a splendid C17th country house in the Lydney Park Estate.

But for me, the finest thing about Lydney is its magnificent mud. I could stare at it for hours —in theory at least—rain set in and we moved on after fifteen minutes or so. I still maintain though, I could.

Light, water, and mud make fascinating and ever moving patterns. It beats any art installation at the Tate. In fact, it might beat the Tate itself if somehow it could be moved to where the Tate now stands, and with  the added drama of the Tate slowly sinking into it. 

 

And what of the future for Lydney’s mud? The British Isles are slowly moving North East at the leisurely rate of two to three centimetres a year. Insignificant perhaps, but not in geological terms. It took a mere 700 million years for the British landmass to move from the South Pole to its present position. If mud could talk, what adventures it might tell. And what adventures are in store for it?

Apart from its slow but relentless drift the British Isles are also enjoying a gentle see-saw motion. Scotland is slowly rising, rebounding from the weight of ancient glaciers. Southern England is slowly sinking in some form of compensation.  Sometime in the far future, Lydney marshes might be fathoms deep, giddy in motion, and telling curious molluscs of the time the Beatles played Lydney Town Hall in 1962

Death on a Texan Plain

The title I thought of years ago but never got round to writing the book. The problem is, I’m no Larry McMurtry Nor did I grow up in a house or city devoid of books.

Larry McMurtry, on the other hand, grew up in a house that had no books and in a town that had no library. And no Kindle then to cushion the blow. Perhaps in response to that, he died leaving behind a private collection of 28,000 books and a further 400,000 books homed in 4 warehouses in Archer City.

In his words: “Forming that library and reading it is surely one of the principal achievements of my life.”(Memoir, Book.) This from a man who found time to write the Lonesome Dove  quadrilogy and many more before that; his second novel, Horseman, Pass By was turned into the film Hud; his third novel The Last Picture Show into the film of that name, similarly, a later novel Terms of Endearment. He also developed a sideline as a script editor, sharing an Oscar for his work on Brokeback Mountain.

And yet for all that, he concluded: “Little of my work in fiction is pedestrian, but, on the other hand, none of my work is really great.”

He offered a similarly downbeat description of his hometown, Archer City: “Simply put, it is not a nice town.” And was even more disparaging about the larger towns in north-central Texas, Wichita Falls, Lubbock and Amarillo. For me, they have wonderfully evocative names; not for Larry McMurtry: “I have always found them uniformly graceless and unattractive. In summer they are hot and dry, in winter cold, dusty and windswept; the population is rigidly Protestant on the surface and underneath seethes with imperfectly repressed malice.”

For all that, he is one of Texas’s favourite sons. The book remains so popular in the Lone Star state that the director of the TV series Lonesome Dove felt: “the whole of Texas was looking over my shoulder. … In Texas, Lonesome Dove is like the Bible.” Which makes it all the more surprising that a tone deaf Republican politician Jared Paterson opined that Texas schools “might need to ban Lonesome Dove,” because of its sexual content, though admitting he himself had never read it. To see what happened next read  here 

For me too, it is the bible of the ‘old west,’ a Tardis that takes you there and back in time for tea.

The entire quadrilogy:  Lonesome Dove, Dead Man’s Walk, Comanche Moon, and the Streets of Laredo are some of the finest books I have ever read and without doubt the most evocative westerns you are ever likely to read. My tragedy is, I can never re-read a book for fear of disturbing the magic. I’m content to keep it lingering hot in the mind. 

No Pheidippides, I

But I used to be a pretty good walker. To me, walking was simple, required little effort and allowed the brain to wander. It is best summed up in the Willie Dixon Song Walking the Blues. Part of me urges you to read no further but just listen to the link and chill. You can of course do both. 

In 1982 I walked down the Grand Canyon and more importantly up again in a day, a round trip of about twenty miles. A few years before that, I walked the Lyke Wake walk, a trip of 40 miles from Osmotherly to Ravenscar. That too was done in a day and all I remember is the pain, rain-swept moors and sheep. Winding down, a little later I walked from Liverpool to Preston in a day for a bet. 4

This preamble is not so much boasting but regret for things past. Since Christmas, I’ve suffered from severe muscle inflammation, a by-product of —so far —very effective treatment; so no complaints there, just as I said, a sense of regret for what I can no longer do. 

Since Christmas, there have been trips and adventures here and there, but most of my days are limited to getting up and either sitting in front of a computer screen or sitting here in front of a window with tantalising views. 

In other words, I’ve become alarmingly sedentary with a view that all the time reminds me of what I’m missing.

In the picture above, the  ridge, barely discernible in the foliage, offers brilliant walking. In the dark mornings of winter sans foliage,——

It offers tantalising glimpses of dancing lights—early morning runners with head-torches, though I like to think them goblins up to no good. In summer, if you walk up there, you can find yourself in an ocean of yellow, distant meadows and trees.

If that doesn’t grab your fancy, you can walk the lane instead which winds its way between England and Wales. It winds east and west, up and down, and every approaching turn tempts you to walk on to see what’s around the corner. En-route, there’s a shed that never seems to be in the same place twice. And then at last, you arrive at a natural resting place where once otters were seen playing, unfortunately not by us, though I live in hope.

If you walk that same lane in the other direction you pass Vauxhall Fields  just before entering Monmouth. 

On November 25^th, 1233 (St Catherine’s Day) a great battle took place there between the forces of Henry III. The rebels, led by the Earl of Pembroke, lured the royal garrison out of the castle and slaughtered them. 

These photos were taken in November. In the peace and mist it may be hard to imagine the violence that took place in those same fields. At the same time,  with a squint and a slant of the head, it is quite easy to imagine it.

And why am I rambling on such things. Recently I’ve been able to move more easily, last week walking three miles to the ‘viewing spot’ and back. 

But again, we saw no otters.

All in training for a Liverpool pub crawl (crawl perhaps being the operative term) in a fortnight’s time with two new American friends. It took some arm twisting but after two seconds thought, I agreed.

Who knows, there may be a blog post in it somewhere.