Irredeemable Evil

 

The Morgan family and Tredegar House have always fascinated me, in particular Evan Morgan, Papal Knight, sexual predator and Satanist, along with his more tragic sister, Gwyneth Morgan, who died in murky waters. 

In ill health, weakened by enteric typhoid and drug abuse, Gwyneth was a severe embarrassment to her family and was all but incarcerated in the ‘Niche,’ a large house in Wimbledon. 

In the early hours of Thursday, December 11^th 1924 she slipped out of the house and vanished. Six months later, her body was fished out of the Thames near Wapping.

The mystery is manifold. By all accounts, Gwyneth was severely ill, unable to walk very far without feeling tired, and spent much of her time in bed. On the night she disappeared, London was shrouded in one of those legendary fogs, an impenetrable ‘pea-souper,’ and the nearest entry point to the Thames was Putney Bridge, four miles from where she lived. It is hard to believe that a semi invalid could walk four miles in thick fog through unfamiliar streets and fall into the river at Putney Bridge. The fact that her decomposed body was found in Wapping, even farther away compounds the mystery. It would have to have floated along one of the world’s busiest waterways beyond Hammersmith and Rotherhithe without being seen.

Nature abhors a vacuum and so does the press. In the absence of hard facts, newspapers had a field day with theories involving white slavers, Chinese opium lords, and lesbian lovers. 

It is in this context The Gift was born.

 The heroine in The Gift is an orphan, Lizzie McBride, and it is her interaction with the Morgan family that drives the story. 

Born in a Liverpool slum, Lizzie McBride is the daughter of an Irish witch who dies when Lizzie is barely twelve, leaving her in charge of two younger sisters and a grieving father. When her father commits suicide, Lizzie is caught between two worlds. An aunt and uncle decide the three orphans would be better off with them in America. Just as they are about to board ship, Lizzie, on an impulse she cannot explain, runs off, and her life changes forever. 

Pursued by a vengeful aunt, Lizzie cannonades into the young and charismatic magician, Aleister Crowley, who for his own reasons, introduces her to Lady Gwyneth Morgan, daughter of the richest family in Wales and sister to the flamboyant occultist, Evan Morgan. 

Unknown to her, Lizzie possesses one devastating gift. When the occult world discovers this, governments and powerful individuals seek to harness it. Only one man can protect her: the magician John Grey.

The Gift is the first book of a trilogy, beginning in 1912 and ending in 1941. The three books trace the magical rivalry between two sisters, Elizabeth and Elsie McBride, interweaving between the likes of Evan Morgan, Aleister Crowley and major historical events. All of it initially inspired by the rich but wasted lives of Evan and Gwyneth Morgan. 

The story continues with Bloodline and the trilogy ends with Bloodfall which bring events up to 1941, the German invasion of Russia, and a devastating occult ceremony within the Rollright stones. 

The trilogy explores the supernatural, the occult underbelly of the English aristocracy and its links with the emergent Nazi movement. It is grounded in historical fact, weaving fiction where there are gaps in the record, and spotlighting key figures of their time: Aleister Crowley, Churchill, Brendan Bracken, Litvinov, Shaw and Guy Burgess—even Hitler and Stalin. 

But over-shadowing all and unifying the trilogy is the tragic, relentless corruption of an innocent victim to one of irredeemable evil.

After a time, when all was done and dusted, I came to miss these people, every one of them. And then I realised, my heroes, being essentially ageless, offer scope for another series— this time in the future. One of the new books, Rain has just been published, another, Possession, is on its way—and watch this space for the third. All books have their merits, but the Gift Trilogy and what follows are amongst my favourites.

A Narrow Escape…for now.

When it comes to redevelopment, Liverpool rarely dodges the bullet. In fact, it’s said council redevelopment plans did as much if not more damage than the Luftwaffe. It was city councillors who knocked down the iconic Aintree Institute for housing that never materialised, the site ever since being used as a carpark. It was city councillors who reduced the Cavern to rubble. It was replaced by a ventilation shaft for a proposed underground that, too, never materialised. And in the summer of 2020 the council only just avoided another planning disaster—for now. The proposal would have transformed the city skyline—a £4m aerial zipline that would have run from the top of St John’s Beacon down onto the roof of Liverpool Central Library. 

St John's Beacon. Listed building? What about the Aintree Institute? Oops I forgot. It's no longer there. 

Opponents denounced it as the ‘Disneyfication’ of Liverpool.  Supporters of what would have been the country’s first ever permanent urban Zipline promised ‘thrill seekers’ glimpses of Liverpool whilst flying through the air at 40 mph. 

The plans were submitted in December 2019, Zip World estimating it would attract 104,000 riders a year and with them their friends and families ie an additional 200,0000 visitors. 

Hospitality and other businesses welcomed the idea, and despite opposition, the scheme was approved by the planning committee in June 2020.

The disaster was averted by an unlikely saviour,* the then mayor, Joe Anderson. He argued that while he could not interfere in planning decisions, he did not think it right to use the roof of the library! Short sighted man. Students would have soon acclimatised themselves to the squeals and the steady thump, thump, thump of roof landings; and perhaps a few less books but gift shops and nail bars. 

Despite Joe Anderson’s opposition, the scheme might have been passed; councillors can be a pig-headed bunch, but in 2021 St John’s Beacon was unexpectedly awarded Grade II listed status, and the scheme was aborted. Liverpool City Council however is unaccustomed to dodging bullets. Early in 2026 a spokesman for Zip World was approached as to whether the scheme had been truly put to rest. The last three words in his response was the bullet being loaded: ‘there are no discussions or applications for a new Zip Wire at this time.’

With this in mind and knowing both the Beacon and the library were now out of the running, I wandered around the city looking for alternative sites. 

The Mersey Tunnel Ventilation Shaft in Birkenhead 

The Liver Birds

A zipwire across the Mersey connecting the Mersey Tunnel Ventilation Shaft in Birkenhead to the Liver birds would be fun; bit of competition for the Ferry and perhaps a new song for Gerry Marsden if he was still alive. 

A zipwire connecting the two cathedrals, ecumenism in action and offering splendid views.

 

Metropolitan Catholic Cathedral

Anglican Cathedral 

As it might appear

A zipwire connecting St George’s Hall with the Liver buildings seen here distant left in the photo. 

In fact the whole city could be connected by zipwire. Trams? So last century. 

 

* It was Joe Anderson who tried to bulldoze plans for housing development in Walton Hall Avenue Park and Sefton Park. Two vital and popular green spaces. 

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