The Great Chutney dilemma

I hate chutney. There, I’ve said it. The problem is, I have jars of the stuff neatly lining the back of the fridge, a sullen battalion of yuck! One we won as a raffle—part of a Christmas Hamper, no doubt donated by a kindred chutney hater. The rest are gifts from friends and therein lies the dilemma—the great chutney dilemma—I'm referring to the etiquette involved. There is no acceptable way of addressing the problem full on—‘I’m sorry, I detest the foul stuff’ ‘another jar of Satan’s bottom droppings eh?’ without causing offence. Manners dictate you accept with due appreciation and thereby create the impression you are one of these weird chutney lovers. The problem is, I love my friends, and quite like random strangers. I just hate Chutney!

And when did Chutney  morph into some kind of universally loved gift? You don’t find Marmite or shag tobacco presented at dinner parties - even wrapped in Christmas paper. What makes Chutney so special? I mean, it’s all over the place, National Trust shops, Garden Centres, Delicatessens that ought to know better; and online you’ll find Chutney beautifully packaged and dripping with heritage—foulness exquisitely presented like an Old Testament whore.

And I know of which I speak. Having made damson wine, jars of damson jam, and damson gin, I still had a surfeit of damsons and so rose to the challenge – could I make an acceptable damson chutney? The result was a sweet and vinegary stench. It pervaded the house, much to the consternation of my wife and daughter on walking through the front door as my witch’s brew merrily bubbled. 

I was forbidden from making the stuff again, and being the hypocrite I am, proceeded to gift as much of it as I could. I sometimes wonder if it’s still there, forming a line with other chutneys at the back of someone’s fridge. I’m also thinking that the next person to give me a jar of Satan’s vomit, will receive in return, a beautifully wrapped jar of beef dripping—something I am fond of on toast.

The Throckmortons, a wily bunch

Glorious in early spring sunshine, Coughton Court is marked by tragedy, treachery and high principle.  It has been the home of the Throckmorton family since the 1400s.

 

A wily bunch but principled. In 1409, John Throckmorton married Eleanor de Spinney, heiress to part of the Coughton estate, and from then on the family continued their relentless rise to the top until blocked by the Reformation. 

Katherine Throckmorton had 19 children, 112 grandchildren and died in 1571 aged 83.

One of her sons, Sir Nicholas Throckmorton, uncle to:

Sir Francis Throckmorton

Sir Nicholas Throckmorton exemplified wiliness. Choosing the Protestant side, he became a favourite of Edward VI, talked himself out of the tower when Catholic Mary Tudor ascended the throne, and became a key diplomat under Elizabeth 1^st whilst maintaining a good relationship with her rival, Mary Queen of Scots. 

His nephew, Sir Francis was, unfortunately less wily though there is no doubting his principles. It was he that gave his name to the Throckmorton Plot, one of the many attempts to kill Elizabeth and replace her with her cousin, Mary Queen of Scots. The plot was discovered and he was hung, drawn and quartered in 1584.

From then on, principle dominated the Throckmortons, who remained true to the Catholic faith and paid heavy fines for the privilege. Unsurprisingly, Coughton Court with its priest holes and Catholic loyalties became a hotbed of plots and conspiracy, though Sir Thomas Throckmorton played a devious game. He kept his distance and rented Coughton out – to another Catholic—Sir Everard Digby—one of the Gunpowder plotters.

Sir Everard Digby

Everard Digby, it’s a wonderful name and by all accounts he was a wonderful man, ultimately trapped by loyalty to friends and religion. Though a late recruit and on the fringe of the Gunpowder Plot, he played a key role in the conspiracy. Using the Coughton area as a base, he was to await ‘the great explosion,’ kidnap the king’s daughter and lead the Midlands in revolt. 

When the plot was discovered, the ‘villains’ rounded up and imprisoned, it was discovered that of the thirteen conspirators, seven were Throckmorton descendants or married to Throckmortons. Call me cynical, but I find it hard to believe that wily Sir Thomas, the absentee landlord, knew nothing of the plot. I also find it hard to believe that both Elizabeth and James 1^st left the Throckmorton family relatively untouched. A comparable regime today would have imprisoned every last one of them and seized their estates. Then, English law prevailed. 

While Sir Thomas quietly got on with life, the Gunpowder Plotters met their fate. Executions took place at St. Paul's Churchyard on 30 Jan 1606. Sir Everard Digby was the first to mount the scaffold, which he did unrepentant. 

In his speech he claimed that he 'could not condemn himself of any offense to God' in his motives of the 'ending of the persecution of the Catholics, the good of souls, and the cause of religion', although he freely admitted to offending the laws of the realm, for which he was willing to suffer death, and 'thought nothing too much to suffer for those respects which had moved him to that enterprise'.

He refused to pray with the preachers and called on the Catholics in the crowd to pray with him, whereby he ‘fell to his prayers with such devotion as much moved all the beholders’.

He then saluted each nobleman and gentlemen upon the scaffold, in 'so friendly and cheerful manner' that they later said that he seemed 'so free from fear of death' that he could have been taking his leave of them as if he was just going from the Court or out of the city.

Digby was hung a very short time and was undoubtedly alive when he went to the quartering block to be disembowelled. One witness told of how, when the executioner plucked out Digby’s heart and held it up saying, as was the custom "Here is the heart of a traitor", Digby summoned up the strength to respond "Thou liest"!!!!!

It is hard not to sympathise with the smaller, more intimate details of the executions. Martha, the wife of  one of the plotters, Thomas Bates, somehow managed to push through the crowd and guards to embrace her husband on his way to be quartered. 

>>>

Another plotter, John Grant, passed his own house enroute to his execution and managed one final look at his wife, Elizabeth, who cried out to him, ". . . be of good courage. Offer thyself wholly to God. I, for my part, do as freely restore thee to God as He gave thee unto me". 

View from the top of Coughton Court

The west wing as seen from the top

 

The back of Coughton Court

In the years that followed, the Throckmortons held on to their faith, suffering the financial and political consequences. 

This chemise is said to have belonged to Mary Queen of Scots. It is made of fine linen and inscribed: "Chemise of the most Holy martyr Mary Queen of Scots who suffered under Elizabeth of England.”

Relics of 'Bonnie Prince Charlie' — another loser

Even so, they continued to prosper until the twentieth century when war, taxes and untimely deaths threatened the dynasty. 

The Banqueting Hall

The great staircase pinched from Harvington Hall in the early C18th by Robert Throckmorton after marrying a Harvington heiress

It's one of the ironies of history that staunch Throckmorton Catholics are buried in St Peter's, a Protestant Church.  It had of course been Catholic until the Reformation. 

On the Throckmorton estate, St Peter's church formerly Catholic but changing hands following the Reformation.

Sir Robert Throckmorton d. 1570

Tomb inscription: 

Alas, wretched man. Look to the end. As I am now, you will soon be. Watch, therefore, for thou knowest not the day nor the hour.

In 1948, James Lees-Milne of the National Trust had ‘tea with that angelic Lady Throckmorton, who looked thinner and not too well. She is all alone in the house and has a struggle to keep it going and make both ends meet. She is a noble and splendid woman.’ Wily, too. Noble and wily, having recently negotiated a three hundred year-long lease for the family whilst the National Trust maintained house and estate. 

They might of course die out as a family, but the Throckmortons have survived civil war and persecution, and have bred successfully for over 600 years. They are, you might say survivors—not always winners—though they might outlive the National Trust

 

Coming Soon!

 

The State

One of the finest books on American Democracy was written by Alex Tocqueville in 1835. The two volume Democracy in America is rich in observation and insight, as relevant now as then, and frighteningly relevant to what we now take for granted throughout much of the Western World. 

Talking about bad government, he writes:

‘It does not tyrannise, it hinders, it represses, it enervates, it extinguishes, it stupefies, and finally it reduces each nation to being nothing more than a flock of timid and industrious animals, of which the government is the shepherd.’  

To be honest, I  think Tocqueville here unfairly maligns the ‘shepherd’. My initial reaction was to suggest replacing 'shepherd'  with 'wolf' but then I'd be guilty of maligning wolves, known for their nobility, intelligence, courage, and loyalty to the pack. 

So, if not shepherd or wolf, what then? Maggot, is a nice suggestive image. In Tocqueville's words:

'each nation to being nothing more than a flock of timid and industrious animals, of which the government is the maggot.' 

It nicely conjure up the image of the nation as a mound of flesh writhing in parasites, but then maggots are comparatively mindless, motivated purely by a lust to feed. 

Finally, I arrived at the frightening parasitic fungus —Ophiocordyceps unilateralis. Now this works:  ‘each nation. . . being nothing more than a flock of timid and industrious animals, of which the government is a parasitic fungus.' (The full term Ophiocordyceps unilateralis being a bit of a mouthful.) 

Happy New Year!

By David P. Hughes, Maj-Britt Pontoppidan - https://journals.plos.org/plosone/article?id=10.1371/journal.pone.0004835, CC BY 2.5, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=17917778

Coming out of the closet

Record of a Baffled Spirit began in January 2007 so has been going on for nearly twenty years. Its been a record of trivia, random thoughts—some of consequence, rarely profundity. Every week as the deadline approaches, I’m scratching my head, wondering what the hell to write, like Scheherazade in ‘One Thousand and One Nights, but more ugly.

With that in mind and most of my friends now knowing the situation, it seems both right and logical I put on the record quite a significant event. Coming out of the closet as it were.

It began with a phone call, taken whilst we were tramping across a meadow just outside of  Skenfrith. The doctor wanted to see me about a recent scan. A small alarm bell rang, which grew louder when we also received a text from the Respiratory Department of Neville Hall hospital organising an appointment in three days’ time. The Consultant was brisk, kindly and Scottish. He pulled no punches. I had mesothelioma. A second scan there and then confirmed it, and we found ourselves on a fast-moving conveyor bombarded with information regarding what to expect next. Throughout and even now I felt as though all this was happening to someone else.

On the way home I googled the ‘endgame’ and was not impressed, there and then deciding that I would treat myself to a small luxury every week. My first small treat was a lettuce; to be seduced by a lettuce—obviously I hadn’t then quite got the hang of this ‘treat’ business. We’d just pulled into the Abergavenny Waitrose when I fell in love with the lettuce, its colour, a vivid, jewel-like green under strategically placed lighting. It promised a crisp, healthy crunch between two pieces of white bread lavishly buttered.  My heart sang. And my treats have since become a little more ambitious. 

Before treatment began, however, there was one more test to undergo—a biopsy—one involving the now familiar CT scanner. No problem: lie back and think of England while the doughnut shaped machine did its business. 

How wrong I was.

I assumed the position until a nurse, kind but firm told me to lie on my front and think of England. Easier to say than do with a stomach like mine and limbs with minds of their own. I tried my best, but my best was not good enough.

 ‘Arms straight in front—as though you’re diving.’ 

‘Otherwise, you won’t fit through the machine’—a different voice, less kind. What the hell did they think I was, some kind of knitting needle?

I tried but the old arms proved mutinous. A compromise was reached. One arm stretched out in front, the other stretched down at my side. 

‘Now breathe in deeply.’

‘Mmmmfff!’ I said, a pillow pressing into my face and nose. 

‘You’re choking. I see. Try and turn your face to the side.’

And so there I was, trapped in a weird frozen ‘front crawl,’ and not a swimming pool in sight. Thirty minutes later a voice told me I could move, biopsy done and dusted. They’d taken three tiny lumps of tissue, but I hadn’t felt a thing other than limbs now screaming in cramp. 

Another consultant offered hope. A trial. Proton therapy—essentially radiotherapy but in finely targeted beams zapping the cancer but leaving the surrounding flesh undamaged. It wouldn’t cure but add to my quality of life with the bonus perhaps of an extra year. The hope proved short lived. The cancer was too advanced, or in the wrong place, or something, so now I’m on immunotherapy that follows a three-week cycle. 

The first session, two weeks or so ago, wiped me out for two days. This had implications.  My birthday is the 24^th Christmas the 25^th. And I had a session due on the 23^rd, one that would wipe me out those two days with the possibility of a mince pie on Boxing Day. 

God, however intervened. I had a reaction in the form of a numb and tingling right hand, which became so weak I was unable to hold a kettle of water. In consequence the next session was held back until a short course of steroids allowed me to hold a kettle again. And a further consequence, Christmas and my birthday is now back on,  becausd the  Dec 23^rd immunotherapy session has been delayed until early January. 

I’ll not mention this whole business again, until or unless anything amusing or significant occurs. Have a very Happy Christmas. Mince pies all round.  Scheherazade is taking a week or two off.

I Know My Onions

I’ve always been partial to a cheese and onion sandwich, others be damned. But only recently have I discovered how incredibly prescient I’ve been—mystical even. 

I never knew, for example, you could tell the future through an onion – red or Spanish— not entirely sure; it has though, a respectable name: Cromniomancy.  For those anxious to wed, it’s something you might test. On Christmas Eve (my birthday) lay an onion on an altar and according to the laws of Cromniomancy it will tell you your wedding date. You will, though, need a cooperative or short-sighted priest. 

It was the ‘sphere within a sphere’ properties of an onion that made it a much-revered symbol of spirituality and eternity; ancient Egyptians swore their most sacred oaths on an onion. Rameses IV had onions placed in his eye sockets at death—an ‘It’s my funeral, and I’ll cry if I want to’ kind of vibe. 

In lieu of steroids, ancient Greek athletes rubbed themselves with onions and ate them by the pound; and as for St Cuthbert, where do we start?

In his final days as a hermit on Farne island, Cuthbert lived on a weekly ration of five raw onions and water whilst fighting off demons, no doubt tempting him with a good cheese. One curious point however is that when Cuthbert was exhumed during the Reformation, his body was found in almost perfect condition—a sure mark of sainthood, onions or both.

I have no idea of the state of Ernest Hemingway’s body, who spent a lifetime eating onion and peanut butter sandwiches, he called ‘Mount Everest Specials.’ But, if sometime in the future, I’m caught in a dark cupboard munching my way through a jar of pickled onions, it will be me seeking an incorruptible body, perhaps even sainthood, though unlike Rameses IV, there will be no onions in my eyes. I have no intention of crying my way into Heaven. 

I Feel Their Presence

A few years ago, the death of a demon fiddler and friend prompted me to look at my various mandolins gathering dust in the corner, instruments I hadn’t played for over thirty years. I thought, what a waste of a good man, and in my case, the little talent I hadn’t exercised all this time and had probably lost. There and then I made a vow, and a year later, I was ready. Well, at least ready for something; there’s little fun in playing alone as the bishop said to the actress. 

Keeping to the religious theme, the Holy Spirit acts in mysterious ways. The next day I bumped into Tony who plays organ and guitar in church, and words came before thought: something along the lines of “Do you fancy a ‘get together’ sometime, guitar and mandolin?” No hesitation. None at all. Positive response—though accompanied by a visionary gleam in his eye. 

The first session was great. Next session, his friend Dave came along. The session after that, more came along and before we knew it, we had a band, called the ‘Celtic Collectors’. Don’t ask. 

Now, as well as singers, we have a double bass, two guitars, fiddle, accordion and me on mandolin. But, perhaps, more importantly, we have raised over £24,000 for charity—our last gig for the Monmouth Flood Relief raising £2000, generously matched by another £2000 from St Mary’s Catholic church.This is not so much a boast but an illustration that the Spirit works in mysterious ways and how one simple decision leads to another. 

I’m not exactly a natural performer. Though surrounded by new friends, I always sense the presence of the one who died and the band who taught me so much all those years ago, quietly playing alongside. They make it all right,  and give me the courage to be part of something bigger than myself.

Charity Concert at the Savoy—Old Maid / Will Ye Go Lassie Go

Charity Concert at St Mary's — O'Carolan - Lamentation of Owen Roe O'Neill / Captain O'Kane

Monmouth Flood Relief Concert - Sunshine on Leith

Monmouth Flood Relief Concert —Napoleon's March Over the Rhine/ Soldier's Joy / Staten Island

                                             Monmouth Flood Relief Concert - Royal Dunoon

Monmouth Flood Relief Concert — ‘Ye Jacobites '

             Monmouth Flood Relief Concert — Madame Bonaparte / Cold and Frosty Morn

Charity Concert ar Savoy -- Farewell to Aberdeen / Old Maid.