Footprints in the Sand.

There is mystery in a family tree. Who were these people? What were they like? What feuds and quarrels lurk there? What broken hearts to they hide? Family trees are very much like footprints in the sand. Nothing else is shown.

We have traced our family tree as far back as 1770,  the entire Keyton clan never straying far from Cork, but the longer I stare at their names, the more I want to know about them. Who were they apart from names and dates? Even so, dates reveal a lot. Look at old Jeremiah Keating 1770 - 1880 and  check the 1830 generation, you can see—surprisingly—they sailed through the Great Potato Famine and lived to a ripe old age, a mystery in itself. If you compare this to later dates, Keytons begin dying off like flies—that though is less of a mystery and summed up in one word.

Liverpool.

In 1865 John Keyton moved to Bridgend. It may have been to gain mining experience before moving on to Liverpool and then America, where wages were much higher than here. It was a well-worn path for those Irish born with a sense of adventure. 

In Bridgend, my grandfather was born and by the slip of a pen John Keating became John Keyton because the Welsh registrar wrote it how it sounded to him. 

Fortunately for me, unfortunately for John’s immediate family, instead of moving on from Liverpool to America, they stayed, living in a disease- ridden slum. 

And in tribute to them I wrote the book, determined that these at least would be more than ‘footprints in the sand.’ 

The Pierhead from where so many sought a better life in America

Why should anyone else read the book? I could say it’s beautifully written and packed with evocative photos. I could say that. The truth though is much more. The Keytons and Parrys are  illustrative fragments of a far wider picture.

The former Walton Workhouse where my grandmother died

Five people were killed here during the Blitz

But ideal playgrounds for children- before ‘Health and Safety.’

A Liverpool Childhood is a spotlight on a moment in time. It’s a personal memory integrated into the social and cultural history of Aintree based on hearsay, gossip, ghosts from the past, a period of turbulent change. It examines the impact of war, the complex family culture dominating local factories, recession and renewal, schools, music, murders, and ghosts.

And where do you find local pubs like these anymore?

The Beatles 

The famous Aintree Institute built by the jam maker Sir William Pickles Hartley in the 1890s as a Christian community centre‚ the venue for many, many Beatles concerts,  and demolished in 2006  by worthy councillors for houses that twenty years later have still not  been built. A piece of history replaced by a pay and display car park.

In geological terms we are here and then gone. Some call it renewal. But here and now we have life and we have meaning, a shared history and one to be celebrated—even if, as George Harrison once observed, ‘All things must pass’—but not before reading this book 

The story of a cold church and a warm inn.

Positioned in the Cotswold village of Saintbury, St Nicholas’s Church is both forlorn and deeply loved: cared for by the local community who have been very proactive in maintaining a ‘decommissioned’ church, keeping it in good repair by finding other uses for it rather than allowing it to crumble and decay; forlorn because of its decommissioning into heritage rather than worship. It may also have something to do with visiting it on a bleak, wet day where it was colder inside than out. 

The face high above the door may have been a ‘grotesque’ beloved amongst masons, or simply the tradition of reminding those entering a church that there would be consequences for bad behaviour during the service.

Its history is almost geologically layered, from the original Norman door to the C18th  box pews, the intervening puritan period of white lime washed walls and plain glass windows, the Jacobean carved altar and altar rails. Catholic worship all but erased. The layers of history are best exemplified in the Baptismal font. 

The font possesses the early medieval star pattern along with the later dogtooth pattern associated with the mid to late medieval. It also has a pattern of large square roses increasingly common in the Tudor period, which indicates that it was presumably installed at around that time.

Fine example of a C15th nave roof

 

 

Confronted with a bier with its cheerful message we beat a hasty retreat to the Lygon Arms two or three miles down the road in Broadway. 

This was a small treat for ourselves, two nights immersed in history and log fires—immersion in the latter metaphoric. The inn itself was built sometime in the C14th but rebuilt as we see it now in the early C17th.  

Records in 1377  referred to it as the White Hart, which makes me wonder. Richard II didn’t adopt the White Hart as his personal emblem until 1383 and ten years later passed a law requiring inns to display a sign—many of which in a show of misplaced loyalty named themselves the White Hart. The 1377 date might be wrong, the innkeeper highly prescient, or perhaps just a lucky coincidence. Either way what became the Lygon Arms retained its association with Monarchy. 

Oliver Cromwell stayed there in 1651 before the Battle of Worcester; Charles I rallied his supporters there. King Edward VII visited as did his grandson, the unfortunate Edward VIII. Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor have stayed there, and other guests include Prince Philip, Evelyn Waugh and Kylie Minogue. It is unlikely that future historians will record that the Keytons stayed there in February 2026.

From the C17th onwards the Lygon Arms was a coaching inn and in the C18th a staging post for mail coaches on a route that connected London to Wales. 

The inner courtyard from our bedroom 

Twilight

Night

Looking out of our bedroom window, my wife remarked, ‘It’s like we're staying in Wolf Hall.’

I nodded. But less dangerous, other than to our bank balance.

In between beer and log fires, we explored Broadway

And I wondered how much these houses cost.

Above all we ate well. I put on a kilogram that the use of the pool, hot tub and sauna failed to reduce. Even a brisk walk through Broadway failed in that respect though it might have been 2kg without it. But who cares when you can sit in front of a fire with a pint of Cotswolds Brewery Shagweaver. 

The Butcher has Turkeys!

 

I was born in the early hours of Christmas Eve, the process precipitated the previous afternoon by the shouting of an excited neighbour in the red terraced street below our front window—"The butcher has turkeys! The butcher has turkeys!” And thus my lifelong obsession with food began. ‘The butcher has turkeys.’ This was serious stuff. In 1947, Britain still experienced wartime rationing and continued to do so until 1951. I have no idea whether my mother was in the mood for a Turkey dinner that Christmas Day or who would have cooked it. I imagine I had other priorities.

These thoughts were precipitated by the discovery of a wartime Recipe Booklet. 

A week’s ration

It makes for pretty grim reading unless you’re a puritan, an ardent green or wear a hairshirt tucked inside your underpants. 

Wartime propaganda portrayed a picture of hardship shared, but rather like the recent Covid experience it was different for the rich or for those who lived in the country where game and fresh produce abounded. 

London clubs and hotels like Claridges and the Ritz continued to cater for the privileged via the black market and landed estates. Denis Wheately who popularised the occult in his fiction recorded treating his companions to regular lunches of smoked salmon or potted shrimp at the then famous Hungaria. This was followed by Dover sole, salmon, jugged hare or game, with Welsh rarebit as a savoury to finish. After their wine, they would finish with port or kummel.

With this in mind, enjoy the fruits of life while you can. Ignore the siren calls of those extolling the virtues of insects and beans; leave krill to the whales. No one is going to go into labour because the grocer has chickpeas. Go for chicken instead, lamb, pork and beef as money allows; do so in the knowledge that when ration books or their ‘nudge’ equivalent return, politicians will chew fried crickets with relish on TV before washing out their mouths with a fine Chardonnay and go home to a good steak. The rich will just ignore the whole sorry business. 

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