No Peace at the Piece Hall!

2 Aug

1. HOPES IN PIECES.

Halifax was going to be the highlight of our summer 2016 bus pass tour of West Yorkshire.  We descended into it on the 503 double-decker from Huddersfield, talking to an old lady about her little dog, Doris. When I saw the town’s sign, the excitement started to mount inside me. Yes, I know you must think I’m daft as Halifax is not noted as a hot tourist destination, but I was genuinely thrilled at the prospect of ticking off a long-time resident of my British “bucket list”: the Grade 1 listed Piece Hall, built in 1779. It’s not everyday that one gets to see a major 18th century building. When the hall was built, the French Revolution was still ten years in the future.

The Piece Hall has been described as magnificent and unique, a huge building where thousands of pieces of woollen cloth were bought and sold over many years. It consists of 4 colonnaded sides, 2 stories high at one end and 3 stories high at the other.( it is built on a hillside, as most buildings are in Halifax.) The columns enclose a very large central space where the wool markets were regularly held. It’s like a Greek or Roman temple except it was devoted to industry rather than to ancient gods. Here, in 315 rooms, hand-loom weavers from the surrounding towns and villages would display and sell their pieces of worsted cloth. The Piece Hall transformed Halifax into the commercial capital of the whole region. It’s a miracle that such a historically and architecturally important building has survived the ravages of time for nearly two and a half centuries. And now, I was going to see it! I had given it the big build up to Chris and now it was only minutes away.

However, as we approached, there was obviously something wrong! The entrance was covered in scaffolding and was blocked by barriers. Inside, we glimpsed piles of rubble and dumper trucks were moving around in clouds of dust. A workman in a yellow hard-hat was turning some other disappointed visitors away.  Yes — the Piece Hall was closed. A major 2 year refurbishment which should have finished in the spring of 2016, was still very much ongoing. Our hopes were in pieces. There was no peace at the Piece Hall!

So what were we to do? We were tourists in a non-tourist town and the main place we had come to see was a no-go area. The man in the hard-hat explained that he wasn’t allowed to give us even a brief, sly peek, because of the dreaded “health and safety” rules. He had let some other visitors have a quick look but had been “bollocked” by his boss. Apparently, in the previous week, he had had to turn away a whole coachload of German tourists who had travelled to Halifax specifically to see the historical Hall. The work was running seriously behind schedule because of financial cut-backs of the Tory government’s “Austerity Britain.” Now, the “Leave” vote in the recent European Union referendum was going to pose another serious threat, because much of the money for this prestigious project comes from the EU’s Regional Development Fund.

Back at the Premier Inn, the chirpy young lad at reception told us another big reason for the Piece Hall delay. While restoring the main courtyard, the workers had unearthed around 200 medieval bodies. So work had to stop while the archaeologists carried out their excavation. They found that the Hall had been partly built on top of an ancient churchyard!

The closed Piece Hall doubly snookered our plans as the Tourist Information Office was supposed to be in there, according to our Rough Guide of Yorkshire. We found out it was temporarily located in the central library, except that when we got there, we found out that Halifax library closes on Wednesdays. Guess which day we arrived on? Our hopes for Halifax were fading fast.

2. HANDSOME VICTORIANA.

But all was not lost. First of all, Halifax is, in my opinion, quite a handsome stone-built Victorian town. It has some fine public buildings. It is surrounded by a dramatic girdle of hills and moors.( the south Pennines.) We admired the stately, twin-turreted Victoria Theatre, named after a Queen who never visited it as it opened a month after she sadly died.( the opening was in February, 1901.)  The town has a spectacular Lloyds Bank HQ, yet another neo-Classical temple. Then we discovered the wonderfully atmospheric Borough Market ( 1896), a great place for people- spotting and sampling everyday Halifax life. Chris was very confused by the warren-like, old fashioned Ladies toilets. She entered through one door but somehow re-emerged through another. She still doesn’t know how she did it! The market has a decorative cast iron and glass roof, culminating in an eye-catching central dome.  Beneath this is an elaborate old clock guarded by 4 blue dragons. Around its base was a colourful, circular fruit and veg stall.

Halifax is not a tourist town. We didn’t see any postcards to send home to our mums. We struggled to find a decent café although I’m sure it has some secreted away. It is a busy, everyday town, which for me is part of the attraction. All the honey-coloured stone buildings contrasted with the sharp, shiny angles of the modern Halifax Building Society headquarters. ( now part of HBOS). It was once the country’s largest supplier of mortgages. Both Chris and I got our first home loans there. It is still one of the biggest employers in Halifax. In its large tinted windows I saw the reflections of its grand Victorian cousins.

3. SURVIVOR OF PURITANS AND VANDALS.

Leaving out the Piece Hall, the undoubted stars of Halifax town centre are the Minster and the Town Hall. We enjoyed visiting both. The Minster, first established 900 years ago, has many 16th and 17th century features. Outside it is smoke blackened, a legacy of its proximity to all those smoking mill chimneys of the recent industrial past. Being made of relatively soft sandstone, it has not been possible to clean it without causing irreparable damage. The Church of St John the Baptist, as it’s officially called, has a fine tower and dramatic, dark gargoyles sticking out from just below the roof line. A church member pointed out a deep dint in the wall near the entrance, caused by a parliamentary cannon-ball in the English Civil War of the 1640’s. Inside is a fancy Tudor font cover and delicately carved 17th-century boxed pews, a fairly rare occurrence. There were some Victorian and modern stained glass, but the most memorable windows were the plain ones. Puritan church rules in Cromwell’s time ( 1650’s) meant that the colourful glass had to be taken out. Nothing was supposed to distract the worshipper from the contemplation of God. However, this planned back-fired somewhat in Halifax because the delicate  lead-tracery that holds the glass in place was(is) exquisitely beautiful. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. Unfortunately, these lovely old windows have been damaged by vandals and would-be burglars 3 times in the past month, at great expense to the poor congregation. It seems that the iconoclasts did not exclusively live in the mid 17th century!

As we looked round the Minster, we were entertained by a musician practising for a recital on the very old organ later that morning. It had an impressive array of shining pipes. The music added to the spiritual atmosphere. We had trouble making our donations because the 2 volunteers were furiously making teas and buttering scones for the expected influx of visitors.

4. STAR TOWN HALL AND CELEBRITY ARCHITECT.

The other star of Halifax town centre is the Town Hall. built in 1863. It was designed by Sir Charles Barry, the famous architect of the Houses of Parliament in London. It was actually completed by his son, Edward Middleton Barry, following his father’s death in 1860. In 2008, it was voted as one of the top 10 Town halls in Britain by “Architect Today” magazine. It certainly is impressive. It is a masterpiece of the “high Victorian style” and was opened by the Prince of Wales( the future King Edward VII). No less than 85,000 people turned up for the Royal occasion. It must  have been one of the busiest days in the town’s entire history.

So why had a celebrity architect and the heir to the throne both been attracted to a small Yorkshire town which even today is not a tourist attraction? The answer is carpets! John Crossley, who commissioned the Town Hall, owned the biggest carpet mill in the world. It was in Dean Clough, a deep ravine just outside the town centre. His massive mill complex  ( in the end around 13 mills in all), is still there, in its restored form. They’ve done a great job, as it’s a spectacular sight, looking at it from the old iron bridge that still crosses the ravine.( along with modern concrete flyovers.) The mills are now used by modern businesses, shops, restaurants and galleries. We visited it during our stay. Crossley became very wealthy and influential through his development of steam-powered looms, clever use of patents and political activities. At its peak, in 1900, the business he created employed around 5000 workers. Crossley used his wealth and status to win a contest to build the town’s new Town Hall. He was able to attract a famous London architect to design Halifax’s most imposing public building. The road it is on is, not surprisingly, called Crossley Street. Crossley had managed to put his little home town on the map and secure his own lasting legacy.

The Town Hall has an impressive steeple with a clock and a carved figure on each of its 4 sides. The stone carvings represent :Europe, Africa, Asia and America, reminding everyone that at the time, Britain ruled the greatest Empire the World had ever seen. Inside is a grand staircase, a lovely blue and gold glass dome and ornamental plaster work with a repeated “H” motif. After we got past the rather gruff male receptionist at the top of the stairs, we stepped into the magnificent Victoria Hall. It has a stained glass ceiling featuring 12 little domes, marble columns and arch ways and a tiled floor featuring the town’s coat of arms in the centre. Here we met John the Baptist again.( remember him from the Minster?) He is the patron saint of wool weavers, a reminder of where all this wealth and splendour came from. On the fancy, wrought iron balcony of the upper floor, John’s severed head is frequently repeated. Beneath it are 3 vivid red drops of blood, a grisly reference to the saint’s fate at the hands of the spurned Salome.

Even the Gents’ toilets were magnificent. They had decorative tiles, marble sinks and urinals and shiny brass taps and pipes. I thought about taking a photo but didn’t want to get arrested! At opposite ends of Victoria Hall are large busts of Queen Victoria and her consort, Prince Albert, looking over to their son Albert Edward and his wife, Princess Alexandria. Crossley was obviously very keen to ingratiated himself with his Royal patrons.

5. CELEBRITY FACE-OFF.

However, John Crossley wasn’t the only wealthy industrialist keen to make his mark and put Halifax on the map. In the mid-19th century, the textile town experienced a bit of a celebrity face-off! From our 5th floor hotel window, as I looked out on to the nearby hillside, I couldn’t help noticing a Victorian church with a very tall, soaring spire.  It’s the biggest church spire in Halifax. This is All Souls Church, designed by another celebrity architect from London: Sir George Gilbert Scott and paid for by another fabulously wealthy mill owner: Edward Ackroyd. Gilbert Scott had also designed the famous and still very impressive St Pancras Station and Midland Grand Hotel in London. He always claimed that All Souls’ was his finest church. Like Charles Barry, he had been lured to this Yorkshire Pennine town by the money of a rich industrialist, desperate to make a name for himself and secure his legacy. Ego-tripping and celebrity culture are not confined just to the 21st century. The only difference is that in the 19th century, the “celebs” didn’t take to Twitter or pose in gossip magazines; instead they built town halls and churches and put up statues of themselves.

Edward Ackroyd owned textile mills in Halifax and nearby Copley. His mills produced worsted cloth, commonly known as “stuff.” The Ackroyds were the largest worsted manufacturers in the country. Worsted woollen cloth has parallel fibres which don’t trap air so it has a smoother, harder surface and was ( is) cooler to wear than other types of cloth. It’s surprising what you can learn when visiting museums! We visited the charming and quirky Bankfield Museum which used to be Edward Ackroyd’s Italianate -style mansion, built from the profits of his lucrative business. It’s grounds and gardens are now a pleasant and peaceful public park. Ackroyd’s statue stands in front of the church he commissioned in the High-Gothic style. Sadly, the church seems to be closed, a relic of a bygone era, when everyone wanted to ( or were expected to) attend Christian worship. Despite its magnificence, All Souls today looks slightly forlorn.

6. BENEVOLENT PATERNALISM.

On the slopes below the museum and church are the neat houses, shops and squares of Ackroydon, the model village that the mill owner had built for his workers. It’s like a smaller version of Saltaire which fellow industrialist Titus Salt had built in nearby Shipley. Akroyd wanted to look after his employees by giving them decent houses and facilities. However, this no doubt came at the price of individual freedom, as they would have had to follow all their employer’s rules and regulations. It’s another example of Victorian benevolent paternalism that can be found at Saltaire, at the Cadbury family’s Bournville, Robert Owen’s New Lanark near Glasgow , the Fry family in York and various others. It was another era. Sadly the man at the tourist office warned us not to visit Ackroydon after dark as it can be a distinctly dodgy area nowadays. Ackroyd’s vision has faded, his statue is largely ignored and his church lies empty. Still, Ackroyd, like Crossley, had his day and both helped to put Halifax into the national spotlight, at least for a while.

7. A REAL TOWN.

So Halifax has lots of interesting stories to tell and I haven’t even mentioned the infamous guillotine-style gibbet that stands on the edge of the town centre.( its a modern replica of the gruesome original which efficiently despatched many a thief and highwayman.) In spite of its lack of postcards and touristy tea-shops, it is a fascinating place to visit. It’s not on the regular coach tour itinerary or regularly featured in glossy  brochures, but that worked in our favour. We didn’t have to queue to get into places or run the gauntlet of souvenir shops. Halifax is still a real place, not an artificial tourist creation — and all the better for it. And, when the Piece Hall finally reopens, we shall visit it again.

 

 

 

 

Pennine Bus-Hopping — Huddersfield.

24 Jul

It all began when I read the unforgettable opening pages of J B Priestley’s great novel: “The Good Companions.” The reader hovers dizzyingly above the Pennine hills, which form the dark, “knobbly backbone” of northern England. Slowly, as if on some aerial computer image, we zoom in to focus on the central area of uplands, “where the high moorland thrusts itself between the woollen mills of Yorkshire and the cotton mills of Lancashire.” We hear the lonely cry of the curlew, sweep over brooding, dark peat-bogs and catch glittering glimpses of the moorland tarns. Finally, we home in on a town, a large mill town, with its “host of tall chimneys” and “rows and rows of little houses “climbing up the steep valley-side. This we find is “Bruddersfield”, a thinly disguised amalgam of real-life Huddersfield and nearby Bradford. Priestly was born in Bradford in 1894. Chris and I decided to visit Huddersfield to discover the modern reality behind Priestley’s classic creation, since he wrote those evocative lines back in 1929.

It was the second of our “Hills and Mills” bus-pass trips, pottering around the old textile towns of the south Pennines, using our free travel-passes.( one of the few perks of being over 60!) In our first odyssey, in 2012, we had explored the hills, moors and mill towns of east Lancashire. This time we were to visit their West Yorkshire cousins. I rather like the idea of holidaying in places that are not recognised resorts. They are not full of people taking selfies in front of famous landmarks but just consist of ordinary people going about their everyday lives. I sneakily enjoy the look of incredulity on some peoples’ faces when we tell then where we’re going. I think it’s good to do something unpredictable and to test out my theory that every place is interesting if one is willing to be interested in it. So Huddersfield it was, followed by Halifax, Hebden bridge and Heptonstall ( all the H’s!)

Thus, on a fine Monday morning in July, 2016 we found ourselves standing at the bus stop at the end of our street waiting for the service 5A to Middlesbrough ( we live in Cleveland on the north-east coast.) Inevitably it was a tense 9 minutes late. We worried about making our first connection. A friend in her car stopped to offer us a lift ( We daren’t tell her we were going to Huddersfield!) We declined her kind offer as we were determined that this was going to be a proper, eco-friendly public transport trip with no cheating. We would see local life, perhaps have impromptu conversations with complete strangers and feel part of a place instead of isolating ourselves in our private metal box. Luckily the 5A appeared at that very moment and we were off. At Middlesbrough we swapped our bus passes for our senior rail cards to take the Trans-Pennine train to Huddersfield via York and Leeds. True to form, it was a half hour late.( signalling problems in the York area.)

Nearly 2 hours later we arrived at a rather grand Huddersfield station and, after grabbing a street map from the info centre, stepped out into a spacious square, surrounded by large, stately Victorian buildings, including the Grade I listed station itself, built in 1846-50. John Betjeman described it as “the most splendid station façade on England.” To picture it, think– classical, Greek temple. At the top of St George’s Square are fountains and a statue of Harold Wilson, Prime Minister in the 1960’s and 70’s, striding purposely forward ( but without his pipe!) He was one of Huddersfield’s most famous sons. To the left is the impressive George Hotel where Rugby League was born in 1895. The northern Rugby Union clubs decided to leave the Union because the largely more prosperous, public-school educated players, mainly from the south, had refused to allow payment of compensation for lost wages when playing. The split was acrimonious — an early example of the North-South divide.

On our first evening, we ate at one of the other grand buildings on the square: a former bank  which has now been converted into a very popular Kashmiri restaurant. it served one of the biggest nan breads I have seen!  So our first impressions were favourable. Maybe we had stumbled across a West Yorkshire version of Bath or Oxford full of historical, harmonious architecture? Second impressions quickly dispelled this however. We discovered the unattractive post-war buildings that took up whole swathes of the town centre. We saw, heard and smelt the road-works as a resurfacing operation was taking place. We experienced the heavy traffic grinding through parts of the centre near the bus station, and found the busy, noisy ring-road which encircled the centre like a tight, tarmac collar. We plunged down into a long, graffitied, concrete underpass! OK — I think you’ll have got the picture by now. The highlights of Huddersfield would have to be sought out — the “gems” amongst the “dross.” It was going to be fun! But first came the short trek to our guest house up the Halifax Road.

We couldn’t help noticing that most of the buildings on our road were substantial, fairly grand, stone mansions, sitting in their own grounds. Many had been converted to offices or hotels. One large, castle-like building was now a college, another a dancing school. Our guest house was in one of them, sharing it with a dental practice. Sadly, some of these mansions or villas are empty and in a state of neglect. It transpired that this area was once the comfortable, middle class district of Edgerton. It was a leafy suburb about a mile from the town centre on the Huddersfield-Halifax turnpike. The mill owners, merchants and other prosperous professionals would commute into town in their horses and carriages, before the age of the motor car. Sometimes there was a jarring clash of taste and style. One writer to the editor of the Huddersfield Courier in 1858 described Halifax Road as “too bewildering an affair to cope with; for you have Grecian temples, Swiss cottages, Gothic castles and Italian villas, all jumbled so closely together as scarcely to allow elbow room.” Many of these Georgian and Victorian residences were demolished to make way for a modern housing estate. ( I suppose they could squash a lot more people into the same area of land.) The survivors though, many in the neo-Classical style, are still impressive, bravely defying the relentless march of time, even though this once exclusive suburb has now been swallowed up by the town where all their owners made their money.

The wealthiest and most famous Huddersfield family was the Ramsdens.( nothing to do with the fish and chip shop chain, I don’t think.) They developed their huge estates agriculturally and then industrially, throwing up the textile mills that created so much of their wealth. They were responsible for many of the impressive civic buildings and also for the linking of Huddersfield to the burgeoning rail system as early as 1850. Later, in 1920, the Ramsdens sold their estate to the Cooperation for £1.3million, earning Huddersfield its nickname: “the town that bought itself.” Despite its large 160,00 to 170,00 population, Huddersfield is still only a town. It has never bothered to apply for city status, although it could easily do so. I read somewhere that it claims to be the largest “town” in Europe.

We started our heritage trail at the impressive, Art Deco, 1930’s Library and Art gallery. The art collection there is very good, including pieces by: Henry Moore, Francis Bacon and L S Lowry. ( Huddersfield matchstick people scurrying around in the shadows of the giant mills instead of Salford/Manchester ones.) Outside, by the steps are two  symbolic statues of a boy and a girl, representing the spirits of literature and art.(“Youth Awaiting Inspiration by James Woodford, 1939.) Near the Library is the richly decorated stone Town hall (1881) which doubles up as a concert venue. However, just opposite the lovely library is the controversial, modern Queensgate Market ( 1968-70) which is pretty ugly. Local people either love it or hate it. Surprisingly it is a listed building . Inside are 21 unique, concrete roof-umbrellas, looking like giant curving shells. I was all ready to be impressed and entered the market with camera poised. Unfortunately the concrete shells were mostly obscured by the mundane market stalls, crowded around them. So it was an anti-climax. I’m sure most of the people buying cauliflowers, potatoes or second-hand jewellery don’t even notice them anymore. On the outside of the Queensgate Market however is another surprise. Who would have thought we would come across the world’s largest ceramic sculpture? It consists of 9, brown-toned, large panels, covered in abstract swirls, entitled:” Articulation in Motion”, whatever that means. ( Fitz Steller, 1969.) Once again, these were largely ignored by the locals as far as I could see, especially as they face on to the southern section of the busy ring road.

I think it was brave of Huddersfield to try to embrace the “shock of the new”, instead of just falling back on to its Victorian heritage. The roof-shells and ceramic panels are not really my cup of tea but are certainly more stimulating than the bland diet of uniform shopping malls and chain stores that many town centres, including parts of Huddersfield itself, offer up. Huddersfield, in my opinion is a mish-mash of the old and new, the original and the mundane. It’s just like most towns really. Maybe one has to have the one, in order to appreciate the other.

We explored a couple of old arcades with interesting, independent shops and had a quick look at the Parish Church, even though its pretty gardens were frequented by quite a few unfortunate down and outs. This is a side of a town not highlighted in the tourist brochures. We enjoyed visiting the late Victorian Wholesale Market, like a vast car boot sale under a splendid wrought iron and glass, curving roof. The actual open -air market- place was interesting too, with its market cross featuring the Ramsden Coat of Arms. It’s surrounded by fancy, old Victorian and Edwardian banks. Their ornate stonework and statues contrast with the flickering screens of their modern cash points.

Another gem we found nestling amongst the everyday, was the Lawrence Batley Theatre on Queen Street, built in 1819. One side of Queen Street is stately Victorian buildings, whilst the other is unbelievable taken up by a multi-storey car-park! Going back to the theatre, it had originally been constructed as one of the biggest Wesleyan Chapels in the country, following a visit from John Wesley himself. Like Mary Queen of Scots, Wesley seems to have passed through almost every town in England, judging from the number of plaques I have read over the years. Lawrence Batley was a local businessman who helped pay for the theatre conversion and thus immortalised himself, at least in Huddersfield. Our jaws dropped as we entered the foyer because we were met by a wonderful display of colourful fantasy costumes created  by the graduates of the adjoining University for their Leavers’ show.

Contrary to the traditional image of the gruff, brusque Yorkshireman ( and woman), we found Huddersfield to be an open and very friendly place. In fact at times it was a bit too friendly, as when we had to make an excuse and flee from the Oxfam book shop because a man was regaling us with all the gory details of an argument he had had with his wife because he had spent £250 of the housekeeping money on 3 military medals in a display box! We also found Huddersfield to be quite multi-cultural. We found Persian and Lebanese restaurants as well as the usual array of Indian, Thai, Chinese and Italian outfits. In the art gallery we saw an exhibition of photographs of refugees from all over the world being welcomed to Huddersfield, something that was very heartening in post-“Brexit” Britain, with its sharp increase in racial and anti-immigrant incidents.

Priestley’s dark mill town, with its cloth-capped working men trudging en masse to the football ground, has now changed beyond all recognition. For a start the football matches now take place in a modern, all- seater, out- of- town stadium, constructed for the convenience of the car. The woollen mills have closed, their chimneys demolished. The trams have bitten the dust and many of the hill-side terraces have gone. The motor car has taken over. For many travellers, Huddersfield is now merely a convenient short stop-over, just south of the M62. Most of the hotels and guest houses are situated near to the motorway. I imagine the town is less self-contained than in Priestley’s day, with many residents  commuting to Manchester or Leeds for their work and their bigger items of shopping. However, the town’s glorious past as a wealthy centre of the woollen textile industry has not been totally extinguished. All those fine Victorian civic buildings remain, as do the mansions and villas on the Halifax Road. Then there are the atmospheric, early 19th century alleys and courtyards off King Street, restored during the construction of a modern shopping mall on the opposite side of the road. This juxtaposition of old and new, existing cheek by jowl, perhaps best sums up the contradictions of the place.

One thing that will never change is the town’s setting, nestling between the brooding Pennine hills and moors. As we walked back to our guest house on our final evening, I looked beyond the rooves of the immediate town, to two, prominent wooded hills beyond. On one hill was a dark church tower, probably blackened by the belching mill chimneys of the past. On the higher hill we saw the stone Victoria (lookout) Tower, built in 1899 to mark the Queen’s Jubilee. It’s a landmark for miles around. Back in 2012, we had trecked up to a similar tower in the Lancashire mill town of Darwin. However, the Huddersfield tower is much further away and we are 4 years older, so we just admired it from afar. All in all, it was an enjoyable and interesting visit and it whetted our appetites for Halifax, the next “H” on our bus- pass trip. Moreover, as soon as I got home, I searched the book shelves for my copy of “The Good Companions”, to re-read  that wonderfully evocative introduction to Priestley’s beloved “Bruddersfield.”

Cut Adrift.

30 Jun

Like nearly half of the UK’s population I woke up on the morning of June 24th, 2016, to news that both shocked and depressed me. The British people had voted by a majority of 52% to 48% to leave the European Union, which we have been a member of since 1973. I had previously been mortified by the election of a Conservative majority government in 2015, but at least my dismay on that occasion was allayed by the thought that it would only last for 5 years maximum and then we would get a chance to overturn the result in the next General Election. However, the fateful decision to leave the EU will not just last for 5 years, but is probably irrevocable. The younger generations, who largely voted to stay in, are now stuck with the consequences of their elder peers’ negative decision. As one work colleague put it: “We’ve been cut adrift.”

This piece is not intended to be an expert analysis of the :political, economic, social and constitutional dimensions of this momentous development. This is because I am not an expert in any of these spheres. However, I am a citizen of the United Kingdom and I would like to try to summarise my own personal reaction.  I don’t wish to upset or attack the people who voted “Leave.” They had their reasons which were valid to them. I accept the result just I accept the system of democracy. I am not one of the callers for a second EU referendum just because I didn’t like the result of the first. Having said that, I think the decision to leave is wrong and probably reveals some worrying  characteristics of the nation I am part of.

First of all, I think that for many, this was not a carefully considered decision but a loud vote of protest.Many regions of Britain have suffered from unemployment, lack of investment and poverty. They have been left behind in the economic race and feel neglected and abandoned. These areas, particularly in the north, the midlands and Wales voted resoundingly to leave the EU in the recent referendum. This includes Cleveland in the north-east where I now live. I was a polling clerk in a small, ex-mining village, and although we are not allowed to discuss the issues with the voters, many  barely bothered to conceal their intentions. It was obvious to me that many were intent on delivering a protest vote against the so called “establishment” whom they blamed for many of their troubles. It was the “ordinary” working class wanting to give the rich, privileged, political elite a good kicking. One actually said that he was going to punish Cameron ( The pro-“Remain” Prime Minister) for all his “lies.” I got the distinct impression from my experiences in the polling station and my forays into social media that numerous people  primarily wanted to register such a vote of dissent. Quite a few older electors admitted that they  didn’t usually bother to vote but had especially turned out for this one. Nationally, it was the highest turn-out for a very long time. People were very taken with the idea that in a referendum, every single vote counts, unlike the “first past the post” system that the UK has in its normal elections. But having turned up, many of them didn’t know what to do. It was weird having to tell people in their fifties and sixties that they simply had to put a cross in the box of their choice. Many, whipped-up by a campaign on Facebook, were very suspicious that only a pencil was provided in the voting booth rather than a pen, even though thick pencils have always been used in British elections since the year dot. They expressed their concern that officials could later rub out their ” Leave” crosses and change them to “Remain.” Despite their political naivety and ignorance of polling procedures, these people had turned up because they were angry, and this anger had overcome their previous apathy. If this is true, then it’s a shame that this wider issue of shaking up the “establishment” clouded the more specific and crucially important issue of whether the country should remain in or leave the EU.

Another serious concern raised by the vote is our attitude to foreigners. I think patriotism is fine but if taken to extremes, can turn into unpleasant chauvinism or even xenophobia. Unfortunately, foreigners make very convenient scapegoats. It’s so easy to blame them for all our ills. According to the blamers, foreigners are: stealing our jobs, depressing our wages, taking our houses, making our schools over-crowded, overwhelming our health service and destroying our identity. I have heard all these arguments through the years, especially from a certain section of the tabloid press. In fact, I think many of these ideas have originated from the more corrosive elements of the popular press, which had been drip-feeding anti-EU and anti-immigration propaganda into peoples’ minds for decades This fear and distrust of thee “outsider” is not a new phenomenum. In the early years of the 20th century, the governments tried to unite the country against the “yellow peril.” Then in the 1950’s and 60’s, large scale immigration from the  Commonwealth led to widespread racial prejudice and discrimination. This culminated in Enoch Powell’s infamous “rivers of blood” speech in Smethwick in 1969. I think he had serious and important points to make but the unfortunate side effect of his words was that it provided a more  respectable face for racists. Despite anti-discrimination legislation in the 1970’s, I believe that racism is alive and well in the UK and bubbles just beneath the surface of respectable society. Unfortunately, the EU’s “free movement of people” policy, has led to another upsurge of foreigner hating, especially when large numbers of people from Poland, Slovakia, Romania and other east European people arrived on our shores. This is despite the fact that many of them are very hard-working and have made important contributions to the economy, doing the jobs that British workers have not been keen to do. As one outspoken voter loudly exclaimed: “Enoch was right. He was a great man.”

To a certain extent I think this is just fear of the unknown, fear of the “other”. Unfortunately, more extreme members of the right wing turn this fear and unease into ideas of white British racial superiority. The National Front, The British National Party and the English Defence League  espouse neo-Nazi ideas about race and wish all foreigners, especially those with darker skins, to be deported. Slogans have already been painted up urging immigration to be replaced by repatriation. Luckily, the majority of British people abhor such ideas and the out- and- out racists have been largely kept in check. However, a relatively new party, UKIP, formed in the early 21st century has successfully managed to merge the issues of  EU membership ( with its free movement of people principle) with that of mass immigration. They have given the anti-foreigner idea a slightly more respectable cloak. Not only are foreigners coming over in increasingly large numbers to take our jobs etc, according to UKIP, but other, unelected foreigners in Brussels and Strasbourg are making decisions that effect British peoples’ lives detrimentally. So goes the argument. It’s easy to blame the foreigners for all Britain’s problems. Hitler blamed all Germany’s problems on the Jews. It’s the same idea. The trouble is that once these racist ideas come out of the woodwork, they can be very unpleasant and destructive. Already, since the Leave vote, there have been numerous racial incidents up and down the country. The far -right extremists unfortunately now feel emboldened to tell foreigners that they are not welcome in the UK. This is a very upsetting and unfortunate result of the Leave vote.

I believe that the EU leaders should be more democratically accountable to the people of Europe and I also think that the completely free movement of people needs to be looked at and modified, because, inevitably it will lead to people from poorer countries migrating to their richer European neighbours. However, I believe that Britain should have fought for such reform from within, rather than throwing its toys out of the pram and leaving the Union. It has been a case of flight not fight. I can sympathise with people who live in areas with a large immigrant population as they fear that they are losing their British identity. For many, identity trumps the economy and so they have ignored the warnings about dire economic consequences of a Leave vote. I think the numbers of incomers should be more carefully controlled but feel that a multi-cultural society has enriched Britain immeasurably over the years. It has broadened minds and given us many new alternatives in diet, religion, music, dance, art, language and traditions. We would be a much culturally poorer country if we consisted of just one race. However, the Leave vote heralds the advent of a more narrow minded, mono-culture definition of British life.

Britain has a long history of Empire and for a long time did not need to rely on its neighbours in Europe as its main trading partners. This is why, despite Churchill’s far sighted vision of a united Europe, the British government of the late 1940’s ( Atlee’s Labour administration), didn’t feel the need to join the European Coal and Steel Community, the forerunner of the EU, set up by the Germans and the French and joined by Belgium, Luxembourg, The Netherlands and Italy. The British also considered themselves as “Atlanticists” proudly pointing out their so-called special relationship with the USA. The aims of the Europeans, especially the Germans and the French, had been to deliberately inter-mesh their economies so as to make future wars between them impossible. Europe and the World had suffered two catastrophic wars in the 20th Century which had at their heart the long term enmity between Germany and France. Other terrible Franco-German wars had taken place in the 19th century. Thus by 1945, surveying yet another devastated continent, French and German statesmen said “never again” and took their brave and far-sighted decision to integrate and cooperate rather than continue to compete and confront. Their brave gamble has paid off as there has been no war between members of the European Union since its inception. The British stayed aloof of the new union, but when their Empire quickly melted away in the 1950’s and 60’s and their special cross-Atlantic relationship was exposed when the Americans refused to back them in the Suez crisis of 1956, they belatedly realised that their new focus must be on Europe. Prime Minister  Harold McMillan applied to join in the early 1960’s but was eventually rebuffed by France’s President De Gaulle, who said that the British didn’t have the right attitude to be good Europeans. Maybe, looking at our leave vote of June 23rd, 2016, and our history of opt-outs, objections and vetoes, De Gaulle had a point. Separated from the European mainland by a thin strip of sea, the English Channel, the British have found it difficult to cooperate with their European partners. It is almost if: because of our proud history being in charge of an  Empire, our  status as a Great Power, our seat on the Security Council of the United Nations, we regard ourselves as superior to our neighbours across the Channel. I’m sure this belief that Britain is a uniquely great nation and doesn’t need to cow-tow to or cooperate with others, is behind many people’s dislike of the EU, and their wish to leave it and go it alone. When people say they “want their country back”, the familiar and successful slogan of the Leave campaign, I suspect they are thinking back to a Britain in the past, not the diminished country of today, stripped of much of its power and influence. I think it is a mistake to think that the United Kingdom is still a great and powerful nation that can easily go it alone.

I suppose I could go on making point after point and this blog could go on for ever. That would be a waste of time as no-one would want to read it to the end anyway. The remaining important thing I want to say is that I have always been an Internationalist, ever since I owned my first stamp album. It makes me sad to realize I am living in  a nation of insular, “Little-Englanders.” I have always been interested in other countries and have wanted to travel to see them and experience their different cultures. I wanted to enrich my life and broaden my mind. My parents never left these shores and never showed any desire for foreign travel. At first they were too poor and later they were too timid to leave the comfort-zone of Britain. As I grew older I developed an increasing desire for foreign adventure. To their credit, my mum and dad recognised this and made a big financial sacrifice in paying for me to go on a school trip to the south of France in 1966. This lit the blue touch-paper and launched my life-long wanderlust.. Throughout my adult life I have travelled extensively throughout Europe and in the World at large, especially in my post-retirement years. I have enjoyed the UK being part of the European Community with all the economic and cultural benefits that this has brought. This is why I think it’s a great shame that many people want to pull up the draw-bridge and withdraw from the European project that we have been a part of for over 4 decades. In this modern, increasingly connected world, it’s strange that the majority in the British referendum wanted to withdraw and become a small separate entity. From an economic, cultural and political point of view this doesn’t make any sense to me. As someone said in the campaign, it’s like claiming one’s independence by moving out of the house and moving into the garden shed!

When my 92 year old mother- in- law heard the referendum result, she cried. She vividly remembered the devastation of the 2nd World War  and feared that the Leave vote might lead to the unravelling of much of the progress Europe has made since 1945. The vote seems to ignore the lessons of history, and if further countries leave, might lead to a more insecure and dangerous continent. It’s not surprising that Russia’s President Putin is delighted at the news of the UK’s imminent withdrawal from the powerful bloc that has been opposing his aggressive policies. It may also lead to the further unravelling of the United Kingdom itself as the whole of Scotland and Northern Ireland voted firmly to remain in Europe. They may soon vote to leave us and leave us weaker and more vulnerable in a dangerous world. We are a proud, sea-faring nation, but how will we cope when we are cut adrift and are left alone in turbulent waters?

 

We’re all Foxes now — or are we?

12 May

If you’ve just come back from a holiday on Mars, I need to tell you that Leicester City football club have recently been crowned Champions of the Premier League. This has been such a shock that their  unpredicted triumph has spread from the Sports channels to the main news broadcasts. Their surprising success has leapt from the back page to the front.

It seems that Leicester’s trouncing of the bigger, richer, “elite” clubs has captured the public imagination. It’s a heart-warming David and Goliath story. A team of so-called journey-men, unknown foreign imports and loanees rejected by their parent clubs, has, against all the odds, come out on top. Everyone loves an underdog, especially when, totally unexpectedly, it becomes a dog.

Leicester City, known as the “Foxes”, is a football club that has not exactly been sated with success over the years. I think they might have won the League Cup ( the poor relation of the FA Cup) under the manager Martin O’Neill in the 1980’s or 90’s. They’ve won a few promotions from the lower leagues and, back in the early 1960’s, they got to the FA Cup Final at Wembley, but lost to the all-conquering Spurs side of that era. I remember watching it on our small, black and white telly. One of the Leicester defenders played much of the match with what turned out to be a broken leg, as substitutes weren’t allowed in those days. However, for most of their existence, the “Foxes” have had the usual frustrating mixture of: hope, disappointment and despair, peppered with occasional dashes of joy. In this respect, they are just like most of the other clubs in the Football League. Only the pampered fans of the wealthy elite — Manchester United, Arsenal and Liverpool, now joined by the suddenly super-wealthy Chelsea and Manchester City — expect and demand constant success and  regular lifting of “silverware”. ( the football cliché for trophies.)

Usually in life, money can buy you most things. As John Lennon once sang: “What it can’t buy, I can’t use.” Cash is commonly regarded as the route to happiness, although in reality, this is far from guaranteed. Materialism has taken over from religion as the main driving-force in many peoples’ lives. This is particularly true in the world of Premiership football. Huge wads of TV money has come into the top league from Sky, BT, and others, in exchange for exclusive right to broadcast a whole raft of matches live. The poor old terrestrial channels, the BBC and ITV, have been squeezed out on to the margins, reduced to showing brief, edited highlights or the occasional cup match. Top footballers demand and get obscene amounts of money to perform in this immensely popular section of the entertainment industry. Their enormous salaries are an insult to almost every other working person in the country. Money rules it seems. Multi-billionaires, many of them foreign, have taken over ownership of Premier League clubs, often to the detriment of their genuine fans. They see it as a business opportunity and are intent on buying success at all costs. “Mercenary” players and coaches are brought in at vast expense to achieve that dominance as quickly as possible.

Arsene Wenger, the long-serving Arsenal manager, who by the way earns about £1 million per annum, spoke of the adverse effects of “financial-doping” back in 2005/6 when Chelsea, previously a moderately successful, middle-ranking First Division club, had suddenly been plunged into the big time when a Russian oligarch, Roman Abramovich, purchased it as his plaything to go alongside his: mansions, big cars, private jet and luxury yacht. Previously, money had obviously been important, but clubs could also gain success through: good tactics, teamwork, youth development schemes, clever scouting and canny management. Brian Clough and Peter Taylor’s Derby County and Nottingham Forest in the 1970’s and 80’s are excellent examples of this. Bigger, richer clubs were temporarily put in the shade. Both Derby and Forest, lacking really big financial investment, have now become regular inhabitants of the lower leagues.  The norm has largely returned to: “the richer you are, the more successful you are.” In other words, the road to success is paved with dosh. Other clubs’ best players, coaches and managers can be poached( i.e. stolen), lured away by the prospect of bigger bucks. Thus some have argued that “financial doping”, stemming from vast TV money and mega-rich owners, has warped and ruined the traditional world of football.

Sport’s most vital ingredient is “fairness.” There should be a level playing- field. When this fairness is challenged by a gross financial disparity, then the main appeal of sport — a contest between equals, in which the best individual or team wins  — is destroyed. I wrote a piece a few years ago about why it was not necessarily a good thing that Manchester City  had won the Premier League title. Perennially the bridesmaids in their own city, in the shadow of their illustrious neighbours, United, City had won their first top title since the late 1960’s. What’s wrong with that? Most people greeted it as good news, breaking the boring Premiership hegemony of Arsenal, Chelsea and Manchester United. ( only Blackburn Rovers had done it previously and that’s mostly because they had a rich “sugar-daddy.) However, a couple of years before their triumph, City had been purchased by the Royal family of Abu Dhabi, an oil-rich Gulf state with limitless wealth. They proceeded to use their immense riches to take the short -cut to success. They quickly achieved this in 2012 and again in 2014. Money-bags Manchester City and Chelsea are now regarded as “elite” clubs such that their owners and supporters expect and demand constant trophies. Not surprisingly, their support has swelled immeasurably as millions of “fair-weather” fans have jumped on to their band-wagons. It’s all very depressing in my opinion.

This then, is the background to Leicester City’s astounding achievement in the season of 2015/16. Whereas Manchester City paid £55million for just one player, Kevin de Bruyne, Leicester’s entire team cost less than half of that at £25million. Even that figure would be like living in dreamland for the owners and supporters of the huge majority of lower league clubs, including my own home- town team: Chesterfield FC ( the Spireites) in league 1, the third tier of English football. Chesterfield had to sell their captain and best player, Sam Morsey, for only £750,000 to help pay off their debts. However, getting back to Leicester City, in the context of the super-wealthy Premier League, they have shown that  having the most money does not always automatically buy the most success. The normal axiom of “money rules” has been turned on its head — at least for one season.

The feel-good factor of the Foxes success has been further enhanced by the fact that they are managed by a genial, 64 year old  Italian, Claudio Ranieri, who, although respected and experienced, has never actually won a national title before. He has had some success but has never managed a team of champions. In fact, he was sacked from his last job as manager of Greece, when they lost, in humiliating circumstances to the lowly Faroe Islands.( although, to be fair, the Greek FA was in complete meltdown  at the time.) The journalists have loved his story. After being originally suspected of just wanting to add to his pension- pot in the twilight of his career, Ranieri is now hailed as a genius. As the unexpected victories rolled in so did the corny headlines — the “Wily Ranieri”, the “Cunning old fox” etc. The general public have lapped it up too. Ranieri has not employed the infamous, aggressive “hair-dryer treatment” of an Alex Ferguson, or the dark, confrontational style of a Jose Mourinho ,to gain his success. He has led Leicester with a quiet, genial charm and clever tactical nous. He has won the trust of his players and has motivated them to play out of their skins, week in and week out. He has created a very strong feeling of unity and camaraderie. Claudio has lit up press conferences with his quirky use of English and his genuine modesty. The improbable success of his very moderate ( on paper) team has given everyone fresh hope and has been like a “breath of fresh air.” ( Sorry- it’s difficult to avoid clichés when writing about football.)

At first, everyone expected Leicester to collapse at some point and fall away from the top. Surely the stress and strain would get them in the end? But it never did! It was the Tottenhams, the Arsenals and the two Manchester clubs who did the falling away. Chelsea, the previous champions imploded early on and Liverpool’s inconsistency led them to change managers. When the media sensed that Leicester, against all the odds, actually had a great chance of winning the title, the clichés started to roll in. Suddenly they were every football fan’s second team. It was “like a fairy tale.” Apparently, we were all “Foxes” now, according to the press. ( If it had been Everton or Stoke City winning, presumably we would all have been “Toffees” or “Potters.”) The sentimental slush just kept on coming. Even people who didn’t follow football or had nothing to do with the city, like my sister, started to avidly follow Leicester’s results and want them to win. It had become a human interest story, not merely a football tale.

I think the success of the Foxes is great. If you’ll allow me to be negative for a moment, it has been good to see the smiles wiped off the faces of the shareholders and fans of the mega-rich clubs who have tried to purchase success. However, as a life-long football fan, I don’t suddenly support Leicester or regard them as my second team. That, in my opinion, is blatant band-wagon jumping. I am pleased for the real, long-term Foxes’ fans, the ones who have supported them all their lives, through the numerous lows as well as the occasional highs. Real supporters follow their clubs through thick and thin. They don’t just turn up for the good times. Neither do they change their allegiance to the latest champion team. To me it’s ridiculous that most Manchester United fans don’t even live in England, never mind Manchester. It doesn’t make sense to me that football fans in Africa of Asia walk around in replica: Chelsea, Arsenal, Liverpool or Manchester City shirts.

To me, football is a primarily geographical thing. It all depends where one’s roots are. I was born and raised in Chesterfield , Derbyshire, and so I have been a lifelong supporter of the “Spireites”, even though I now live in a different part of the country. (The Spireites are so called because Chesterfield’s church has a famously crooked spire.) If I had been born in Accrington or Hartlepool I would have been an Accrington Stanley or Hartlepool United fan. On the main stand in Hartlepool’s ground, Victoria Park, is the proud declaration: “Born a Pooly, Live a Pooly, Die a Pooly.” Hartlepool diehards have not suddenly switched their allegiance to Leicester or whoever happens to  win the Champions League. When Chesterfield score a dramatic equaliser or a last minute winner, we all sing, quite truthfully, “we’re Spireites ’till we die!” I know it sounds daft but that’s what being a serious football fan is like. Being a football supporter is both a joy and a curse. It’s simultaneously a passion and a disease! And it lasts a whole lifetime! I admire Arsenal for the attractiveness of much of their football under Wenger, but my first and last love will always be Chesterfield FC.

So no, I am not, and never will be one of the Foxes. No matter what the press claims, Leicester City are not my favourite second team. I am really pleased for them and believe their triumph is a very good tonic for the game. However, I, and most genuine football fans, will not be leaping on to the Leicester band-wagon and trying to bask in some reflected glory. We will all be supporting our own teams, even if , like Aston Villa, Bolton Wanderers, Crewe Alexandria and York City, they have been relegated from their respective leagues. ( along with others), Misery, frustration and despair are as much a part of football as joy and elation. Football to me is not about fairy tales, fickleness or fair-weather supporting, it’s about: loyalty, identity and a sense of belonging. One’s team is one’s tribe or clan, and it would be traitorous to support another, even temporarily.

Visiting God’s First Stab at the E.U.

19 Apr

At first glance it looked like something from a medieval fantasy. In front of us stood two large, circular brick towers topped by cone- shaped, slate roofs. Long thin flags fluttered from the tips of the roofs. In between the sturdy towers was an arched brick passageway, decorated by 2 shining bands of terracotta tiles. The archway was mirrored by rows of small arched windows and was crowned with a fancy gable, complete with 3 ornamental towers. We expected a damsel in distress to appear from an upper window at any moment and Sir Lancelot to ride to the rescue on his white charger. Maybe I’m getting carried away but it was the sort of  building that evoked those sorts of romantic, mythical images. Only the cars and buses driving either side of the gateway spoilt this  pre-Raphaelite vision.

My friend, Ian, and I were visiting the picture-book city of Lubeck, in the north of Germany  near to the Baltic Sea. Many people have never heard of it, as it is not one of the more conventional tourist destinations. However, Lubeck’s  Altstadt ( old town) is actually a UNESCO World Heritage Site, designated as such as far back as 1987. It was the first place in northern Europe to be given this important accolade. We were standing in front of one of the main gateways to the medieval city – the Holstentor ( Holstein Gate). As we got close to it we noticed it wasn’t as perfectly symmetrical as we first thought. One of the towers had sagged and was leaning inwards. Apparently, the gateway was built on marshy ground and so did not have  a firm foundation. Most have heard about the Leaning Tower of Pisa but not many are aware of its Lubeck equivalent. There were once 4 such gateways, punctuating the city walls at each point of the compass. Now only 2 remain — the Holstentor on the west and the Burgtor in the north. They used to be protected by moats and outer fortifications. The tree-lined moat still remains, diverting water from the River Trave and turning the egg-shaped Altstadt into an island. The lovely old buildings of the Altstadt are often reflected in its waters. The Holstentor, much restored in the 19th and 21st centuries, has become one of the most famous symbols of Germany. Before the introduction of the Euro, it featured on the back of the 50 DM banknote and also appeared on various postage stamps. Bizarrely, the old gateway is also frequently depicted in marzipan as Lubeck is where this sweet delicacy was invented using fine almonds imported from Italy. The ” marz” part of the name refers to St Mark’s in Venice. Watching our figures ( at least some of the time), we didn’t indulge!

That trading link with Venice gives us a clue as to why Lubeck was so important in the Middle Ages and could build such grand buildings as the Holstentor and the 7 spired churches that spear the skyline. Lubeck was one of northern Europe’s leading trading cities from the 13th to the 15th centuries. Beyond the Holstein gate is a whole medley of beautiful medieval architecture, mainly in brick, as stone was not close at hand. Wealthy merchants built lovely homes decorated with an array of ornamental gables. They erected: massive, brick churches in the French Gothic style, ornate, frescoed hospitals and charitable institutions, and a picturesque Town Hall ( Rathaus) which is still in use. The Rathaus, built mainly in the 13th century, features inventive, alternate rows of red unglazed and black glazed bricks, shield- like, colourful coats of arms and 2 large holes to lessen wind resistance. Next to the Town Hall stands the enormous, twin towered Marienkirche, built by the merchants to show off their vast wealth and to hopefully book their place in heaven. It puts even the Cathedral ( or Dom) in the shade, the latter being perched on the outer edge of the city centre. This was a merchant city and even the church had to know its place.

In fact Lubeck was  the leading city of the Hanseatic League, a huge, successful trading alliance of  German-speaking cities. It reached its peak in the 15th century. Not all of these trading centres were in Germany, or the Holy Roman Empire as it used to be known. Those outside included: Amsterdam, Danzig ( now Gdansk), Bergen, Stockholm and Riga. The League came to control much of the trade in and around the Baltic and North Seas of northern Europe. It was just a loose federation and worked in a cooperative spirit, based on mutual trust. Trading ties were strengthened by marriage and family connections. At its height the Hanseatic league included about 200 member cities. These included: London, Boston and Kings Lynn in England. The Hansa organisation owned very little but controlled much. Its power was based on a complex web of trading routes spanning the North Sea, the Baltic Sea and the great rivers of northern Europe. In effect , it linked the Volga to the Thames, controlling an area from Novgorod to London. The Hansa merchants connected eastern and western Europe. The League defended its trade routes by raising armed fleets. They waged war if necessary if their interests were being threatened but largely they were a peaceful, organisation, concentrating on making money. The Hansa had their own commercial laws and had a sort of parliament to discuss mutual interests every year in Lubeck.  In recognition of its wealth, power and success, Lubeck was declared a Free Imperial City . Buildings such as the Holstentor, the Marienkirche and the Rathaus were designed to reflect this wealth and high status. As with every era, medieval architecture was mostly about showing off!

The age of the Hansa only came to an end when the focus of World trade moved from the Baltic and North Seas to the Atlantic Ocean after the discovery of the New World ( America) and new sea routes to India and the Far East. Naval defeat by Sweden and a disastrous intervention in a Danish Civil War just about finished it off. Maybe there’s a lesson to be learnt there –war is almost always a bad thing. Cooperation is usually preferable to confrontation.

In a way, the Hanseatic League, at its height, can be seen as an early version of the European Union. It linked cities from right across the continent in a  mainly peaceful, cooperative, economic organisation. So Lubeck was the medieval equivalent of the EU’s Brussels or Strasbourg. Although it did get involved in a few military conflicts, it can be argued that the League did a lot to keep the peace in northern Europe for significant periods of time, as it was in everyone’s interests to get on and reap the material rewards of trade. It’s much later successor, the EU, has also kept the peace in Europe since its inception in the late 1940’s, with the notable exception of the Yugoslavian Civil War. Yugoslavia, being a member of the former Communist block was not a member of the EU.  France and Germany who had gone to war 4 times in 140 years, wanted to put an end to the constant tit-for-tat conflicts by deliberately inter-meshing their economies at the end of the Second World War. Thus it would be in neither country’s interest to attack the other. Four other countries — Belgium, The Netherlands, Luxembourg and Italy — joined Germany and France, in the European Coal and Steel Community. This later morphed into The Common Market, the European Economic Community and finally the European Union.

Britain, at first, stuck its nose up about joining a pan-European trading organisation. This was despite Winston Churchill’s stated vision of a united Europe. Maybe, like today’s British Euro-sceptics, politicians in the 1940s and early 50’s didn’t want to exchange British independence for European cooperation despite the latter’s promise of  continental peace and prosperity . They looked to the Empire, the Commonwealth and the so-called “Special relationship” with the Americans as reasons for not getting too closely involved with Europe, even though the latter was their own continent. It was only when the British Empire started to disappear rapidly and the relationship with the USA was severely dented after the 1956 Suez crisis  that the British Prime Minister, Harold McMillan, did a dramatic U-turn and applied for British membership of the European club. Rebuffed, in the early 1960’s, by the French President Charles de Gaulle, who was still not convinced that the British displayed the right attitude to be good Europeans, it was another decade before Prime Minister Ted Heath finally led us into an expanded Common Market, a decision validated by the referendum of 1975 called by Harold Wilson’s Labour Government. It’s ironic that Wilson called the Referendum mainly to conceal the splits in his own party over European membership. Doesn’t that sound familiar? The probable reason for the current 2016 referendum on Britain’s continued EU membership is probably so that PM David Cameron can by-pass the severe splits in his own Conservative party over Europe. So Britain’s whole membership of the EU is being put on the line because of Tory party squabbles!

Should we stay or should we go? The interminable debate rumbles on, with journalists rubbing their hands in glee at all the opportunities they have to exploit the politicians’ divisions. Having just returned from Lubeck, it seems strange that large numbers of Britons seem to think they would be better off by going it alone. The strongest economy in Europe, Germany, is not having this debate. The Germans are in for the duration. Despite its many problems the EU has delivered, as it had brought peace and prosperity to the German people as well as to much of Europe. Lubeck and the Hanseatic league was an early example of the advantages of cooperation over competition. Lubeck also contains a stark warning of the dangers of non-cooperation.

About a quarter of its lovely, historical centre was destroyed in a devastating bombing raid by the RAF on March 28th/29th, 1942. Yes, I know it was Hitler and the Germans who started it. And I also know that the attack on Lubeck was in part retaliation for the Nazi bombing of London, Coventry and other British cities. I am not qualified to make a proper judgement anyway, as I didn’t live through the horrors of the Second World War, being born a few years afterwards. However, I think it’s a great shame that both sides seemed to think it was fair game to attack and devastate beautiful, historic towns and cities with limited military or industrial significance. The German reaction to Lubeck was the equally appalling “Baedeker” raids on English historical and cultural centres such as : Canterbury, Bath, Exeter, Norwich and York. Later the British destroyed Hamburg and the beautiful city of Dresden  — and so the sad story goes on! I suppose the nearest modern equivalent is Islamic State vandalising the ancient Roman city of Palmyra in Syria or the Taliban blowing up those sacred statues of Buddha in Afghanistan. The tragic Syrian civil war has also destroyed unique and precious historical cities such as Damascus and Aleppo. Back in 1942, Lubeck lost over a quarter of the historic buildings in its Alstadt. 234 bombers dropped 160 tons of high explosives and 25,000 incenduries. Bomber Arthur Harris’s idea was to blow open the brick and copper roofs of the medieval buildings and then the incendiaries were dropped into the ruins to create a fire-storm. He used it as a test case for the similar bombing of cities such as Hamburg and Berlin. In some ways it could be viewed as Britain’s Guernica! To judge from his memoirs, he was very pleased with the results. Joseph Stalin was also pleased, expressing his delight at this “merciless killing.”

The German people have now rebuilt Lubeck, restoring or replacing the buildings destroyed in the war. Unfortunately, this now means that some non-descript modern buildings have spoilt the medieval completeness of the main square outside the Town Hall. The magnificent, twin-towered Marienkirche has also been rebuilt — the third largest church in Germany. The church was severely damaged in 1942 and we saw a sad photo of it burning. Both organs and much fine wood-carvings were lost. The restoration is impressive but one part has been deliberately left untouched. The bells in the south tower have been left where they smashed, half-melted, to the ground. They are a memorial to the tragedy of war. I have also visited Coventry and seen the ruins of its old cathedral standing next to the impressive new one, also acting as a memorial.

Lubeck is a beautiful, historical city. It has somehow survived the ravages of time and of modern warfare. We enjoyed walking the streets lined with 15th and 16th century gabled buildings. We enjoyed walking along the waterways and exploring little cobbled alleyways leading to secluded courtyards. We viewed impressive art and artefacts in the museums and enjoyed coffee and strudel in several of the excellent bakery/ cafes.( We weren’t always watching our waistlines!) It is a very civilised place to visit and we enjoyed our stay. Lubeck also reminded us of two important lessons of history  — the rich rewards of free trade in a time of peace and prosperity, and at the same time, the grave consequences of confrontation and war. The Hanseatic league was a medieval forerunner of today’s European Union. Both of these trading organisations have produced peace and prosperity for many.

Now I’m back in the United Kingdom and the constant din of the EU Referendum campaign. The 24 Hour news channels love it! Should we remain or should we leave?  That’s a question for every thinking person’s conscience. But the lessons of history, as reflected from my trip to Lubeck, suggest strongly to me that  the UK should stay in a cooperative union with its European neighbours.

The Day I Met the Scunny Bunny.

23 Mar

At first it seemed an outrageous, if not plain silly, idea. A 66 year old man travelling for 3 hours by public transport to see a third tier football match in a rundown East Midlands steel town. For a while I held back from mentioning this crazy plan to my wife, for fear of being laughed out of the house. After all, I could save a lot of money and time by staying at home and watching some footy on the telly. And if I was desperate to see an old, crumbling iron and steel town — then there was one just down the road from us. However, that’s twice missing the point. It wasn’t any old match in any old industrial town I wanted to see, it was the one involving my home team — Chesterfield fc — otherwise known as the “Spireites.” I grew up in that town and spent my formative years going to see the Spireites play, first with my dad, then with my mates. More recently, I’ve watched them with my cousins, my late uncle and my nephew. Supporting Chesterfield runs in the family. You might say that this particular football team has now got into my blood. Chesterfield fc forms part of my DNA. So perhaps it wasn’t such a crazy idea afterall, wanting to go and see them play at  Scunthorpe fc, known as “The Iron”. It was the clash of “The Iron” and “The Spireites”, and reader, I was there!

  I like travelling on trains– when they run on time! I get to read my book, observe human life as my fellow passengers get on and off, and see the scenary constantly changing through the window. For me it’s far preferable to driving down endless miles of anonymous motorway, unable to take my eyes off the road, unable to move and getting increasingly cramped in my seat. It may be the “freedom of the road” but it is a very isolating experience, being trapped in one’s own little metal box, not able to speak to or interact with any of the people only a few feet away . In the end it becomes a case of counting the miles and just wanting the journey to be over and done with. Stopping at a service station fails to dispel the monotony as they are more or less all the same, with their franchised food and retail outlets, canned music in the toilets and glazed-eyed  motorists drinking bad coffee and wishing they were somewhere else. Give me a railway station anyday!

  My “exciting day” began in anti-climax though. I live in Saltburn, a tiny Victorian seaside resort which forms the terminus of  a branch line off the East Coast mainline. The little 2-coach trains leave the coast, grind their way through the blackened industrial landscape of Teesside, to finally link with the main line at Darlington. I decided to catch an earlier train than strictly necessary in order to make my mainline connection comfortably. However, without any notice, the train was cancelled. It never turned up! I stood on the platform with several bemused fellow passengers all thinking “What do we do now?” It was a tense wait to see if the next scheduled train was going to turn up. I sat in the platform shelter, read my paper and tried desperately not to bite my nails. Finally it came — 2 minutes late. My relief was palpable. For the past half hour I had been worrying that the whole trip was in jeopardy!

  So I made my connection and caught the mainline express at “Darlo.” We sped smoothly south. I enjoyed looking at the Cleveland and Hambleton Hills to my left and was looking forward to seing York’s ancient Minster and medieval city walls. You don’t get that on the A1! I was also looking forward to reading my novel. However, my reserved seat was right next to a noisy, high spirited Geordie “Hen Party”. There were 6 of them, heavily made up and  sporting funny hats and gaudy Dame Edna Everidge specs. Pink balloons announced to the world who they were, as if we didn’t know! They were drinking sparkling wine, telling jokes and laughing and shrieking at the tops of their voices. They were obviously having fun  and seemed pleased that they had an audience, albeit a reluctant one, to perform to. After a noisy half hour, Dawn’s Hen partiers stumbled off the train at York, sloshing drink over everybody as they went. They were replaced by a quiet group of Chinese students reading their textbooks and testing each other. So the next half hour to Doncaster was much calmer.

  At Doncaster I swapped trains to meander east, up another branch line into the flatlands of North Lincs. My train was terminating at Scunthorpe but others on this line, went on to the delights of Grimsby and Cleethorpes. A long time ago I went on several Sunday School trips to Cleethorpes, where we sat on the sand and gazed at the pier. There were very few distractions or amusements. It was pretty boring. I remember vowing never to go there again. I also remember the overpowering stench of fish as we passed through Grimsby docks. However, I had never been to Scunthorpe — its heavy industry putting me off.

  Our little train passed through a flat landscape punctuated by drainage ditches, short lines of poplars acting as wind breaks and gaunt forests of wind turbines. It was obvious that we were not far from the Fens with its similar flat, desolate landscape. We stopped at little places that I had never heard — Thorne, Crowle, Althorpe. Hardly anyone got on or off. It was a bit like the end of the world. Soon the train starting to run parallel to a long, straight canal. (the Sheffield and South Yorkshire Navigation). It went on for miles and miles without even a hint of a boat or any human life. All I spotted was: a couple of ducks, a coot and a cormorant on the far bank, poised to strike. Eventually, after half an hour of monotony, we crossed a large river on a big  metal bridge of soaring green girders. ( Think of a smaller version of the Forth Rail bridge in Scotland.) I later learnt that this was the River Trent on the last few miles of its journey to the Humber, just south of Hull. It flowed through a largely empty landscape, much of it reclaimed land from the Humber estaury.

After all this excitement we finally arrived at Scunthorpe station. I had a fair amount of time and wanted to see a bit of the town before going to the match. However, the town centre was nowhere to be seen. I seemed to be on a semi-main road on the edge of an old housing estate. I resisted the temptation to get into one of the hopefully waiting taxis and followed a small blue sign indicating town centre and bus station. I passed the “Scunny Car Wash”, my first sign of life and walked on. Few people were around and I had no obvious clues, such as a church spire or tall public building to guide me in. Eventually, at a confusing junction I met a young woman and her son. I asked the way. Apparently I was only 5 minutes outside the centre, but then she added that there were hardly any decent shops there and they all now go to Tescos!

 At last I got to the centre. It was a late 60’s/early 70’s pedestrianised shopping precinct — neat, clean but anonymous. There didn’t seem to be any old, interesting or distinctive buildings. Yet the town goes back a long way and was actually mentioned in the Domesday Book of 1085. It got it’s slightly unfortunate name from the old Norse “Escumesthorpe, which translated, means “Skuma’s Household.” The precinct today however, celebrates the town’s more recent history. It’s  called “The Foundry Shopping Centre.” Just in case you’ve forgotten: Scunthorpe is an iron and steel town. It sits on a large bed of iron ore and limestone and became heavily industrialised in the 19th and 20th centuries. In the background, near the shops, I could see the Tata Steelworks, still dominating the centre. Further out I spotted the large, concrete cooling towers of the Drax Power Station. At its height Scunthorpe had 4 large blast-furnaces, all named after Queens: Mary, Bess, Anne and Victoria. However the town has struggled since the sharp decline of its heavy industry in the 1980’s and 90’s. The iron and steel workforce has shrunk from 27,000 to around 4,500 and is just about hanging on by its fingernails. The mines had all gone by 1981 as it was cheaper to ship in foreign ore. Scunthorpe’s boom years appear to be behind it. The town centre seemed very quiet for a Saturday lunchtime. Maybe that young woman was right and they had all gone to Tescos! I had a quick snack at the Jazz Cafe and then asked for directions to the football ground.

I knew the Scunthorpe United ground was out of the centre. The club’s advice was to take a taxi from the station to avoid the long walk. Buses out there seem to be infrequent. It was a fine day so I decided to walk. I took directions and learnt it was a long, straight, 2 mile hike if I turned left at Primark. So I did. My linear route out of town was a bit like a geography lesson. The newer shops of the precinct soon gave way to older, more decrepit businesses in Victorian or Edwardian terraces. Old houses in bare streets gave way to 1930’s leafier suburbs. Next came modern housing estates and finally the out of town retail park just off a busy roundabout near the motorway. ( the M181, a spur of the M180) I did pass a few, large, older buildings — a church, a private school, a red-brick arts centre being modernised but only half finished. On the edge of town were a couple of big pubs — the type that people drive out to for Sunday dinner or to watch a match on the giant screen.

I started to worry that I had gone wrong and quickened my step to catch up with a couple of blokes walking a little in front of me. But as I got closer I could hear that they were speaking a strange eastern European language. I remembered reading that the newer engineering and food processing factories had a large Polish and Slovak workforce. A young woman pushing a baby buggy told me that she “thought” the ground was about half a mile away. This was only slightly reassuring. Would I find the football ground in time? Would I miss the match that I had gone to so much trouble to see? It’s a shame that so many English football grounds are  out of town and thus more difficult to locate. The close link between the club and the community it belongs to has been partly severed. Newcastle United’s St James’s Park, is an honourable exception. The stadium still dominates the city and the roar of the crowd can be heard all over the centre.

I passed the “Welcome to Scunthorpe- Industrial Garden Town” sign and kept walking. But then I spotted the reassuring sight of the floodlight pylons of Glanford Park, and suddenly I was following scores of people, all walking in the same direction wearing their claret and pale blue shirts, scarves and hats. I kept my blue and white Spireite scarf hidden safely in my bag, although, to be honest, the atmosphere was easy going and friendly. Thankfully, the days of football violence are mostly over. Scunthorpe’s ground, built in the 1970’s, is part of a retail park just off the motorway. It shares the space with M and S, Debenhams, Boots, Costa Coffee and Subway. The whole lot is surrounded by large car parks. Here was Scunthorpe’s alternative town centre. It’s not actually in Scunthorpe! No wonder the real centre was so quiet. Everything is organised around the car, such that many matches up and down the country begin and end with a traffic jam.

  I collected my ticket and went through the turnstyle of the “Away End”. Here I met a sea of blue and white — the travelling Spireites. I reckoned there were about 700-800 of us in a total crowd of 3,800. I put on my scarf and grabbed a seat high up behind the goal. When you’re an away supporter, you usually have to go behind one of the goals. The atmosphere is great as we’re all squashed together, but the action is telescoped and you cannot judge distances very clearly. It was suddenly wierd to be amongst loads of people from my home town, all speaking in broad Derbyshire accents and calling each other “duck.”

  The whole stand smelt like a giant, steaming meat pie. This is still the standard fare of many football grounds, along with beer and Bovril.( actually, I think the popularity of that famous beef broth is at last on the wane.) On the stand opposite us I saw a  massive advert for PUKKA PIES. Maybe it’s not the healthiest of sponsers for a sports team! The players were out practising and the crowds chanting and singing, warming up their vocal chords for the actual match. The Chesterfield chants seemed to consist largely of “slagging off” Scunthorpe rather than extolling  the praises of their team. Basically they were saying that Scunthorpe was a dump, but they used a ruder word than that. It’s a pity that fans have to be so negative, but that’s actually one of the attractions of going to a match. You can be as negative and foul mouthed as you like and nobody cares. Expletives are just par for the course. ( so long as they are not racist.) No doubt the Iron fans were singing rude stuff about us as well, but we couldn’t hear them as they were at the opposite end of the ground. In fact they seemed to be so quiet that our lot suggested that their team was playing in a library!

  The atmosphere was great and building by the minute, and then I saw it — the “Scunny Bunny”. A man ( or woman) dressed in a slightly tatty Bugs Bunny outfit ran right in front of us waving and giving us thumbs -up signs. It is a quaint but charming custom for every team in the football league to have a nickname and to have a mascot. At Chesterfield we have a big grey  mouse , amusingly dubbed “Chester Fieldmouse” Ha Ha! So I now was confronted by the legendary “Scunny Bunny” his Scunthorpe counterpart. It was a memorable moment!

  The match itself was full on. It was 90 minutes of: hope, expectation, disappointment, frustration, and tension with explosions of anger and/or joy . I suppose the atmosphere must be very like it was in the Roman Colosium, except the gladiators now wear shirts, shorts, socks and boots. The action was full-blooded and fortunes swayed from one side to the other and then back again. To quote the well known football cliche: it was “a game of two halves.” The Iron were on top in the first half, but the Spireites came roaring back after the break. The final score was a fair 1-1 draw. When Chesterfield equalised right in front of us, everybody went berserk. We all experienced an irresistable surge of pure adrenaline. That’s why we go to watch football!

 Then it was the long journey home — the same 3 trains, but this time with half an hour waits at each station. I just holed up in a cafe with a coffee and my book. My last train was held up by a fight in the other carriage. Police were  waiting to haul the miscreants off the train at Middlesbrough. It was another one of the “joys” of public transport. Arriving home at last, I looked back on a fascinating, unpredictable and stimulating day. It had been much preferable to sitting on the sofa and watching the 6 Nations Rugby. Live sport is always far superior to  watching it on the screen, no matter how big. And just think, I had had my first, unforgettable encounter with the legendary “Scunny Bunny.”

Destroyed By The Humble Duvet.

23 Feb

When I was a child, if it was a cold night, my mum or dad would pop an extra blanket on the bed before tucking me in for the night. I’d lie there all nice and cosy, beneath a sheet  and 2 or 3 woollen blankets. This was before the days of central heating and the all-conquering duvet, formerly known as the “continental quilt”. Spare blankets for extra cold nights, were kept on top of the wardrobe. We were a traditional, working- class British family and we didn’t bother with, or weren’t even aware of , “new-fangled” items that were popular in the rest of Europe. This was before the UK joined the Common Market (EU) in the early 1970’s.  Our view, which we shared with  most of our friends and family, was that British goods and customs were obviously the best and that most things “foreign” were not to be trusted. We were proud to be British and not bothered about being thought of as insular.  Those blankets would have been made in Britain, part of a long tradition of wool- making that stretched right back to the Middle Ages. More likely than not, our blankets and other woollen products were made in Witney, Oxfordshire. Chris and I recently visited the town on a family trek  to the south. In  word association games, “Witney” and “blankets” were once inextricably linked. Even my mum, who unfortunately suffers from memory loss, said “blankets” as soon as I mentioned  Witney to her.

Until a few years ago I had barely been aware of the town, having lived most of my life in the north of England. Then it registered on my radar as the parliamentary constituency of the present Conservative prime Minister: David Cameron. Luckily he was busy in Brussels and London at the time of our visit so we were able to sneak in and out without facing the possibility of an awkward encounter. Today, Witney is mainly a dormitory town for the nearby city of Oxford, 12 miles to the east. It is also a bit of a tourist centre, being on the eastern fringes of the popular  Cotswolds. But, over the centuries, its main claim to fame has been as a wool town. This is proudly commemorated in numerous names and signs dotted about the centre. We stayed in a guest house next door to The Fleece public house. Just down the road was another hostelry called The Company of Weavers. In the churchyard some of the headstones bear images of shuttles and other symbols related to cloth making. A new shopping centre has been named The Woolgate Centre. The former Blanket Weavers Guild HQ is now a museum/heritage centre and is named Blanket House. This weaver’s guild was set up in the reign of Queen Anne in 1714. The presence of the  wool industry in the town actually dates as far back as 969 AD, in late Anglo-Saxon times. The industry really took off  with the arrival of Huguenot weavers from Flanders in the early 1700’s. This is an excellent example of the positive results of immigration for the British economy. I wonder what UKIP or the Daily Mail would have made of it? When Daniel Defoe, the famous writer and a pioneer tourist, passed through Witney in the mid 18th century, he noted that “you see a (spinning) wheel going in almost every door, the wool, and  yarn hanging up at every window.”

Like many of its neighbouring Cotswolds towns to the west, Witney built much of its wealth and reputation on the Wool industry. “Wolds” are gently rolling hills, and “cots” are sheep enclosures. So there was a plentiful supply of wool to supply a flourishing enterprise. Many of the attractive historical, stone buildings which help to make the Cotswolds so popular, were put up by wealthy, successful wool merchants. There was a lot of money to be made. As well as grand mansions, they paid for impressive churches, schools and even almshouses for the poor. This is evident in Witney as well as in its popular near neighbour, Burford.

We stayed on Church Green which is probably the most attractive part of the town centre. Nearby are the old market hall and butter cross. The green itself is a large expanse of open space headed by the Church of St Mary with its impressive spire. It can be seen for miles around. Back in the day though, Church Green wasn’t so peaceful. The whole green was filled with crowded sheep pens as farmers bought and sold their valuable livestock. The nearby River Windrush provided water for the washing, fulling and dying of the wool. Later the river provided power for the early spinning and weaving machines and was subsequently used to generate steam when the industrial revolution got into full swing. Part of the attraction of the Cotswolds to today’s tourist is that it is a throwback to a bygone, pre-industrial era. Bypassed by the main transport routes, most of it’s wool manufacturing towns fell into decline and economic stagnation in the 19th century. In fact it is difficult to spot a Victorian building in any of these places. This explains their  current popularity — they present a chocolate box version of Ye Olde England. However, Witney is the exception that proves the rule. It’s merchants and manufacturers successfully lobbied to have a rail link and it was already an important stop on the coaching routes. It never became a nostalgic backwater. Instead, it embraced industrialisation and the centre of  its cloth production moved from workers’ cottages to large mills. While trying to navigate ourselves out of the town one day we suddenly came across a tall, brick chimney– a remnant of one of those steam powered factories — Witney Mill. It looked incongruous in rural Oxfordshire, as this was a sight we associated more with the Pennine mill towns of Lancashire and Yorkshire in the north. Until it closed in 1962, Witney Mill was the town’s last working blanket factory.

I have always been fascinated by the Textile Industry having taught countless children about it in my days as a History teacher. When my pupils complained about having to do their schoolwork, I reminded them what their life would have been like 150 to 200 years ago. Children worked long hours in factories and mills. Before that, when industry was centred on people’s homes ( cottage industry), every member of the family was expected to contribute. In the textile industry for instance, the boys would help their fathers do the carding ( combing of the raw wool), while the girls assisted their mothers with the spinning ( i.e. — turning the raw wool into thread or yarn, by stretching and twisting it.) Thus the name for an unmarried woman is still a “spinster”, although it might be deemed rude to actually call someone that today. One can imagine the girls and women telling stories as they worked — “spinning a yarn.” Meanwhile, the man of the house, when he wasn’t working in the fields, would busy himself on the loom, turning the thread or yarn into cloth. In Witney this was mainly turned into blankets. A shuttle containing the thread was passed quickly from side to side, weaving in and out of the vertical threads already attached to the loom. Thus today we get the term “shuttle service” for a bus or a train that goes back and forth between two close destinations. The weaver worked in the room which had the biggest window to maximise the light he needed to do the job. This is why old weavers’ cottages have their biggest windows upstairs, where the loom was operated. Examples of these can still be seen in and around Witney.

In the past, the fields around Witney would have witnessed a very strange sight — countless rows of blanket-drying racks. Blankets were not woven individually. Instead they came in “stockfuls” which equated to about 24 blankets in one piece. After weaving, the blanket cloth was washed and pounded to make it shrink and become firmer. This was done in  fulling mills which were situated along the river. A “stockful” was the amount of cloth that would fit into a fulling mill’s stocks. I hope you’re following all this! The cloth would obviously be wet when the fulling was complete so it had to be dried on the large racks in the fields. Afterall, no-one wants to be a “wet blanket”, do they? Gangs of men hauled the large lengths of soggy cloth up on to the wooden racks, attaching them by means of “tenterhooks.” It must have been a difficult and rather tense job, giving rise to the modern phrase — “being kept on tenter hooks.” The hooks made holes in the eventual blankets which, for a long time, were an accepted part of the product. On a fine day, it was possible to dry over a mile of blankets outside. Once it began to rain however, every available man had to be mobilised to get the cloth in quickly. In the 20th century, indoor tentering lines began to take over, but outdoor tenter racks could still be seen in the Witney fields up to the late 1950’s. It must have been a spectacular sight. I suppose the nearest we come to it today is rows and rows of shining solar panels.

So Witney embraced the industrial revolution and became the blanket capital of the UK. It exported a lot of its woollen products too. At the time of a devastating earthquake in Sicily in the mid 20th century, the Witney mills worked round the clock to provide warm blankets for the poor, homeless victims in Italy. Then it all finished. On 19th July, 2002, the looms fell silent for the final time. A thousand years of wool making in the town came to an end and the industry that had dominated the economic and social life of the town was consigned to the waste-bin of history! The Witney wool industry had successfully survived many great changes and challenges, moving out of the cottage into the factory; changing from muscle power to water and steam power and finally electricity. Yet it met its match in the early 1970’s with the rise and rise of the humble duvet!

This soft, flat bag filled with down, feathers, wool, silk or synthetic alternatives is very effective in keeping us warm at night and has made bed making much simpler. The bag is place in a cover and then just placed on the bed. Its insulating properties are very effective in keeping us warm. Duvets have been around since Viking times. They were originally developed in northern Norway. The name comes from the French for “down” The down of the Eider duck is particularly effective. From the 16th century it was popular with wealthier people in the west. In the Hans Christian Anderson tale “The Princess and the Pea”, published in 1838, the royal lady lay down on 10 eider-down duvets!

Maybe ordinary British people avoided these “Continental Quilts” because they were strange and foreign. But eventually, in the later 20th century, the duvet overcame all resistance and the blanket was largely vanquished. Thus Witney’s wool industry is no longer a going concern. It now provides the raw materials for museums and heritage trails to amuse and interest tourists like myself. Having said that, just today, I was passing a bedding shop in my home town of Saltburn by the sea, on the North Yorkshire coast, and couldn’t help noticing a pack of pillows with the label: “Made in Witney”. So it seems that Witney has not quite vacated our bedrooms afterall. It has not totally  succumbed to its  seemingly all-conquering  foreign rival! And, considering its political connection with Mr Cameron, it is still the heartland of the “dyed in the wool Tory.” As a Labour supporter it pains me to acknowledge this, but I wouldn’t want to “pull the wool over your eyes” would I?

 

 

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