Day 3 – Juneau or not Juneau

Sep20 by thehistoryinterpreter

We still haven’t cracked the sleeping thing, so are up at 4.00am. There are allegedly a large number of hump-backed whales round the ship but all I glimpse is a few spurts of foam. We are heading north toward Juneau and the scenery is impressive. Unfortunately, so is the wind, which gusts at 55 knots. We make the mistake of ascending to the top deck and can barely stand up. Today was supposed to be the day of our extra special, incredibly expensive, float plane experience to see brown bears but the plane cannot take off so, disappointingly, the trip is cancelled. In addition, the wind meant that the ship couldn’t dock in Juneau until two hours later than scheduled. Whilst we were waiting, we spent a very pleasant time in the Windjammer restaurant on deck 11, sunning ourselves and chatting with friends.

018 9 September 2018 Mildenhall Glacier Finally, we are able to dock and the sun is shining on the righteous and on us too. Juneau was a gold rush town, founded in 1880 and is now the state capital. We are invited to join a mad genealogists’ excursion to the Mendenhall Glacier in a hired mini-bus. The first challenge is to cram all twelve of us inside. This involves trying to avoid being garrotted by the seat belt that is strung across the doorway. It is a short drive to the glacier near Nugget Falls. Despite the name, virtually no gold was taken from here and in the early part of the twentieth century, money was made from hydro-electric power, before the area turned to tourism. We learn a little of the local Tlingit people. It is very peaceful here, despite it being a tourist honey pot. Sadly, climate change is taking its toll and the glacier is retreating at an alarming rate. We see some bald-headed eagles on our journey but not in a spot suitable for photographing.

We have been encouraged to visit the Red Dog Saloon and this is something else. The atmosphere is dark and crowded and there is live country music being played. The floor is covered in four inches of sawdust and the ceiling in the flags of various ships. In between, the walls are decked in hunting trophies and graffiti. Chris has trouble finding any kind of beverage that the basque-clad waitress recognises. We settle for Sprite. Then it is back to the ship.

I succumb to the international dishes of the day and consume sweet and sour chicken. Afterwards, Michelle and Maurice entertain us with more on DNA.

#100daysofbfotc Day 43: Clovelly, Rat’s Castle

Sep20 by thehistoryinterpreter

DSCF0708 Rat’s Castle, a tiny two-roomed property near Clovelly Quay, makes a brief appearance in Barefoot on the Cobbles as it was Albert and Polly’s first marital home. This cottage was frequently allocated to Clovelly newly-weds, two rooms being all that they required. Tenancies were often short; as soon as the family began to arrive they would be moved on to a larger home. The origins of its name are unknown but presumably the cellars attracted rodents.

‘They had been granted the opportunity of renting the two-roomed cottage known as Rat’s Castle. This tiny dwelling near the quay was reserved for newly-weds and it had suited them well for the past year.’

Barefoot on the Cobbles will be published on 17 November 2018. More information about the novel can be found here. Copies will be available at various events in the weeks following the launch or can be pre-ordered from Blue Poppy Publishing or the author.

Day 2 – At Sea

Sep19 by thehistoryinterpreter

Towel Art

It is 3.50am. My body thinks it is time to get up, so I bow to the inevitable. Today is a conference day so we settle down to some excellent lectures. Firstly it is Maurice Gleeson on ‘Commemorating the Missing’. I have heard this before but this was a slightly different version and my particular interest is because it centres on a battle that has Barefoot on the Cobbles connections. Next, is Caroline Gurney with a very informative presentation, ‘Lost in London’, followed by Susan Brook speaking on the English Poor Law. Cyndi Ingle is as entertaining as usual, this time on ‘Being your own Digital Archivist’.

I am feeling the ship’s motion rather more than I was expecting and have a throat that resembles rough grade sandpaper, add to that the lack of sleep and I am wondering how my session on the impact of non-conformity will go. Go it did, although I didn’t really feel as if I was on fire with it. After a short break to chat, it was time for Helen Smith’s DNA talk and then back to deck 11 to encounter ‘washy washy’. Today she has added ‘happy happy’ to her exhortations. It is Mongolian day in the restaurant. I opt for that well known Mongolian dish – pizza. There has been heavy rain all day so we haven’t missed an opportunity to sun ourselves on deck.

In the evening, Mike Murray gave a hilarious DNA presentation. With a great ‘punch line’ when he revealed that the relatives that he had been talking about were in the audience.

#100daysofbfotc Day 42: Mr Ellis

Sep19 by thehistoryinterpreter

scan0002 Mr Ellis does not appear in Barefoot on the Cobbles in person but his shop is part of the Clovelly village streetscape. John Ellis was born in Peterborough in 1854 and began his working life as an apprentice to a printer and stationer. In his twenties he described himself as an artist but it seems that he could not make a living from this and later, he worked for a woollen drapery in the town. It is not known how he met his wife, Alice Jewell from Clovelly. It is likely that John joined other visiting artists who were attracted by Clovelly’s picturesque street. He and Alice settled in Clovelly after their marriage in 1900 and they had one son, Paul. Although he preferred to be out in the street painting, John Ellis ran a High Street shop, selling artists’ materials and photography equipment, amongst more general items. His son later took over the shop and became a well-known photographer, being responsible for many of the scenes depicted in north Devon postcards.

‘ ‘Ellis’ shop is just down there on the left,’ Daisy said, more confident now. No one could be angry at her politely giving directions to trippers. ‘Mr Ellis is a bit of an artist himself, I am sure he would have what you need.’ ’

Day 1 – On Board

Sep18 by thehistoryinterpreter

After four hours of broken sleep it seems it is morning. There is nowhere that we can get breakfast so we take the most expensive taxi ride of my life ($60) and head for the ferry terminal. The one meal of the day I find difficult to miss is breakfast, especially since, bar the one and a half packets of pretzels, it is already twenty four hours since we last ate. The only advantage to the lack of breakfast provision is that we can put the notional cost towards the taxi fare. According to the taxi driver, Seattle’s highlights seem to be that it is home to the international headquarters of Amazon, Microsoft and Starbucks.

Seattle

The Royal Caribbean check in process is remarkably smooth and we have already encountered some of our party. I am feeling decidedly light-headed due to the combination of lack of food and intermittent sleep, so we make straight for the 11th floor buffet. Giving that it is 10.45am, it is by no stretch of the imagination any sort of meal time, yet folk are tucking in to three courses as if their lives depended on it. For us this is both evening meal and breakfast but I doubt our fellow diners are so food deprived. We then spend a very pleasant couple of hours on the sunny deck and begin to feel slightly more human. Some cruisers are already on a mission to get the most possible value from their drinks package. Then it is time for conference check in and the chance to greet many old friends and make new ones. The joys of the mandatory emergency drill follow. A keen wind and a raucous poolside party, complete with very loud muzack, drive us to seek refuge somewhere where we can hear ourselves speak. There is a distinct lack of such places.

We are first in the queue when the informal dining room opens for evening business. There is a crew member sporting a stars and stripes covered cowboy hat. She is manically screaming ‘washy washy’ as she squirts all on sundry with hand sanitizer. It may be sleep deprivation but I am somewhat irritated by this. It is reminiscent of meals I have taken in school canteens. Point one, hand sanitizer brings me out in a nasty rash and point two, I am an adult and as such am perfectly capable of being responsible for my own personal hygiene, should I deem it necessary. The staff clap us into the restaurant, amidst fist bumps and high-fives. I have my grumpy old woman hat firmly in place; this is just weird. There is however a great selection of food from which to choose. Today’s culinary theme is ‘Tex-Mex’. I pass on the steak that still looks capable of meaningful life and opt for chilli.

In another example of weird nanny stateness, the carpet in the lift contains an insert that informs us of the day of the week. We are already finding our way round the ship and we join our fellow conference goers for Dick Eastman’s lecture on going paperless. By this time I am struggling to stay awake, so we call it a night.

#100daysofbfotc Day 41: Mrs Hamlyn

Sep18 by thehistoryinterpreter

Christine Hamlyn

Mrs Hamlyn is the owner of Clovelly at the time in which Barefoot on the Cobbles is set. She is there in the background, impacting upon the lives of those who live on the cobbles. She is both a generous benefactoress and an intimidating member of the upper class, with family connections amongst the social elite of the day.

Christine Louisa Hamlyn Fane was born in 1855, the daughter of Lt. Col. Henry Hamlyn Fane and his wife Susan. She inherited the Clovelly estate in 1884 and married Frederick Gosling five years later; they both took the surname Hamlyn. She was an iconic Lady of the Manor and was responsible for major renovations of the Clovelly cottages. Her annual Christmas gifts to her tenants are mentioned in the local press; haunches of venison were frequently given. It is said that, if she found rubbish on the cobbled street, she would push the offending item with her cane until it reached the nearest door. She would then open the door and tap the litter inside. When she died in 1936, the villagers mourned her passing. As she was childless, the estate passed to her niece Betty.

‘The diminutive figure of Mrs Hamlyn appeared, her ebony cane scratching on the gravel path as she led her guests towards the ivy-clad church.’

#100daysofbfotc Day 40: Bertie

Sep17 by thehistoryinterpreter

Taken by Jim Willis

Bertie’s presence in Barefoot in the Cobbles provides an opportunity to examine yet more facets of Albert and Polly’s brand of parenthood. Their second son, Bertie was born in 1900 and he spent much of his life in Clovelly, working on his father’s fishing boat. In today’s world, Bertie might have been labelled as having mild learning difficulties. A family story tells of how, as a schoolboy, he used to hold the donkeys and walk the unladen beasts up and down the street, when the visitors had finished their rides. Any silver coins he received as tips had to be handed to his parents but bronze and copper were his to keep. After the deaths of his parents, Bertie went to live with his sister Violet in Bideford. He died in 1969.

‘The doctor looked at Bertie appraisingly.

‘Hello young man,’ he said. ‘You look just the age for my Scout Patrol. Have you heard of the Boy Scouts? I am sure you would enjoy the jolly times we have. We are off to camp in a week or two. What do you think of that?’

Bertie looked desperately at his mother for guidance. How on earth should he respond to this gentleman? He might have been speaking a foreign language for all Bertie understood of the words.

‘Oh no, sir,’ exclaimed Polly in horror. ‘Not Bertie sir, he’s well…. He’s not the sort for being away from home, camps and the like, no, no, no it would never do for Bertie.’ ’

Day -1 Thursday 6 September 2018 – En Route

Sep16 by thehistoryinterpreter

Now I am have returned from the Internet Black Hole, I can continue to regale you with my holiday adventures.

After a bad night, even by my standards, we get up at 6am and leave for the airport early. Yes, true to form, that would be ridiculously early. I had tried, unsuccessfully, to check in online and I am just slightly panicking that our seats will be re-allocated elsewhere. All seems well however and we settle down for the three hour wait before boarding. By coincidence, our American distant relative, who we showed round her ancestral home on Monday, is on the same flight. Not only that but she is across the aisle from us. I spend the flight with a combination of Suduko and Bejewelled, reaching a never to be matched level 12 at my first attempt.

There is a two hour gap between the arrival of our flight in Washington and the scheduled time of our take off for Seattle. An hour of this is taken up in the queue for our passports to be checked. We rush along, concerned to make our ongoing connection, hindered by the random need to reclaim our baggage and check it on again. I so need not have worried. Our flight is delayed due to the lack of a pilot, a bit of a necessity I guess. It is delayed again. An additional problem is that the flight is full, which apparently means that there is insufficient room for everyone’s hand luggage in the lockers. Exhortations go out for selfless persons who might be willing to check in their carry-on luggage. I am unable to oblige. Not only is my bag insufficiently robust for baggage handling but it contains contraband such as batteries that are not allowed in the hold. The chap in the seat next to me is asleep. His body is gradually falling in my direction. Before long, he is leaning heavily on my shoulder. I begin to similarly lean under the pressure. We are in danger of becoming some kind of domino rally. I begin to gently push back. I look to my travelling companion for inspiration; none is forthcoming. Just as my neighbour’s head is about to descend to the level of my lap, he wakes and walks off as if nothing has happened.

Two hours late and eighteen hours after we got up this morning, we get on the plane. Twenty minutes later we are told we can get off again if we wish as there is more delay. We choose not to, as the plane seats are marginally more comfortable than those in the terminal. Inevitably, when the call goes out to reboard, some of our passengers have gone awol. We finally take off over four hours late. This is budget airlines at their depths. There is no entertainment, no pillows, the seats do not recline and there is no food. To pass the time, we are supposed to have downloaded an app to our personal device. As an alternative, we can join the queue for one of only two toilets. Even Chris, who can sleep on the proverbial washing line, is having difficulty dozing off, despite our lack of sleep. As recompense for the delay, we are given a can of Sprite and the tiniest bag of pretzels you’ve ever seen. I am not a fan of pretzels but they are at least food. Chris is even less of a fan, so I get half his pack (about three pretzels) as well. I know I need to go on a diet but I was planning to wait until after the holiday. Our resolution that this will be our last flight outside Europe is strengthened.

DSCF0717 I am not sure if I should be writing this as today or tomorrow, as it was definitely tomorrow before we arrived at America’s Best Airport Inn. All I can say is, I don’t want to see the worst. I later discover that its full title is America’s Best Value Airport Inn – well it was cheap. There is however a bed, which is our prime concern. Food and drink are clearly a luxury that we will have to forgo. The walls and ceiling of our room make good quality paper seem thick. The person in the room above creakingly paces the floor at regular intervals all through what is left of the night. The tap in the bathroom won’t turn off, so water torture is added to the measures designed to sleep deprive us still further. It will have to be an exceptional cruise to make all this worthwhile.

#100daysofbfotc Day 39: King’s Cottage, Bucks Mills

Sep16 by thehistoryinterpreter

King's Cottage coloured postcard

King’s Cottage, Bucks Mills is the home of Albert and Eadie’s grandparents. We get a glimpse inside in the first chapter of Barefoot on the Cobbles.

On 27 January 1845, Reverend John Thomas Pine Coffin, the landowner, had entered into an agreement with Albert’s grandfather, James, giving him permission to build ‘a house over the watercourse at the machine platform at Buckish, Parkham’. This land was adjacent to James’ father’s home. The new house was to become King’s Cottage and the rent was one shilling a year. By the time we open the front door of King’s Cottage in the novel, the family have lived there for forty five years. They were to remain there for a further twenty years. It was a substantial cottage, with a view over the bay and unique plumbing arrangements, which are mentioned in the book. King’s Cottage was described in the North Devon Journal in 1855, the house ‘at the lower extremity of Bucks, on a towering height above the beach, is a real curiosity. The rivulet that comes down between the hills, by and under part of his eagle’s nest premises, discharges itself in a cataract on the beach where it flows into the Atlantic.’

After the family left, it was tenanted by a relative of Clementine Churchill.

‘Even the gate was exciting, having, as it did, a ship’s wheel at the centre. Eadie’s small fingers would proudly trace the name that was engraved in the wooden frame: King’s Cottage. She smiled; her granfer was a king.’

More information about Bucks Mills can be found here.

#100daysofbfotc Day 38: Oscar Abbott

Sep15 by thehistoryinterpreter

Oscar and his sister Emily

Oscar Abbott appears only fleetingly in Barefoot on the Cobbles yet he was a well known person in the Clovelly fishing community. Born in the village in 1887, son of Sydney and Mary Elizabeth Abbott nee Burnard Oscar grew up in Chapel Street. He married Mary Moss in 1917 and they had seven children, six of them within the first seven years of marriage. As a fisherman, Oscar had a reserved occupation during the First World War, as he was providing essential food. The Abbotts later moved to 12 High Street, Clovelly and Oscar served as a special constable in World War 2. He died in 1976.

‘With the keen sight and instinct of a fisherman, Oscar was the first to spot the speck on the lurching waves.

‘Oh, God,’ he groaned, the rare blasphemy a sign of his anguish. ‘’Tis the Annie Salome.’ ’

The History Interpreter – Janet Few

Presenting and Preserving the Past

Author Archives: thehistoryinterpreter