:
Thursday 27 November 2008
Images of Highley and Hampton Loade from Tony Gunn
Here are five images taken recently by Tony Gunn on a visit to Highley and Hampton Loade. Can you spot the poet?
Sunday 23 November 2008
Richard Foley and the River Stour by Peter Hodges
"Why do you not rid yourself of this river?"
The man was on the opposite bank staring into the idle muddy waters. "You have the means," he said. "It floods. It is spoiled so why be troubled with it?"
I wasn't sure about the question. Come to think of it, I wasn't sure of very much then. Except the can of beer in my hand, my usual tipple, Banks Bitter, and it was cool and comforting. I said, "You know the river well."
"Of course," came the reply. "You know that I do, John." Beneath the trees his face was dark. Yet the face was not unfamiliar to me, I had seen it many times. So many that it seemed in some strange way, connected to me. He was a figure from the past. Or so I think. I cannot even now be sure. Strange yet not a stranger. I wonder if I might have imagined… but no, he was there, clear as day, and it was a bright Summer's day. A figure on the opposite bank, short and broad, but powerful, shoulders that stretched the leather jerkin he wore, breeches tight across the thighs, boots that buckled up to the knees. A figure that, for all it was archaic, could have been part of my mind rather than there on the banks of the River Stour in Staffordshire. Was it real? Was I really imagining or dreaming?
"D'yer hear me, John," he called out.
"Yes, of course…" My fidgeting fingers set the condensation running down the can of beer. A balmy afternoon, and I was strolling through the Hyde along the canal towpath at Kinver where the two - river and canal - wind the valley together. Suddenly he was there talking to me as if we had spoken only yesterday or the week before, or an hour past.
"Well, why don't you?" he said.
"Do what?"
"I speak of the river, John. Did you not hear me? I said why don't you be rid of it. What purpose does it serve? You can do most else it seems. Everything once dreamed of in my day you seem to have mastered well enough. What is that you are drinking?"
"Beer," I said.
"Even beer in your hand."
He looked down again at the muddy waters between us. He seemed fixated there. Silvery long hair fell across his face, straggled over his collar. "Do you remember my name?" he asked.
"Why shouldn't I?" I replied.
"Indulge me, John. I like to hear my name."
"Richard Foley," I said.
"That is good. Very good. Richard Foley, Ironmaster of these parts during the reign of the Jacobean. Not that I'm a Royalist you understand. Not a particular one like those who came after. I sold my goods to whomsoever had the means to pay. Here, on this river, I made my money. Here I was master of iron. This was my place." At this he suddenly launched himself over the river in one great bound, splashing down just beneath me to scramble up the bank, scattering earth and stones, to arrive red-faced and glorious, right in front of me.
I jumped back. "You shouldn't have done that. The river's been deepened since your day. You could have been drowned."
"Hah…" he shot back. "Drowned. Not in my river. Here was where I came upon my future, not my end. This river. This valley. This place." He turned and spread his arms wide as if to embrace all before him. But his arms sank. "And to see it now. Wilderness. A waste. The river serves no purpose now. It floods. I know, I have seen it in spate. It is unmanaged. The banks fail. You should be rid of it, I say."
We both gazed at it, slow moving and gentle. I said. "Tell me why we should be rid of it?"
"Because you have the means. You are the masters now. Remind me, what is the year?"
"What year?"
"Now, now… in God's name, remind me, what is the century you live in?"
"The twenty-first."
"In less than four hundred years this place is become Wilderness. Where once it prospered, roared with the noise of iron, furnaces raged, rush of water. Good water that powered my great slitting mill. Cutting iron to make nails to build houses and ships. Here, on this river. Before the canal, before your roads and… what is it you call those carriages that speed along your roads?"
"Cars," I replied.
"Before all of that was my mill. And now…" his voice drifted. "Now there is nothing."
"Oh but there is," I said.
"What, trees and weed? Tumble of walls and broken weirs?"
"There is wildlife."
He stared at me. "Wildlife? What is wildlife?"
"Animals, flowers, that sort of thing. Fish in the river. Frogs. All that sort of thing."
"That sort of thing." He snorted. "Really John, this talk of wilderness. What value is there in that? Flowers grow in gardens. Animals in farms. And frogs…" he was shaking his head. "But power… that is what this river made. I built gates and weirs to make power for my mill. To let boats bring the iron and coal. Carry away my goods. This river added value. Now it is nothing. You should fill your cars with it and carry it away to the sea."
I smiled to myself. "How many times have you returned to see it?"
At this he thought a moment. "I have lost count."
I too had lost count. How many times had I met with this figure from the past? Yes, I wondered too. "You saw it at its best," I said.
"It was best when I was master here."
"What of those who followed?"
"No one did."
"Oh come on…"
"No one, I say."
"Dud Dudley. Abraham Darby. What of those?"
"Hah… he of the iron bridge. One bridge? Tell me what value is that? As for the charlatan Dudley, what of him?"
At this I grew bolder, the little research I had done since we last talked made me so. "Dud Dudley said you never existed. That you were a fiction put about by later Foleys, and that it was many men working in this valley."
"Hah. And what else did the rascal say?"
"He called you Fiddler Foley."
"Fiddler! Aye, I mastered the fiddle. I played many a pretty tune. Men danced to me. Many men with need of a Master. I, Richard Foley of this place, was that Master, and let no one speak the contrary."
We were interrupted by two cyclists coming along the towpath, two girls, and on seeing me they stopped.
"Hi, John," said the first. "You enjoying the weather too? Meet my friend Sally."
"Hello Sally."
"John's writing a book about a fella who used to live down here by the river. What was he?"
"An ironmaster," I said.
We chatted for a while. As we did so he was studying them. They were, it seemed, unaware of him. And very close, close enough for him to study them in their skimpy tops and short shorts. But they were quite unaware. As if he were not there.
As he watched them cycle off he said, "You let your women display themselves on machines like that. Confident and proud for all the world to see. But the power they possess." He turned to me again. "You as well, John. You possess this power. You too have young health and well-being. How old are you? Five and twenty? With prospects, no doubt? One who writes did I hear?"
I shrugged and didn't answer not wishing to disillusion him: I was nearer twice that age and out of work.
"Prospects, John. Like the giants of those times. I have met all the men of substance and prospects. Watt, the man of steam. The builder of this canal, James Brindley. Now there was a man of prospects, a fellow who could see the future. What genius he had. Who would have thought possible the building of a road… yes, a road of water to carry goods the length and breadth of the land. What genius. And those who came later… that fellow Stevenson. Later still, Brunell. I met them all, John."
I let him talk on. I did not want this to end. It was as if I had been put here to meet this man and, real or imaginary, made no difference. He was talking of the most famous and now he was talking to me. Yet did he see me as a man of prospects? Of substance? One who knew this place, this river? An ordinary fellow without work, no giant or genius. I reached into the bag and brought out the last two cans of the four-pack.
"Would you care for a beer?" I said.
"Now that is civil of you, John. Beer, you say?"
I cracked open the can for him.
"Hmmm…" there came a licking of lips. "It is good, if sharp." He raised the can higher. "Sharp on the tongue but good."
"Here's to prospects," I said.
"And to genius."
I tried to imagine the place as he knew it. The noise and smoke, the turmoil of industry as men wrestled iron to create wealth. How different now. Not to me but to him. Richard Foley, ironmaster, born 1580, died 1657, standing next to me and drinking my beer. He drained the can and tossed it into the river.
"You shouldn't do that," I said. "There are receptacles for rubbish."
"What better receptacle than a river of no worth," he answered. "Come, John, I will show you the river as it was. "Come, follow me," and much to my dismay, he was down the bank again and in another great leap had returned to the other side.
"I can't do that," I called after him.
"Why? Are you afraid of the river?"
"I will cross at the bridge."
It was only a hundred yards. I broke into a run to return along the opposite bank pushing through brambles and low branches. He was waiting, hands thrust onto hips, and grinning. "You should get one of your cars, John." I hadn't the chance to explain the difficulties associated with cars and fields and river banks because he had grabbed my arm and was running. Together we flew along the bank. Branches snatched at me. I see it now… so clearly… then suddenly I'm falling… the ground flying by my face. My mouth opens to shout but nothing comes. Noise fills my head. I hear a wild clamour all around me. Then I'm standing. And he is with me, leading me further, the noise is intense. Now I see the river, angry, writhing, and we're approaching a huge turning wheel. I pull back in alarm and the grip on my arm slackens.
"My wheel, John. My river. See, harnessed to my wheel. The river is tamed."
But I was too bewildered to speak. The noise was not of water or the wheel, which was angry enough, but what went on behind. The shriek of tearing red hot metal. A plate of it, feet wide, was driven between a rolling cutter that sliced through it like butter to send strips of it clattering to the floor where half naked men rushed to them gather up. If it were not the din it was the heat that made me turn away. Thankfully we left that place. He said, "You tremble, John. What is there to be afraid of? There shall be no fear where I am Master. No honest man who does his work need have fear of me. Aye, nor woman."
We had reached a track, the noise and heat was behind and I dared to pause and look back. Now I could gauge the site. Through the smoke I could make out the river. At one end was a vast pool held by a dam. From the side of the dam hurtled the water that drove the wheel. At the bottom of the wheel, spent and done with, it slid away forgotten into the valley. For some time I stared at that scene.
"John." It was he calling to me. He had gone on a little, the track was wider, it met another, and I saw gates and a driveway. The gates were open and he was standing there, right there, hands on hips. This was where his mansion was, I knew. Two men on the other track passed between us, both turned to him and touched their foreheads. "John," he called to me again. "I have more to show you. Come."
But I held back. "Let me gather my breath."
"You are tired?"
"Bewildered, overwhelmed," I said. "I should return…" I felt my voice begin to fail. He walked down to me, took my arm.
"I am not holding you. But first I, Richard Foley, will show you how real is all this. Come, if you will. Please me."
Reluctant as I was there was nothing I could do. We walked the drive. The mansion came into view. A newly built place, half-timbering still fresh and pale, young trees planted to create landscape, freshly planted gardens. The scene was so tranquil after what had gone before I blinked my eyes to clear them. I leaned against him. He was speaking but I had difficulty making sense any longer. I saw - or imagined - two ladies sitting in the gardens taking tea, and he was saying who they were…
I awoke in the arms of the girl cyclist.
"John, you okay? Did you fall? You gave us a fright finding you like this. Sally is getting your bag from the other side. Whatever brought you over there?"
I suppose it must have been a good minute before I spoke. I could feel her arm shaking. "I'm sorry I scared you," I heard myself say. "Yes, I am, very sorry." But I was desperately tried to recall all that had taken place. Each and every second of it, detail by detail, and as it came back to me I knew that however sure I may be, I could never explain or convince anyone else. I looked up at the girl's face and smiled. "Sally shouldn't have bothered about my bag. It was an old one."
"Well, we don't like leaving litter around, do we?"
Sally appeared. "I got it," she said quite out of breath. "You okay now?"
"I was dreaming," I said.
"Dreaming…"
"Yes. About Richard Foley."
"Who?" they chorused.
"A man I met."
"Oh," said the first letting go of me. Sally went over to pick up her bike. I thought it time I got up.
"Hot, isn't it?" I said. "The sun, I mean."
"You should wear a hat. We always wear our hats in the sun, don't we Sal?"
They cycled off and I glanced down the bank at the quietly wending river but he wasn't there. He was around though, I knew.
The man was on the opposite bank staring into the idle muddy waters. "You have the means," he said. "It floods. It is spoiled so why be troubled with it?"
I wasn't sure about the question. Come to think of it, I wasn't sure of very much then. Except the can of beer in my hand, my usual tipple, Banks Bitter, and it was cool and comforting. I said, "You know the river well."
"Of course," came the reply. "You know that I do, John." Beneath the trees his face was dark. Yet the face was not unfamiliar to me, I had seen it many times. So many that it seemed in some strange way, connected to me. He was a figure from the past. Or so I think. I cannot even now be sure. Strange yet not a stranger. I wonder if I might have imagined… but no, he was there, clear as day, and it was a bright Summer's day. A figure on the opposite bank, short and broad, but powerful, shoulders that stretched the leather jerkin he wore, breeches tight across the thighs, boots that buckled up to the knees. A figure that, for all it was archaic, could have been part of my mind rather than there on the banks of the River Stour in Staffordshire. Was it real? Was I really imagining or dreaming?
"D'yer hear me, John," he called out.
"Yes, of course…" My fidgeting fingers set the condensation running down the can of beer. A balmy afternoon, and I was strolling through the Hyde along the canal towpath at Kinver where the two - river and canal - wind the valley together. Suddenly he was there talking to me as if we had spoken only yesterday or the week before, or an hour past.
"Well, why don't you?" he said.
"Do what?"
"I speak of the river, John. Did you not hear me? I said why don't you be rid of it. What purpose does it serve? You can do most else it seems. Everything once dreamed of in my day you seem to have mastered well enough. What is that you are drinking?"
"Beer," I said.
"Even beer in your hand."
He looked down again at the muddy waters between us. He seemed fixated there. Silvery long hair fell across his face, straggled over his collar. "Do you remember my name?" he asked.
"Why shouldn't I?" I replied.
"Indulge me, John. I like to hear my name."
"Richard Foley," I said.
"That is good. Very good. Richard Foley, Ironmaster of these parts during the reign of the Jacobean. Not that I'm a Royalist you understand. Not a particular one like those who came after. I sold my goods to whomsoever had the means to pay. Here, on this river, I made my money. Here I was master of iron. This was my place." At this he suddenly launched himself over the river in one great bound, splashing down just beneath me to scramble up the bank, scattering earth and stones, to arrive red-faced and glorious, right in front of me.
I jumped back. "You shouldn't have done that. The river's been deepened since your day. You could have been drowned."
"Hah…" he shot back. "Drowned. Not in my river. Here was where I came upon my future, not my end. This river. This valley. This place." He turned and spread his arms wide as if to embrace all before him. But his arms sank. "And to see it now. Wilderness. A waste. The river serves no purpose now. It floods. I know, I have seen it in spate. It is unmanaged. The banks fail. You should be rid of it, I say."
We both gazed at it, slow moving and gentle. I said. "Tell me why we should be rid of it?"
"Because you have the means. You are the masters now. Remind me, what is the year?"
"What year?"
"Now, now… in God's name, remind me, what is the century you live in?"
"The twenty-first."
"In less than four hundred years this place is become Wilderness. Where once it prospered, roared with the noise of iron, furnaces raged, rush of water. Good water that powered my great slitting mill. Cutting iron to make nails to build houses and ships. Here, on this river. Before the canal, before your roads and… what is it you call those carriages that speed along your roads?"
"Cars," I replied.
"Before all of that was my mill. And now…" his voice drifted. "Now there is nothing."
"Oh but there is," I said.
"What, trees and weed? Tumble of walls and broken weirs?"
"There is wildlife."
He stared at me. "Wildlife? What is wildlife?"
"Animals, flowers, that sort of thing. Fish in the river. Frogs. All that sort of thing."
"That sort of thing." He snorted. "Really John, this talk of wilderness. What value is there in that? Flowers grow in gardens. Animals in farms. And frogs…" he was shaking his head. "But power… that is what this river made. I built gates and weirs to make power for my mill. To let boats bring the iron and coal. Carry away my goods. This river added value. Now it is nothing. You should fill your cars with it and carry it away to the sea."
I smiled to myself. "How many times have you returned to see it?"
At this he thought a moment. "I have lost count."
I too had lost count. How many times had I met with this figure from the past? Yes, I wondered too. "You saw it at its best," I said.
"It was best when I was master here."
"What of those who followed?"
"No one did."
"Oh come on…"
"No one, I say."
"Dud Dudley. Abraham Darby. What of those?"
"Hah… he of the iron bridge. One bridge? Tell me what value is that? As for the charlatan Dudley, what of him?"
At this I grew bolder, the little research I had done since we last talked made me so. "Dud Dudley said you never existed. That you were a fiction put about by later Foleys, and that it was many men working in this valley."
"Hah. And what else did the rascal say?"
"He called you Fiddler Foley."
"Fiddler! Aye, I mastered the fiddle. I played many a pretty tune. Men danced to me. Many men with need of a Master. I, Richard Foley of this place, was that Master, and let no one speak the contrary."
We were interrupted by two cyclists coming along the towpath, two girls, and on seeing me they stopped.
"Hi, John," said the first. "You enjoying the weather too? Meet my friend Sally."
"Hello Sally."
"John's writing a book about a fella who used to live down here by the river. What was he?"
"An ironmaster," I said.
We chatted for a while. As we did so he was studying them. They were, it seemed, unaware of him. And very close, close enough for him to study them in their skimpy tops and short shorts. But they were quite unaware. As if he were not there.
As he watched them cycle off he said, "You let your women display themselves on machines like that. Confident and proud for all the world to see. But the power they possess." He turned to me again. "You as well, John. You possess this power. You too have young health and well-being. How old are you? Five and twenty? With prospects, no doubt? One who writes did I hear?"
I shrugged and didn't answer not wishing to disillusion him: I was nearer twice that age and out of work.
"Prospects, John. Like the giants of those times. I have met all the men of substance and prospects. Watt, the man of steam. The builder of this canal, James Brindley. Now there was a man of prospects, a fellow who could see the future. What genius he had. Who would have thought possible the building of a road… yes, a road of water to carry goods the length and breadth of the land. What genius. And those who came later… that fellow Stevenson. Later still, Brunell. I met them all, John."
I let him talk on. I did not want this to end. It was as if I had been put here to meet this man and, real or imaginary, made no difference. He was talking of the most famous and now he was talking to me. Yet did he see me as a man of prospects? Of substance? One who knew this place, this river? An ordinary fellow without work, no giant or genius. I reached into the bag and brought out the last two cans of the four-pack.
"Would you care for a beer?" I said.
"Now that is civil of you, John. Beer, you say?"
I cracked open the can for him.
"Hmmm…" there came a licking of lips. "It is good, if sharp." He raised the can higher. "Sharp on the tongue but good."
"Here's to prospects," I said.
"And to genius."
I tried to imagine the place as he knew it. The noise and smoke, the turmoil of industry as men wrestled iron to create wealth. How different now. Not to me but to him. Richard Foley, ironmaster, born 1580, died 1657, standing next to me and drinking my beer. He drained the can and tossed it into the river.
"You shouldn't do that," I said. "There are receptacles for rubbish."
"What better receptacle than a river of no worth," he answered. "Come, John, I will show you the river as it was. "Come, follow me," and much to my dismay, he was down the bank again and in another great leap had returned to the other side.
"I can't do that," I called after him.
"Why? Are you afraid of the river?"
"I will cross at the bridge."
It was only a hundred yards. I broke into a run to return along the opposite bank pushing through brambles and low branches. He was waiting, hands thrust onto hips, and grinning. "You should get one of your cars, John." I hadn't the chance to explain the difficulties associated with cars and fields and river banks because he had grabbed my arm and was running. Together we flew along the bank. Branches snatched at me. I see it now… so clearly… then suddenly I'm falling… the ground flying by my face. My mouth opens to shout but nothing comes. Noise fills my head. I hear a wild clamour all around me. Then I'm standing. And he is with me, leading me further, the noise is intense. Now I see the river, angry, writhing, and we're approaching a huge turning wheel. I pull back in alarm and the grip on my arm slackens.
"My wheel, John. My river. See, harnessed to my wheel. The river is tamed."
But I was too bewildered to speak. The noise was not of water or the wheel, which was angry enough, but what went on behind. The shriek of tearing red hot metal. A plate of it, feet wide, was driven between a rolling cutter that sliced through it like butter to send strips of it clattering to the floor where half naked men rushed to them gather up. If it were not the din it was the heat that made me turn away. Thankfully we left that place. He said, "You tremble, John. What is there to be afraid of? There shall be no fear where I am Master. No honest man who does his work need have fear of me. Aye, nor woman."
We had reached a track, the noise and heat was behind and I dared to pause and look back. Now I could gauge the site. Through the smoke I could make out the river. At one end was a vast pool held by a dam. From the side of the dam hurtled the water that drove the wheel. At the bottom of the wheel, spent and done with, it slid away forgotten into the valley. For some time I stared at that scene.
"John." It was he calling to me. He had gone on a little, the track was wider, it met another, and I saw gates and a driveway. The gates were open and he was standing there, right there, hands on hips. This was where his mansion was, I knew. Two men on the other track passed between us, both turned to him and touched their foreheads. "John," he called to me again. "I have more to show you. Come."
But I held back. "Let me gather my breath."
"You are tired?"
"Bewildered, overwhelmed," I said. "I should return…" I felt my voice begin to fail. He walked down to me, took my arm.
"I am not holding you. But first I, Richard Foley, will show you how real is all this. Come, if you will. Please me."
Reluctant as I was there was nothing I could do. We walked the drive. The mansion came into view. A newly built place, half-timbering still fresh and pale, young trees planted to create landscape, freshly planted gardens. The scene was so tranquil after what had gone before I blinked my eyes to clear them. I leaned against him. He was speaking but I had difficulty making sense any longer. I saw - or imagined - two ladies sitting in the gardens taking tea, and he was saying who they were…
I awoke in the arms of the girl cyclist.
"John, you okay? Did you fall? You gave us a fright finding you like this. Sally is getting your bag from the other side. Whatever brought you over there?"
I suppose it must have been a good minute before I spoke. I could feel her arm shaking. "I'm sorry I scared you," I heard myself say. "Yes, I am, very sorry." But I was desperately tried to recall all that had taken place. Each and every second of it, detail by detail, and as it came back to me I knew that however sure I may be, I could never explain or convince anyone else. I looked up at the girl's face and smiled. "Sally shouldn't have bothered about my bag. It was an old one."
"Well, we don't like leaving litter around, do we?"
Sally appeared. "I got it," she said quite out of breath. "You okay now?"
"I was dreaming," I said.
"Dreaming…"
"Yes. About Richard Foley."
"Who?" they chorused.
"A man I met."
"Oh," said the first letting go of me. Sally went over to pick up her bike. I thought it time I got up.
"Hot, isn't it?" I said. "The sun, I mean."
"You should wear a hat. We always wear our hats in the sun, don't we Sal?"
They cycled off and I glanced down the bank at the quietly wending river but he wasn't there. He was around though, I knew.
Sabrina - Goddess of The Severn, Could Lead a Man to Hell or Heaven, A Play by Geoff Speechly
MUSIC
Narrator
In times gone by the Romans came
To Sunny Shropshire: such their fame
That when they besieged an English Town
Such as Round Acton as then 'twas known
They would attack by trebuchet,
(We'd call it catapult today)
And if the place held out far too long
And food would go right off and pong
They'd fling dead horses o'er the wall
To make things worse - and the town would fall
Today the Squire obeys tradition
And uses pigs as ammunition
We'll tell this tale to you astound
So enjoy the myth of Acton Round
I must confess that Bridgnorth too
Partakes in our historic view
We weave our cloth from these two places
Our Muse's unlikely belt and braces…
Sabrina, Goddess of the Severn,
Could lead a man to hell or heaven
But if she loved him, though she'd cry
That mortal man was doomed to die.
I - The Roman
Narrator
The Romans came, with sword and law
And taught crude Britons soon the score
They worshipped gods like Zeus - and meaner
But at Bridgnorth they found - Sabrina !
MUSIC
Legionnaire
We must have marched a thousand leagues
To conquer this benighted spot
What would I give for a cup of wine
Or a lusty wench that's really hot !
Sabrina
A goodly sight, this Roman chap
I'll see if I can catch his eye
And if the audience doesn't clap
I'll grab him, love him - and he'll die !
Legionnaire
O Bacchus ! What a wondrous sight !
Is it a wench or a dream I see ?
Sabrina
O, I'm a maid, I'll prove this night
Come Roman man :I'll set you free !
SHE KISSES HIM AND HE DIES - IN FUTURE RECORDED AS K & D
II - The Saxon
Narrator
The Saxons came in time of yore
And plundered us from shore to shore
And they were pretty rough ; none meaner
There's not a doubt they met Sabrina….
MUSIC
Saxon
What have we here ? Another town.
For sacking and for pulling down
We'll burn the place and kill the men
Destroy the cock but keep the hen!
Sabrina
O rude uncultured Saxon beast
I'll see you soon regret this feast
For Bridgnorth maids and Bridgnorth men
Sabrina's spell will work again
Saxon
Great balls of fire ! A hefty wench
This dish I'll taste without a wrench
Come lass, let's frolick in the hay
You'll not forget this joyful day !
Sabrina
I'll frolick, friend, but you're the one
Who nevermore will see the sun
K & D
III - The Dane
Narrator
In former times, despite the rain
Our city fair was taxed by Dane
And though their habits were much cleaner
We know for sure they met Sabrina
MUSIC
Dane
Now what's this place ? They call it Quatt !
The name's a mess, I like it not
Our taxmen now will sally forth
Across the bridge to south and north
Sabrina
This fellow's dull compared to Saxon
He calls himself a Danish Taxman
Ah, well, though I won't be hasty
Let's tempt him with an English pastry!
Dane
O Woden ! What is this I see?
A vision yet untaxed by me !
I'll take her measure, scribe her rune
Sabrina
You're right, my Dane, come take my boon !
K & D
IV - The Norman
Narrator
In elevenhundredand twenty-two
Which Acton Rounders e'er will rue
The Normans came and built their keep
And tried to turn us all to sheep
MUSIC
Norman
We brought our culture to this land
Rude English habits we have banned
Now Lords and Ladies served by serf
Can all enjoy our Norman earth
Sabrina
These Norman gangsters must be humbled
Methinks his tongue of "ladies" stumbled
Let's see if ancient English lore
Tonight our honour can restore…
Norman
Mon Dieu! Quelle beauty do I see
Ma chėre, what luck you've met with me !
Sabrina
Indeed your fortune's doubly blessed
Now I'm the host and you're the guest!
K & D
V - The Welshman
Narrator
O'er centuries in mist enveiled
The Marches dripped with blood; impaled
On Welsh ambition our English town
Became a field of battle and renown
MUSIC AND LEEK
Welshman
By Cardiff, Anglesey or Rhyll
Never before did my heart thrill
To see so soft an English village
Ripe-ready for Welsh guile and pillage
Sabrina
The cheeky Celt! How dare he gloat
Before he's even crossed my moat
I'll tease him, be so coy and meek
And then I'll parboil up his leek !
Welshman
By Llanfairfechan and Glendower
I've never seen so fine a flower
Come, English Maid, and be my love
I think you're sent from heaven above
Sabrina
Oh yes, my little laverbread
One kiss - and then you'll find you're dead !
K & D
VI- The Roundheads
Narrator
In sixteenhundredandfortysix
In Parliament, by knavish tricks
Our sovereign lord quite lost his head
And Cromwell took his place instead
MUSIC
Roundhead
These Royalist dogs and their cold bitches
With Papist plots, warlocks and witches
Shall now the power of Cromwell feel
With Roundhead flesh and Roundhead steel
Sabrina
This fellow's pretty hot, he thinks
He'll get no favours from this minx
Or rather if he dares to touch
He'll burn from fingernail to crutch
Roundhead
Come lass, forget your bonnie Charlie
Now with a real man you'll parley
Sabrina
O Soldier brave, you little know
Just quite how far this wench will go
K & D
VII - The Cavaliers
Narrator
In course of time, the good Lord willed
That Ironsides' ardour should be chilled
So Cavaliers now roamed the land
And freedom reigned, naught more was banned.
MUSIC
Cavalier
By Royal command I've ridden far
Please show me to the nearest bar,
I'm thirsty and uncommon dusty
Just find for me a girl that's lusty !
Sabrina
Whether their heads are round or Royal
There's but one thing that makes them boil
I'll not object to a little loan
But me they'll never call their own
Cavalier
Fair lady! Let me but now thy praises sing
And I will grant thee everything
I'll bring you lutes and daffodils
If you would only cure my ills
Sabrina
Such honey'd words his lips have passed
'Tis such a pity they're his last !
K & D - VERY LONG !- I SIGH AND "'ave you done ?"
VIII - The Irish
Narrator
In eighteenhundredand sixtytwo
The Railway came, the town pierced through
And snorting trains with fiery funnel
Rushed proudly through the newbuilt tunnel
MUSIC
Irishman
My name is O'Malley and I came to dig
Not to roister or rampage: although the jig
Which I dance on a Saturday night is fine
When I ravish their women and drink up their wine
Sabrina
Here's importunate Dublin and confident Cork
And sometimes there's action as well as the talk
But they'd better take care if they tangle with me
I'll not be seduced by a riddle-me-ree
Irishman
Oh look at the beauty of this Bridgnorth maid
The glory and ecstasy of how she is made!
My dear English darling, my heart's at your feet
I crave but a kiss, like the soup before meat!
Sabrina
A kiss you shall have, but hungry you'll be
For no more will you taste the sweet joys of Tralee
K &D
IX- The Airman
Narrator
In nineteenhundredand forty two
At Stanmore trained the boys in blue
They came from every land and nation
And Bridgnorth was their comfort station
MUSIC
The Airman
Saturday night, a forty-eight
Don't miss the bus or we'll be late
The pubs are open, the girls are willing
I'm glad I took the Sovereign's shilling.
Sabrina
They may be rough at times I know
But when to war the lads must go,
They do deserve a little fun
Before they face the horrid Hun.
The Airman
Good heavens! Miss, you're quite the best!
You're even better than Mae West!
Sabrina
Farewell, my friend, away you fly
Not from my lips will I send you die
I must be getting sentimental
I though he was, though rough, quite gentle
WAVES AIRMAN AWAY
X-The Tatung
Narrator
From cleverness born in the East
In Low Town grew a powerful beast
Where once the peasants listless hung
To Bridgnorth came- and later went - Tatung
MUSIC
Enter Tatung - singing/humming to Walkman;
Narrator - TURN OFF THAT
FIENDISH WALKMAN !
Tatung
This occidental place is strange
They do not know our latest range
And if a salaryman feels randy
All he can do is dream with brandy
Sabrina
It's sad our friends from the Pacific
Now have gone - but it’s terrific
That they're not really far abroad
But ten miles north to great Telford
EXIT TATUNG WITH ORIENTAL BOW
XI-The Tourist
Narrator
In nineteen hundredandeightyfive
Bridgnorth really came alive
Divorced from juggernaut and truck
Relying on part skill, part luck
The Bypassmen did pass us by
And tourists now to us do fly
MUSIC
The Tourist
I am the Tourist, last of all
Now to Sabrina's wiles I'll fall
Will she accept me ? What must I give ?
Can I but love her, and still live ?
Sabrina
Yes sir, you can; the others' mistake
Was never to give but only to take
So welcome, Stranger, come to my arms
And I will enfold you in my charms.
THEY KISS………ETC ETC ETC ETC…………………………….…
MUSIC
ALL 3
So friends, you've heard our wondrous story
This land is part of England's glory
So join with us this lovely day
And shout aloud Hurray - Hurray !
(c) Geoff Speechly, Nov 2008
Narrator
In times gone by the Romans came
To Sunny Shropshire: such their fame
That when they besieged an English Town
Such as Round Acton as then 'twas known
They would attack by trebuchet,
(We'd call it catapult today)
And if the place held out far too long
And food would go right off and pong
They'd fling dead horses o'er the wall
To make things worse - and the town would fall
Today the Squire obeys tradition
And uses pigs as ammunition
We'll tell this tale to you astound
So enjoy the myth of Acton Round
I must confess that Bridgnorth too
Partakes in our historic view
We weave our cloth from these two places
Our Muse's unlikely belt and braces…
Sabrina, Goddess of the Severn,
Could lead a man to hell or heaven
But if she loved him, though she'd cry
That mortal man was doomed to die.
I - The Roman
Narrator
The Romans came, with sword and law
And taught crude Britons soon the score
They worshipped gods like Zeus - and meaner
But at Bridgnorth they found - Sabrina !
MUSIC
Legionnaire
We must have marched a thousand leagues
To conquer this benighted spot
What would I give for a cup of wine
Or a lusty wench that's really hot !
Sabrina
A goodly sight, this Roman chap
I'll see if I can catch his eye
And if the audience doesn't clap
I'll grab him, love him - and he'll die !
Legionnaire
O Bacchus ! What a wondrous sight !
Is it a wench or a dream I see ?
Sabrina
O, I'm a maid, I'll prove this night
Come Roman man :I'll set you free !
SHE KISSES HIM AND HE DIES - IN FUTURE RECORDED AS K & D
II - The Saxon
Narrator
The Saxons came in time of yore
And plundered us from shore to shore
And they were pretty rough ; none meaner
There's not a doubt they met Sabrina….
MUSIC
Saxon
What have we here ? Another town.
For sacking and for pulling down
We'll burn the place and kill the men
Destroy the cock but keep the hen!
Sabrina
O rude uncultured Saxon beast
I'll see you soon regret this feast
For Bridgnorth maids and Bridgnorth men
Sabrina's spell will work again
Saxon
Great balls of fire ! A hefty wench
This dish I'll taste without a wrench
Come lass, let's frolick in the hay
You'll not forget this joyful day !
Sabrina
I'll frolick, friend, but you're the one
Who nevermore will see the sun
K & D
III - The Dane
Narrator
In former times, despite the rain
Our city fair was taxed by Dane
And though their habits were much cleaner
We know for sure they met Sabrina
MUSIC
Dane
Now what's this place ? They call it Quatt !
The name's a mess, I like it not
Our taxmen now will sally forth
Across the bridge to south and north
Sabrina
This fellow's dull compared to Saxon
He calls himself a Danish Taxman
Ah, well, though I won't be hasty
Let's tempt him with an English pastry!
Dane
O Woden ! What is this I see?
A vision yet untaxed by me !
I'll take her measure, scribe her rune
Sabrina
You're right, my Dane, come take my boon !
K & D
IV - The Norman
Narrator
In elevenhundredand twenty-two
Which Acton Rounders e'er will rue
The Normans came and built their keep
And tried to turn us all to sheep
MUSIC
Norman
We brought our culture to this land
Rude English habits we have banned
Now Lords and Ladies served by serf
Can all enjoy our Norman earth
Sabrina
These Norman gangsters must be humbled
Methinks his tongue of "ladies" stumbled
Let's see if ancient English lore
Tonight our honour can restore…
Norman
Mon Dieu! Quelle beauty do I see
Ma chėre, what luck you've met with me !
Sabrina
Indeed your fortune's doubly blessed
Now I'm the host and you're the guest!
K & D
V - The Welshman
Narrator
O'er centuries in mist enveiled
The Marches dripped with blood; impaled
On Welsh ambition our English town
Became a field of battle and renown
MUSIC AND LEEK
Welshman
By Cardiff, Anglesey or Rhyll
Never before did my heart thrill
To see so soft an English village
Ripe-ready for Welsh guile and pillage
Sabrina
The cheeky Celt! How dare he gloat
Before he's even crossed my moat
I'll tease him, be so coy and meek
And then I'll parboil up his leek !
Welshman
By Llanfairfechan and Glendower
I've never seen so fine a flower
Come, English Maid, and be my love
I think you're sent from heaven above
Sabrina
Oh yes, my little laverbread
One kiss - and then you'll find you're dead !
K & D
VI- The Roundheads
Narrator
In sixteenhundredandfortysix
In Parliament, by knavish tricks
Our sovereign lord quite lost his head
And Cromwell took his place instead
MUSIC
Roundhead
These Royalist dogs and their cold bitches
With Papist plots, warlocks and witches
Shall now the power of Cromwell feel
With Roundhead flesh and Roundhead steel
Sabrina
This fellow's pretty hot, he thinks
He'll get no favours from this minx
Or rather if he dares to touch
He'll burn from fingernail to crutch
Roundhead
Come lass, forget your bonnie Charlie
Now with a real man you'll parley
Sabrina
O Soldier brave, you little know
Just quite how far this wench will go
K & D
VII - The Cavaliers
Narrator
In course of time, the good Lord willed
That Ironsides' ardour should be chilled
So Cavaliers now roamed the land
And freedom reigned, naught more was banned.
MUSIC
Cavalier
By Royal command I've ridden far
Please show me to the nearest bar,
I'm thirsty and uncommon dusty
Just find for me a girl that's lusty !
Sabrina
Whether their heads are round or Royal
There's but one thing that makes them boil
I'll not object to a little loan
But me they'll never call their own
Cavalier
Fair lady! Let me but now thy praises sing
And I will grant thee everything
I'll bring you lutes and daffodils
If you would only cure my ills
Sabrina
Such honey'd words his lips have passed
'Tis such a pity they're his last !
K & D - VERY LONG !- I SIGH AND "'ave you done ?"
VIII - The Irish
Narrator
In eighteenhundredand sixtytwo
The Railway came, the town pierced through
And snorting trains with fiery funnel
Rushed proudly through the newbuilt tunnel
MUSIC
Irishman
My name is O'Malley and I came to dig
Not to roister or rampage: although the jig
Which I dance on a Saturday night is fine
When I ravish their women and drink up their wine
Sabrina
Here's importunate Dublin and confident Cork
And sometimes there's action as well as the talk
But they'd better take care if they tangle with me
I'll not be seduced by a riddle-me-ree
Irishman
Oh look at the beauty of this Bridgnorth maid
The glory and ecstasy of how she is made!
My dear English darling, my heart's at your feet
I crave but a kiss, like the soup before meat!
Sabrina
A kiss you shall have, but hungry you'll be
For no more will you taste the sweet joys of Tralee
K &D
IX- The Airman
Narrator
In nineteenhundredand forty two
At Stanmore trained the boys in blue
They came from every land and nation
And Bridgnorth was their comfort station
MUSIC
The Airman
Saturday night, a forty-eight
Don't miss the bus or we'll be late
The pubs are open, the girls are willing
I'm glad I took the Sovereign's shilling.
Sabrina
They may be rough at times I know
But when to war the lads must go,
They do deserve a little fun
Before they face the horrid Hun.
The Airman
Good heavens! Miss, you're quite the best!
You're even better than Mae West!
Sabrina
Farewell, my friend, away you fly
Not from my lips will I send you die
I must be getting sentimental
I though he was, though rough, quite gentle
WAVES AIRMAN AWAY
X-The Tatung
Narrator
From cleverness born in the East
In Low Town grew a powerful beast
Where once the peasants listless hung
To Bridgnorth came- and later went - Tatung
MUSIC
Enter Tatung - singing/humming to Walkman;
Narrator - TURN OFF THAT
FIENDISH WALKMAN !
Tatung
This occidental place is strange
They do not know our latest range
And if a salaryman feels randy
All he can do is dream with brandy
Sabrina
It's sad our friends from the Pacific
Now have gone - but it’s terrific
That they're not really far abroad
But ten miles north to great Telford
EXIT TATUNG WITH ORIENTAL BOW
XI-The Tourist
Narrator
In nineteen hundredandeightyfive
Bridgnorth really came alive
Divorced from juggernaut and truck
Relying on part skill, part luck
The Bypassmen did pass us by
And tourists now to us do fly
MUSIC
The Tourist
I am the Tourist, last of all
Now to Sabrina's wiles I'll fall
Will she accept me ? What must I give ?
Can I but love her, and still live ?
Sabrina
Yes sir, you can; the others' mistake
Was never to give but only to take
So welcome, Stranger, come to my arms
And I will enfold you in my charms.
THEY KISS………ETC ETC ETC ETC…………………………….…
MUSIC
ALL 3
So friends, you've heard our wondrous story
This land is part of England's glory
So join with us this lovely day
And shout aloud Hurray - Hurray !
(c) Geoff Speechly, Nov 2008
Wednesday 12 November 2008
Linley Halt by Adam Rutter
I stand alone in Linley. The sunlight flickers between the branches. But my eyes are fixed onto the private house that was once a railway station – a request stop for passengers to alight whenever they chose; although hardly anybody would get off here.
It is just as peaceful now as when the trains used to run through. The cool breeze makes the leaves rustle, crows caw from a tall oak tree and magpies add to the cacophony by making a constant chatter. A car clatters over the suspension bridge until it reduces to a grinding noise as the tyres go over gravel. The car parks outside one of the cottages. The car door slams shut.
I used to ramble around these parts; over the stiles and across the fields. Sometimes, I would walk all the way along by the River Severn from Bridgnorth to get here.
Once I had arrived at Linley Halt, the gas lamps would have been lit, showing the station sign, bearing the name “Linley” in white letters and illuminating the posters along the wooden fence. Buzzing noises were heard from the telegraph wires, indicating that the signalman at Coalport signal box was ringing the bell at Bridgnorth signal box. A quiet hoot of a tawny owl emanated from the woodlands and the chugging of the steam train echoed in the Severn Valley. The high-pitched blare of the whistle resounded from every direction. The light from the steam engine shone on the telegraph poles and cast a shadow on the track.
The station master stood in the middle of the platform holding up a red flag. The clanking noise of the cylinders vibrated under my feet as the train made its way into the station. The train stopped. The station master yelled, “Linley Station! Anyone for Linley?” There was nobody on board. At other times I might see two or three passengers.
The station master opened the door in order for me to get on. After I had closed the door, the station master blew the whistle. The train pulled out of the station heading for Bridgnorth.
It is just as peaceful now as when the trains used to run through. The cool breeze makes the leaves rustle, crows caw from a tall oak tree and magpies add to the cacophony by making a constant chatter. A car clatters over the suspension bridge until it reduces to a grinding noise as the tyres go over gravel. The car parks outside one of the cottages. The car door slams shut.
I used to ramble around these parts; over the stiles and across the fields. Sometimes, I would walk all the way along by the River Severn from Bridgnorth to get here.
Once I had arrived at Linley Halt, the gas lamps would have been lit, showing the station sign, bearing the name “Linley” in white letters and illuminating the posters along the wooden fence. Buzzing noises were heard from the telegraph wires, indicating that the signalman at Coalport signal box was ringing the bell at Bridgnorth signal box. A quiet hoot of a tawny owl emanated from the woodlands and the chugging of the steam train echoed in the Severn Valley. The high-pitched blare of the whistle resounded from every direction. The light from the steam engine shone on the telegraph poles and cast a shadow on the track.
The station master stood in the middle of the platform holding up a red flag. The clanking noise of the cylinders vibrated under my feet as the train made its way into the station. The train stopped. The station master yelled, “Linley Station! Anyone for Linley?” There was nobody on board. At other times I might see two or three passengers.
The station master opened the door in order for me to get on. After I had closed the door, the station master blew the whistle. The train pulled out of the station heading for Bridgnorth.
Friday 7 November 2008
Itinerary for the December Outing on Sunday, December 7th
After our adventure-filled outing to Highley we now look forward to our next event on Sunday, 7th December in Bridgnorth.
The itinerary for this is as follows:
Bridgnorth – Guided History Walk and Festive
Victorian Market
Sunday, 7th December in Bridgnorth.
10.30 to 11.00
Morning coffee in the Severn Arms Hotel ( opposite the bridge
in Low Town )
11.00 to 12.30
A guided walk around historic Bridgnorth with Derek Crockson
( the much celebrated, official town guide ) He will be telling us
something of the history of the town with an emphasis on some
of Bridgnorth’s more interesting characters.
12.30 to 13.30 ( approx )
A chance to merge into the excitement of the Victorian Market
and a chance to purchase that much elusive, ideal Christmas gift.
There will also be a craft fair.
13.30 ( approx ) to departure
Refreshments at the Cinnamon Bar with a few festive readings
NB
You will have to pay for your own coffee and refreshments.
The cost of the guided walk will be £2 per person.
I hope you can make it!!
The itinerary for this is as follows:
Bridgnorth – Guided History Walk and Festive
Victorian Market
Sunday, 7th December in Bridgnorth.
10.30 to 11.00
Morning coffee in the Severn Arms Hotel ( opposite the bridge
in Low Town )
11.00 to 12.30
A guided walk around historic Bridgnorth with Derek Crockson
( the much celebrated, official town guide ) He will be telling us
something of the history of the town with an emphasis on some
of Bridgnorth’s more interesting characters.
12.30 to 13.30 ( approx )
A chance to merge into the excitement of the Victorian Market
and a chance to purchase that much elusive, ideal Christmas gift.
There will also be a craft fair.
13.30 ( approx ) to departure
Refreshments at the Cinnamon Bar with a few festive readings
NB
You will have to pay for your own coffee and refreshments.
The cost of the guided walk will be £2 per person.
I hope you can make it!!
'Tickets Please' by David Bingham
Beware of those
who would volunteer to wear
uniforms at the weekend;
like the man who,
dressed as an inspector,
lingered at the entrance
of a first class compartment
to extend the moments
of our embarrassment
to his satisfaction;
then left us,
toes uncurling,
free to recall
other men in other times
and other worlds
who clipped their tickets,
not on the line from Highley to Hampton Loade,
but on a much darker and more sinister road.
who would volunteer to wear
uniforms at the weekend;
like the man who,
dressed as an inspector,
lingered at the entrance
of a first class compartment
to extend the moments
of our embarrassment
to his satisfaction;
then left us,
toes uncurling,
free to recall
other men in other times
and other worlds
who clipped their tickets,
not on the line from Highley to Hampton Loade,
but on a much darker and more sinister road.
Tuesday 4 November 2008
Hampton Loade to Highley in the past
Here are a couple of photos to show what the area was like :
Hampton Loade Ferry
Alveley Sidings ( which is now where the Country Halt is found )
Hampton Loade Ferry
Alveley Sidings ( which is now where the Country Halt is found )
Highley Colliery
It must have been strange living in a monochrome world!
Report on Highley to Hampton Loade Outing, Nov 1st by Paul Francis
HIGHLEY INFORMATIVE…
An informal record of the first outing in the Out Here project, on a crisp Nov 1st.
Like pin-ups and crab, rock can be dressed or undressed. This, we were reliably informed, is dressed.
River high, muddy path. But two weeks ago, it was really dry. Or so Dave says.
Looking back from Alveley to Highley, across the valley. Note the golf course.
Dave takes the opportunity to get writing advice from a real professional.
(You may not know that Anna Massey drops in for tea at Tom’s?)
A carriage for sorting mail, one of the coaches from the train involved in the Great Train Robbery. (Which was also showing video footage of Auden’s Night Mail).
Many thanks to Dave for a great day, much enjoyed by all. Paul F.
An informal record of the first outing in the Out Here project, on a crisp Nov 1st.
A memorial to the miners who worked in this area, descending from shafts at Highley and Alveley, which were linked by a passage beneath the river.
Like pin-ups and crab, rock can be dressed or undressed. This, we were reliably informed, is dressed.River high, muddy path. But two weeks ago, it was really dry. Or so Dave says.
Looking back from Alveley to Highley, across the valley. Note the golf course.Pumpkin-coloured logs, sliced from alder. (According to the guy with the chainsaw.)
Dave takes the opportunity to get writing advice from a real professional.(You may not know that Anna Massey drops in for tea at Tom’s?)
The train arriving at platform One, Hampton Loade…(I’d like to have included a photo of the roaring fire in the waiting room, vividly described in the outline of the tour. Unfortunately…)
A carriage for sorting mail, one of the coaches from the train involved in the Great Train Robbery. (Which was also showing video footage of Auden’s Night Mail).Paid for with many euros of regeneration money, the Engine House at Highley is trainspotter heaven, but also has a pleasant café and balcony with a view
Many thanks to Dave for a great day, much enjoyed by all. Paul F.
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