The edge of reason, to be on edge, to be on the edge – these are expressions which suggest that edges are dangerous; something to be poised on with an imminent threat of toppling over.
Here is a place – or a number of places – with a lot of edges: Wenlock Edge, Kinver Edge. Is out here less smooth than out there? In geological terms – probably. In historical terms – probably not. Is there a higher possibility of danger out here? Perhaps out here is an edgier place.
We may, if we wish, stand on the edge of so much. At Kinver Edge we may see the counties of Shropshire, Warwickshire, Oxfordshire, Worcestershire, Gloucestershire and Herefordshire. The information, as we lightheartedly interpret it, tells us that in a given direction we could see Moscow. Our edges have expanded beyond the regional, beyond the national and become international.
If we step to the very edge how do we feel? Do we feel dizzy, overwhelmed by possibilities, exhilarated or simply sick? Do we perceive our edges positively or with a negative tinge seeping from a bedrock of fear?
Fear is something there is a lot of, and now is a particularly anxious time. We are teetering on the edge of the worst recession for decades. This we have been told and continue to be told by all forms of the media whose headlines are designed to shine a spotlight on disaster, designed to highlight that we are poised on the brink, designed to heighten our anxiety.
Looking out over The Edge on Sunday, 19 April 2009 did I feel the cold fingers of imminent disaster clutching at me? Did I feel isolated and on edge?
Not one bit.
I had driven to Kinver along leaf-dappled lanes. Now I stood, shading my eyes and feeling the sun warm on my shoulders. The view was blurred by a gentle haze; edges seemed smoothed, differences diminished.
The counties of Shropshire, Warwickshire, Oxfordshire, Worcestershire, Gloucestershire and Herefordshire were one rolling view for my eyes to discover. So many places, so many boundaries, therefore so many edges - but equally so many connections.
We are privileged to have so many edges. They offer vantage points. We can look out there and see what is in here. Our edges give us an edge if we are open to them – they can give us perspective and a sense of connection.
The business magazine on my desk bears pictures of dark clouds and the headline “The Gathering Storm”. The phone may ring at any minute with tidings of redundancy. Somehow my anxiety has dissipated. The fellowship with the group, the connection with the landscape, a sense of the oneness of it all – Kinver to Moscow linked by words on a monolith and lines of longitude.
Sunday, 19th April 2009 was a day that restored me; a day that gave me a place where I can walk and talk, share and connect to a perspective that is healthy and hopeful.
Sunday, 19th April 2009 was the day that gave me The Edge.
Tuesday, 21 April 2009
Friday, 10 April 2009
'The Zeppelin of Kinver Edge' by Tom Bryson
Harry Foley rubbed his eyes for the umpteenth time. Am I seeing things? He shook his head and looked up yet again towards the top of Kinver Edge. Not yet daybreak. He’d only stepped outside his cottage because his head throbbed from overindulgence the night before - and his ribs were black and blue what with Doreen’s elbows trying to silence his snores.
1916. The first glimmers of daylight slowly broke on a country at war. Harry looked up once more towards the Edge. Yes, he’d seen drawings of the airships - even a grainy photograph. He’d heard of the death and destruction they’d already caused in Walsall and Wednesbury, and they talked about these evil monsters wreaking havoc across the country. But surely he was seeing things. He shook his head again and began the ascent to the top of the Edge.
A Zeppelin airship – on Kinver Edge! Harry stopped and pressed his hands tight against his head. Definitely had a drop too much ale last night in the Lock Inn. Or was it the Vine? As he approached the rock houses he stopped to draw breath. His lungs weren’t the best; consumption ran in the family. That was why the army wouldn’t recruit him when he volunteered.
He glanced up. No, he wasn’t seeing things. Germans, bloody Germans. He hurled himself low behind a clump of yellow gorse. Members of an airship crew - scurrying around the craft, gesticulating, two tugged at a propeller shaft, one spoke in a loud whisper while others grunted and gasped as they heaved on heavy attached ropes.
Harry watched. Like a blow, the reality of what was above him struck home. He felt the cold morning air but the chill that ran through him was that of a winter’s night. He knelt down keeping well out of sight; asked himself was he a fool? Should he be here? Several of the crew carried rifles slung across their shoulders, another wore a holster with his hand on a Mauser pistol.
Harry bit his lip. Looking back down the path he couldn’t see a soul. But then who’d be up and about before daybreak? He was alone.
A mad curiosity gripped Harry. He clambered towards Holy Austin Rock, up past the red sandstone houses cut into the hillside. Faint oil lamps flickered inside. He knew the cave residents didn’t take kindly to strangers, especially one skulking past in the early hours. Harry had heard the stories. Passed down the family line. About men who’d disappeared; their bodies never found simply for being too nosey. As a boy he’d been terrified of Mad Molly who lived here. Some said she ate babbies.
Harry crawled on his stomach and the heather and bracken beneath him sounded like he was snapping firewood. He raised his head a fraction. About fifty yards away he saw the grey leviathan, a beast shuddering in the early morning wind, the crewmen fighting to hold the ship steady as the ropes strained. One cried out words in German that made no sense to Harry, except a name; ‘Hans’. A burly man hit down with a sledgehammer loosening a steel stake. He tugged it free then ran to tackle another stake at an opposite corner. Other airmen, bent back at forty five degrees like a tug o’ war team strained to hold the airship steady.
A shouted command - an officer waved from inside the airship to the crew members. They pulled their bodies up into the craft, throwing themselves inside. It only took a few minutes and they were all on board. In disbelief, Harry rose to his feet. Open mouthed, he watched a large engine propeller slowly turn.
A figure appeared at the doorway, screamed above the rising engine pitch and waved a pistol at Harry. A sound like a firework exploding rung in Harry’s ears as a puff of smoke came from the pistol.
Bloody hell, I’m being shot at! Harry hit the earth like a sack of coal chucked off a lorry. He looked up. A final figure clambered into the ship which now drifted into the air; a last rope was dragged inside. The man with the pistol still pointed his weapon at Harry.
Harry gasped as the last airman slipped and fell from the airship, his flailing arms and head struck the side of the vessel as he fought to get a grip. He hit the ground and yelled in pain, gripped his leg.
‘Hans,’ a voice shouted from the airship.
The Zeppelin rose like a surfacing whale. A shot rang out and a shower of Kinver sandstone spurt from the earth near Harry. That was enough. He was off.
He ran down the hillside like a fell runner, leaping over rocks, tree stumps and banks; sliding along shale paths, his hands scraped stones and drew blood. He half expected to feel a bullet slam into the back of his head at any second. Down over sandy scree, down past Holy Austin Rock cave; he glimpsed a pale face – a woman’s – peer through a murky window. Mad Molly, the cave dweller. She drew back, her eyes wide as he ran past like a maniac.
When he reached home he fell through the doorway. Doreen poked at a coal fire, tried to spark some life from it.
‘Where the bleeding hell you been?’ she yelled holding
up the poker.
Harry fought for breath, his chest ached and his hands stung. He slumped into an old rocking chair. ‘I don’t believe it. I just seen...’ he looked at her, unable to spit out the words. He ran outside, stared back up the ridge, shaded his eyes from a brightening sky.
‘What is it? Look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
Harry’s eyes scoured the sky. Several large white clouds floated across. He turned this way and that, taking in every point of the compass.
He pointed up at the sky. ‘A bloody Zeppelin. Airship. I see’d a bloody Zeppelin.’
‘What? Where?’ Doreen ran out to join him, ‘I don’t see nothing.’
‘Saw it. On the Edge.’
‘On the Edge. Not in the sky?’
‘On the Edge.’
‘I think you need taking in hand, my lad. Pink elephants you’re seeing next.’
‘I did, I tell you I did.’
Doreen sniffed, ‘Never mind Zeppelins, you’d best get ready for work. Ironworks opens at seven.’
‘I did, I see’d it.’
Doreen went back inside, pulled on her apron and sawed thick slices of bread from a home baked loaf. She shouted, ‘I worry about you, Harry Foley, I really do.’ She pointed the knife at him, wiggling it like a teacher’s pencil. ‘You need to lay off that ale, I tell you. You go telling people round here you see’d Germans on Kinver Edge – on a bloody Zeppelin airbus or whatever you call it – it’ll be the funny farm for you, my lad.’
Harry staggered inside; he pressed his hands to his temples.
Doreen approached him and rested her hand on his head. She sighed, ‘Go on, love. Get yourself ready for work. I’ll make you a mug of tea.’
Harry went to work with a sore head and a confused mind. He kept looking up at the sky; all he could see were scudding clouds, snatches of blue sky. At the ironworks got through to lunchtime, kept going on strong draughts of cold milky tea from a bottle, and didn’t say a word of what he’d seen on Kinver Edge that morning. But as he ate his cold beef and dripping sandwich, he couldn’t keep it to himself any longer. He told Sam, a floor moulder a bit older than he was. He thought Sam might be able to explain what was going on. Was hop-swollen Kinver home brew giving him the DTs. So, he opened up to Sam. Big mistake.
Within an hour, Harry’s story of sighting a German Zeppelin on Kinver Edge was all over the ironworks. One after another they came and teased him, asked him how much he’d had the night before, that he needed his eyes seeing to.
Over the next few days and weeks matters got worse. Everywhere Harry went in the village, they’d heard about his foray onto the Edge. At the start Harry took it all in good spirit but after a while it got to him. The final straw came when the boys from Castle Street School tracked him down the High Street, chanting ‘Harry Foley saw a airship, Harry Foley is a nitwit, barmy Harry Foley.’
After a few months of taunting, Harry’s will broke. He stayed at home in the evenings, stopped going down the pub, seeing his mates. He turned inwards, became sullen and withdrawn. Doreen got worried about him. She asked Doctor Sawyer to visit; see if he would give Harry something; ‘For his nerves, you know?’
‘You just need to get a grip, lad,’ the good doctor advised. He put away his stethoscope and patted Harry on the arm, ‘Hale and hearty lad like you, just get out a bit more, eh. Fresh air - that’ll put you right.’ But he didn’t help at all when he added, ‘Get up on the Edge.’ Then with a broad wink to Doreen added, ‘Never know what you might see up there’; laughed, and left a dejected Harry and a worried Doreen sitting in silence.
Harry started losing days off work. He was warned. After a two day absence he turned up and the foreman said, ‘You’re finished, son. Don’t have skivers here.’
Doreen got a bit of work taking in washing, cleaning in a couple of the big houses around Kinver, Stourton and Enville. She got a start in a nailmakers shop in the Black Country but even using the tram she was away twelve hours a day. Her health worsened and she had to pack up. One day she looked up from her sick bed and said to Harry, ‘I don’t know what to do, love. I can’t...’ her sobbing broke Harry’s heart.
That’s when he took himself back up to the top of the Edge. He sat on the spot where the Zeppelin had landed, stared into the sky for a long time. He rubbed his hands in the fine, red sand. Got cold. It was dark by the time he came home.
In the bedroom Doreen lay pale faced, a heavy greatcoat thrown over the blankets. Harry said, ‘I see’d it, I know I did. Now – that’s an end to it. In the morning I’m off to Stourbridge, Cradley, the Lye – wherever. I’m going to get a job. And if we have to move - we’ll move.’
And they did move. From Kinver to a rented room in Cradley Heath. Harry worked for ten years in a drop forging works and through hard work rose to a foreman’s job. They visited Kinver regularly to see Doreen’s family – but when Harry was spotted someone was sure to say, ‘Seen any Germans lately, Harry?’ Or ‘Good job the war’s over, Harry. No fear of Zeppelins bombing us now.’ And the schoolchildren’s chant stuck in Harry’s psyche. But he knew what he saw. He believed in what he saw.
1926. Ten years on - the year of the General Strike. Harry travelled to Kinver with Doreen and their two kids on the bus; little Harry was eight and Agnes six, Doreen now carried a third. Money was tight . But Harry wouldn’t be a strike breaker. As the grandparents fussed over the children, Doreen said, ‘Go and have a pint, love. You haven’t been out in ages.’
Harry took himself off to The Lock Inn and sipped a beer as he watched the barges go by. He looked up at St Peter’s Church high on the ridge. He stared for several minutes deep in thought, then downed his pint and strode out along Mill Street, down the High Street to Potters Cross, up Meddin’s Lane towards Holy Austin Rock and The Edge.
He stopped on the approach path that led up to the old Roman Hill Fort on top. The place was deserted, the air still, a couple of wood pigeons fluttered home to their nest. A squirrel darted out in front of him and scurried up a tall sycamore. Harry smiled as he took in the familiar soft sandstone ridge, the caves hewn in the hillside, wisps of blue smoke rising from their chimneys as if from the bowels of the earth. As he sucked in deep breaths of air, a well-dressed man about his own age stepped out from one of the caves, rubbing his knee and flexing his leg. Harry stepped back behind a clump of birch trees, unsettled by the man’s appearance. He smoked a pipe, wore a crisp white shirt and tie, polished black shoes. His blonde hair glinted in the evening sun. He glimpsed Harry skulking behind the trees; saluted him with his pipe. A frown crossed the man’s forehead; then he smiled and slowly nodded his head several times. He knew Harry. And Harry knew him!
A woman’s whispered voice came from the rockhouse; a note of urgency, even fear in her tone, ‘Hans, Hans, come inside, you know how people talk in these parts.’
Molly, bloody mad Molly. Harry remained deadly still behind the trees. He clamped his lips together.
Molly spoke to the man, ‘Good to see you again, son.’
The erect, broad shouldered man limped into the rock house. He embraced the small, elderly woman inside before a heavy curtain was pulled shut across the cave entrance.
A broad smile beamed across Harry Foley’s face. ‘I know I see’d it – I bloody well know I see’d a Zeppelin.’
1916. The first glimmers of daylight slowly broke on a country at war. Harry looked up once more towards the Edge. Yes, he’d seen drawings of the airships - even a grainy photograph. He’d heard of the death and destruction they’d already caused in Walsall and Wednesbury, and they talked about these evil monsters wreaking havoc across the country. But surely he was seeing things. He shook his head again and began the ascent to the top of the Edge.
A Zeppelin airship – on Kinver Edge! Harry stopped and pressed his hands tight against his head. Definitely had a drop too much ale last night in the Lock Inn. Or was it the Vine? As he approached the rock houses he stopped to draw breath. His lungs weren’t the best; consumption ran in the family. That was why the army wouldn’t recruit him when he volunteered.
He glanced up. No, he wasn’t seeing things. Germans, bloody Germans. He hurled himself low behind a clump of yellow gorse. Members of an airship crew - scurrying around the craft, gesticulating, two tugged at a propeller shaft, one spoke in a loud whisper while others grunted and gasped as they heaved on heavy attached ropes.
Harry watched. Like a blow, the reality of what was above him struck home. He felt the cold morning air but the chill that ran through him was that of a winter’s night. He knelt down keeping well out of sight; asked himself was he a fool? Should he be here? Several of the crew carried rifles slung across their shoulders, another wore a holster with his hand on a Mauser pistol.
Harry bit his lip. Looking back down the path he couldn’t see a soul. But then who’d be up and about before daybreak? He was alone.
A mad curiosity gripped Harry. He clambered towards Holy Austin Rock, up past the red sandstone houses cut into the hillside. Faint oil lamps flickered inside. He knew the cave residents didn’t take kindly to strangers, especially one skulking past in the early hours. Harry had heard the stories. Passed down the family line. About men who’d disappeared; their bodies never found simply for being too nosey. As a boy he’d been terrified of Mad Molly who lived here. Some said she ate babbies.
Harry crawled on his stomach and the heather and bracken beneath him sounded like he was snapping firewood. He raised his head a fraction. About fifty yards away he saw the grey leviathan, a beast shuddering in the early morning wind, the crewmen fighting to hold the ship steady as the ropes strained. One cried out words in German that made no sense to Harry, except a name; ‘Hans’. A burly man hit down with a sledgehammer loosening a steel stake. He tugged it free then ran to tackle another stake at an opposite corner. Other airmen, bent back at forty five degrees like a tug o’ war team strained to hold the airship steady.
A shouted command - an officer waved from inside the airship to the crew members. They pulled their bodies up into the craft, throwing themselves inside. It only took a few minutes and they were all on board. In disbelief, Harry rose to his feet. Open mouthed, he watched a large engine propeller slowly turn.
A figure appeared at the doorway, screamed above the rising engine pitch and waved a pistol at Harry. A sound like a firework exploding rung in Harry’s ears as a puff of smoke came from the pistol.
Bloody hell, I’m being shot at! Harry hit the earth like a sack of coal chucked off a lorry. He looked up. A final figure clambered into the ship which now drifted into the air; a last rope was dragged inside. The man with the pistol still pointed his weapon at Harry.
Harry gasped as the last airman slipped and fell from the airship, his flailing arms and head struck the side of the vessel as he fought to get a grip. He hit the ground and yelled in pain, gripped his leg.
‘Hans,’ a voice shouted from the airship.
The Zeppelin rose like a surfacing whale. A shot rang out and a shower of Kinver sandstone spurt from the earth near Harry. That was enough. He was off.
He ran down the hillside like a fell runner, leaping over rocks, tree stumps and banks; sliding along shale paths, his hands scraped stones and drew blood. He half expected to feel a bullet slam into the back of his head at any second. Down over sandy scree, down past Holy Austin Rock cave; he glimpsed a pale face – a woman’s – peer through a murky window. Mad Molly, the cave dweller. She drew back, her eyes wide as he ran past like a maniac.
When he reached home he fell through the doorway. Doreen poked at a coal fire, tried to spark some life from it.
‘Where the bleeding hell you been?’ she yelled holding
up the poker.
Harry fought for breath, his chest ached and his hands stung. He slumped into an old rocking chair. ‘I don’t believe it. I just seen...’ he looked at her, unable to spit out the words. He ran outside, stared back up the ridge, shaded his eyes from a brightening sky.
‘What is it? Look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
Harry’s eyes scoured the sky. Several large white clouds floated across. He turned this way and that, taking in every point of the compass.
He pointed up at the sky. ‘A bloody Zeppelin. Airship. I see’d a bloody Zeppelin.’
‘What? Where?’ Doreen ran out to join him, ‘I don’t see nothing.’
‘Saw it. On the Edge.’
‘On the Edge. Not in the sky?’
‘On the Edge.’
‘I think you need taking in hand, my lad. Pink elephants you’re seeing next.’
‘I did, I tell you I did.’
Doreen sniffed, ‘Never mind Zeppelins, you’d best get ready for work. Ironworks opens at seven.’
‘I did, I see’d it.’
Doreen went back inside, pulled on her apron and sawed thick slices of bread from a home baked loaf. She shouted, ‘I worry about you, Harry Foley, I really do.’ She pointed the knife at him, wiggling it like a teacher’s pencil. ‘You need to lay off that ale, I tell you. You go telling people round here you see’d Germans on Kinver Edge – on a bloody Zeppelin airbus or whatever you call it – it’ll be the funny farm for you, my lad.’
Harry staggered inside; he pressed his hands to his temples.
Doreen approached him and rested her hand on his head. She sighed, ‘Go on, love. Get yourself ready for work. I’ll make you a mug of tea.’
Harry went to work with a sore head and a confused mind. He kept looking up at the sky; all he could see were scudding clouds, snatches of blue sky. At the ironworks got through to lunchtime, kept going on strong draughts of cold milky tea from a bottle, and didn’t say a word of what he’d seen on Kinver Edge that morning. But as he ate his cold beef and dripping sandwich, he couldn’t keep it to himself any longer. He told Sam, a floor moulder a bit older than he was. He thought Sam might be able to explain what was going on. Was hop-swollen Kinver home brew giving him the DTs. So, he opened up to Sam. Big mistake.
Within an hour, Harry’s story of sighting a German Zeppelin on Kinver Edge was all over the ironworks. One after another they came and teased him, asked him how much he’d had the night before, that he needed his eyes seeing to.
Over the next few days and weeks matters got worse. Everywhere Harry went in the village, they’d heard about his foray onto the Edge. At the start Harry took it all in good spirit but after a while it got to him. The final straw came when the boys from Castle Street School tracked him down the High Street, chanting ‘Harry Foley saw a airship, Harry Foley is a nitwit, barmy Harry Foley.’
After a few months of taunting, Harry’s will broke. He stayed at home in the evenings, stopped going down the pub, seeing his mates. He turned inwards, became sullen and withdrawn. Doreen got worried about him. She asked Doctor Sawyer to visit; see if he would give Harry something; ‘For his nerves, you know?’
‘You just need to get a grip, lad,’ the good doctor advised. He put away his stethoscope and patted Harry on the arm, ‘Hale and hearty lad like you, just get out a bit more, eh. Fresh air - that’ll put you right.’ But he didn’t help at all when he added, ‘Get up on the Edge.’ Then with a broad wink to Doreen added, ‘Never know what you might see up there’; laughed, and left a dejected Harry and a worried Doreen sitting in silence.
Harry started losing days off work. He was warned. After a two day absence he turned up and the foreman said, ‘You’re finished, son. Don’t have skivers here.’
Doreen got a bit of work taking in washing, cleaning in a couple of the big houses around Kinver, Stourton and Enville. She got a start in a nailmakers shop in the Black Country but even using the tram she was away twelve hours a day. Her health worsened and she had to pack up. One day she looked up from her sick bed and said to Harry, ‘I don’t know what to do, love. I can’t...’ her sobbing broke Harry’s heart.
That’s when he took himself back up to the top of the Edge. He sat on the spot where the Zeppelin had landed, stared into the sky for a long time. He rubbed his hands in the fine, red sand. Got cold. It was dark by the time he came home.
In the bedroom Doreen lay pale faced, a heavy greatcoat thrown over the blankets. Harry said, ‘I see’d it, I know I did. Now – that’s an end to it. In the morning I’m off to Stourbridge, Cradley, the Lye – wherever. I’m going to get a job. And if we have to move - we’ll move.’
And they did move. From Kinver to a rented room in Cradley Heath. Harry worked for ten years in a drop forging works and through hard work rose to a foreman’s job. They visited Kinver regularly to see Doreen’s family – but when Harry was spotted someone was sure to say, ‘Seen any Germans lately, Harry?’ Or ‘Good job the war’s over, Harry. No fear of Zeppelins bombing us now.’ And the schoolchildren’s chant stuck in Harry’s psyche. But he knew what he saw. He believed in what he saw.
1926. Ten years on - the year of the General Strike. Harry travelled to Kinver with Doreen and their two kids on the bus; little Harry was eight and Agnes six, Doreen now carried a third. Money was tight . But Harry wouldn’t be a strike breaker. As the grandparents fussed over the children, Doreen said, ‘Go and have a pint, love. You haven’t been out in ages.’
Harry took himself off to The Lock Inn and sipped a beer as he watched the barges go by. He looked up at St Peter’s Church high on the ridge. He stared for several minutes deep in thought, then downed his pint and strode out along Mill Street, down the High Street to Potters Cross, up Meddin’s Lane towards Holy Austin Rock and The Edge.
He stopped on the approach path that led up to the old Roman Hill Fort on top. The place was deserted, the air still, a couple of wood pigeons fluttered home to their nest. A squirrel darted out in front of him and scurried up a tall sycamore. Harry smiled as he took in the familiar soft sandstone ridge, the caves hewn in the hillside, wisps of blue smoke rising from their chimneys as if from the bowels of the earth. As he sucked in deep breaths of air, a well-dressed man about his own age stepped out from one of the caves, rubbing his knee and flexing his leg. Harry stepped back behind a clump of birch trees, unsettled by the man’s appearance. He smoked a pipe, wore a crisp white shirt and tie, polished black shoes. His blonde hair glinted in the evening sun. He glimpsed Harry skulking behind the trees; saluted him with his pipe. A frown crossed the man’s forehead; then he smiled and slowly nodded his head several times. He knew Harry. And Harry knew him!
A woman’s whispered voice came from the rockhouse; a note of urgency, even fear in her tone, ‘Hans, Hans, come inside, you know how people talk in these parts.’
Molly, bloody mad Molly. Harry remained deadly still behind the trees. He clamped his lips together.
Molly spoke to the man, ‘Good to see you again, son.’
The erect, broad shouldered man limped into the rock house. He embraced the small, elderly woman inside before a heavy curtain was pulled shut across the cave entrance.
A broad smile beamed across Harry Foley’s face. ‘I know I see’d it – I bloody well know I see’d a Zeppelin.’
Tuesday, 31 March 2009
Kinver, Treasure Trail, Sunday, 19th April
Our next outing is to Kinver on Sunday, April 19th where Peter and Fran Hodges are organising a treasure trail which will take in the fascinating history and natural environment of the area . You can see them hard at work in the picture. This will include a canal walk, a visit to the ‘rock houses’ on Kinver Edge, an iron age hill fort, an ancient church and beautiful scenery.
We will start at 10.30am approx and we will try to sort out lifts to cut down on the number of cars travelling to this distant place.
Please make a space for this in your diary ( if it's not already there ).
We will start at 10.30am approx and we will try to sort out lifts to cut down on the number of cars travelling to this distant place.
Please make a space for this in your diary ( if it's not already there ).
Thursday, 26 March 2009
Much Wenlock Trip, Saturday March 21st
Paul welcomed us to Priory Hall where he gave us a short introductory talk
and then took us on a tour around the town
After the walk Ken Milner, a local man, shared his experiences of life in Much Wenlock .....
... and Paul Weedon brought in lots of fascinating maps, diagrams and fossils to help explain the geology of the area.
and then took us on a tour around the town
After the walk Ken Milner, a local man, shared his experiences of life in Much Wenlock .....
... and Paul Weedon brought in lots of fascinating maps, diagrams and fossils to help explain the geology of the area.
After lunch Paul ( Francis that is ) led us on a walk to the top of Wenlock Edge and back in time .....
...
for Paul Evans, a nature diarist with The Guardian and a programme maker with the BBC, who gave us an insight into the work of a professional writer.
for Paul Evans, a nature diarist with The Guardian and a programme maker with the BBC, who gave us an insight into the work of a professional writer..
.
.
.
.
.
.
Thanks again to Paul Francis for organising a brilliant day's activites and to the three speakers for giving up their time to join us.
Thanks also to Anthony Cain for the photographs.
Three Short Poems in a Japanese Style
in the graveyard
a fall of snow
onto black marble
Dave Bingham
silver moon
aloof on a spatter cloud track
rolls into winter
Barbara Chapman
a man thinks
it takes a lifetime
and he is gone
Anthony Cain
Wednesday, 11 March 2009
'The View from Kinver Edge' by Peter Hodges
Kinver Edge is the watershed where Staffordshire gives way to Worcestershire, industry to rural life, where heather and woodland co-exist, and visitors from all around come to enjoy nature, good walking, and past generations of history. From Kinver Edge the counties of Shropshire, Warwickshire, Oxfordshire, Gloucestershire, Worcestershire, and Herefordshire may be seen. Likewise, the hills of Clent, Clee, and Abberley, Cannock Chase, the Cotswolds, Breden, the Long Mynd, and the Malverns. Yet from any of these it will be almost impossible to identify Kinver Edge. Such is how it fits into the landscape: a low ridge of sandstone and pebble, part wooded, part heath, but otherwise without a distinguishing feature that makes it recognisable from outside. But the views are without peer. In the year 1775 J. Heely was admiring these views when he was overtaken by a storm. So violent was the tempest that he hastened down from the escarpment and was given shelter by a family of cave dwellers at Holy Austin Rock. Five years before Heely's adventure, James Brindley cut the Staffs and Worcs Canal through Kinver on its way to the Severn.
A few facts: Kinver is the most southerly village in Staffordshire. Inhabitants number around 7000, there are six restaurants, six pubs, a library, health centre, two dentists, two butchers and two green grocers, two fish and chip shops and a Chinese takeaway, three hairstylists and a barber, a pharmacy, veterinary practice, doctor, bank, two post offices, a Spar and a Co-op, and a Methodist church. The parish church, however, stands aloof—no one knows quite why—on the escarpment, looking down as it has from Norman times when Kinver was known as Kinfare.
But it was iron that changed Kinver for ever. The Stour—a useful little river—provided both transport and power and soon its winding banks were crammed with enterprise. From the 16th century to the 18th the iron industry grew. By 1850 the population of Kinver had risen four-fold. By 1890 the iron works were gone, unable to compete with Birmingham and the Black Country. The village declined and faced destitution. The paradox is that Birmingham and the Black Country were to be the saviour. The new wealth there translated into tourism and folk saw Kinver as a haven.
The escape from smoke and grime for wholesome Kinver air and fine views was the new industry. Kinver came to be promoted as the Switzerland of the Midlands for the Edge, the winding valley, the winding village street fired the romance in the minds of many. So much so that in 1901 the Kinver Light Railway opened, the first cross-country tramway in Britain and it linked Kinver to the conurbation. Now folk could come in their droves to enjoy the walks on Kinver Edge and afterwards, relax in the café's and tea houses, hotels and pubs.
The outcome was dramatic. The village thrived once more. On Whit Monday, 1905, the tramway carried nearly 17,000 visitors. And the trams ran long into the night to get everyone home. Tourism also brought postcards. There are thousands still circulating. Many of the rock houses were photographed, and the troglodytes who occupied them and who, no doubt, charged for the privilege. Rock House tea rooms sprang up. A pot of tea, bread and butter for four cost 2/6d (12p), and afterwards, a small charge for use of the loo, or soil closet as it was then. The last rock house tearoom was at Holy Austin which closed in the 1960s. Now owned and restored by the National Trust, the tearoom is set to re-open.
The National Trust has a significant interest in Kinver. The Edge was purchased by the four children of a Birmingham solicitor and given to the Trust to protect it from developers. This was 1917, the First World War was at its height, and Kinver Edge was the first of the large Midland open spaces to come into Trust ownership. A 'green lung' was how Octavia Hill, a founding member of Trust, described these new open spaces that were open for all and forever.
More facts and firsts. Of the two wells at Holy Austin Rock, one is said to be the deepest in England at 180 feet. The hymn writer and novelist Baring Gould set his novel Bladys of Stewponey in and around the caves at Kinver. Dorothy Round, twice Ladies Wimbleden Champion in the 1930s, lived in the village. Kinver Edge and Holy Austin Rock are Sights of Special Scientific Interest (SSSI) for the insects, plants, and geology. A Scheduled Ancient Monument crowns the northern promontory of the Edge. The Iron Age hillfort also includes within its schedule a World War 2 Home Guard observation post. The Queen and her sister as the young princesses Elizabeth and Margaret dropped in at Holy Austin one day when passing by. After the Battle of Worcester, Charles II eluded his pursuers by riding along the ridge. It was once claimed that in 1916 a German Zeppelin landed on the hillfort but this has probably more to do with the said claimant living next door to the Elm Tree pub.
Zeppelin or not, the view from up here is still worth the climb.
A few facts: Kinver is the most southerly village in Staffordshire. Inhabitants number around 7000, there are six restaurants, six pubs, a library, health centre, two dentists, two butchers and two green grocers, two fish and chip shops and a Chinese takeaway, three hairstylists and a barber, a pharmacy, veterinary practice, doctor, bank, two post offices, a Spar and a Co-op, and a Methodist church. The parish church, however, stands aloof—no one knows quite why—on the escarpment, looking down as it has from Norman times when Kinver was known as Kinfare.
But it was iron that changed Kinver for ever. The Stour—a useful little river—provided both transport and power and soon its winding banks were crammed with enterprise. From the 16th century to the 18th the iron industry grew. By 1850 the population of Kinver had risen four-fold. By 1890 the iron works were gone, unable to compete with Birmingham and the Black Country. The village declined and faced destitution. The paradox is that Birmingham and the Black Country were to be the saviour. The new wealth there translated into tourism and folk saw Kinver as a haven.
The escape from smoke and grime for wholesome Kinver air and fine views was the new industry. Kinver came to be promoted as the Switzerland of the Midlands for the Edge, the winding valley, the winding village street fired the romance in the minds of many. So much so that in 1901 the Kinver Light Railway opened, the first cross-country tramway in Britain and it linked Kinver to the conurbation. Now folk could come in their droves to enjoy the walks on Kinver Edge and afterwards, relax in the café's and tea houses, hotels and pubs.
The outcome was dramatic. The village thrived once more. On Whit Monday, 1905, the tramway carried nearly 17,000 visitors. And the trams ran long into the night to get everyone home. Tourism also brought postcards. There are thousands still circulating. Many of the rock houses were photographed, and the troglodytes who occupied them and who, no doubt, charged for the privilege. Rock House tea rooms sprang up. A pot of tea, bread and butter for four cost 2/6d (12p), and afterwards, a small charge for use of the loo, or soil closet as it was then. The last rock house tearoom was at Holy Austin which closed in the 1960s. Now owned and restored by the National Trust, the tearoom is set to re-open.
The National Trust has a significant interest in Kinver. The Edge was purchased by the four children of a Birmingham solicitor and given to the Trust to protect it from developers. This was 1917, the First World War was at its height, and Kinver Edge was the first of the large Midland open spaces to come into Trust ownership. A 'green lung' was how Octavia Hill, a founding member of Trust, described these new open spaces that were open for all and forever.
More facts and firsts. Of the two wells at Holy Austin Rock, one is said to be the deepest in England at 180 feet. The hymn writer and novelist Baring Gould set his novel Bladys of Stewponey in and around the caves at Kinver. Dorothy Round, twice Ladies Wimbleden Champion in the 1930s, lived in the village. Kinver Edge and Holy Austin Rock are Sights of Special Scientific Interest (SSSI) for the insects, plants, and geology. A Scheduled Ancient Monument crowns the northern promontory of the Edge. The Iron Age hillfort also includes within its schedule a World War 2 Home Guard observation post. The Queen and her sister as the young princesses Elizabeth and Margaret dropped in at Holy Austin one day when passing by. After the Battle of Worcester, Charles II eluded his pursuers by riding along the ridge. It was once claimed that in 1916 a German Zeppelin landed on the hillfort but this has probably more to do with the said claimant living next door to the Elm Tree pub.
Zeppelin or not, the view from up here is still worth the climb.
Saturday, 28 February 2009
'Rosie's Farmhouse Pantry' by Rosie Pugh
This is the start of a much longer piece in which Rosie Pugh describes the years she spent running her teashop.
I had been in Bridgnorth less than eighteen month’s when my husband, Keith, said we must think of something to add to the farm to bring in extra money.
A couple of month’s later, I had a dream in which I was serving tea and coffee with cakes and sandwiches. I shook Keith, in the middle of the night, and told him what I had dreamt. He said we should talk in the morning and that I was to go back to sleep. The dream was so real I was unable to return to sleep and eagerly waited. In the morning over breakfast we discussed it and finally he agreed that I could open a teashop.
It was then left to me to organise and find the information I needed as I had no idea what to do. I had to sort it all out and get the place ready which would involve turning our dining room, with just one table, into a tearoom.
It needed painting as it looked as if it had not been painted for many years. It was the same with the hall and the down stairs toilet. They were both a funny green colour and I wanted the room to be in antique pink and the hall in a pale peach. I set to and bought the paint and brushes and got on with the job. I was not an expert painter but I did quite well considering I was still working outside helping with the potatoes and doing my housework at the same time.
When the room was ready , I had to buy some tables and chairs but I could not afford anything upmarket so I went to a small shop near the cattle market outside Bridgnorth and they gave me three months credit and I bought some plastic ones to start with.
The porcelain cups, saucers and plates came from my sister-in-law Pollie. My table cloths and serviettes were altered so they matched and I added some white lace to make them prettier. Keith and I moved a large dresser into the dining room and placed ornaments and a beautiful, scented candle on the shelves.
Slowly things started to take shape as the place became bright and cheery. My son Garry called and I asked him if he would do a sign for me to hang up near the road. He agreed and suggested I call my teashop ’Rosie’s Farmhouse Pantry’. I thought this sounded delightful. He painted one red rose on a white board and he painted the writing in black.
The weekend I had planned for opening was approaching and I was suddenly gripped with fear. What was I letting myself in for? I was treading into the unknown. I was out of my depth. Deep down I knew I had no idea of how to run a teashop.
I had been in Bridgnorth less than eighteen month’s when my husband, Keith, said we must think of something to add to the farm to bring in extra money.
A couple of month’s later, I had a dream in which I was serving tea and coffee with cakes and sandwiches. I shook Keith, in the middle of the night, and told him what I had dreamt. He said we should talk in the morning and that I was to go back to sleep. The dream was so real I was unable to return to sleep and eagerly waited. In the morning over breakfast we discussed it and finally he agreed that I could open a teashop.
It was then left to me to organise and find the information I needed as I had no idea what to do. I had to sort it all out and get the place ready which would involve turning our dining room, with just one table, into a tearoom.
It needed painting as it looked as if it had not been painted for many years. It was the same with the hall and the down stairs toilet. They were both a funny green colour and I wanted the room to be in antique pink and the hall in a pale peach. I set to and bought the paint and brushes and got on with the job. I was not an expert painter but I did quite well considering I was still working outside helping with the potatoes and doing my housework at the same time.
When the room was ready , I had to buy some tables and chairs but I could not afford anything upmarket so I went to a small shop near the cattle market outside Bridgnorth and they gave me three months credit and I bought some plastic ones to start with.
The porcelain cups, saucers and plates came from my sister-in-law Pollie. My table cloths and serviettes were altered so they matched and I added some white lace to make them prettier. Keith and I moved a large dresser into the dining room and placed ornaments and a beautiful, scented candle on the shelves.
Slowly things started to take shape as the place became bright and cheery. My son Garry called and I asked him if he would do a sign for me to hang up near the road. He agreed and suggested I call my teashop ’Rosie’s Farmhouse Pantry’. I thought this sounded delightful. He painted one red rose on a white board and he painted the writing in black.
The weekend I had planned for opening was approaching and I was suddenly gripped with fear. What was I letting myself in for? I was treading into the unknown. I was out of my depth. Deep down I knew I had no idea of how to run a teashop.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)