Coincidences and Virgins’ Crowns

It seems to me that a lot of my writing is about coincidences, collisions and near-misses. A recent visit to a small church in Hampshire made me think about this and the many different ways that give me some sort of connection to this church. Some of these connections are tenuous to say the least

The church in question is St Mary the Virgin at Abbotts Ann, a pretty village just outside of Andover. My parents-in-law (I don’t think I’ve ever referred to them in that way before!) lived there.

Although they were not church goers, they loved the church and its beautiful setting; their names are recorded on a memorial stone in the peaceful churchyard.

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Some forty years ago I went to St Mary’s for the wedding of my sister-in-law on a bitingly cold March day. A couple of years later I was working for a small company in Bath and one of my colleagues was the son of the Rector who had conducted the ceremony. Going further back in time, I had an uncle who played the organ in St Mary’s, I believe in the 1920s. The poor man had a heart attack and died while playing the organ at the church in Goodworth Clatford, just a few miles away. Recently I was talking to a friend in Verwood who told me that her cousin is (probably was) a churchwarden at St Mary’s. When she told me his name I recognised it as someone my in-laws knew.

Enough of all this! Of much more interest in this Grade 1 listed building is the continuation of the medieval tradition of Virgins’ Crowns or Maidens’ Garlands. I’m going to quote from the informative leaflet that I picked up in the church on my recent visit.

The Virgins’ Crowns were made of black and white paper rosettes on a framework of hazel wood with the collar, gloves or handkerchief of someone recently deceased. Relatives could request a garland if the dead maiden had been born, baptized and lived in the parish and dies unmarried. Males qualified if they met the criteria.

Many of the males were boys, but not all. I wonder whether it was disease or accident that caused the deaths of Robert and James Perrett.  Maybe brothers or cousins, they were aged 30 and 33 respectively when they died in 1842.

The last funeral with garlands took place in 1973. I wonder if there will be any more. Changing social mores, and vastly increased mobility have probably spelt the end of this tradition. Meanwhile the crowns hang in varying states of decrepitude, custom does not allow any that fall to be replaced. In this picture you can see the crown of Lily Annetts, whose funeral was in 1973.

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There is more information about this custom on the church’s excellent website.https://www.abbottsann.com/amenitiesservices/church/

So to get back to where this blog post started, how important are coincidences in my writing? There are times when they are just too remote to be plausible and run the risk of undermining what could be a good plot. Conversely a chance meeting, an overheard conversation, the discovery of a lost acquaintance or relation, even an unusual surname or forename that links people and places can inspire me. Not sure if I can use any of my fragile connections to this church, but it was a great place to visit.

 

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Crab Apples

The last few days have been a little bit warmer, and we have seen some sun. I noticed that our crab apple tree is at last producing some buds, and this reminded me of some words I wrote a few years ago about this tree, and the wonderful fruit it produces.

Springtime buds erupt into flowers, pink and white dancers in a chilly wind. In summer green leaves shade the growing fruits from sun. Shortening days trigger the transition, bright red apples shine through yellow and orange leaves. Making crab apple jelly is not difficult but it takes time and care to ensure it is clear and set. On cold winter days it melts; jewel-coloured, fragrant and redolent of last year’s bounty, into freshly made toast.

To remind myself that warmer days are not far away, and the buds on the tree are a promise of fruits to come, I found a picture of some of our crab apples taken last summer.

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Zog post: Queen Geraldine of Albania

 

Queen Geraldina

Geraldine Apponyi on her wedding day to King Zog of Albania in April 1938.

Geraldine was Queen of Albania for just a year before her husband King Zog was deposed in 1939. In many ways she was a footnote to the history of the shake-up of Europe, briefly Queen of the final bastion of the Ottoman Empire.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        During  the last couple of weeks, aided by the snow I was able to read a bit more than I usually do and I got through two fascinating books. In both of them there were short references to Geraldine. I was intrigued.

I’ll start with The Accursed Mountains by Robert Carver. I really enjoyed this book and found it quite unputdownable. Published in 1998, it recounts a journey through Albania made by Carver in 1996, at the end of the brief hiatus between the collapse of communism and the civil war of 1997. There are brief, but interesting, references to Geraldine. Hitler sent a duplicate of his own car, a scarlet super-charged open Mercedes Benz, as a wedding present. A year later when they went into exile following the Italian invasion, they made in Carver’s words ‘a royal refugee’s progress through eastern Europe’ in this car with its white leather seats. At one point they were dive-bombed by German planes but Zog refused to leave the car believing that the pilots would not dare to fire on the Führer’s car. What Geraldine and her new born son, Crown Prince Leka, did while this was happening isn’t mentioned.

Eventually the King and his family arrived in London. They had escaped from Tirana with the Bulgari and Cartier jewels that had been Zog’s wedding present to Geraldine. He had also given her a miniaturised gold plated pistol. They also took strong boxes containing gold napoleon coins. Initially the royal family stayed at the Ritz but their money ran out and after the war they moved to Egypt before making their way eventually to South Africa, leaving a trail of bad debts.

To my surprise Geraldine made a another brief appearance in A Constant Heart, the War Diaries of Maud Russell 1938-1945. I bought this at Maud Russell’s home at Mottisfont, now a National Trust Property, where I went a few weeks ago to see an exhibition of Heath Robinson paintings. Though nothing to do with Queen Geraldine, this exhibition is well worth a visit.

A Constant Heart is a fascinating read. Maud was in contact with many writers, (she was almost certainly Ian Fleming’s lover), artists (and certainly Boris Anrep’s lover), musicians and politicians. Many influential people stayed at Mottisfont before, during and after WW2.

The Geraldine connection to the Russell family is through Maud’s sister Kitty who was married to a Hungarian, Count Anton Apponyi, who was related to Geraldine. After the royal entourage left the Ritz, the family Zog lived in Buckinghamshire until the end of the war. Maud Russell’s diary tells us that in January 1943 Geraldine and Maud were the chief Godmothers to Kitty Apponyi’s grandson, Anthony Stephen Michael. Maud informs us, ‘It wore the christening robe we had all been christened in and which comes from Mama’s family.’ This wartime christening took place in a ‘little house in Hampton Court Road’. I wasn’t at all sure what Maud, and certainly Geraldine, would have classed as a ‘little house’!

The only other reference to Geraldine is the help given to her by Maud’s sister. Kitty Apponyi worked for the Red Cross, helping people displaced by the war and it would seem from the reference in Maud’s book that the fugitive family of Zog were among those she helped.

This is all a bit sketchy, two books with brief, almost passing, reference to the first and only Queen of Albania. Geraldine died in 2002, in a military hospital in Tirana; she had been allowed back into the country a few months before she died. But I suppose that as a writer it is these odd coincidences, the serendipity, that cajoles and inspires me.

Verwood Pottery

My most treasured possession is a Verwood jug, or pitcher. Probably made during the early 20th century it stands about 36 cm high and has the low slung, bellied shape that is typical of the type. This jug was given to my parents in about 1960 by an elderly neighbour. She in turn had been given it by a friend of hers, who lived in Bournemouth. My parents always referred to the jug by the name of the original owner, Miss Metzgar.

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The pottery industry in Verwood has a long history. Clay from the area around what is now Verwood was used in Roman potteries that were scattered around Hampshire. The sandy soil in the Verwood area lies above a layer of clay, and this layer rises to just below the surface as the ground undulates. This makes extraction relatively easy and it is thought that the industry became established in a number of sites across the East Dorset heathland during the 11th and 12th centuries.

The pottery produced was simple and practical; earthenware jugs and bowls for everyday use. Some more unusual vessels were made , for example a jug with a handle on both sides of the neck to allow the container to be tied around the waist or slung across the shoulder.  These were known as ‘costrels’ or ‘Dorset owls’, and were used to carry liquids, perhaps cold tea, beer or cider as refreshment in the fields. Posy bowls, flower pots and vases as well as commission pieces were also produced. As can be seen in the picture of my pitcher above, some pieces were partially glazed. Others were fully glazed and a few were decorated. Today the most valuable are the decorated items, and they are the most rare. There are examples of Verwood pottery in many places including Salisbury museum, Poole Museum, the Priests House Museum in Wimborne and also in the Heathland Heritage Centre in Verwood. This is on the site of the last working pottery, Crossroads Pottery, that closed in 1952 and it is opposite our house.

Early in 2017 we visited Lincoln where we found an artisan pottery on Steep Hill. We mentioned that we came from Verwood. The potter said ‘I’ve got a Verwood pot!’ and to our surprise he delved through storage cupboards before emerging triumphantly with a beautiful Verwood bowl. He was intrigued to learn where we lived and our proximity to the last pottery, and also that during redevelopment of the pottery site a few years ago we were able to ‘liberate’ a few shards from the building debris.

The Crossroads Pottery the last of the businesses, but in its heyday there were potteries all over the area. Most of them have vanished completely, while some survive as mentions in Ordnance Survey maps and the records of the Dorset Natural History and Archaeological Society.

Until recently we had friends who lived in what had been a pottery until about 1906. The house and the garden are now ‘Scheduled monuments’ which meant that they were unable to alter the building or even to dig most of the garden. This was to protect a kiln mound, 20 metres in diameter and 3 metres high. They were allowed to mow the grass, so most of the garden including the mound was laid to lawn. There are known pottery sites under developments such as Black Hill in Verwood, and probably the remains of others are hidden under houses, roads and industrial sites across the area.

Here is a short film made in 1912 showing the potters at work in the Crossroads pottery.

Sunday evening Odyssey

It was one of those wonderful serendipitous and very rare occasions when I was glad I still watch television. Yesterday evening, completely by chance, I watched Akala’s Odyssey on BBC4.

Akala is a rapper, performance poet, writer and activist. He is also a knowledgeable and engaging presenter, talking about the complex person(s) that we know as Homer and the stories that he (or perhaps they) combined into the Odyssey sometime during the 8th century BCE. Some of these stories are much older, with links back to the Epic of Gilgamesh.

These poems were written to be performed, not read. And they weren’t performed in isolation; they would have been heard as a part of other festivals and rituals and would have been accompanied by music. We know what musical instruments from the time looked like; representations on pottery from the period enable accurate reconstructions of these stringed instruments. Of course we can’t know what music they played, but we can hear the sounds made by these instruments. The poetry and the music were the pop songs of the day, poetry was not elitist and separate from other branches of culture and everyday life, and it was an integral part.

There was so much in this programme, it was about history, archaeology, language, music, poetry and how people engage with culture. I’m going to watch it again.

Getting it down

I suppose I’m lucky. Usually I’m not short of ideas, of things to write about. Of course there are times when my mind goes blank and nothing comes out on the paper or keyboard, but mostly it’s the opposite. By this I mean that my head is full of characters and conversations, plots and outcomes. These all jostle around and only very rarely make the transition to a coherent piece of writing. I guess discipline, or lack of it, is part of the problem and indeed part of the answer. Given the right combination of ideas/characters/plot/time/ I can be very committed to an idea. On these rare occasions I sit down, ignore the phone, domestic demands and the view from my window and write. Phew! I can do it.

Sadly, more often than not the difficulty of sorting out the ideas becomes just too complicated. So I turn to something that is, for me, easier. I tackle a pile of ironing, cook a casserole, knit a sock, you get the picture. Then the ideas for writing that were all vying for attention become dissipated and ultimately lost.

But perhaps not lost for ever. The best ones roll away somewhere quiet and bide their time, waiting to re-emerge and find their place in a story, however that story is told.