The gardener just popped out...

By the time we'd wandered round to the huge, walled kitchen garden at Clumber Park, it was raining heavily, which was a shame as it was the most interesting bit (to me). We had a quick walk up the main path, through the beautifully colour-graded herbaceous borders, to the vast glasshouses. It was too wet to explore the vegetable gardens and orchard though I understand that, like most of the National Trust properties with gardens, the produce grown there supplies the NT café on the site with fresh fruit and vegetables.

There are stores and offices behind the glasshouses, some used by the current gardening team and some set out with old tools and pots to suggest how they would have been used in the glory days of the estate. It was nicely nostalgic, bringing back memories of my grandfather (who was a keen gardener) and my dad, who was more a dutiful gardener than a keen one but who used to supply our family with potatoes, beans, rhubarb and suchlike from the plot at the back of our home.

Clumber Park

Clumber Park is situated in the area of Nottinghamshire known as 'The Dukeries' because of the number of country estates found there. Once the home of the Dukes of Newcastle, it is now owned by the National Trust. The original mansion that stood there was demolished in 1938, but the Gothic Revival chapel of St Mary the Virgin remains, as do some of the outbuildings and a large, walled kitchen garden. The extensive estate is landscaped around a lake, and there are acres of woodland and heath to explore.

One of the entrances is famous for having the longest double avenue of lime trees in Europe. (I didn't manage to get a photo of it.) The recent TV coverage of the Tour de Britain cycle race showed the peloton streaming down the avenue and it brought back childhood memories of family picnics there, as it is only a few miles from where I was brought up. I suggested to my sister that we should revisit it and we had a happy few hours exploring, even though the weather was a bit dull and drizzly. Sadly, the chapel was closed for maintenance so we couldn't see inside.

A refuge of sorts

In the 1970s, the old Southwell Workhouse building was used as a temporary refuge for women and children, until they could be found more permanent homes. One of the rooms, used then as a 'bed-sit', has been left much as it was found when the National Trust took over the building in 1997. It has been furnished in line with what past residents and staff have recollected of this period of its history. When I visited, there was an exhibition telling some of the very moving stories of women who lived here in those days - battling through tough personal times but helped along by the friendship and support they experienced here.

My visit to The Workhouse really gave me food for thought. I've also been watching the TV series 'The Mill', a dramatisation of life in a Cheshire cotton mill in Victorian times. (It had poor reviews by the critics but I've found it watchable and interesting. It's based on the historical archive of a real mill.) It shows how closely the lives of some of the mill workers were linked to the old workhouses. When extra labour was needed, the mill-owners sent to the nearest workhouse to 'buy' people out. If you received an injury or proved otherwise unfit for work, you were likely to be sent back to the workhouse. Reasonably enlightened employers like Sir Titus Salt were not in the majority, and it made me realise afresh the importance of his vision for Saltaire, in the context of the times.

Images of The Workhouse

The Workhouse, Southwell, is quite sparsely furnished. Little remains of the original furniture and The National Trust in the restoration has chosen to evoke an atmosphere rather than try to reproduce exactly how it would have looked. But you can get an impression... The windows, though overlooking fields and the vegetable garden, have locks and the Governor would have chosen whether they were open or closed. With little heating apart from a few small coal fires, the building would no doubt have been freezing cold much of the time. The curious curved walls in the yard are the only latrines, four in total, one for each 'class' of resident - able-bodied men, able-bodied women, infirm men and infirm women. They are merely holes in the ground, draining to the outside where the 'night-soil collectors' could take away the waste.

Beds in cramped dormitories had straw mattresses and thin blankets, and a 'guzunder'! (Imagine the stench of unwashed bodies, urine.... and the bed bugs too!) TB was rife. Southwell's workhouse, however, took most of its water supply from rainwater collected from the roof into a huge underground storage tank, and being in a country area this was relatively pure, so records suggest that they did not suffer cholera outbreaks like many city workhouses. 

The women did laundry, cleaning, hard scrubbing of the stone floors (rather poignantly, you can see dark shadows where the beds would have been and lighter areas that have been well-scrubbed for years) and cooking. Vegetables (potatoes) were prepared in the damp cellars, which often stood inches deep in water and were lit only by tallows. Men tended the garden, broke stones up for roads, picked old bones clean for fertiliser and unpicked tarry old rope (oakum). Some of the work was purposeful but much was not, simply there to occupy the inmates with hard work and to act as a deterrent. 

The table shows the prescribed and cheap diet - enough to keep people alive but not enough that it made the workhouse an attractive option. Breakfast and supper were bread and gruel, a kind of thin porridge. Lunch (dinner) was broth (thin soup) and bread on three days, boiled meat and potatoes on three days and suet pudding on Saturday. Any misbehaviour (fighting, refusing to work, running away in the workhouse clothes) was punished, by having bread or potatoes instead of the usual meal. Repeated or serious offending was punished by solitary confinement in a dark windowless cell. Punishments were decided by the Board of Guardians who ran the workhouse, rather than by the Governor.

It all sounds horrendous by modern standards - but bear in mind that this was at the same time that Sir Titus Salt was building Saltaire, in order to get his workforce out of the disgusting, insanitary, unhealthy conditions in the crowded cities. So a clean, well-kept building in the countryside, with regular meals, might actually not have been so bad after all.

Stealing their souls

At Southwell's Workhouse, costumed volunteers demonstrate how life there was lived in the 19th century. The two ladies pictured looked - and smelled - a lot cleaner than I suspect the real inhabitants would have done! Nevertheless they kept 'in role'. When I asked permission to take the photo, they feigned amazement at my fancy gadget and worried that it would 'steal their souls'. I assured them it would only take their likeness. Made me think that being in the workhouse in the first place may well have been what stole their souls. But, as the guides were at pains to point out, for many people entering the workhouse was - literally - a life-saver. For the first time in their lives perhaps, women (segregated from the men) might have felt safe from abuse. Children were given an education, something that at that time they would not have received outside. Being able to read and write would have enabled them to make a much better life for themselves as adults, a means ultimately of escaping the workhouse.

Nevertheless, workhouses carried a terrible stigma. Many of the buildings went on to be used as hospitals or residential homes for older people. The maternity hospital I was born in had been the old workhouse. It later became a community hospital. My mother (and many others) hated the place; it still cast a dark shadow. Even after the building was pulled down and a new hospital built, she still dreaded ending her days in there. (Thankfully, she didn't.)

The Workhouse

I am enjoying revisiting old haunts and discovering new ones in my original 'home' area in Nottinghamshire. My late mother's apartment is up for sale but until we sell it (and it looks as though it may take a while) I am making the most of a very comfortable holiday home!

I had never been to the building shown above before... it's a Workhouse. (Nor, as far as I know, were any of my ancestors forced to sample its delights - though anyone who watched Una Stubbs on 'Who Do You Think You Are' on TV recently will have seen her exploring just such a connection.) This magnificent building, just outside Southwell, is now in the care of The National Trust, and it has a fascinating history.

Byronic beauty

This lovely scene at George Gordon Byron's home, Newstead Abbey, surely deserves to be accompanied by some quotes from the Romantic poet himself:

'There's music in the sighing of a reed;
There's music in the gushing of a rill;
There's music in all things, if men had ears;
The earth is but the music of the spheres.' 

'Are not the mountains, waves and skies a part of me and my soul, as I of them?'

'There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society, where none intrudes, By the deep sea, and music in its roar: I love not man the less, but Nature more, From these our interviews, in which I steal From all I may be, or have been before, To mingle with the Universe, and feel What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.'

'When the green woods laugh with the voice of joy, And the dimpling stream runs laughing by; When the air does laugh with our merry wit, And the green hill laughs with the noise of it.'

He also said: 'The English winter - ending in July to recommence in August'.
It certainly feels like that this year!

Ghostly gardeners

Scattered around the gardens at Newstead Abbey was an army of ghostly gardeners.  I really liked them.... I could do with a green-fingered handyman in my own patch at home!

Newstead's gardens

Newstead Abbey has wonderful gardens. Set in a wooded estate (once part of Robin Hood's Sherwood Forest), it has a series of lakes, formal ponds, several beautiful walled gardens, a Victorian fernery and an interesting Japanese-style garden. At one time, the gardens were managed by the son of some friends of my parents. He had spent some time in Japan and married a Japanese girl, so he knew something about Japanese gardens and did a good job of restoring it.

Newstead's large estate also holds a number of elegant houses, well-hidden from view among the trees. When I was a teenager, one of my friends lived in one of them; I was always envious!

Mad, bad and dangerous to know...

Lord Byron, considered by some to be the greatest romantic poet of his time, was Newstead Abbey's most famous owner. He inherited the estate from his great-uncle at the age of ten, and lived there at various times between 1808 and 1814. His life was short but tempestuous and filled with scandal: huge debts, numerous love affairs and a rumoured incestuous liaison with his half-sister. One of his mistresses, Lady Caroline Lamb, said that he was 'mad, bad and dangerous to know'. There is speculation that he may have suffered from bipolar disorder. He died, aged 36, from a fever contracted in Greece, where he went to fight against the Ottoman Empire in the Greek War of Independence. The equivalent of a modern-day rock star, Byron was popularly mourned but various institutions including Westminster Abbey refused to bury or honour him. He was buried in a church near Newstead. It was not until 1969 that a memorial was finally placed in Westminster Abbey.

Byron had a beloved Newfoundland dog called Boatswain, who died of rabies and was buried, with a monument (see photo) larger than that later accorded to its master! The inscription is from Byron's poem 'Epitaph to a Dog'.

Near this Spot Are deposited the Remains of one Who possessed Beauty Without Vanity, Strength without Insolence, Courage without Ferosity, And all the Virtues of Man without his Vices. This Praise, which would be unmeaning flattery If inscribed over Human Ashes, Is but a just tribute to the Memory of "Boatswain," a Dog Who was born at Newfoundland, May, 1803, And died at Newstead Abbey Nov. 18, 1808.

Newstead Abbey

More photos that I haven't found time to post - from my May visit 'back home'..... This magnificent old building is a few miles away from the house I grew up in, in Nottinghamshire. Its extensive grounds hold many happy memories for me..... of family days out, as well as youthful and magically romantic walks, hand-in-hand with my 'first love'. (Aww!)

Newstead Abbey started life as an Augustinian priory. In 1540 when Henry VIII dissolved the monasteries, it was given to Sir John Byron, who converted it to a private house. (An eagle lectern, thought to have been thrown by the monks for safekeeping into the abbey's fishpond, was dredged from the lake in the late 17th century and is now in Southwell Minster.) The house and its estate eventually passed, in 1798, to George Gordon Byron, better known as the Romantic poet Lord Byron.

A hint of magnolia

For the past week I have been staying 'back home', tackling some more of the necessary (slow but steady) sorting-out of the contents of my late mother's apartment, visiting relatives and generally having a bit of a nostalgia trip. One day I decided to tour round the area looking up the houses and places that are significant to my family story. This one, the red-brick house, belonged to my maternal grandparents and it was here that I was first brought home as a newborn. My grandmother very sadly died a few months before I was born. My parents lived here with my grandad until I was about three, when we moved to a new bungalow. The white-painted house next door was, in those days, a post office and general store and belonged at one time to my great-grandparents and then to my great aunt.

I was a bit wary of standing in the street taking photos of someone's house, but luckily the elderly owner was pottering around in the garden in the sunshine. I told him that it was the house I'd lived in as a child, and he looked disbelieving of me, saying that he'd lived there for 48 years. (I took that as a big compliment!)  The beautiful magnolia tree was not planted when I lived there, but I love magnolia trees so I was very happy to see it prettifying the house.

Nostalgia

A few weeks ago, Martin at 'Square Sunshine', one of my favourite blogs, wrote a thoughtful little piece about the power of the place where you were born, how it can soothe and calm one's soul.  I hope he won't mind me quoting from it: "Years ago, I unconsciously planted my flags of reminder. They still fluttered in the lanes and cast shadows on the flint.... There can be only one true place where my body and soul feel perfectly at ease. It's a force of attraction that's impossible for me to deny, an invisible, unbreakable tie that holds me fast as the world changes around and about. It may not be where I live, but it's home all the same."

Well, that (though I could never have expressed it so poetically) is exactly how I feel about north
Nottinghamshire.  Whenever I go back and see again the mellow old brick - so different from Saltaire where I live now - and the little alleyways between the houses, I am transported back to the comfort of my childhood.  I had a great aunt and uncle (on my mother's side) who lived in Southwell, in a red-brick terraced cottage across the fields from the Minster.  Whether it was the attraction of their dog, a wire-haired fox terrier; the fact that they still had an outside loo across the yard or the quaintly old-fashioned cottage with its real fire, rag rugs and three flying plaster ducks on the wall, I don't know - but I loved to visit them when I was a child.  Uncle Jim was over 100 when he died and Auntie Hilda was 97.  I'm glad I knew them.

The Southwell yard above is not the one where they lived but it reminded me of it.

A doll's house and a cooking apple

Southwell itself is an attractive little town, full of fine Georgian and Regency buildings (1700s - early 1800s) like this house on Church Street, opposite the Minster.  It reminds me of a doll's house, so symmetrical - you almost feel you could unhook the front wall and start re-arranging the furniture inside!

The town also prides itself as the birthplace of the Bramley cooking apple.  The story goes that sometime between 1809 and 1815, a young woman named Mary Ann Brailsford grew an apple tree seedling from a pip from an apple grown on a tree at the bottom of her garden.   The seedling went on to produce good fruit and in 1837 the house's then occupier, Matthew Bramley allowed a local gardener, Henry Merryweather, to take cuttings and register it as the Bramley Seedling.

Detail in stone and wood

I loved the textures of the stone pillars and carved wood of the main door into Southwell Minster. The pattern on the wood was almost like quilting. I think if I was a knitter (which I'm not) this might inspire me into creating a chunky scarf or jumper!  It reminds me of an Aran pattern.

Southwell Minster

I'm a bit late in posting this next series of photos, taken when I went down to visit my mother over the August Bank Holiday weekend.  It's always good to go back 'home'.  I tend to forget how attractive much of the Nottinghamshire countryside is.

One of the jewels in its crown is this wonderful old minster church in Southwell (pronounced by the locals as Suth'll) - the Cathedral and Parish Church of the Blessed Virgin Mary.  It stands on the site of a Roman villa and an Anglo-Saxon church.  The present building was begun in 1108 so in parts it is over 900 years old.  It's a lovely solid church, grand, with huge Norman arches inside, but also intimate in feel.  Its lead-covered 'pepperpot' towers are unique in England.

We went to see an exhibition of landscape photography in the Minster - 'Masters of Vision' - which was well worth the visit.  The photographs, by a number of 'emerging' British photographers - were rich and varied, from virtual abstracts to almost chocolate-box perfection.  Looking at other photographers' work both inspires and slightly intimidates me!  It's plain to see that technical excellence, a great eye for composition and sheer good fortune with the lighting conditions all play their part in making great photos.  We can learn the first two with a bit of effort, but when all three come together... well, I think it's the quest for those moments that makes photography such a seductive endeavour for me.

Toadstool

Autumn is of course the bumper season for fungi in our woods and fields.  I'm not good at identifying mushrooms and toadstools at all but I think this one is a Fly Agaric.  I was attracted by it as I think it's the archetypal toadstool of children's stories - the one that usually has an elf or a fairy sitting under it.  Sadly, just like the pheasant in the wood that I mentioned yesterday, the little creature ran away in fright, refusing to be photographed!

An English wood in autumn

I've been away for the weekend, visiting my mother who lives in Nottinghamshire (about 70 miles/112 km south of Saltaire).  It's an area with a very different visual character from my own locality.  The hills and moorland of Pennine Yorkshire give way to more gentle, rolling farmland and woods.  The weather for much of the UK has been glorious - cold, crisp sunshine - and the autumn colours seem to have peaked.  Beech trees in particular have especially vibrant red-golds this year.  I disturbed a cock pheasant when I stopped to take this photo.  It's a pity it clattered off in alarm, as it would have added a bit of extra interest to the image.

THANK YOU....
I'm very appreciative of all you lovely people who voted for my photo(s) in the 'Yorkshire Landscapes' competition.  Thank you!  As I understand it, they will count up the public votes and use them to draw up a shortlist, from which a panel of judges will then select the overall winner.  Some of the photos will also be featured in a book and a calendar, so even if I don't win it would be good to see a photo of mine in print.  There is no timescale given - but I will of course let you know the result when I find out.   Here's hoping...!