When Britain Lost 11 Days

We’ve all had days when we’re a day ahead or behind the rest of the world, but imagine what it was like for the British in 1752 when they woke up and found they had lost 11 days overnight, and while yesterday was September 2, today was September 14, which was pretty tough on anyone due to celebrate a birthday during the missing period – and, presumably, on working people who would not have been paid for days which no longer existed.

The reason, in case you are wondering, is that this was when Britain and its colonies changed the calendar, replacing the Julian system introduced by Julius Caesar with the more accurate Gregorian arrangement established by Pope Gregory XIII. I’ve always found the concept a little difficult to grasp, but essentially the astronomical year is 365.24219 days long, and the Julian Year is 365.25 days long, which may not sound much of a difference, but over hundreds of years a discrepancy built up, so the calendar was out of kilter with real time.

Pope Gregory XIII, portrait by Lavinia Fontana

There’s still a very slight discrepancy between the Solar Year and the Gregorian Year, but there are Leap Years to be taken into account as well: an extra day every four years on February 29, as we all know. However, it’s not quite as simple as that, because if the fourth year falls in a centennial year which can’t be divided by 400 then it can’t be a Leap Year... Personally I’m thoroughly confused, but the end result is that we gain a day every 3,300 years, which is pretty good going really.

Even more confusingly, history books always used to claim that the ‘Calendar Act’ sparked rioting in the streets from angry residents demanding the return of their lost days, but there is no contemporary evidence for any kind of civil unrest and the tale seems to be the 18th century equivalent of an urban myth. The story may have been prompted by a misinterpretation of a Hogarth painting, An Election Entertainment, which shows a placard carrying the slogan ‘Give us our Eleven Days’.


Hogarth's An Election Entertainment

Britain was one of the last places to reform the calendar, as Pope Gregory XIII issued a Papal Bull calling for the change in 1587: he was concerned that even allowing for the fact that Easter is a moveable feast, the drift in dates meant it could no longer be celebrated at the right time, but the alteration also ensured correct timing for the spring and autumn equinoxes.

It’s sometimes forgotten, British ‘Calendar Act’ also changed the first day of the year to January 1st from March 25th, when contracts were drawn up and payments made. After the loss of 13 days from the calendar March 25th became April 6th (or old Lady Day), which is the start of our tax year.

I was going to suggest your commemorated this historic occasion by buying a new calendar for next year, but I've left it a bit lte to post this, and I guess most of the shops will be shut, so you'll have to force yourself to fall back on celebratory cakes and wine... or biscuits and tea... or anything else you fancy.

The Great Fire of London: Buried Cheese and Burnt Shoes

Today’s anniversary is the Great Fire of London, which began in the King’s baker’s shop at Pudding Lane in the early hours of September 2 – the Lord’s Day, as Samuel Pepys records in his diary. One of his maids woke him at 3am when she looked out of a window and spotted a fire in the Billingsgate area. Pepys took a look, thought it ‘far enough off’ to cause no worry and went back to bed. Little did he know at that stage of the devastation to come.

By the time he woke again at 7am the fire was still burning and 300 houses had been destroyed, so he walked to Tower Bridge, one of the affected areas, then spoke to the Lieutenant of the Tower of London, and viewed the scene from a high window before travelling to Whitehall where he broke the news of the disaster and advised the king that buildings in the path of the fire should be blown up, to create a firebreak and halt the flames.

Samuel Pepys

He spent the day watching and writing – much of his account of events over the next few days was scribbled on sheets of paper and transcribed into his diary when the catastrophe was over. As residents fled the flames they flung goods not just into boats, but into the river itself; others carried their possessions in carts and on their backs, while the sick were transported in carts. But, according to Pepys, many people stayed in their houses ‘as long as till the very fire touched them’ – and he paints a touching picture of the ‘poor pigeons ... loathe to leave their houses, but hovered about the windows and balconies till they were some of them burned, their wings, and fell down’.

The fire spread with alarming speed, due to a spell of dry weather, the high wind, and the Mayor of London’s failure to take decisive action at an early stage. Realising that his own home could be at risk Pepys put iron chests in the cellar; took many valuables to a friend at Bethnal Green; moved his wife Elizabeth to safety at Woolwich and buried his wine and ‘Parmezan’ cheese in the garden.

It’s the small details like this which bring the scene life: in the middle of the fire they had no fire to cook on, so he bought cooked mutton from a shop for a picnic with neighbours; he wrote a letter to his father, but couldn’t send it because the post office had burned down and he picked up a piece of twisted, melted glass from a chapel window.

Old St Paul's Cathedral in London, from An introduction to English church architecture from the eleventh to the sixteenth century, (Volume 2) by Francis Bond (1852-1918), London: H. Milford, 1913.

By Thursday the fire was burning itself out, but there were reports of some looting, and by Sunday life was beginning to return to normal. He ordered the cleaning of his house – and it began to rain, which was ‘good for the Fyre’. For months afterwards the ruins smoldered and smoked and were feared to be the haunt of robbers and ne’er-do-wells: Pepys protected himself by unsheathing his sword when he was driven through the city at night.

He himself seems to have suffered from some form of what we would now call post traumatic stress syndrome, and for months afterwards he suffered from nightmares and was terrified of fire and scared that his house would fall down.

John Evelyn

Pepys wasn’t the only person to leave us a record of the Great Fire of London. John Evelyn (who corresponded with Pepys) also kept a journal for many years, but has been undeservedly overshadowed by his fellow diarist. His report on the fire has an immediacy which is hard to match. He tells us: “The conflagration was so universal, and the people so astonished that, from the beginning, I know not by what despondency, or fate, they hardly stirred to quench it; so that there was nothing heard, or seen, but crying out and lamentation, running about like distracted creatures, without at all attempting to save even their goods.” 

He goes on to write: “The noise and cracking and thunder of the impetuous flames, the shrieking of women and children, the hurry of people, the fall of towers, houses, and churches, was like a hideous storm, and the air all about so hot and inflamed, that at the last one was not able to approach it.”

Evelyn also writes movingly about the aftermath of the blaze, and the difficulty of moving about London ‘clambering over heaps of yet smoking rubbish’ and losing his way as familiar landmarks had disappeared, while the ground was still so hot it burnt the soles of his shoes. Around Islington and Highgate he saw as many as 200,000 people ‘lying along by their heaps of what they could save from the fire’ facing hunger and destitution, but not asking for help. However, some help was at hand because Charles II issued a proclamation for the country to provide provisions for victims of the fire.

The new St Paul's Catherl designed by Christopher Wren. http://www.tourist-information-uk.com/st-pauls-cathedral.htm

Pepys and Evelyn both mention that conspiracy theories abounded (people obviously haven’t changed over the centuries) and the French, the Dutch, and Catholics in general were all blamed for starting the fire and planning an invasion. In addition to describing the horror of the event, both men also try to give a sense of the scale of the disaster, in which some 400 streets were destroyed, and thousands of people lost their homes and businesses. Before the end of month plans for the future were being discussed, and people (including Evelyn and Christopher Wren) put forward ideas for a new modern city with wide avenues and open squares replacing the narrow and crowded medieval roads, but owners insisted on keeping the sites of their destroyed property, so in the end rebuilding followed the old street pattern, although Parliament decreed that buildings had to be brick or stone and flat fronted.

Public buildings were created first, including Wren’s masterpiece, the iconic St Paul’s Cathedral, and he also designed the flame-topped Monument which stands at he junction of Monument Street and Fish Street Hill, near the spot where the fire started.

Should you wish to mark the day I suggest you do so with toasted cheese (from the fridge, not the garden), wine and new shoes!

September Celebrations

Well, it’s September already, and the year seems to have gone incredibly quickly: ahead of us lies Hallowe’en, Bonfire Night and, of course, Christmas. But let’s not think about that yet, since September has plenty of celebratory days.


Today, for example, is the Feast of St Giles (or St Gilles as the French call him, which somehow sounds and looks much more interesting than plain old Giles) when many towns used to hold fairs in his honour – and Oxford still keeps up the tradition. According to legend he spent many years as a hermit living in the French forest, where he was injured by an arrow while the King was hunting deer: some stories say he lived on milk provided by the deer. At any rate, as a result of this accident St Giles became associated with the sick and disabled, and many Medieval hospitals were named after him.

To mark his day I started re-reading The Leper of St Giles, by Ellis Peters (I love the Cadfael novels) and, since St Giles is reputed to have been a vegetarian I ate home-made vegetable soup, while considering September’s festivals.

The month takes its name from the word septem, the Latin for seven, as it was once the seventh month in the old Roman calendar (before the creation of July and August). The Anglo Saxons called it gerst monath after the barley which they harvested to make a barley brew which, I suppose, must have been similar to the barley wine I used to drink in my student days and haven’t touched since – but perhaps I could try some to celebrate September! Haefest, or harvest month, was another name for this time of year and there are all kinds of traditions connected with the harvest, including corn dollies, symbolic shapes made from the last sheaf of corn to be cut, which brought good luck in the year ahead.

Weather was (and still is) one of the most important factors in a good harvest, and consequently there are all kinds of rhymes and proverbs featuring weather predictions. The first snippet states: “Fair on the first of September, Fair for the month.”

September is also the month of the lost days. In 1752 when England replaced the old Julian Calender with the Gregorian Calendar corrections had to be made, which meant September 3 became September 14, and many people were very upset about their missing days, even though it made things more accurate by bringing the calendar into line with solar time.

Towards the end of the month, on September 23, is the Autumn Equinox, when the sun crosses the celestial equator and moves southward and day and night are almost equal. hemisphere.

And a week later, on the 29th, is the Feast St Michael, with all kinds of traditions and legends – like the one which says this is the last day to collect blackberries, because after this the Devil spits on them.

In fact fruit, especially apples, and vegetables are at their best this month, so take advantage by trying out new recipes – I shall post some of my favourites over the next four weeks, and I’ll also take a closer look at some of the customs and traditions associated with September.

Pic: From Saint Giles and the Hind, National Gallery.

Windy weather on Walney

Well, we’re back from the past and off to Windy Walney. To those of you who have never heard of Walney (which is understandable) it’s an island off the tip of Barrow which is (allegedly) the windiest lowland site in England. I can believe this. Whatever the weather is like elsewhere it is always blowing a gale on Walney – and to prove it dozens of wind turbines have now sprouted offshore.

Wind farms are controversial and many local residents hate them, but I rather like them. On bad days they loom out of the mist and murk, their edges so softened you wonder if you’re seeing them or not, and sometimes they seem to disappear completely, but on clear days they stand proud on the horizon, their blades turning and turning as they make electricity.

We stayed at South Walney, which is really isolated, with a salt marsh on the Barrow side, and an incredible beach with masses of sand and rock pools on the other. When you stand and gaze across the salt marsh, with the wind blowing and the birds calling you could be at the end of the world. The marsh stretches out ahead of you, bleak and desolate, but it has a strange kind of beauty and as the clouds race overhead with constantly changing light and shadow the ground below alters from minute to minute, turning through a spectrum of colours.

Another constantly changing feature is Piel Island with its ruined castle (built by the abbots of Furness Abbey) silhouetted against the skyline. At high tide Piel is a normal island, surrounded by water, but at low tide the sea retreats and the isle rises from the mud flats like a legendary lost land. There are guided walks over the sands (you couldn’t attempt this in your own) and one year we travelled in a kind of trailer, pulled by a tractor. When the tide is in you can take a boat trip from nearby Roa Island – but however you get there the sea dictates the length of your visit, and if you’re not on time for the return journey you’ll get left behind because the tide won’t wait...

Curiously, Lambert Simnel, who claimed to be Edward VI (one of the Prices in the Tower) landed here in 1487 on his way to do battle for the throne (he lost) and it is believed the custom of crowning the landlord of the Ship Inn as The King of Piel dates back to this period.

From Walney it’s only a short drive over the Victoria Bridge to Barrow itself, where we visited the Dock Museum, which has been created in an old ‘graving’ or dry dock where ships were repaired. It’s a very individual museum charting the history of the town which has been dominated by shipbuilding. There are models of the ships built here, an alien-looking diver’s suit, a draughtsman’s tools, and tableau showing some of the workshops and building processes, as well as details of the way the workers lived in the 19th and early 20th centuries (at Barrow Island you can see the old red sandstone tenement blocks where the workers lived, which are still in use today).

But there’s more to Barrow than ships. You can find out about Barrow in ancient times, its coal and iron mines, how people spent their leisure time, and the impact of the Second World War on the town, which was targeted by German bombers because of the shipyards. It would have been nice to see an exhibit about Nella Last, whose Mass Observation Diary formed the basis for Victoria Wood’s TV drama, Housewife, 49, but although the books of her diaries were on sale in the museum shop there seemed to be no reference to her. Despite that, it’s of my favourite museums which deserves to be much better known - and it’s free, has a small cafe, good parking and an area outside where you look at part of the old dock and admire the modern ‘waymarker’ sculptures.

No visit to Barrow could be complete without a visit to the ruins of Furness Abbey, but on the day we visited the weather was so bad that we got as far as the car park, and chickened out, unable to brave the torrential rain and high wind, which is a shame, because it is really beautiful there.

Back on Walney, surprisingly, the weather improved, so The Daughters and I walked along the sandy beach, exploring rock pools, and looking at the wind turbines. We used to hire a caravan here when they were younger, and it was all exactly as they remembered, so it gave them a chance to reconnect with their childhood and meet family they hadn’t seen for several years, which was nice.

As usual The Man of the House and I came home with a list of things we meant to do and didn’t; see the Druid’s Circle, visit the Abbey again, go round a nature reserve (there are two on Walney)... and we didn’t get up into the Lakes at all this year. But at least it means we have something to do on our next visit.

If you want to find out more about Walney, Barrow and the surrounding area, the following sites may help: www.dockmuseum.org.uk; www.english-lakes.com/furness_abbey.html; www.pielisland.co.uk; http://www.walney-island.com/

Is There Room For A Travelling Bath?

Travelling light, as I've said before, is always difficult, especially when you're heading off in an ancient campervan with limited space. Fortunately campervans, like caravans, are well designed so possessions can be stowed away in the smallest nooks and crannies, but it made me wonder how our ancestors managed when they went trekking across the world - often in great style and comfort.

Back in 1908 Constance Larymore wrote A Resident's Wife in Nigeria, detailing her life in Africa during the Edwardian era. It's packed with advice and includes a chapter on camping, although her experience was a little different to our holiday.

For a start she and her husband appear to have had an army of native servants and 'carriers' to care for them. Secondly they refused to drop their standards: not for them the cheap, plastic mugs, beakers and plates that we used. No, their china crockery included a teapot, milk jug and sugar basin, and they took glass tumblers and and sparklet bottles.

It would be unfair to say they took everything but the kitchen sink (we beat them there since the campervan has its own dear little sink and a water tank) but I am most envious of their tin travelling bath, with cover and strap, containing a wicker lining. I have tried and failed to discover what this was like. Was it a slipper bath? Or just a plain one, similar to those used by poorer folk? And did the wicker lining remain inside when you filled it with water, and if so did it leave marks on your skin while you sat there? Fortunately modern camp sites have excellent showers (the one at Bardsea was very luxurious, with underfloor heating) but a travelling bath sounds so intriguing.

Constance or, to be more precise, her servants, cooked on an open fire but the campervan is fitted with a small cooker (two rings, a grill and an oven with two settings - on or off) which is a definite advantage on camping Edwardian style, even though I used boxes and boxes of matches trying to light it, and for several days (until I got the hang of using it) our food was either burnt or almost raw.

Talking of food, according to Constance 'there is excellent bush-fowl and guinea-fowl shooting to be had' while villages can usually supply sheep and fowls, and she assures us that a mincing machine is 'indispensable' for dealing with meat which is to be eaten only an hour or so after it has been killed. Luckily there are plenty of shops within easy reach of our stopping paces so The Man of the House (unlike me he is a carnivore) was not required to hunt for sustenance.

Fresh eggs, maize, yams, sweet potatoes, fruit and guinea-corn were available from Nigerian villagers but, like us, the Larymores carried food supplies with them: sugar, tea, coffee, milk, jam and biscuits were as essential 100 years ago as they are today. Kerosene and candles were unecessarysince we have Calor gas and an electrical hook-up, and we passed on the lard, flour and baking powder - but the case of whisky sounds attractive, if somewhat heavy and probably prone to breakages. However, we did have a bottle of champagne (a gift, I hasten to add, and not our usual tipple, but very nice indeed, even though we drank it from our plastic beakers, and I doubt Constance would have approved).

Lacking a campervan, she and her husband travelled with two regulation officer's tents, each weighing 80lb - one for eating and daily living, the other for sleeping. They also took two canvas chairs, two armchairs, a table and their clothing was packed into tin uniform boxes, unlike our lightweight, soft canvas bags.

Surprisingly, perhaps, much of her advice still holds good. She recommends carrying stores in specially made wooden boxes, stressing:“It is no use having them larger, as you will only have to leave them half empty, on account of the weight, and things will tumble about and bottles get broken." Despite the cunningly designed storge space in our campervan, The Man of the House was constantly worried about weight and I ended up stuffing tea towels into the gaps between pots, pans, bottles and jars, to stop them rattling about.

She recommends a folding Panama hat, not too dissimilar to my brimmed crochet hat which keeps off both sun and rain at bay and can be scrunched up and stuffed into a bag. And while Constance wiled away her spare time with stitching and sketching I took some crochet and a lengthy Susan Howatch book.

We didn't follow her advice about placing all our clothing for the following day under our pillows each night to keep them dry and easily found. But we agreed with her that when things don't go according to plan, and you're tired, or cold 'a kettle can be boiled in a few minutes... and a cup of tea will make a wonderful difference'.

Back from Barrovia!

We have been on a Barrovian holiday, which sounds very exotic – like a little known Baltic nation, or one of those strange states that were once part of Russia. Or perhaps it could be a literary landscape providing inspiration for the kingdom of Barrovia which, in my imagination, resembles Anthony Hope’s Ruritania, with heroes and villains performing deeds of derring-do and beautiful maidens embroiled in romantic intrigue.

The reality is a little different: we went to Barrow-in-Furness, birthplace of The Man of the House who is, like all things which hail from the town, a Barrovian. That may sound dull, but the Furness Peninsula is as isolated and mysterious as any far-flung country or fictional realm. Jutting out into the Irish Sea on the very edge of the northern side of Morecambe Bay, it’s surrounded by water on three sides, while on the fourth the mountains of the Lake District form a barrier.

We took the campervan (our longest trip so far, in distance and time), staying for three days at Bardsea, and four at South Walney, and The Daughters joined us for a few days. The Bardsea site, set in an old quarry with its sides covered in trees and shrubs, was within walking distance of Ulverston but we were lazy and caught the bus into town (although we have walked in the past). Stan Laurel, one half of comedy duo Laurel and Hardy, was born here (in those days he was Arthur Stanley Jefferson) and the town boasts a statue of the pair, as well as a Laurel and Hardy Museum. Created by fan Bill Cubin it started with just a few photos and scrapbooks but grew and grew. Since Bill’s death his family still run the museum, but it has moved to a new home on the stage of the old Roxy Cinema complex.

We read about Stan’s early life. Born into a theatrical family he joined Fred Karno’s band of travelling performers, understudied Charlie Chaplin and went to America where, eventually, he teamed up with Oliver Hardy and became a legednd – but he always maintained his links with Ulverston. Best of all, we sat in the 15-seater ‘cinema’ and laughed uproariously at Tit for Tat, in which Laurel and Hardy open an electrical store and get involved in a dispute with the neighbouring grocer, played by Charlie Hall, whose birthday it was on the day of our visit.

The new museum is lovely, and there is certainly more room, but somehow I preferred the old one, housed in an alley off one of the main streets – it was more atmospheric, and I loved the way the walls and even the ceiling were covered with photographs, pictures and other exhibits, and the way visitors squashed into the smallest cinema I’ve ever seen to watch their idols’classic films.

Ulverston’s other claim to fame is its ‘inland lighthouse’, which stands at the top of Hoad Hill and is visible for miles around. Built to look like the Eddystone Lighthouse, it's 100 feet high and is a memorial to Sir John Barrow, another native of Ulverston, who became second secretary of the Admiralty, was famed for supporting voyages of exploration and scientific discovery, was a founder member of the Royal Geographic Society, and wrote biographies and a history of Arctic exploration.

Every time we visit Barrow we plan to walk up Hoad Hill, take a close look at the memorial and maybe even clamber up the 100 steps inside, if it is open. However, we always decide we’re too old, or too unfit, or the weather is too cold, too wet or too windy (please note, it's never too hot in the Furness Peninsula), or we just don’t have the time. Perhaps we'll muster up the energy one of these days.

Another place we’ve never got round to visiting is Druid’s Circle, a prehistoric stone circle at Birkrigg Common, close to Bardsea village, but there’s always next year. Bardsea itself is only small, but it has a beautiful woodland country park and right next door, growing in a narrow strip along the very edge of the shore is the amazing Sea Wood, with records dating back to the 16th century (which means it is officially classed as ‘ancient’). It is believed that the area was once owned by the ill-fated Lady Jane Grey, the Nine Day Queen; timber was felled to supply the shipyard at Ulverston, and in addition there was a copper mine here.

Today it’s managed by the Woodland Trust and its position, soil and plants have made it a Site of Special Scientific Interest, ensuring protection, despite the busy main road which runs alongside it. I love this spot. It’s a magical place, where the world retreats, leaving you in a mini-wilderness: the ground is strewn with boulders which lie beneath tangled brambles, rare wild flowers, gnarled oaks, sycamores and all kinds of other trees, many with branches encrusted with lichens. Sadly, when you’re self catering space is always at a premium, but next time I’ll pack a good plant book and see if I can finally identify some of the species – and I’ll make room for a bird book and binoculars as well.

The beach at Bardsea looks very flat, and has stretches of grayish shingle, with some kind of coarse grass – I think it’s called cord grass – at the top, where the solid land merges into the beach, and there’s a lot of sand, but there are also areas of mud flats and salt marsh, and at high tide the sea rushes in with surprising speed, which can make the area incredibly dangerous, especially in bad weather. It’s hard to look across this stretch of Morecambe Bay and not think of father and son Stewart and Adam Rushton who died out there in 2002, trapped on sandbanks by rising tide and thick fog which prevented police reaching them.

For further information about the Ulverston area visit these sites:
http://www.golakes.co.uk/places/towns/barrow-in-furness.aspx
http://www.laurel-and-hardy.co.uk/index.php
ttp://www.sirjohnbarrowmonument.co.uk/

Wonky wheels are Trolley Bad...

A trip to the supermarket has left me wondering who designed shopping trolleys, because I'd like to give him (or her) a piece of my mind. They must surely be one of the most infuriating objects ever invented. Is it just me, or does anyone else find they always pick a trolley with a wonky wheel? Take it back and pick another, and the replacement is just as bad - or even worse.

As you push the wretched thing around the supermarket, it seems to develop a life of its own. Head for the left, and it veers off to the right. Try turning right and, unsurprisingly perhaps, it moves to the left. If you keep going straight ahead, in the hope that nothing can possibly wrong, the wheel jams completely and your trolley refuses to budge – a definite handicap when you’re faced with a week’s shopping and you have to be elsewhere else in an hour’s time. In a variation on a theme today's trolley would only progress if it was shoved sideways, so there I was, desperately trying to steer the trolley while avoiding other shoppers and displays of goods.

And, while we’re on the subject, why don’t stores provide more smaller trolleys? They must be popular, because you can never find one – and they are essential if you are five foot nothing, because then the large trolleys are impossible to steer (with or without a wonky wheel).  With their handles at chest height, these monsters make your arms ache. They are too heavy, and so deep that to fish things off the bottom you have to stand on tip toe and practically fall inside as you stretch to reach your shopping.

Whatever the size of the trolley, and however difficult it is to push around the store, when you come to unload your purchases it will take off on its own with ease. Dare to release your grip on the handle for so much as a nanosecond while you unlock the boot and the contraption races across the car park with the speed of an Olympic athlete - and that's before you start trying to decant the contents into your vehicle.

And even worse than the idiots who designed the trolleys are the idiots who can’t be bothered to wheel them back to the storage areas and leave them scattered across the asphalt, creating a hazardous slalom course for other drivers.