I was talking to a friend yesterday about banquets and was reminded about The Great Cawood Feast; how would you fancy being at this shin-dig?

The Great Cawood Feast

There on the banks of the Ouse is the small village of Cawood. Not always was this the sleepy place it is today. Two events render Cawood renown in history: one for sheltering, in his adversity, that ambitious churchman Wolsey and two; the place where George Neville held his great banquet.

The first mention of the place is about 935 after Athelstan's victory over the invaders at the battle of Brunanburgh. From the twelfth to the sixteenth century the castle was the home or shelter of the noblest in church and camp. Henry III and his Queen rested here, here dwelt Marguerite of France, second wife of Edward I.

Edward II made Cawood his home on several occasions. In 1319, Queen Isabella, being guest to the Archbishop at Cawood attracted two Scottish knights, Douglas and Randolph with a chosen body of troops to attempt a kidnap of the Queen. This was thwarted by the capture of one of the Scots troops who told of the plan and the Queen was spirited away.

There is still some parts of the old castle standing today and a great residence it was in days of old. This was the seat of the Archbishop of York and many great times has it seen.

None greater than when Archbishop George Neville, brother to Warwick the Kingmaker, was installed as Archbishop in 1464 and set about making his presence known by inviting all the local nobles to a gigantic feast.

Take a look at what made up the menu.......

Wheat - 300 quarters
Pikes & Breams - 608
Porpoises & Seals - 12

Oxen - 104
Muttons - 1000
Porks - 304,
Wild Bulls - 6
Veals - 304
Kids - 204

Swans - 400
Capons - 1000
Biterns - 204
Pheasants - 200
Woodcocks - 400
Egrittes - 1000
Quales - 100 doz.
Fowls - 200 doz.
Cranes - 204
Pigeons - 4000
Geese - 2000
Coneys - 4000
Heronshaws - 400
Partridges - 500
Curlews - 100
Plovers - 400
Peacocks - 104
Mallards & Teals - 4000
Chickens - 2000
Pygges - 2000

Stags, Does & Bucks - 500
Venison Pasties - 1500 heated - 4000 cold

Dishes of Jellies - 300
Baked Tarts - 4000,
Baked Custards - 3000
Hot Custards - 2000

Ale - 300 tuns
Wine - 100 tuns
Ypocrass - 1 pipe

This feast required 1000 cooks, 500 kitcheners and 500 scullions to prepare it and 1000 servants to wait on the guests.

Some time later George was stripped of his estates and imprisoned - doubtless this great banquet would be food for thought in his dark times.

I'd completely forgotten I had this image, which is a shame really or I think I might have entered it in La Spice's purple blogart competition...

These are the Montague Almshouses; the older of the two sets of almshouses in Chepstow.

They were provided in the will of Sir Walter Montague who died in 1615.

These almshouses originally housed 5 men and 5 women. The property was rebuilt after the Second World War, preserving part of the original facade.

Continuing my series of photographs from Chepstow and remembering my Almshouses post from a couple of weeks ago, I thought I’d blog the Chepstow almshouses this morning.

To the best of my knowledge the two sets of almshouses I’ll blog here today are the only almshouses in Chepstow. I want to start with this magnificent building; the Powis Almshouses.

The town council web has this building erected n 1721, but the plaque built into the outer wall disagrees.

A little hard to read, the plaque says:

This alms house was erected and endowed anno dom 1716 by the sole charity of Thomas Powis late of Enfield in the county of Middlesex vintner a native of this town for the reception and maintenance of six poor men and six poor women inhabitants of this town and parish for ever.

Whatever the truth of the construction, the Powis Almshouses are truly magnificent and the more recent of the Chepstow almshouses.

One of my favourite shops in Chepstow is this one; Glance Back Books.

I really love this place. It has a real higgledy-piggledy feel to it as you walk through the door, but don’t be fooled. As you explore it becomes apparent there really is order among the chaos.

There are old books, postcards, maps, coins, banknotes, stamps and even car badges to attract the eye and empty the wallet. An emporium of the past... just the thing for an old dinosaur like me.

The bandstand is empty: anyone fancy joining me to make a little beautiful music this grey Friday evening?

William Forster’s 1870 Education Act opened up the possibility for locally elected School Boards to operate schools in the UK.

These new board schools could charge fees but they were also eligible for government grants and could also be paid for out of local government rates.

Board schools provided an education for the five to ten age group, and in some areas pioneered new educational ideas.

If you look around you may find a board school in your local area, although like this one in Chepstow you may find the building is no longer used for education.

I seem to have spent a lot of time driving up and down the country just recently... it’s that time of year for any parent with a child studying at a non-local university.

So anyway, here’s the thing... a couple of weeks ago a certain police force had targeted speeding drivers on a stretch of the M5. Talk about overkill, this was simply crazy... there were speed checks every few miles... I counted seven units on the southbound carriageway and noted there were units on the northbound side also.

Well overkill or not, Mr Plod was obviously doing good trade that day; there were drivers being pulled for speeding at most of the units. I have little sympathy for anyone who got tagged that day, especially given the high profile of the speed traps.

On Wednesday afternoon as I was driving south on the M1 I hit a band of torrential rain and I do mean torrential. Visibility was reduced by the downpour and made worse by the kicked up spray. The amount of water on the road surface was amazing and even with traction control etc. there’s that horrible moment you get as you realise you’re driving too damn fast and the car feels ‘light’ on the road.

Like all the other sensible drivers, I slowed down and was using my headlights. Concentrations levels, always high on the motorway anyway, were peaking... three lanes of traffic all travelling at a fairly constant speed and everyone giving his neighbour plenty of room...

That’s when Asshole appears! Some cretin in a BMW 5 series (why is it always Beemers these fools drive?) driving like a maniac and weaving in and out of the traffic lanes... no idea whether the driver was male or female, since you really couldn’t see... was there a copper anywhere to be seen? No, of course not!

They always used to say, “There’s never a bobby around when you need one” and that was certainly true on Wednesday. The driver of that BMW was risking not only her/his own life, but also the lives of everyone s/he weaved around. So okay they were in a hurry, but then so was I... only I wasn’t in a hurry to die and I doubt many of the other drivers using the motorway were either.

Different motorways, different police authorities, different driving conditions... it still begs the question though, why one piece of motorway is targeted for speeding motorists on a beautifully sunny Saturday afternoon and another appears to be devoid of law enforcement on a torrentially wet Wednesday, when there’s far more chance of an incident...

Every time these unthinking drivers get away with their crazy antics encourages them to do it again and again until some poor sod gets creamed; come on guys, let’s have some sense and consideration on Britain’s roads!

Okay... rant over.

What do you know about the topic of suffrage in the UK?

I’m not talking about votes for women here, although that comes into it of course. No, what I’m talking about is the right of every man to vote freely, without pressure and in secret. I’m talking about the original people’s charter...

The "People's Charter," drafted in 1838 by William Lovett, was at the heart of a radical campaign for parliamentary reform of the inequities remaining after the Reform Act of 1832. The Chartists' six main demands were:

1. votes for all men;
2. equal electoral districts;
3. abolition of the requirement that Members of Parliament be property owners;
4. payment for M.P.s;
5. annual general elections; and
6. the secret ballot.

The Chartists obtained one and a quarter million signatures and presented the Charter to the House of Commons in 1839, where it was rejected by a vote of 235 to 46. Many of the leaders of the movement, having threatened to call a general strike, were arrested. When demonstrators marched on the prison at Newport, Monmouthshire, demanding the release of their leaders, troops opened fire, killing 24 and wounding 40 more. A second petition with 3 million signatures was rejected in 1842; the rejection of the third petition in 1848 brought an end to the movement.

The leaders of the Chartist march on Newport were John Frost, William Jones and Zephaniah Williams; they’re regarded as heroes now of course, but at the time they were thought of rather differently...

Any ideas

Being an old town with a long history, walkers touring Chepstow can still find remnants of a bygone age.

Cobbled streets, so often a feature of modern pedestrian precincts, were rather less even years ago, but nonetheless effective.

This is Hocker Hill Street, at the lower end of which is the Five Alls public house. The Five Alls is a traditional pub sign; the Soldier who fights for all, the Priest who prays for all, the King who rules for all, the Lawyer who pleads for all and the Labourer who works for all.

The Five Alls was always a favourite of mine... stepping through the door was like taking a step back in time.

Avenues and alleyways
Small streets in any town
Winding between the buildings
Taking walkers up and down...

Shaded tree-lined passages
Guided between rails
Cool on heated summer days
Their welcome never fails...

So I'm off for an early night and intend sending a few towards the ceiling...

G'night all

Any working waterfront has a selection of pubs, warehouses, storage, etc. and of course Chepstow was no different. Some of the buildings may have changed use these days, but they're still there.

At least some of the public houses are still working pubs.

These days the term waterfront tends to conjure images of marinas, luxury flats, executive cars... years ago a waterfront tended to be somewhat seedier.

Chepstow has a riverfront today where part of the town’s old harbour-side meets the River Wye, but in past times Chepstow had a real working waterfront with shipping in and out on a daily basis.

The area to the left of the river wall here was once a dry-dock where ships were repaired. The dry-dock has been in-filled and a garden and roadway run where it once was. Chepstow also had its own shipyard, but that was further down river where Fairfield-Mabey Ltd are now. Fairfield-Mabey constructed sections of the first Severn Crossing, which now carries the M48.

What remains of a slipway to the river can still be seen at the far end of the old dry-dock. Here it is below this rather battered white boat. The slipway, when cleared, can still be used for launching small craft.

I’ll be posting more images of Chepstow’s old waterfront shortly.

Six o'clock already... Where has the day gone? I still haven't managed my first post of the day... ho hum...

I'll be back in a bit

One of the images I submitted to La_Spice's Colour Purple competition was this one of the watchtower at Portcawl harbour...

But did you really believe the watchtower was purple? No, of course you didn't... I cheated!

The watchtower really looks like this...

The camera never lies... except when someone like me decides to 'manipulate' the things the camera sees.

Feel free to click the images for larger views if you're so inclined.

If you don't know how this was done and would like to know, I'll happily blog the method.

It's one of those soft wet days in Welsh Wales today; you know the sort, the ones where it doesn't look as if it's raining much, but will drench you to the skin if you venture out in it. Still at least it isn't cold.

One of the rusulting factors of rainy days like today are the numerous small, sparkling streams that grace the Welsh landscape.

I was directed towards Thomas Hardy's The Darkling Thrush when I posted Gray's Elegy yesterday; I'm so pleased I was too.

For anyone else who, like me, is ignorant of Hardy's work I thought I'd post The Darkling Thrush here.

The Darkling Thrush

I leant upon a coppice gate,
When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter's dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled vine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.

The land's sharp features seemed to me
The Century's corpse outleant,
Its crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind its death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervorless as I.

At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead,
In a full-throated evensong
Of joy illimited.
An ancient thrush, frail, gaunt and small,
With blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew,
And I was unaware.

Thomas Hardy

Yesterday I blogged a bit about the old road bridge at Chepstow; the River Wye marks the traditional border between Gloucestershire and Monmouthshire as marked by the detail from the centre of the bridge.

The county border also marks the border between England & Wales.

The poem that inspired my photographs of the church-yard in Chepstow and reproduced here for Lonemum and anyone else interested enough to read it.

"Elegy Written In A Country Church-yard"

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
No children run to lisp their sire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share,

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the Poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Awaits alike th' inevitable hour:-
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the fault
If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn or animated bust
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre:

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;
Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast
The little tyrant of his fields withstood,
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.

Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
And read their history in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbad: nor circumscribed alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;
Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.

Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply:
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing lingering look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, --

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
"Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn;

"There at the foot of yonder nodding beech
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high.
His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove;
Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,
Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.

"One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,
Along the heath, and near his favourite tree;
Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

"The next with dirges due in sad array
Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne,-
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."

The Epitaph
Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth
A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown.
Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth,
And Melacholy marked him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heaven did a recompense as largely send:
He gave to Misery all he had, a tear,
He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode
(There they alike in trembling hope repose),
The bosom of his Father and his God.

By Thomas Gray (1716-71)

I've blogged about Chepstow bridge previously, but thought I'd give it another go with a little more detail on this occasion.

The Normans built a bridge over the River Wye at Chepstow in the 13th century and wooden bridges spanned the river up until the beginning of the last century when the present iron bridge was built.

Chepstow magistrates, who inspected the wooden bridge in 1810, decided that it was "in decay" and asked for estimates to patch it up. John Rennie, the engineer who built Waterloo Bridge in London, submitted a report relating to the repair of the bridge, but recommended replacement rather than repair and put the cost of a new bridge at £41,890. This that was considered too expensive. No further action took place until an accident caused damage to the bridge and the loss of six lives.

The contract for the bridge was let on 14th June, 1814, at an estimated cost of £17,150: the figure eventually rose to almost £20,000, but was still half the cost of John Rennie's 1810 estimate. The bridge was made of cast iron, the total length being 372 feet (113m) with the span of the centre arch being 112 feet (34m).

The new iron bridge was built by John Rastrick of the Bridgenorth (Shropshire) firm of Hazeldine, Rastrick & Brodie. The design has been credited to Rennie, but Rastrick is understood to have produced a much more elegant version of the plans that Rennie submitted for the repair of the old bridge.

The bridge was opened on Wednesday, 24th July, 1816, with an elaborate form of ceremony: "Company to assemble in the Square at One o'clock. The Procession. A pair of Colours. Engineer and Surveyor. Workmen in Divisions according to their order, walking two and two. A Pair of Colours. Band of Music. Solicitor. Magistrates walking abreast Seniors in the Centre. Gentlemen, Farmers, Tradesmen, and others who may chuse to join the Precession walking two and two".

And here it is...

Chepstow Road Bridge

...unfortunately I wasn't available to photograph the procession in 1816.

No matter what has been built around it, in brick, stone, steel or timber, the overbearing presence in Chepstow is the castle built by William fitzOzbern in 1067.

The castle wasn't built all in one go of course, construction taking place over several centuries until the final modifications in the Tudor period.

There's no doubt in my mind though, Chepstow castle represents complete and total domination of the surrounding area.

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

...whether coach-houses have garages?

Well this one certainly does!