Remember

They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

From Laurence Binyon's poem For the Fallen, written September 1914

Anthem for doomed youth

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, -
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

Wilfred Owen
Owen was killed at Ors, near the French Belgian border, on 4 November 1918, at the age of 25.

Remember the youth

They shall not grow old as we who are left grow old. Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun, and in the morning, we will remember them.

Rest eternal grant unto them O Lord, and let light perpetual shine upon them.

Have a think about this.

It is said, and who am I to disagree, that the average age of the soldiers in World War II was 26.

Yes, 26.

So at 26 what is uppermost in the mind of the average male? Yes, that's right, sex. Now this could be said of the average 26 year old female, but I'm not female and I can't say for certain but will welcome comments from those better placed than me to agree or disagree.

So anyway, that's why this year, as a tribute to the youngsters who died for me and for you so that we might be free and be able to do all the things we now take for granted, I include the image on the right. With poppies. And a lady.

And I mean no disrespect.  Those who know me will know this to be true.

And for those who wish to know why we wear poppies....

In Flanders Fields

by John McCrae, May 1915

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Inspiration for the poem

During the Second Battle of Ypres a Canadian artillery officer, Lieutenant Alexis Helmer, was killed on 2 May, 1915 by an exploding shell. He was a friend of the Canadian military doctor Major John McCrae.

John was asked to conduct the burial service owing to the chaplain being called away on duty elsewhere. It is believed that later that evening John began the draft for his famous poem 'In Flanders Fields'.

Seeing everything

It was Doors Open Day in Glasgow at the weekend, and this year I was busy on Saturday (singing at a wedding in Stirling where the bride was almost 45 minutes late!) and decided not to bother with much on the Sunday, but the one thing I went to see was well worth it.  The Britannia Panopticon Music Hall in Trongate is the oldest surviving music hall in Britain and possibly the world, they say, and although in a state of disrepair, to say the least, you can still get a sense of what it must have been like.

The photo above is taken from the stage looking out.  In its day, which ranged from 1857 to 1938, that stage played host to many of the big stars of the time such as Dan Leno, Harry Lauder, Marie Loftus, Charles Coburn, Harry Champion and W. F. Frame and in 1906 saw the stage debut of sixteen year Arthur Stanley Jefferson who was the son of the theatre manager.  So what, you say.  Well young Arthur was later to be more famously known as Stan Laurel. 

So for the Stan Laurel link alone it's an historically significant building, and it's well worth a visit on one of their occasional open days.As well as the site linked to above, they have a Myspace site which I haven't looked at properly yet but may be worth a visit.

In addition to the acts on stage the attic was converted in 1906 to a waxworks, carnival and freak show, and the basement contained a zoo.  So when you add 1500 working class men straight from work into the equation, the term "the roar of the greasepaint and smell of the crowd" doesn't seem quite so silly!

They have a long way to go in the renovation, but I suspect they'll get there, if the enthusiasm of the volunteer guides is anything to go by.

Oh, and the title of this post is from the translation of the Greek word Panopticon:

Pan = everything, Optika = to see

More history

St Mary's Cathedral, Glasgow, circa 1994, originally uploaded by Lay Clerk.

Here's another historic one of the choir of St Mary's Episcopal Cathedral in Glasgow, taken around 1994 by an elderly gentleman called Monty who was forever taking such photos around the cathedral on an ancient camera. Thanks to gordonrasmith for reminding me of his name, which I had forgotten.

There are some of the same people in this one as were in the one on my earlier post relating to the tour of Scotland of 1990, and some new people too. All friends though.

Happy days.

Choir tour 1990

St Mary's Cathedral, Glasgow, choir tour 1990, originally uploaded by Lay Clerk.

Just been doing some admin on Flickr, and came across this, one of my favourite photos. Favourite because this was a good time in my life. A very good time indeed!

In this choir tour of 1990, to aid the cathedral restoration fund, we visited all seven Scottish mainland Episcopal (Anglican) cathedrals in one day, and sang a full unaccompanied choral service in each with completely different music each time.

What a day!

And it all started from an idea mooted in the pub after Evensong. La Taverna it was, now called The Lansdowne, not that it matters!

It was the idea of Frkenny I seem to remember, or if it wasn't his direct idea then he was intrinsic to the whole plan. He's the one holding the teddy bear in the front row. I identify him only because in his own Blog he seems happy enough to have his photo published.

There are others in the photo who have an online presence these days, either by their Blogs, like ChickPea, or on Flickr, like gordonrasmith, or suchlike, but they, like me, choose relative anonymity so I shall not identify where they are in the photo, or indeed where I am. Several of them in the photo are also my friends on Facebook, which as an aside I have found to be a really good method of re-contacting old friends, and keeping up to date with what they're up to.

From memory, we started with Mattins in Oban at around 6am, having travelled there the night before, then an exciting (!) coach ride (with some nursing hangovers) up to Inverness for more Mattins, then Aberdeen for Eucharist, Dundee for Evensong, Perth for probably Evensong again, Edinburgh for more Evensong, and back to Glasgow for Compline at something like 10pm.

Now that I type that it doesn't seem right. The cathedrals and the order we visited them is right, but I'm not sure if the type of service I've quoted for each is correct, there seem like too many Evensongs! Perhaps someone can correct me, or reassure me that I'm right?

Update 1845hrs: Thanks to Pencefn for correcting me. Edinburgh was Compline, not Evensong.

According to AutoRoute, it's about 392 miles, and if you click the map you can see the route in a little more detail. We went clockwise.

The final Compline back at a packed St Mary's cathedral in Glasgow was very moving, and there were few of us who could actually sing the words of the hymn "The day Thou gavest, Lord, is ended" through the lumps in our throats and tears in our eyes. Or was that just me? No, I suspect not!

A recording still exists, I have one, but it was never meant for public distribution, since the quality is rather erratic, because due to the time scales involved we pretty much robed on the coach as we approached each cathedral, ran off and into the building where we processed straight into the service and sang it, processed out again and climbed straight back onto the coach. This left very little time for PH, and DW who are professional, no make that VERY professional, sound engineers to rush in and set up the recording equipment as we arrived and dismantle it afterwards before rushing back onto the coach. Oh, and they sang in the choir too! And I don't mean to suggest it's only the recording which was sometimes erratic, it was sometimes the singing too!

Many of the people in the photo above remain my closest friends, although for some we don't see each other terribly often. At the time though they seemed much more than friends, we were a family. Well, that's how it felt to me anyway.

Now that I look closer in fact, I can see that in the photo are my two best friends and three others who I consider amongst my very closest friends, one ex wife (still friends), one significant ex girlfriend (still friends), the man who generously and selflessly allowed me to live rent free in his flat (which he was rarely in) when my first marriage broke up and I was going through an extremely dark period in my life, the man who first introduced me to choral singing in the mid 1970's when he persuaded my brother and me to join the local church choir and who later persuaded me along to St Mary's cathedral choir, and the two men from whom I learned what little I do know about choral singing from 1983 when I joined the cathedral choir.

As well as that, if that weren't enough, there are people with whom I've shared some of the best days of my life (so far) with, some I've shared various levels of, shall we say, kisses and cuddles with (females, that is), and some who've supported me through the worst days of my life.

Occasionally the question is raised "in your mind, what age do you feel you are?" and there are various answers to that, usually round about the 18-21 mark. My answer is always "around 27-28" and I think that's because that's when I felt really happy, felt like I was starting to achieve something and thought things would remain exactly as they were. This photo was taken in 1990. I was 28.

This photo is a microcosm of a very significant part of my life.

And that's why it's a favourite.

Dubai

I came across the following series of photographs of Dubai a few days ago. They were all taken from pretty much the same location and looking in the same direction over a 17 year period, and they go to show the incredible growth of the Emirate. I visited Dubai in 2002, not long before the second photo was taken, and was struck by the amount of building work which was ongoing, and by all accounts it's been increasing exponentially since then.

You can see the same row of tower blocks in each photo. It's Sheikh Zayed Road, which runs all the way to Abu Dhabi, another of the United Arab Emirates.

Update 11th December: I should have mentioned when I first posted this, I didn't take these photos and I don't know the provenance of them, so if anyone can oblige with the details then I'll happily credit the photographers, or even remove this post if they wish.

The first one's from 1990


The second one's from 2003


The last one's from 2007

Remember

They shall not grow old as we who are left grow old.

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

At the going down of the sun, and in the morning, we will remember them.

Donate to the poppy appeal now by clicking this link

Heroes

Was in the Bier Halle Republic in Great Western Road last night for a wee drink and bit of food prior to attending Evensong. It was £4.15 for a pint of Kronenbourg Blanc. Lovely beer, but outrageous prices!

Evensong was good, with the choir singing Durufle's Ubi Caritas. Ubi caritas et amor, Deus ibi est. Where charity and love are, God is there.

In the morning, having woken stupidly early for a Sunday, I quit the house and headed towards town carrying my new camera, determined to start playing with it properly and get used to the buttons and dials so that I don't have to think about what to press and when. I got as far as the Kelvingrove Art Gallery and the Transport Museum, which are across the road from each other, but since neither opened until about 11am I confined myself to a wander round outside.

I've seen the war memorial outside the Art Gallery a few times, but only from a distance, and I discovered to my surprise that it is actually dedicated to the Cameronians (Scottish Rifles) which was a Lanarkshire based regiment, now long disbanded, which my grandfather (see photo below) joined the TA version of on 29th March 1929 as a Rifleman, leaving again on 19th January 1930 before enlisting with the Scots Guards on 11th August 1930 and serving with them for exactly 3 years before being transferred to the Army Reserve on 10th August 1933. His certificate of service book from this time says he was a clean, sober and hard working man who was honest, willing and reliable. It also says he was a good footballer!

In another subsequent certificate of service book for him, he kept the same army number (3242219) and rejoined the Scots Guards upon mobilisation on 1st December 1939, leaving again on 19th September 1944 after 4 years and 293 days. By this time he was a sergeant, his conduct was again listed as very good, and he was described as a clean, honest, sober and hardworking non-commissioned officer who carried out his duties in a satisfactory manner during his service with the colours.

Clearly he was mobilised due to the outbreak of World War II but left before it was finished. The reason given for his discharge was that he ceased to fulfil army physical requirements. I understand that he caught Tuberculosis, and in my lifetime I know he spent some time in Erskine Hospital, which actually isn't too far from where I now live, which is for injured, disabled and ill service personnel. I have a photo of me taken by him when I was a small child lying at the foot of his hospital bed in Erskine.

In total he spent 7 years and 293 days with the colours, and 6 years and 112 days in the reserve, making a total of 14 years and 40 days service. He enlisted with the Cameronians when he was around 22 years old, joined the regular army in the Scots Guards at about 23, was mobilised at the start of the war when he was about 32 and was invalided out when he was about 37. In fact he, and his contemporaries, obviously packed a lot of experiences into a small number of years around that time.

So anyway, what was I saying? Oh yes, the Cameronians memorial. The photo at the top of the page is a part of the memorial.

I've just this minute been contacted via Friends Reunited by a former school mate who I haven't seen since about 1979. He's thinking about arranging a bit of a reunion, which I'd guess will be no more than meeting in a pub rather than hiring a hall etc, and he's looking for email addresses for our contemporaries. Makes me realise that I've lost contact with all of them, although recently through Facebook I've made contact with a couple. So I think I'm now going to go onto Friends Reunited and start messaging people to try to re-establish some contact. It was all such a long time ago!

Requiescat in Pace

It's that time of the year again. Remember those who gave their lives so that you, yes you, can be free.

They shall not grow old as we who are left grow old. Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun, and in the morning, we shall remember them.

Earlier this year I visited Tyne Cot cemetery in Belgium, near Ypres. That was an exceptionally sobering experience and I would urge you to visit one of the, sadly, many similar places dotted around. The images on the right and below are from Tyne Cot.

Gunpowder, treason and plot

Last Monday, 5th November, was bonfire night, when in the UK celebrations are traditionally held over a failed plot to blow up the houses of parliament in 1605.

The Gunpowder Plot, as it is known, was an attempt by English Catholics to blow up the Protestant King James I of England and VI of Scotland and his largely Protestant aristocracy.

Guy Fawkes, who as an aside was baptised in the church right next to York Minster, was the explosives expert who was to set the charge. But he got caught. And executed. But not before he was tortured by his captors, a fate which could only be authorised directly by the King or the Privy Council. The King wrote in a letter:

"The gentler tortours are to be first used unto him et sic per gradus ad majora tenditur, and so God speed your good work"

So Fawkes and his co conspirators were to be hanged, drawn and quartered.

Now, every year on 5th November, bonfires are lit, Guy Fawkes is burned in effigy and fireworks are launched, all to keep up the tradition of killing Catholics.

The photo was taken by me last Monday from a bridge over the River Clyde, looking towards Glasgow Green where the council had their annual fireworks display.

Jacques Brel, Tintin, waffles, Poirot ............

So what was Belgium like? I hear you ask rather belatedly. I'm glad you asked, so I'll tell you. It was bloody hot for a start! And it was rather a struggle on the crutches, of which more anon, but it was a very enjoyable weekend.

No problems on the outward bound flight on Friday, and rather annoyingly no one took the trouble to open the envelope and read the medical certificate which I had been forced to piss about getting. Still, I had it with me just in case.

So we got there uneventfully and we (my dad and me) were collected by my brother at Charleroi, having waited for about an hour in unventilated, un-airconditioned, sweltering heat for our bags to be offloaded and appear on the carousel. Tempers were running a bit high amongst some of our fellow passengers, and it turned out that the baggage handlers (amongst others) were on strike at Brussels airport which meant that Charleroi was not only busier than usual but was subject to the handlers there apparently being arsy in support of their colleagues.

So once we got into the car we decided there was no point in wasting time going to the hotel, so we headed towards Brussels, stopping enroute at the battle of Waterloo memorial. Very little mention of Wellington, but lots of Napoleon and they clearly were unaware that the short arse had lost the battle! The photo on the right is of Napoleon and the way he is depicted standing with his arms folded he looks like he's having a bit of a hissy fit. You can't actually see a petted lip, but I think it's there!

After a brief stop at Waterloo we carried on to Brussels, and found ourselves near the Grand Place eating lovely sandwiches on hot bread.

A bit of a wander round and we saw the famous pissing boy, sorry, Mannequin Pis, which frankly isn't worth crossing the street to look at, never mind travelling to Belgium. What was worth looking at though was the beer shop nearby which has an unfortunate name. I'm sure they don't actually sell Piss Beer!

Brussels is full of cobblestones. Said cobbles are rather uneven with big gaps between lots of them. I am on crutches. Crutches have rubber bits on the end to stop them slipping. If you put a crutch into one of the gaps between cobbles often enough then the metal pole which is the actual crutch eventually will pierce the rubber stopper on the end and poke through. If you then use the crutch on stone or tiled surfaces it will slide. This isn't hypothetical. Day one and one of the crutches was knackered, causing me for the rest of the weekend to be very careful where I put the crutch, careful not to angle it out too much (keeping it as vertical as possible) and careful not to go too fast or too far for too long. It was much harder work than it would have been with undamaged crutches. When I got back home I went to the fracture clinic and they changed the ends in about 30 seconds. What a difference!

Anyway, Brussels was a nice city, the little we saw of it (see reason above) but very busy.

On Friday evening we had dinner in the hotel in Charleroi. It was acceptable but unexceptional, although it was nice to be able to eat outside in the still-warm weather.

On Saturday we decided we'd head to Ypres and have a look at a war cemetery as well as the city itself. The cemetery we chose was Tyne Cot, which is the largest of them with around 12,000 soldiers of the Commonwealth Forces buried there. About 70% (that's over 8,000) graves have no names on the headstones but are marked simply "Known unto God" and the wall at the rear of the cemetery lists 35,000 names of soldiers who died but have no known grave. These are numbers. The numbers are staggering. But more staggering are the rows and rows of identical white Portland stone headstones. A lot of men died near Ypres. You may have heard of the battle, no, slaughter, at Passchendaele. That was just one of the battles at the Ypres salient between October 1914 and October 1918.

In Flanders Fields, by John McCrae

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
between the crosses, row on row
that mark our place; and in the sky
the larks, still bravely singing, fly
scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
we lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow.
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
in Flanders fields.

Take up your quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
the torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
we shall not sleep,
though poppies grow
in Flanders fields

Anyway, that was Tyne Cot. A very moving place.

We then tried to look at Ypres, but there was a market on in the town centre and we couldn't find a parking place close enough for me to hobble so we cut our losses and headed north to Bruges.

Bruges is a lovely city and undoubtedly was the high spot of the weekend (Belgium-wise that is, it goes without saying that it was great to see my brother and to spend time with him and dad).

We found some underground parking near the centre and wandered to the square, which might be called the Grand Place, or might not. Lovely architecture and some great looking cafe-bars around the edge. Selecting one more or less at random (see photo left) we sat outside, shaded from the warm sunshine, and had some cold beers and a set lunch. Flanders stew is delicious and I heartily recommend it. Except if you're a vegetarian of course.

After lunch we took a stroll round, finding another square and what looked like a mediaeval church which on inspection inside seemed to related to the crusades.

A busy town, but not as busy as Brussels had felt. I will certainly go back and visit Bruges once my mobility is unimpaired. I quite fancy taking the bike across on the Rosyth - Zebrugge ferry and doing it that way. Of course I'd also have a further look a bit around Belgium generally, but Bruges was excellent and I could easily and happily spend some time there.

On Saturday evening we ate in Charleroi, but not in the hotel this time. We started by heading off to, of all things, an Irish bar! There is clearly a European law which requires all towns to have one, because we saw one just about everywhere. The Irish Times Pub in downtown Charleroi was everything you'd expect. And I don't really mean that as much of a compliment. It was OK, but very smoky for one thing. Drinking in Scotland where there is a ban on smoking indoors (and in Ireland too for that matter) you forget how spoilt you become by the luxury of being able to breathe clean air and go home at the end of the night not smelling like an ashtray. The selection of Belgian beers in the pub was poor, but then again if you're looking for Belgian beers in Belgium you just have to go anywhere else rather than an Irish bar so you can't really complain. Big screen TV showing Manchester United playing against someone else. And probably Watney's Red Barrel and Fish & Chips. The Guinness was OK.

We then ate in Cafe Leffe, which was perfectly fine. They wouldn't let us sit outside at the pavement tables which seemed to be reserved for those drinking but not eating. After some hilarity (!) with the waiter and discussion on how to pronounce the word Archiduke (don't ask) my brother and I both ordered Filet de Beouf and dad ordered chicken of some description. When the plates were delivered my beouf looked remarkably light coloured, even under the Rocquefort sauce, in comparison with the other one (which was supposed to be identical apart from having Archiduke sauce on it. When I scraped the sauce away I discovered that my beouf looked remarkably like pork. I really couldn't be arsed trying to sort it out so just ate it anyway. I could understand if I was the only one ordering it, but we actually ordered two of the same dish cooked the same way (apart from the sauce) at the same time. Not to worry. The pork was fine. As apparently were the beef and chicken.

Back then to the hotel for some more beer (see right) and lazing about outside enjoying the weather.

Next morning we went back to the airport and flew back to Glasgow Prestwick airport (No! Stop calling it that Ryanair. It isn't in Glasgow).

As I climbed the steps to the aircraft the senior cabin crew person (German - wonderful sense of humour, the Germans) tried to give me grief for not having requested assistance in advance. I told her I didn't need assistance. She said I did. I said I hadn't had any problems on the flight out and in fact when I had called Ryanair in advance they told me I wouldn't need assistance as long as I could get about on crutches. She told me I should have asked again. Wait a minute, so she was suggesting that once I have asked a question and received a reply, I should continue asking the same question until I received a different reply. Fanny. She made a big show of having to ask people to move seat to accommodate me. Fanny. Everyone else was fine (her colleagues were kind of rolling their eyes in her direction as I hobbled up the aisle, as if in apology for their fanny of a colleague). She'd obviously had a bad day but I wasn't going to let her bad attitude spoil my mood. Let her screw up her own blood pressure if she wants.

Anyway, all in all a good weekend. I haven't mentioned the obvious thing about Belgium (OK, one of the obvious things, but the most obvious to me) the beer. We had plenty and it was good lager. Sod all that fruity flavoured nonsense. If I want to taste fruit I'll drink Ribena. The bog standard lager was perfectly adequate, and thankfully ubiquitous.

So, Belgium - go there, especially Bruges.

Happy New Year!

I've just returned from a short trip to Berwick upon Tweed. Passed it loads of times, passed through it several times, but never stopped there before. It's a nice wee town just inside England on the east coast (about two miles south of the border with Scotland) and it has a lot of history within its walls.

At short notice I was invited to spend New Year with a friend's family, so we went down yesterday and I came back today, leaving my friend there until tomorrow. It was a good time, and I even enjoyed the two walks round the walls/ramparts in the very high, very cold wind!

We even went to Evensong at the local parish church, one of very very few which were built during the Commonwealth period (i.e. Cromwellian). Interesting service! When we arrived there were nasty "elevator" style carols being played through the sound system. The vicar then arrived and noisily clumped his way down to the front where he essentially flicked a switch cutting the (shite) music dead. He was wearing a longish black Crombie style overcoat over which he wore a black stole (i.e. no cassock). He started the service by saying that for various reasons the organist/choirmaster couldn't be there so there would be no music. He went on to say that his daughter was having contractions at that moment and he had to get back to the house ASAP to look after children while she went to the local hospital, two people from the congregation were in hospital "passing over" by which I guess he meant in the act of dying, several people were unwell, it was awful weather, and basically he was sorry the service was going to be cut short, but thanks for coming anyway (which came across about as insincere as I suspect it was meant). He sang the Ferial responses very flat and of the 8 in the congregation I suspect I was one of the few who sang them back to him (couldn't quite decide whether to alter the flatness but in the end thought it'd be easier not to rock the boat, notwithstanding any flatness with which I normally sing!). At one point he announced we would now say the Song of Simeon, the Nunc Dimittis, before almost shouting "Oh no, I mean the Magnificat" just as I was wondering why we were missing out the first canticle! OK he had other things on his mind, but rumour has it that this performance was not entirely out of character! Oh, and we had communion at the end of Evensong from the reserved Host. Bizarre. No communion service, just a request for anyone who wanted it to come up to the altar where we said the "we do not presume to come to this Thy holy table ...." bit, which despite it being probably more than 10 years since I took part in a service with that form of words, I remembered word-perfectly. Good old Anglican Pavlovian response!

Today we took a trip across the causeway to Lindisfarne, the first time I'd been, which is slightly strange because I lived in Northumberland for a few years but never got round to visiting. It was a getting a bit too dark, a wee bit too cold and a big bit too windy to have appreciated it properly but I saw enough to make me want to go back for another look during a better part of the year (two pubs!).

Anyway, just back, so need to chill out a bit after the drive (in the wind!).

Happy New Year to everyone!

Remember

A history lesson, a long trip and a sad ending

So cast your mind back a bit. On 27th January 1756 Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was born. Around the same time (actual date unknown but estimated at 1757) one John Tiffin was born in Cumbria. Unlike the young precocious Wolfgang, John went on to become a farmer and he and his wife, Mary Porteous, had 7 children. All very boring I hear you say and you'd be right to think that, except John Tiffin and Mary Porteous are actually quite important to me because they were my great great great great great great grandparents on my dad's maternal line!

The photo on the right is Holme Cultram Abbey in Cumbria and it's where John is listed as being born, although in fact I suspect it's just where he was baptised, as were I believe all their children. The motorcycle in the photo is mine, and this was one of today's destinations in my 420 mile round trip to Cumbria and back. Sadly the Abbey "went on fire", as they say in Glasgow, in June this year when some local little bastards set it alight, basically destroying it and its contents including irreplaceable records. Twats.

As an aside, also descended from John and Mary was a man called Arthur Ernest Tiffin (known as Jock Tiffin) who in 1955 was the third General Secretary of the British Transport and General Workers' Union (TGWU). Jock was my 2nd cousin 4 times removed! Basically his grandfather and my great (x4) grandfather were brothers.



Another destination today was Barrow in Furness. And yes it was also related to my family tree. My great great grandparents on my dad's paternal line were Henry Pittock (a Yorkshireman) and Sarah McIntosh (from Dundee). They and five of their children, including my great grandmother Sarah Ann Pittock, lived in 23 Napier St in Barrow in Furness at the 1881 census, although by the 1891 census they had moved to Motherwell and had several additions to the family. Henry was at various times a Steel Hammerman and an Iron Smelter and I guess the reason the family moved from Cumbria to Lanarkshire was that this was probably the time the iron & steel industry was expanding rapidly in Motherwell. But I digress. The house in the centre of the photo is 23 Napier St, although I'd guess the pebbledash finish and satellite dish probably weren't there in 1881!

Of interest, well to me anyway and this is MY Blog after all, is that in the 1891 census, when Sarah was about 16, the Pittock family lived at 29 Ann St in Motherwell (a street which is no longer in existence) and next door at number 27 lived a family including an 18 year old boy called John. Yes, you've guessed it, my great grandfather literally married the girl next door! In fact they married on 29th December 1893 in Holy Trinity Episcopal Church in Motherwell, my home church and where I started my choral singing in the 1970's. Or in fact they actually would have been married in what is now the church hall which was built as the church and which is now in danger of being demolished to make way for flats. From the Glasgow & Galloway Diocesan Website:

Holy Trinity had it origins in a meeting held in the Dalzell Arms Hotel on April 25th 1882 to consider the possibility of starting a Mission in Motherwell in connection with the Episcopal Church in Scotland. A congregation gathered and services were held in Mrs Keith's schoolroom until, in June 1884, a corrugated iron church was opened. This building is now the church hall. A building committee entered into negotiations with the Duke of Hamilton for a building site, and the foundation stone of the present church was laid on 29th September 1894. The new church, built in red stone and dedicated to the Holy Trinity on September 28th 1895 is Early English in style. The building was consecrated on November 21st 1896.

On a related note, related to genealogy, not Holy Trinity Church that is, the best description I've ever read about why tracing your family tree can be so interesting is the following by Bill Bryson from the introduction to A Short History of Nearly Everything

"Not only have you been lucky enough to be attached since time immemorial to a favoured evolutionary line, but you have also been extremely - make that miraculously - fortunate in your personal ancestry. Consider the fact that for 3.8 billion years, a period of time older than the Earth's mountains and rivers and oceans, every one of your forebears on both sides has been attractive enough to find a mate, healthy enough to reproduce, and sufficiently blessed by fate and circumstances to live long enough to do so. Not one of your pertinent ancestors was squashed, devoured, drowned, starved, stuck fast, untimely wounded or otherwise deflected from its life's quest of delivering a tiny charge of genetic material to the right partner at the right moment to perpetuate the only possible sequence of hereditary combinations that could result - eventually, astoundingly, and all too briefly - in you."


On a sad note, while travelling back to Glasgow this evening I was in a line of traffic approaching the wee town of Ulverston (I think it was) doing no more than 30-40mph when suddenly with no warning I was aware of something large and black appearing under the front wheel of the bike. I felt a bit of a bump, no more, and on looking in my mirror I saw the black labrador then being hit by the van behind me and dragged along underneath for a bit. Of course we all stopped, but by the time I had pulled in safely and walked back, shocked, several people had lifted the badly injured animal onto the pavement where it died a short time later. I think by then it wasn't aware of anything as it was showing no signs of distress or pain and was unconscious, so I sincerely hope it felt no pain after the initial collision. Within seconds of me arriving back at the scene, just after the dog had been moved to the pavement, the police arrived and took charge. Fortunately both the driver and passenger of the van which hit the dog after me, and the driver of the HGV directly behind them, all said right away that they had seen the animal sprinting out from a gap in the fence straight onto the road and into the side of my bike without me having a chance to see it never mind react to it. It upset me, I have to say, that the animal died and that I had hit it, but I don't feel any guilt because it ran out into me, I genuinely wasn't speeding, and 3 independent witnesses saw the whole thing and without being asked told the police that it wasn't my fault. Doesn't stop me being sorry about it though. Although I do wonder where the owner was and why it wasn't wearing a collar. Anyway, it was a wee while before I felt like carrying on with my journey, but I'm home now and well on the way to being dry and thawed out. A nice long hot bath will be the order of the day fairly soon.

(almost) Forgotten Glasgow

I started to tell a story on Thursday evening just before choir rehearsal mentioning one of the old villages which were absorbed into Glasgow, but I couldn't remember the name of the one I was thinking of at the time.

It's under Glasgow Central railway station, I believe that the remnants of the foundations can still be seen (although they are inaccessible to anyone apart from railway workers with access to the bowels of the station) and as I now remember it's called Grahamston.

Please have a look at the site, and if you're interested in that sort of thing, there's a great site called Hidden Glasgow which is well worth a look too.