I have very little to add about this grave, but I haven’t seen one with the RNLI insignia on it before. It’s the grave of Derek James Harrison, who was born on 31 May 1965 and died on 13 August 1984. I can’t find out much more, other than Derek was buried on 20 August 1984 and he was listed as living at Hill House Hotel in Happisburgh.
This memorial is in a prominent position in the churchyard of St. Mary’s church in the coastal town of Happisburgh.
HMS Invincible was launched on 9 March 1765 and was used in the American War of Independence. She was sailing from Great Yarmouth on 16 March 1801 when she hit the sandbank off Happisburgh known as the Hammond Knoll Rock. Although the admiral and 195 sailors were saved, around 400 men lost their lives. The harbour pilot, who died when the ship sank, was later blamed for the incident, which was one of the worst maritime events of the eighteenth century.
This memorial stone was added here in 1998 as by chance when digging a drainage channel in the churchyard, the bodies of many of the ship’s crew were discovered. It was known that there had been a large communal grave, with carts bringing the bodies to a section of land located just off the main churchyard, but the exact spot of the burials wasn’t previously known. They were buried just three feet under the surface, with no real order to the remains.
This letter was written by one of the sailors on board:
“Only two days have elapsed since I last wrote to you, and in that short space the most melancholy accident has happened, namely, the total loss of our ship. We set sail from Yarmouth on Monday morning for the Sound, to join the fleet under the command of Admiral Sir Hyde Parker; and about two o’clock in the afternoon the ship struck on a sand-bank, where she beat most violently for upwards of two hours, when her masts were cut away, and her anchor was then cast, and we all thought our selves safe; for, notwithstanding she leaked considerably, the water gained but little upon us. Our signals of distress were heard and answered by a cutter, which immediately bore down to Yarmouth, to give intelligence of our distress; and we therefore hoped, with the assistance that should arrive, to be able to save the ship as well as ourselves; but God ordained it otherwise.
The rudder being unfortunately gone, the ship became unmanageable, and in the evening she again drove on the bank, when we all gave ourselves up for lost. Through God’s providence, however, a fishing smack, at this awful juncture, hove in sight, and the admiral; my self, and two or three more, succeeded in getting on board of her; but the rest, in endeavouring to do the same, lost all the boats they were able to get over-board. In this melancholy condition she remained till the following morning, when, shocking to relate, she entirely sunk; we being all the time spectators of the distressful scene, without any possible means of affording the sufferers the least assistance, as any attempt to that effect would only have involved ourselves in the general calamity. By God’s providence, however, the ship’s launch, full of men, at length got clear of the wreck, and by her assistance we were enabled to save some others. In the whole, about 195 are saved.
The greater part of the officers, including the captain, have unfortunately perished.”
The Invincible was heading towards a fleet led by Norfolk’s hero Horatio Nelson when it sank, and the great admiral himself visited Great Yarmouth to see some of the injured crew who had survived. Today, there’s a play park near the church named HMS Invincible Park, a reminder of the sad event which cost so many men their lives.
Ridlington is a small village in North Norfolk and after I had a little visit to their church, this is what The Concise Oxford Dictionary Of English Placenames say about the origins of the name.
Ridlington, Norfolk. Ridlinketuna in Domesday Book, Redlington in 1199 and Ridelington in 1254. May be derived from a person, Hrethel.
I’m not sure who this person might be, but it’s the settlement or enclosure of Hrethel and his people. It’s not the most descriptive of place names, I like the ones which say they’re up a hill or something, but it’s an old English name that has stuck relatively unchanged for nearly 1,000 years.
Ridlington’s church is located nearby to the glorious churches of Witton and Crostwight, but this one didn’t seem to me to have quite the magic and quirkiness of those buildings. The current building mostly dates from the fifteenth century if the listed building record is to be believed, although there would have been something here before then, with substantial changes made both internally and externally during the Victorian period. The church still has its thirteenth-century font, a reminder of its earlier existence.
In 1760, the church was rebuilt with red brick at one end which was to protect the structure. The chancel floor started to collapse in 2001, with an investigation finding that the Victorian restoration had reused stone and medieval tiles in its repair, but this had been laid above unprotected wet ground. There was once thatching to both the nave and chancel, although this roofing now only remains in the latter and the church mentions that it’s one of the few remaining which has reeds from the Norfolk Broads.
The three-stage tower is also fifteenth-century, the previous incarnation of the church may well though have had a round tower.
The church’s own web-site gives an earlier date for the construction of the church, suggesting that the nave was built in the early fourteenth century and the chancel was completed later on in the fourteenth century. I’m not very good at dating walls so I’m happy with either date.
The south porch, where the church has at least filled in the empty niche where the previous statue was likely removed following the Reformation.
One other interesting snippet from the church is that some of the stained glass windows were blown out during the First World War when a Zeppelin attacked on 24 April 1916. I suspect the locals must have considered themselves quite unfortunate to have suffered that slightly random attack, especially as it also partly damaged the chancel end of the church. Although at least no-one was injured, or no human at least, as a bullock was killed during the raid. The Zeppelin used during the raid was L23, which had been brought into service on 8 April 1916 and which survived until it was shot down over the North Sea on 21 August 1917.
Crostwight lost one person during the Second World War and five during the First World War, but this post is about the former conflict.
The lower memorial, which is beautifully presented in the church, is to Hubert Arthur Francis, who died on board HMS Royal Oak on 14 October 1939. The HMS Royal Oak was built in 1914 to serve during the First World War and was one of the older ships still in the fleet by 1939. At the beginning of the Second World War, it was stationed at Scapa Flow, at the Orkney Islands in Scotland, which was thought to be a safe place.
The Germans had plans for Scapa Flow and they planned an attack on it using their submarines early on during the war. Submarine U-47 fired torpedoes at the Royal Oak and seriously damaged it, but more seriously setting off an explosion of armaments which caused a fireball to rush through the submarine. 835 men were killed with the sinking of the ship, including 134 boy seaman who weren’t even 18 years old. The majority of bodies couldn’t be recovered and they remain there today, the wreck is a war grave and divers are not allowed near it.
Hubert was born in Henstead which is near Norwich, Norfolk on 18 August 1919 and his parents were Stanley and Minnie Francis (nee Merry), who lived in Ramsgate in Kent. Stanley lived from 1882 until 1948 and Minnie lived from 1884 until 1965.
Hubert joined the Royal Navy in 1939, with service number P/JX 142485. He was on board the ship when it was sunk, dying at the age of just 20 and he is commemorated at Portsmouth Naval Memorial. What he was doing in Crostwight I don’t know, the 1939 register didn’t include servicemen, so his address isn’t clear.
I wrote more about the history of this church earlier on, but we were also fortunate enough to be able to see inside as well. As an aside, it’s now a Grade I listed building, which makes the taking down of most of the church tower due to ivy growth seem almost unforgiveable today.
The lighting inside doesn’t entirely do these wall paintings justice, but they are delightful and a fair chunk of them survive. They’re a passion sequence, so telling in pictures the story of Jesus Christ’s last few days of life. As with many churches, they were whitewashed over when they went out of favour, a reminder from when church interiors used to be more colourful and stories were told in images. There’s no electricity in this church, meaning that everything has to be lit using oil lamps, but that adds to the atmosphere and cosiness.
The font, which appears to be quite battered and worn, but it is some centuries old and is made from Purbeck marble.
The church’s chancel.
This photo was taken in the chancel, looking back down the church, with the rood screen visible. There was a bit of a renovation in the Victorian period, although not as brutal as in some other churches, when the roof was also repaired.
The church notes that this chair on the left-hand side dates to the period of Oliver Cromwell, with the red carpet being from the mid-nineteenth century. I find that quite amazing, the church notes this is because “only brushes and carpet sweepers have ever been used on it”.
The end wall, where it meets the church’s once more substantial tower. Near to here, there is a memorial to the one man from the parish who died during the Second World War, but more on Hubert Arthur Francis in another post, as well the five men who died during the First World War. Interestingly, the church notes that they believe that their floor is made from willow bundles and bales of wool, which has the disadvantage of moles being able to burrow upwards. That’s an actual problem incidentally, not my humour.
The room under the church tower, with the bells now located just above here, as they had to be lowered when the top of the tower was lopped off at the beginning of the twentieth century. The records for this church have been deposited at Norfolk Record Office, so I must pay a little visit there when they’ve back open and accessible to the public. As a church, this is beautiful and it’s one of my favourite ones, somehow a timeless reminder of generations gone by.
Located in the churchyard of Dereham Church is this gravestone commemorating the life of Robert Larner. He was born in 1819 and was married to Sarah Yull in 1847.
At the 1851 census, Robert lived at Toftwood Common, along with his wife Sarah, who was five years younger than him. They had two children at this time, Richard who was aged 2, and Matilda, who had only just been born, with Robert working as a farm labourer. Matilda was married in 1879, sadly after the death of her father.
Robert died on 17 May 1868, at the age of 48, and was buried on 21 May 1868. Unfortunately, the words at the bottom of his grave are no longer readable and his age in the church’s burial book states that he was 49.
So, there’s not much that I could find out, but I can almost imagine a 19-year old Richard and a 17-year old Matilda standing there on a Thursday afternoon (and I checked, it was a Thursday….) burying their father. And on 6 August 1879, Matilda would have no doubt have walked over to the gravestone when she was married in the same church, to a William George Hall from Hove in Brighton. I think my imagination is getting a bit vivid with the stories I’m creating in my mind here…..
Church House overlooks Dereham Church and was built in the late seventeenth century to be used by a representative of the church.
In the early nineteenth century, the property was lived in by James Philo who served as the parish clerk between 1779 and 1829. The sign on the property notes that he featured in George Borrow’s book ‘Lavengro’, the sequel of which was Romany Rye, now the name of the JD Wetherspoon pub which stands around twenty metres away.
The rear of the property, which backs onto the churchyard. The building is still used by the church and is now the parish office.
This property is located opposite the entrance to Dereham Church and was originally the Manor House of Oldhall and Syrricks, which sounds very grand. This building dates to the seventeenth century, although was refaced and modernised in the eighteenth century. The pedimented doorcase is apparently original, although I’m going off the word of others here on that….
The building is also known less excitingly today as 27 Church Street and it has been converted into flats. It’s a larger building than it appears from the front, as there’s a long section behind the property as well. One of the flats came onto the market recently and I like how they’ve converted the attic space.
One mystery that Richard and I have been discussing on our church walks is where are the gravestones from before 1800? The Hancock Cemetery in Quincy, Massachusetts has many gravestones from the eighteenth century surviving, but in most (but not all of course) churchyards in the UK, there is relatively little before 1800. There are usually some tombs inside churches that are older, but it’s rare to see gravestones from that period outside.
And so I’ve been reading up on this…. The answer seems to be complex, as history usually is.
The first element is practical, gravestones aren’t necessarily that resilient and weren’t really designed to last for hundreds of years. Stone erodes, gravestones fall and sometimes they have to be removed because they’re badly damaged.
The second element is that grave markers before 1800 were often made from wood, which is unlikely to last for much more than fifty years. They were ornately carved in many cases, but not designed to be in their place for centuries. There are some of these at the churchyard in Matlock, but they’re relatively rare now.
The third element is that most people couldn’t afford a stone gravestone, they’d be expensive and the stone would often have to be imported into the area. Transporting lumps of rock isn’t cheap, it all adds to the cost and a poor family couldn’t have necessarily afforded this. In some areas, rock is more prevalent and this was evident in churchyards such as those as Eyam in Derbyshire, where there are more stones from before 1800.
The fourth element is that in some churchyards, there wasn’t that much space. Anything older might have been removed in an effort to create space for new burials.
So, with all those elements combined, it’s more surprising that there are any stones left at all. But, they are there, I found a handful of eighteenth-century gravestones standing in Dereham’s churchyard whilst meandering around today. I also found something I haven’t seen before, eighteenth-century gravestones (and some later ones) which have been laid down and have since been mostly covered over by grass.
These stones are hard to read, but I could make out a few eighteenth-century dates. They appear to have been moved here at a later date, for reasons that are unknown to me. But, this was an interesting example of where in a churchyard the stones have gone, a handful are still present, a handful have likely been lost and a few have been left to be covered over.
I suspect I shall return to these thoughts again as I debate with myself exactly where gravestones in Britain have gone….
