I like this, Wramplingham village has, by design, placed its sign in the River Tiffey. I say by design as it’s in the water in all the photos that I can see.
The sign itself features the water mill on which much of the village’s history is around, although the rather lovely mill itself was knocked down in 1945.
This letter (clicking on the image brings up a larger version) is in the collections of the National Army Museum and was written on 23 November 1915 by Corporal Kempstell to the wife of the killed soldier Harry J Baldwin. This must have been a traumatic letter to write, and of course to receive, although it’s been very thoughtfully done and doesn’t seem to have been taken too much from a template.
The museum notes that the place of death is never given, although there’s an address at the top of the letter which is the 2nd King’s Royal Rifles in France. I can find details of only one Harry Baldwin dying in 1915 and that person died on 22 November 1915, so I assume it must be the same one unless there’s something of a coincidence. Given that, the letter is nonsense, as Harry died in Basra fighting the Ottomans, so he wouldn’t likely have been killed by a German shell. Harry was buried near Basra, at a war cemetery which was moved to a new location in 1997.
If it is the case that it’s the same Harry who died in Basra, I’m not entirely sure that the wife would have believed the rest of the letter when the truth came out.
This is the war grave of Alan George Gibling, located at Earlham Cemetery in the main area and not within the military section. I can’t find out anything about his period in the First World War itself, but the story here (for me anyway) is that this is the first time I’ve submitted a request for the CWGC to change information on their web-site.
But, going back a bit, Alan was born on 3 June 1896, the son of George Joseph Gibling and Ellen Gibling (nee Dix). At the 1901 census, he was living with his parents and his brother John Charles and his sister Margaret Ellen, as well as a servant Baldry Gibling, although it’s confusing why she shared the same surname with no obvious family links. They lived at 191 College Road in the city and Alan was educated at Avenue Road School and then at the City of Norwich School between 1 September 1908 and 20 July 1912.
At the 1911 census, the family were still living in the same property and this time the family has been joined by Geoffrey Dix, with the servant now 19-year old Alice Nichols. This census also reveals that George and Ellen lost one child at some point during their marriage.
Alan’s war records seem to have been lost in the fire during the Second World War, as so many were, but he joined the Norfolk Regiment, but I’m not sure whether or not he would have seen active service. Alan died on home soil on 17 October 1915 at the age of 19.
Back to the CWGC, the record on their web-site lists him as Allen George, and I wonder whether someone has looked at his mother’s name and got muddled up. Mistakes are not uncommon due to the challenging way that the information was gathered around a century ago, with the CWGC noting they make changes to their database most days based on details provided. All of the other war details, mentions on war memorials, his school records and censuses have him listed as Alan George. I was going to just leave the CWGC record incorrect rather than spend time compiling the evidence that they required, but it seemed the right thing to do for Alan’s permanent record to be correct.
Although we’ll likely now find out that I’ve misunderstood something and no change is needed, but we shall see….
This is an exhibit from the rather wonderful National Army Museum and, as another of my irrelevant asides, it’s a word that I always have to think to pronounce. In this case, the beer from Wells Brewery is pronounced as the English military word, whereas if talking about the French Canadian multi-national Bombardier train and aviation company, it’s the different French pronunciation.
As for beer, and this pump was donated to the museum in 2015, it was marketed for a time as the “beer of England”, although that was somewhat aspirational branding. There was some controversy a couple of years ago when the pump clip moved away from the traditional one in the photo, with the St George’s Flag in the background, towards a more generic style. The brewers perhaps felt that the claim of being the ‘beer of England’ was not really based in reality, so they’re kept the new generic branding and changed their claim to it being a “British beer”. This, to be fair, is now accurate.
Just as a random post, but I quite liked this story in the Scarborough News about the longest railway bench in the world. Despite having been to Scarborough on numerous occasions, I hadn’t managed to notice this 139 metre long bench which dates to around 1883.
It’s rather lovely that it has been preserved, although I note that Network Rail have replaced all the nuts and bolts, as well as an undetermined amount of wood. There’s something about Trigger’s broom here that there’s going to be nothing old left other than the original iron supports, but it’s still a very worthwhile project given how so many railway stations and structures have been allowed to crumble.
NB, as I’ve haven’t been to see this bench, the main photo above is at the start of my very brave second coast to coast walk a few years ago I did with Liam (I was the bravest). Might as well advertise that again here, here are the links 🙂 Coast to Coast Two [ Day 0 | Day 1 | Day 2 | Day 3 | Day 4 | Day 5 | Day 6 | Day 6+1 ]
This was from my visit to the British Museum a few weeks ago, the most viewed object in the collections apparently. This has meant that I’ve never really seen it that clearly before, it’s like the Mona Lisa at the Louvre, there are nearly always other visitors standing there and taking photos in front of it. Hence why I took so many photos of it this time with the museum being so empty when I visited in late October.
There’s not much point writing much about the Rosetta Stone, it’s done much better in countless other places. But it dates to 196BC and it was rediscovered by the French in 1799, with the British deciding that they wanted it in 1802. The stone went to the British Museum in the same year and it has been there ever since. As visitors kept fiddling with it, the stone was barriered off in 1847, not that this stopped some people. Since 2004 it has been placed behind a rather more secure screen.
This is the war grave of Valorous John Wright, buried in the older military graves area of Earlham Cemetery. Incidentally, my photo of this grave is at an angle as there’s a big bush in front of it.
Valorous is a wonderful name and it’s because he was born on HMS Valorous, a Royal Navy paddle frigate built in 1851, on 24 December 1866. He went to North Road Boys /Steynton School at Milford Haven and his school records remain from 1878 and 1879.
As is this document which I very much like about the school’s progress and the students clearing off home, with Valorous mentioned at the bottom.
At the 1881 census, Valorous was living with his mother, Mary Jane Wright, at Robert Street in Steynton, his father having already died. There were two lodgers in the property as well with Valorous and his mother, Richard Wakeham and William Tinkham.
He joined the army at Pembroke Dock on 14 June 1883 at the age of 16, although he declared on his form that he was 18 years and 5 months old. He asked to join the Royal Welsh Fusiliers and his medical was the next day and magically he declared his age to be 19. The records show that he was 5’6″ in height and weighed 8.7 stone.
During his time in the army, Valorous married Martha Huggins on 10 September 1896 at the Church of St. Ethelreda in Norwich. At the 1891 and 1901 censuses, Valorous was away in the army, whilst his wife Martha was living with her father John Huggins, on King Street in 1891 and at 54 Argyle Street in 1901.
Whilst in the army, Valorous fought in South Africa, but was mostly stationed in the UK and he was uninjured in battle during his service. He was promoted to Colour Sergeant on 25 February 1900, moving to the Norfolk Regiment on 27 February 1906 and then leaving the military entirely on 31 July 1909.
Valorous died on 11 December 1910 at the age of 43, leaving his wife who was ten years younger than him, with his burial being on 17 December 1910. During their final year the couple lived at 115 Sprowston Road, a house perhaps more notable today for being opposite the rather lovely Brewery Tap pub. But, my favourite part of this story is really the name, and I think it’s not unusual for people born at sea to be named after the boat that they are on.
This is the war grave of Robert Love Gracie, buried in the older military graves area of Earlham Cemetery. Robert was a Canadian who born on 9 March 1893, the son of Elizabeth Gracie. The real story behind this post is though the excellent state of the Canadian archives, all freely accessible and with substantial documentation retained for members of their armed forces. Robert’s war records are 78 pages long and contain more information about his medical condition than anyone could perhaps ever need to know.
Robert was single and he worked as a clerk at Eaton’s department stores, living at 124 Hogarth Avenue in Toronto, a property which is still there, and he had a brother and two sisters. We know from his sign-up medical that he was 5’8″, had a dark complexion, had brown eyes, black hair and declared his religious belief to be Presbyterian. Robert was given the service number 404091 and he joined the 14th Battalion of the Canadian Infantry.
On 4 June 1915, Robert sailed from Montreal to the UK on the SS Metagama, a new cruise ship which the Canadian military had requisitioned as a troop carrier. He remained in the UK until 20 January 1916, when he sailed to Le Havre and from there he was sent to the front line with his unit on 2 February 1916.
I wonder when writing these wills what the soldiers thought, as Canada at this stage didn’t have conscription, so Robert signed up voluntarily. Robert was placed on the front line for the first time on 2 February 1916, but on 9 March 1916, he was seriously injured with shrapnel wounds to his right hand and his right leg.
He was taken to a field hospital on 9 March and an operation was undertaken and x-rays were also taken, which has survived in the archive. I don’t know what I’m looking at here to be honest, but on 13 March it was decided that Robert needed to be returned to a hospital in England.
The above is his temperature chart for the time that he was at the field hospital.
The hospital that Robert was sent to was the Norfolk War Hospital in Thorpe (St. Andrew’s Hospital) and on 15 March he was seen by the doctors there. It was noted that a shell had blown off some of his fingers and the stump of his hand had gone septic. His knee and leg were very swollen and there was a penetrating wound to the upper part of his calf.
On 16 March, the doctors noted that Robert’s leg remained very swollen, but by 19 March, although the swelling was going down, he remained in a poor condition. However, on 20 March, Robert suffered from a secondary haemorrhage and his leg was amputated at the thigh, where it was discovered that his thigh muscles were riddled with pus. Unfortunately, at 10:45 on the 20 March 1916, Robert died at the age of 23.
The authorities seemed to take care of providing a suitable burial, checking if his next of kin wanted his body returning to Canada. He was buried at Earlham Cemetery, a long way from home, at 14:30 on Friday 24 March 1916, with a contingent from the military and a bugler present.
And it’s not often that there are photos available of those who died in the First World War, but this is Robert. I don’t know why he wanted to serve in the army, whether it was because he felt it was his patriotic duty or whether he wanted adventure. But, he joined at a time when it was clear that the war wasn’t going to be over quickly and he would have been aware of the loss of lives that was taking place. Either way, he seems like a hero to me.
This is one of the earliest graves in the old military burial area at Earlham Cemetery in Norwich. This story particularly interested me as the funeral was so well covered in the local press that it gave me quite a picture of what the burial must have been like.
It’s not clear whether it’s David McSweeny or David McSweeney, I suspect it’s the latter, although the grave uses the former spelling. He was born in around 1839 and he joined the military in 1858, serving in the 7th Queen’s Own Hussars and he had reached the rank of Paymaster Sergeant.
It is the death of David that received much local press attention, including the inquest and the burial of his body. On the evening of 24 June 1875, he was in a rowing boat with his friend David Couper and they were nearby to St. Anne’s Staithe in Norwich (pretty much opposite the Queen of Iceni, nearby to the new St. Anne’s housing development) when a steamer hit them. David’s body was pulled out of the water a few minutes later, but he was already dead, aged just 36.
A coroner’s court took place in July 1875 at the Cinder Oven pub on King Street, in Norwich (a building now demolished, but it once jutted on to the city wall near to the Carrow Bridge boom tower). The Deputy Coroner heard evidence from numerous witnesses, but there was confusion as to how David had fallen into the water and died. Captain Thompson from the army said “it seemed rather odd that no-one appeared to see the deceased get into the water”.
One of the witnesses was WR L’Estrange, a brewer at the Bullards brewery, who said that there was no need for David to have jumped into the water as he would have been safe given the low speed of the steamer. When asked, he put his decision to jump as being “out of terror”. Captain Thompson confirmed that David hadn’t drunk alcohol for 15 years as he was tee-total, so a poor decision due to drink was ruled out, and he also confirmed that David was able to swim. The whole thing was a bit of a mystery and a verdict of accidental drowning was given.
David wasn’t married, but the non-commissioned officers clubbed together to pay for a headstone for him, a rather lovely gesture. And this is how the Norfolk News reported David’s funeral:
“On Monday afternoon, the remains of the Sergeant were interred at the Norwich Cemetery. The firing party was followed by the body of the deceased borne on a gun-carriage, the coffin being covered by a velvet pall upheld at the sides by six Sergeants of the regiment. Next came deceased’s charger, followed by the men of the troop. The military procession was succeeded by three mourning-coaches containing the relatives and friends of the deceased, who was unmarried. The bands of the regiment played a dead march, and several thousand persons assembled to watch the mournful procession on its route to the place of burial”.
The thought of that number of people watching and paying their respects is quite a picture to build up in the mind. The backdrop to this though is that the military were held in high repute by most locals and the period when David died was one where there were relatively few British military deaths. Over 10,000 had lost their lives in the Indian Rebellion in the 1850s, but the next major loss of life wasn’t until the late 1870s with the Second Anglo-Afghan War and the Anglo-Zulu War.
This does all mean that although David died relatively young at 36, his death was at least marked with respect and dignity.
This visit to the Old Salt Quay (or just Salt Quay, I’m not quite sure what name they prefer) pre-dates 2020 and the current restrictions, and the photos were also taken on my older phone, so the quality isn’t great. Anyway, this is a Greene King pub located in a former warehouse by the River Thames.
I liked the interior, it was spacious, interesting and clean, so all perfectly welcoming. There’s also further seating on the first floor, although that was closed off when I visited.
I confess that this is Greene King IPA and I remember it tasted exactly as Greene King IPA is designed to taste, so I can’t really blame the pub for that.
The chicken burger, all nicely presented, hot, perfectly reasonable quality.
The reviews are mixed, although I noted this one:
“My friends and I went to have a drink and something to eat . We go id’d on the door the man on the door knows us as we are regulars at this pub.”
Which got the beautiful response from the pub of:
“Unfortunately, the “man on the door” is not proof of ID.”
Or the customer who posted:
“Called into Salt Quay 12:30 on Thursday with my family and asked for a Cappuccino. The barman tutted, rolled his eyes and shook his head.”
I accept that’s not great customer service, but I’m secretly a little impressed. But I shouldn’t be. In response to another customer, the pub noted:
“We do have some staffing challenges at the moment, but we are trying to sort these out at haste!”
That’s honest from the pub, I like that as well. This comment from a customer shouldn’t have also amused me, but it did, solely because I’ve built up a picture in my mind about this. I have a vivid imagination I think.
“It was also freezing with the security guards opening and closing the doors every 5 minutes because they had absolutely nothing better to do.”
But, this is my most favourite response of all from the pub to a customer:
“I must disagree with your review for the simple fact that your narration does NOT correspond to the truth.
Allow me to use this space primarily to apologize once again with all the guests present in the Pub during your presence.
You phoned the pub check availability for 25 people within half an hour of arrival, the person speaking on the phone was told that unfortunately the pub was fully booking.
This is the case on Sunday’s at this time of year. Almost after about 15 minutes from your phone call, you entered the pub without even responding to our welcome greeting of a member of your group, after ignoring the blackboard at the entrance that stated “before going to the first floor wait to speak with a staff member because the room is reserved “.
We had drawn your attention and I had personally reaffirmed the state of affairs of our availability. I suggested you wait and occupy the tables that would be liberated in time. So you did, except then began to approach the tables already occupied by guests who were dining and drinking and you invited MY guests to leave the table for you, this for me is unacceptable. I pointed out that it was not an acceptable method and that for any request you should have referred to myself or another member of staff, instead you ignored my request and you had resulted to your personal “hunting” for a table.
At that point, perhaps, I may have become a bit rude, but I can not allow my guests to be harassed during a moment of pleasure and relaxation. I would have done the same thing if anyone else had the same attitude towards you.
Thank you for your time and God bless you.”
That ‘God bless you’ at the end is rather beautiful, and this sounds a most exciting afternoon for the staff.
I’m not sure that I’d say this is a pub worth travelling far to get it, as Greene King’s turnkey operation means their pubs are often all a bit too samey and bland. But, the staff were friendly, it felt a safe environment and it’s a perfectly good option for anyone in the area. It’s an interesting building though, with decent views over the Thames and apparently (CAMRA say this, I trust them) the carveries on Sunday are first class.
