Tish Farrell Writer

From The Grave Of The Good Burgess ~ Speaking Truth To Power

My last post featured a recent visit to Bishop’s Castle’s parish churchyard and the mystery surrounding the grave of an unnamed African who died in the town in September 1801. This week I returned to the visit another intriguing grave. It stands in sight of the great Norman tower of 1291, and marks a death that occurred in May 1802, a few months after I.D.’s burial, and also the year of a general election.

And what an epitaph it is. What a swingeing ticking off of the town’s ‘worthies’; very much in the vein of ‘you know who you are’. (And doubtless everyone else in the town knew too).

Here’s what the headstone says:

To the memory of Matthew Marston. He departed this life May 29th 1802 aged 81, the oldest Burgess of the Borough.

His steady and uncorrupt conduct presents an examples to his brother Burgesses for perpetual imitation and a useful lesson to the Parliamentary Representatives of the Borough that Opulence and Power cannot alone secure universal suffrage.

And to what particular corrupt practice is the Marston stone referring?

Bribes for votes, that’s what, and the fact the town’s burgesses controlled the electoral roll. Only they could vote in elections, and only they had the power to admit new burgesses to the roll. And these were the men who managed all aspects of the town’s affairs, from market trading to judicial and coroner’s courts.

In 1802, when there were around 170 burgesses on the roll, the going rate for a vote was 25 guineas – well over a thousand pounds by today’s values, and enough then to buy 2 horses or 5 cows or employ a skilled tradesman for 173 days (National Archives currency converter).

For a small rural town, Bishop’s Castle seems to have earned itself a big reputation for shady political dealings: a ‘rotten borough’ from 1690-1763, and a ‘pocket borough’ from 1763 – 1832. During these years the town returned two parliamentary representatives, all members of the landowning class, or in the case of the pocket borough, all relatives or favoured associates of Robert Clive. (He had returned from India, where he had risen from lowly agent in the East India Company to Governor of the Bengal Presidency, amassing a fortune equivalent to 48 million pounds). Only with the Reform Act of 1832, did the parliamentary borough of Bishop’s Castle meet its end. We now have 5 regional county representatives.

During the rotten and pocket eras, parliamentary representatives were obviously intent only on furthering their own and sponsors’ interests and causes. This situation was compounded by the fact that several times the entire manor of Bishop’s Castle changed hands with the new owners seeking to secure a seat for their own man. In 1683 it featured in a marriage settlement between one Anne Mason and the Earl of Macclesfield. It was Anne’s ne’er-do-well cousin Richard Mason, seemingly the Earl’s ‘placeman’, who then bribed and bullied his way to Parliament, standing as M.P. for 30 years.

In 1718 the new Bishop’s Castle owners, the Harleys, appalled that their own candidate had failed to win a seat, roundly condemned the town’s burgesses (‘profligate wretches’) for their ‘villainous roguery’ and ‘perfidy’ in voting for Mason. They sold the manor on to the Earl of Carnarvon (Duke of Chandos) who then, after considerable expense, secured his own placeman at the next by-election. His purposes doubtless served, he then sold the manor to his nephew, local landowner, John Walcot of Walcot Hall, who then found the means to further his interests through favoured candidates. And so it went on. On and on.

But what of Bishop‘s Castle’s ordinary folk? Over all these centuries of political vested-interest, one might well wonder how did life go for the ploughman, dairymaid, tavern keeper, clerk, cowhand and stonemason, or for the cooper, brewer, carpenter, apothecary, farmwife, cook, curate and chamber maid? How indeed?

You can well see that the Marston family had a point when they erected this headstone to their kinsman, the good burgess: a lone voice of integrity?

previous post The Man from Africa: I.D. unknown

source: The Story of Bishop’s Castle eds David Preshous, George Baugh, John Leonard, Gavin Watson, Andrew Wigley 2018 Logaston Press

The Man From Africa ~ I.D. Unknown

Last week I went to pay my respects to I.D. He is one of Bishop’s Castle’s mysteries – the man from Africa, who was laid to rest in the parish churchyard of St John the Baptist on the 9th September 1801. Origins and life story unknown.

Here lieth the Body of I.D.

A Native of Africa who died in this Town Sept 9th 1801

God hath made of one Blood all nations of Men Acts 17 verse 26

I’ve written about him before, but the mystery continues to niggle, and especially now that I’ve come to live in the town. Who was this man? Where did he come from, and how had he arrived in the isolated small farming town of Bishop’s Castle? What led to his death? Was he slave, originally from West Africa or the Congo, and a possession of some Shropshire plantation-owning grandee. Or was he a free man; or employed as a servant?

The headstone, if sparse in details, is a fine one; it suggests a certain status; someone must have paid for it. There’s also a presumption that the deceased was a baptised Christian since the grave is sited in a prominent spot beside a well used path.

If the man had been a well regarded servant, then one might expect more personal details; a name at least; the years of his service and the name of his employer. (Slaves were usually given their owner’s names.) If he were merely a passing traveller who happened to die in the town, then who took it upon themselves to give him a decent burial? The parish records throw no light on the matter, and only repeat the text on the stone.

But there is a clue in the biblical quotation: God hath made of one blood all nations of men. This was a trademark text used by campaigners for the abolition of slavery.

At the time, Shropshire had its own fierce anti-slavery movement, driven by the dogged determination of one Archdeacon Joseph Plymley who lived not far away at Longnor. From 1791 until abolition in 1807 he worked tirelessly, alongside his sister, Katherine Plymley, travelling the county, raising petitions, urging Salopians to boycott sugar. So perhaps a local abolitionist sympathiser paid for the funeral. And perhaps, too, that well-wisher had the sensibility not to bury the man with his full slave name, but not knowing his birth name, chose to identify him solely by the initials I.D.

So many questions about a man, identity unknown, cut off from family, culture and community, lying in this quiet, but alien burial ground at the foot of the town, late summer cyclamen under the trees, the drift of cool air in from the hills and fields. Africa far far away.

September Harvest

Warm winds this afternoon, and a flurry of Red Admiral butterflies about the garden. Also out on the lawn, the alcoholic waft of gently fermenting apples – windfalls from our gnarly trees. The trees are in need of serious remedial work – if reclaiming them is even possible. Most of the fruit is spoiled before it falls – lots of pests and diseases, and some very spotty articles. But that said, there’s been enough good fruit to make a few pots of cinnamon and honey poached apple. And more to come.

As for this Red Admiral, it was spending a lot of time supping from a very rotten apple. I wonder if butterflies get squiffy. It might account for all the whirling about that was going on as I hacked away on project-liberation-greenhouse. It’s almost free from the overbearing hedge, but a lot of broken panes where hawthorn and ivy branches have leaned too heavily. For now, though, it’s good enough to shelter two bucket-planted tomato plants brought from Broseley. They’re still fruiting, if sporadically.

Our other tomatoes are an outdoor container variety, Tumbling Tom. They ripened very nicely on the terrace wall during our week of hot September weather. Here they are doing just what it says on the packet: cascading from their pots in profusion – out of summer and into fall.

Raptor Rapture: Meet The Sparrowhawk

photo credit: https://www.goodenberghleisure.co.uk/sparrow-hawk-at-the-hide/

I couldn’t have taken this photo, or one very like it, for all sorts of reasons. I’d just popped outside to do some qigong and soak up a bit of late-day sun. All was still in Bishops Castle: the light dreamy; the glow of old gold. There was of course the quarter-hour chime of the townhall clock, and then from across the street, the tones of convivial chatter between two neighbours’ were also finding their way into the garden.

And so to qigong. I was more than halfway through the shibashi set, performing ‘wave hands like clouds’, when the hawthorn tree over the hedge suffered a missile strike. Swift crash through vegetation. Something aerial shot down our path and landed on the rail by the garden steps. And there it stayed – only a few yards away, while I froze mid-cloud waving, right arm skywards, flamenco-style.

Posed thus, I of course thought of my camera. Silly. It was in the house, and I dared not move. So instead, I watched, while the sparrowhawk (a young male I think) sat on our fence, looking like it owned the place, from time to time turning its head as if to eavesdrop on the chatter across the road. It ignored me though, yet it surely must have spotted me with those sharp raptor eyes.

On the other hand, it was possibly busy gathering itself after a failed assault on some lucky bluetit. I watched for several minutes. Until it wheeled off over the hedge into town, the distinctive barred tail feathers, spread like a fan against the sun.

The Farrells’ new back garden. There’s an awful lot to sort out, but in the meantime, visiting sparrowhawks are a welcome addition. Some days we have red kites too, wafting high overhead.

You can find out more about sparrowhawks HERE.

Enter The Dragon

We’ve been ‘moving in’ to our new Bishops Castle home for a month now; more an ongoing state of flux than a settling in. There’s a lot to do and for months ahead, including work on roof and chimneys. And so not a little frazzled, it was a relief to abandon the house and head for the streets.

Yesterday was Michaelmas Fair day. Time to find out what kind of a town we’d moved to. Time to mingle with our new community and connect. After all, it’s what humans most need beyond basic sustenance – connection. And when we think we don’t (because there’s just too much to do), it’s probably when we need it most.

Proceedings kicked off at noon with street stalls and roaming performers, bands on the Town Hall stage; classic cars lined up on the High Street – primped and prepped; fleet of steam traction engines huffing coaly steam in the cattle market, waiting on the 3 o’ clock grand parade.

But as you can see, it was a dull old day – autumnal mist and drizzle plus intermittent showers, so we dipped in and out of the afternoon’s programme, met some new neighbours, reprised earlier introductions (yes, I do remember your name), bought a very fine rudbeckia, caught the Shropshire Bedlams Morris Dancers, but then listened to Jane the town’s singing florist (much amplified) while installing the new plant in the front garden. It was the evening’s events we wanted to go to.

The Lantern Procession began at 7.45. We stood at the top of the town to welcome it, wondering why the street was so sparse in humanity. (Was everyone in the pub? It surely looked like it. The nearby Vaults inn was full to bursting). And then down the hill the drumming began. Then out of the gloaming, the sinuous twists and twirls of the Hung Gar Light Dragon. And strung out behind him, the town’s lantern-bearing children and all their friends and relations.

Now we understood. Most of Bishops Castle had been busy making lanterns in the Church Barn. They were all in the procession. What a throng.

And so as the dragon and Chinese drummers climbed the hill, so the Broseley Beats Samba Band struck up at the top. (I wish we’d discovered them when were living Broseley). A drumming play off then, the beats ripping from toe to crown. No choice. The body says, DANCE!

Then just when we thought the show over, the dragon came whiffling back round the Town Hall, heading off down the hill. Followed by the samba band. Followed by us and everyone else, the descent choreographed by the drummers, stopping at intervals to give a bravado performance.

When we reached the King’s Head at the bottom of the town, we (somewhat astonished) came on a line-up of several steaming traction engines outside the pub door. What a hoot, and literally too. One owner was a tad whistle-happy. I trust he wasn’t driving home.

So there you have it, a fine finale to the Michaelmas Fair. All good spirits restored. And a taste of good things to come? I should think so.

Lens-Artists: recharge This week Egidio sets the theme as he hikes Colorado’s fabulous trails.

Old As The Hills: That Would Be 570,000,000 years

I recall being told by my geography teacher (aeons ago) that the Shropshire uplands comprised some of the world’s most venerable rocks i.e from the Precambrian era. The hills in question lie either side the Church Stretton fault, just across the Long Mynd from where we live now in Bishop’s Castle. On the east of the Stretton Valley are Lawley, Caer Caradoc and Ragleth, all formed from volcanic lava and ash around 570 million years ago. The Long Mynd lies to the west and began forming a little later with the build up of mud- and sandstone sediments in shallow seas.

Most astonishing of all, this whole process began when the earth’s crust beneath the land on which I now live was sited south of the Antarctic Circle. I’ll say that again: South Shropshire once lay south of the Antarctic Circle. Which obviously means this part of the British Isles has travelled from one end of the globe to the other.

On that journey, over millions of years, sea levels rose and fell; tectonic plates collided as continents shifted and shunted; uplifted landmasses were compressed, folded, tilted.

Then a succession of Ice Ages knocked the hills into shape. The Long Mynd is probably the most dramatic example – seen here in the the next photos taken in Carding Mill Valley, near Church Stretton. From 2.4 million years ago to 20,000 years ago glaciers shifted around the Mynd. When the ice sheets melted during interglacial periods, streams fed by melt water and rain carved out deep valleys, locally known as ‘batches’.

How mind-bogglingly amazing is this for a piece of landscape sculpting: water power plus the passage of time.

Lens-Artists: Time

Stiperstones Trail: Not For The Tender Footed

In the last post you saw the Stiperstones in brooding monochrome. Those photos were taken on a dull and windy summer’s day. It was our first attempt to reach the Devil’s Chair. I had never seen it at close quarters. But in the end, the lack of light and the high wind across the tops put an end to the expedition.

The big problem on this particular trail is the surface. The higher you climb, the worse the path becomes, forming a devilish spread of upended pointy cobbles, designed to turn ankles and gouge soles, even when the walker is shod with sturdy footwear. The wind only made navigation harder: hard to focus with watering eyes. At one point I tried deviating through the heather, but it was a struggle to stride over; and it meant walking twice as far, and the rocks still ambushed me. A retreat was called.

We then made another attempt on a windless sunny day, when these photos were taken, but again were defeated by the terrain; nobbled by the cobbles. Still, despite hazy skies, there were some good views of the South Shropshire Hills as we headed down. And there is no doubting: this is one dramatic landscape, the quartzite rock of the the tors and outcrops laid down 480 million years ago, then fractured and shattered during recurrent freeze and thaw phases of the last Ice Age, 15,000 years ago. Back then, the ice sheet that covered much of Britain lapped against these hills.

It’s quite a thought: the repeated cycles of warming and cooling, cooling and warming that planet earth has gone through over many million years. And here we are in a warmish interglacial (it was apparently warmer in Britain in the Bronze Age, during Roman times and in the Middle Ages), and we’re probably due another cooling, since the geological timetable appears remarkably consistent, or at least it does when one’s dealing in millennia. I’m not sure we’ll like it though, the cooling.

Cee’s Which Way Challenge: walks

Mysterious In Monochrome: The Shropshire Borderlands

This week at Lens-Artists, Anne from Slow Shutter Speed asks us to think about monochrome and black and white photography. Click on the link below to see her post.

My first photo here was edited from a colour image, although however it comes, it’s an odd composition. It was taken at Mitchells Fold, the Bronze Age stone circle on the border with Wales, and I was only aware of the passing figure as I snapped the shot. I neither saw him arrive, nor leave the scene. Gives one a bit of a shiver.

These next two shots were taken with my Lumix point and shoot (before it gave up the ghost), using the ‘dynamic monochrome setting’. It was midday, and in high summer, but the light was penumbral; as if the sun had been switched off. Again very strange, although you can well see why these hills inspired tales of the Devil and gatherings of evil ones whenever mist shrouded the heights.

This last photo was again taken on the Stiperstones, but on a brilliantly sunny day – a view of the Devil’s Chair (edited from colour). It looks like a ruined citadel, the quartzite rocks catching the sunlight.

Lens-Artists: Black & White or Monochrome Please visit Anne at Slow Shutter Speed. She’s given us a snappy little essay on this topic.

Bishop’s Castle Here We Come

The flags were flying yesterday in Bishop’s Castle, though not for us. They were marking a recent festival, celebrating the town’s 450 years of self-rule, granted in a royal charter by Elizabeth 1 in July 1573. This fabulous document, bearing the queen’s portrait, freed the town from the bishops’ control and instead gave executive authority to a Bailiff and fifteen Capital Burgesses to administer the community’s affairs; a first bold step towards democracy then.

Photo: Bishop’s Castle Town Council

But if the flags weren’t for us, it felt as if they were. Yesterday we at last picked up the keys to our new home: a small red-bricked villa built by one George Nicholas in 1922 on a corner of land bought back then from a local brewery. The house sits above a narrow lane running parallel to the High Street, and is in walking distance of pretty much everything in the town.

And so begins the next stage: preparing for the actual move, hopefully in the next couple of weeks. Phew and double phew. I think the nerves are holding up – just.

So watch this space for some new tales from another ancient Shropshire town.

In the meantime here’s a couple of photos also taken yesterday. As you can see- not the best of days, but proof that our cool and lacklustre July continues. And yes, that is an elephant you see performing on a vacant wall near the Town Hall.

And this is the Town Hall. We can hear the graceful chimes of its clock in our new garden. Yesterday it was hosting a wedding as we walked by. It also provides a regular venue for farmers’ markets and craft fairs, and of course council meetings are also held in its very handsome chamber on the upper floor.

To be continued…

Gone To Pot…The Backdoor Veggie Plot

Most of you who come here often know that the Farrells are in transit, currently in a rented house while waiting to buy a new home. To say the process is stressful is an understatement. It’s also meant giving up my allotment plots, so I’ve been very glad to be able to potter about with some container growing.

Because it is true what they say: gardening is good for both mind and body, even in a scaled-down version.

The container approach also proves you can grow fresh vegetables with a fairly small amount of space or physical effort (if these happen to be issues) and any container will do, including small pots which are particularly useful for growing successional salad stuff.

But first, the big pot planting.

With a further move on the horizon, I did have a very strong motive for resorting to container growing. If a pot is still cropping (or about to crop) when moving day arrives, it will be coming with us. To that end, the yellow courgette plant is in a builders’ two-handled bucket for easier transportation.

Then I was much perturbed about missing our usual tomato crop. To cover eventualities – as in just in case we’re lingering in Broseley longer than expected, I’ve planted a couple of cherry tomato plants in the garden border – Sungold and Piccolo, but I’ve also put some in large flower pots, two plants to a pot. And I’ve grown Tumbling Tom, which have been bred to dangle from hanging baskets and so don’t need staking. Again, I have these in transportable builders’ buckets, and despite the ongoing gales, they are growing well with masses of flowers, and showing the first signs of fruiting.

I do have lots of big clay pot, but realizing they would be too heavy and cumbersome to move when filled with compost and plants, I decided to use old compost bags (added drain holes in the bottom), with the tops rolled back to make a firm and grabble edge, and then popped into a clay pot for stability. These have proved excellent for growing successional crops of rocket and spinach. The latter usually bolts quickly in summer weather (not that we’ve had that since our few hot days in June; it’s more like early autumn), but growing it for baby leaf for salads or wilting into casseroles and curries seems to work just fine. It also grows very quickly.

Lettuce can be sown all season, and best done anyway in small-pot, successional sowings. Some I’ve left unthinned, and just cropped the leaves; others I’ve thinned and planted out in compost bags to grow into proper lettuce.

For the last few years I’ve tended to grow carrots in buckets, especially late summer sowings which provide a crop for winter eating. This year I sowed some back in April, and now have a big bucket of carrots seedlings, some of them just big enough to pull. We ate this little bunch steamed with broccoli and tahini lemon sauce.

And now a big shout-out for pea sprouts. This is a first for me, though why I’ve not thought of it before I really don’t know. I was able to use up all my old pea seeds too. Again, these can be grown in a series of 5 inch flower pots, sown successionally, or in standard seed trays (a layer of compost in the bottom, peas popped across the whole surface about an inch apart or a bit closer, and an inch of compost on top).

This tray has been recently cut i.e. when the stems are about 4 inches long. If the tray is kept well watered, then there will be further crops, maybe 2 or 3 more cuttings. We use the sprouts both in salads and for cooking.

Other potted crops include spring onions, leeks, pot marigolds and nasturtiums (for salads and prettiness), parsley, basil, dill, mint, coriander and oregano. I also have a bucket of climbing Violette French beans, and another of borlotti beans. I’m not sure how they’ll work out. The French beans have been beaten up by the winds (there has been no ‘hottest ever’ global warming in Broseley only shivering) but they are at least beginning to flower.

So there you have it: the Farrells’ moveable feast, and in the interim, the makings of a green salad to accompany every supper for the last couple of months. The exercise is making me re-think my gardening practice. The biggest advantage (apart from the moveability) is that container growing seems to help focus the mind on small, successional sowings, something I rarely seemed to manage on the allotment. You do need to keep an eye on the watering however. Wind, in particular, can dry out pots very quickly.

And now for some views of the back-door veggie plot:

I hope this might have enthused some of you to get potting. You can’t beat a freshly plucked green salad.