I am thrilled to announce that Jonathan Pryce will read my short story ‘On Christmas Day’ at the launch at Burley Fisher Books in Haggerston on Thursday 23rd November at 6:30pm.

CLICK HERE FOR TICKETS

The Gentle Author picks up the threads of Christmas fiction from Charles Dickens, Dylan Thomas and George Mackay Brown to weave a compelling tale of family conflicts ignited and resolved in the festive season.

CLICK HERE TO ORDER A SIGNED COPY FOR £10

“Over successive Christmases, as I was growing up, I witnessed the disintegration of my family until today I am the lone survivor of the entire clan, the custodian, charged with carrying the legacy of all their stories. Where once I was the innocent child in the midst of a family drama unknown to me, now I am a sober adult haunted by equivocal memories of a conflict that only met its resolution in death. Yet in spite of this, whenever I examine the piles of old photographs of happy, smiling people which are now the slim evidence of the existence of those generations which precede me, I cannot resist tender feelings towards them all.”

A limited edition of 1000 copies as a slim volume of thirty-two pages, co-published with Burley Fisher Books, illustrated with wood engravings by Reynolds Stone. Book design by David Pearson, printed by Aldgate Press on paper supplied by Fenner Paper.

CLICK HERE TO ORDER A SIGNED COPY FOR £10

The Gentle Author picks up the threads of Christmas fiction from Charles Dickens, Dylan Thomas and George Mackay Brown to weave a compelling tale of family conflicts ignited and resolved in the festive season.

A limited edition of 1000 copies as a slim volume of thirty-two pages, illustrated with wood engravings by Reynolds Stone. Book design by David Pearson, printed by Aldgate Press on paper supplied by Fenner Paper.

We will be announcing a launch with a reading shortly. We will be sending out complimentary copies next week to everyone who became a patron, friend or supporter of the crowdfund to relaunch Spitalfields Life Books.

“Over successive Christmases, as I was growing up, I witnessed the disintegration of my family until today I am the lone survivor of the entire clan, the custodian, charged with carrying the legacy of all their stories. Where once I was the innocent child in the midst of a family drama unknown to me, now I am a sober adult haunted by equivocal memories of a conflict that only met its resolution in death. Yet in spite of this, whenever I examine the piles of old photographs of happy, smiling people which are now the slim evidence of the existence of those generations which precede me, I cannot resist tender feelings towards them all.”

Click here to book for my last Spitalfields tour of the year

I am proud to present these extracts from PLANTING DIARIES, Gardens, planting styles and their origins by Siân Rees, a graduate of my blog writing course who has been publishing regularly for more than six years.

Follow PLANTING DIARIES

I am now taking bookings for the next writing course, HOW TO WRITE A BLOG THAT PEOPLE WILL WANT TO READ on November 25th & 26th.

Come to Spitalfields and spend a weekend with me in an eighteenth century weaver’s house in Fournier St, enjoy delicious lunches and eat cakes baked to historic recipes, all catered by Townhouse, and learn how to write your own blog.

Click here for details

If you are graduate of my course and you would like me to feature your blog, please drop me a line.

This plate showing a bright crimson ‘Picta Perfecta’ dahlia, with its beautifully shaped petals edged in black, was first published in The Floricultural Cabinet and Florist’s Magazine in 1835. Launched in 1833 by Joseph Harrison, a gardener and florist, his magazine reflects the appetite amongst amateur and professional gardeners alike for the cultivation of dahlias for show.

In the eighteen-thirties, dahlias were enormously popular garden and exhibition flowers, loved for their jewel colours, abundance of blooms and long flowering season.  Starting in July, dahlia shows took place at regular intervals through the summer and early autumn. Harrison visited floral exhibitions all over the country, many hosted by newly formed horticultural societies, and published his accounts of these in the magazine.

Today his accounts give us valuable insights into the character and atmosphere of these shows.  Dahlia shows ranged from those staged in public houses, such as the Baker’s Arms in Hackney Road, East London, and the Bull and Mouth Inn in Sheffield, to large exhibitions attracting huge crowds, such as the Metropolitan Society’s Grand Dahlia Show at Vauxhall Gardens in London.  Many of the shows hosted dinners for members after the prizes had been given out, and some enjoyed dancing, and music from brass bands. Whatever their size, all the shows were united by appreciation for the dahlia and the spirit of competition.

Harrison’s attendance at these shows allowed him to meet the horticulturalists producing new dahlias, giving him an important overview of dahlia cultivation in England and contacts in the wider horticultural industry.  He soon established himself as an influential voice informing taste and trends in gardening through his magazine, in much the same way horticultural journalists and garden designers do today.

With a format that gave advice on growing techniques from expert growers and seed and bulb suppliers, the magazine also encouraged amateurs to write in with questions and their own gardening tips. The Floricultural Cabinet was an instant success, boasting sales of 50,000 copies in 1833, its first year of publication.

Harrison appears to have understood the power of attractive colour images as a marketing tool to inspire readers to purchase his magazine, and the new plants he showcased.  The dahlias in the coloured plates are accomplished artworks, portraying the flowers with accuracy and with a slightly naïve quality in the diagrammatic stylisation of the flowers.  The ‘Picta Perfecta’ dahlia, praised in The Floricultural Cabinet for its perfectly round form and spectacular colours, was in fact a seeding raised by Harrison.

Harrison was meticulous in recording the names of prize winning dahlias as well as those of the judges and entrants.  From his records, certain grower’s names re-appear, such as Mr Pamplin, a florist who lived in Islington, and raised the beautiful golden yellow dahlia ‘Pamplin’s Bloomsbury’ which was illustrated in the magazine.

Joseph Harrison (1798 – 1856) was born in Sheffield where his father worked as head gardener at nearby Wortley Hall, a position Joseph took over in 1828.  He left Wortley Hall in 1837, setting up as a florist in Downham, Norfolk and eventually moving to Richmond, Surrey.  As well as The Floricultural Cabinet, Harrison also edited The Gardener’s Record.

While they are an important part of our horticultural history, flower shows are by their nature ephemeral events.  The plants, the exhibitors, and in some cases, even the venues where the shows took place are now long gone, but they live on in Harrison’s vivid descriptions.

Here follow extracts from The Floricultural Cabinet of three contrasting dahlia shows, documented by Harrison during his country wide tour of 1835.  They start with the East London Dahlia Show, a small and well established local event with sixty stands of flowers on display.  At the opposite end of the scale, Harrison is clearly captivated by The Bath Royal Flora and Horticultural Society’s Grand Annual Dahlia Show.  Its decorations included an extraordinary figure of a Mexican chief made out of dahlias, to celebrate the country where the plant originated.  But later in the season, Bath is topped by The Cambridge Florists’ Society Dahlia Show, with its model of a hot air balloon constructed out of 2,300 dahlia blooms and arranged around a chandelier:

The East London Dahlia Show

‘This exhibition took place, as usual, at the Bakers’ Arms, Hackney-road, and was well attended. Sixty stands of flowers were placed in competition, and the judges, Messrs, Alexander, Catleugh, and Glenny, placed them as follow :—

Stands of Twelve Blooms.—1, Mr. Dandy; 2, Mr. Crowder; 3, Mr. Rowlett; 4, Mr. Wade; 5, Mr. James; .6, Mr. Turner; 7, Mr. Dunn; 8, Mr. Williams; 9, Mr. Brown; 10, Mr. Riley; 11, Mr. Sharp; 12, Mr. Hogarth; 13, Mr. Green; 14, Mr. Buckmaster.

Stands of Six Blooms.—1, Mr. Williams; 2, Mr. Thornhill; 3,My. Dandy; 4, Mr. Crowder; 5, Mr, Wade; 6, Mr, Hogarth; 7, Mr, Dunn; 8, Mr, Carp

Sadly this pub that once stood at the corner of Warner Place and Hackney Road is now demolished.

The Bath Royal Flora and Horticultural Society’s Grand Annual Dahlia Show

‘The committee made extraordinary exertions to render this show the most splendid and attractive of the whole season, and they fully realized their purpose. The first object which met the view was a most singular figure on the right-hand lawn: it was that of a Mexican chief, holding a basket of flowers; the whole figure was composed of Dahlias, which, as our readers well know, came originally from that country ; and difficult as the task must have been, even the features of the countenance were very ingeniously delineated. This figure exhibited no less than 150 varieties of the Dahlia, in every imaginable tint, and of every gradation of size. A little beyond was the figure of a tree of considerable size, the trunk and every branch being composed of Dahlias of an equal number of varieties, and in the colour and size of the flowers.’

The Cambridge Florists’ Society

‘This Society had their grand Autumnal Show of Dahlias on Thursday, Sept. 24th, in the Assembly room at the Hoop Hotel. We have witnessed many floral exhibitions here and at other places, but we never before beheld any thing approaching the beauty and magnificence of this exhibition; on no previous occasion was the Dahlia exhibited in so high a state of excellence. We may expect to see great additions made to the colours and varieties of this very beautiful flower, but we much doubt if ever the grand stand of prize flowers displayed on this occasion will be surpassed in size or quality by that of any future show. The task of decorating the room was entrusted to Mr. Edward Catling, florist, of Cambridge; and nothing could possibly exceed the happy and elegant taste with which every ornament was executed. The sides and ends of the room were beautifully decorated with evergreens, wreaths, and Dahlias. At the head of the grand stand was an immense orange tree thickly studded with Dahlias, to represent the fruit in its various stages of growth, backed by a beautiful Fuchsia multiflora, 12 feet high, from the Botanic Garden. At the end of the room, was a prettily variegated crown entirely composed of Dahlias. But the grand attraction of all was a splendid balloon, wholly formed of Dahlia-blooms, suspended from the ceiling, the car of which appeared to be illuminated, from being placed over a gas chandelier. This ariel machine had a striking effect, the flowers being arranged in stripes to represent variegated silk; and we were told that more than 2,300 Dahlias were required to complete the balloon, exclusive of the car, from which two flags were pendent.—The afternoon show was attended by a numerous and respectable company; but the evening exhibition was crowded beyond all former precedent, owing to its being on the eve of the horse-fair, which gave the neighbouring country people an opportunity of witnessing the finest display of Dahlias ever seen in Cambridge. Upwards of 700 well-dressed persons were in the room at one time, and from eight to half-past nine o’clock the number amounted to little, if any, short of 3,000 persons, all with happy countenances, highly delighted with the fairy scene ; added to which were the musical strains of the Cambridge Military Band, who played several new and difficult pieces, with a precision and taste that would have done credit to veteran performers. After the ladies had withdrawn, more than 200 members and their friends sat down, with the splendid flowers before them, and enjoyed the scene with music, song, and toast. Fifteen new members were elected, and we rejoice to learn that the Society meets with the well-merited support of all classes.’

Levick’s Beauty of Sheffield
The Floricultural Cabinet

Brown’s Royal Adelaide
The Floricultural Cabinet

Harris’s Acme of Perfection
The Floricultural Cabinet

Harris’s Inimitable Dahlia
The Floricultural Cabinet

Dodd’s Mary
The Floricultural Cabinet

Barratt’s Vicar of Wakefield
The Floricultural Cabinet

Cox’s Yellow Defiance
The Floricultural Cabinet

Pamplin’s Bloomsbury
The Floricultural Cabinet

Harrison’s Charles XII
The Floricultural Cabinet

Images courtesy Natural History Museum

You might also like to read

 A Brief Survey of East End Horticultural History

I am proud to present these extracts from A LONDON INHERITANCE, a private history of a public city by a graduate of my blog writing course who has been publishing regularly for nine and a half years. The author inherited a series of old photographs of London from his father and by tracing them, he discovers the changes in the city.

Follow A LONDON INHERITANCE

I am now taking bookings for the next writing course, HOW TO WRITE A BLOG THAT PEOPLE WILL WANT TO READ on November 25th & 26th.

Come to Spitalfields and spend a weekend with me in an eighteenth century weaver’s house in Fournier St, enjoy delicious lunches and eat cakes baked to historic recipes, all catered by Townhouse, and learn how to write your own blog.

Click here for details

If you are graduate of my course and you would like me to feature your blog, please drop me a line.

My father’s photograph from 1952

My photograph of the same view today

IN WATNEY MARKET & WATNEY ST, SHADWELL

In my father’s photo of 1952, the slogan “No Arms For Nazis” painted on the wall represented a concern about the level of Nazi sympathies still remaining in Germany in the aftermath of WWII. It was taken from the bombed site once occupied by a church, looking southwest towards the Masons Arms which faced onto Watney St and Watney Market.

In 1953, the US government undertook a survey which revealed residual undercurrents of Nazism in Germany needed to be taken seriously. It was claimed the growth of “nationalistic discontent among young men is ominous”. There was mass unemployment in Germany and economic grievances were intensified by the numbers of refugees from Eastern Europe.

This slogan  “No Arms For Nazis”appeared at many sites in London and across the country, and the East Kent Times reported that in Ramsgate “Motorists and residents were startled to see on the parapet of the viaduct, high above the main Margate Road, the words ‘No Arms For Nazis’ painted in large white capitals.”

The southern end of Watney St meets Cable St, well known as the scene of the famous battle in 1936, when there were clashes between the Police, anti-fascists and the British Union of Fascists led by Oswald Mosley, who were attempting to march through the area.

In the thirties, this area was the scene of regular provocation of the Jewish community by members of fascist organisations. Watney St and Watney Market frequently appeared in newspaper reports of these events. On 30th of May 1936, the City & East London Observer carried a report titled “Fascists in Watney St.”

“There was great excitement among the many shoppers and stallholders in Watney Ston Sunday morning when about a dozen Blackshirts paraded up and down the market selling Fascist newspapers amid cries of ‘More Stalls for Englishmen’, ‘Foreigners Last and Nowhere’, while from another section of the crowd there were cries of ‘Blackshirt Thugs’, ‘Rats’, etc.

A great crowd gathered, and a Jewish girl, going up to one of the Blackshirts, bought a paper, tore it to pieces and stamped on the fragments. After this the police took a hand but they found it very difficult to keep the crowd on the move owing to the barrows in the market. Somebody picked up a cucumber from one of the stalls, but was prevented from throwing it at a Blackshirt.

A surprising number of the people present appeared to be in sympathy with the Blackshirts. The Blackshirts are, it is believed, about to open a branch in Stepney.”

A few months later, in July 1936, it was reported that the market place in Watney St “seems to be the chief hunting ground for Blackshirts selling their propaganda, who, according to reports, do their best to encourage hatred of the Jewish community.”

Many of the traders in the market were concerned about the lack of action from the authorities, and “rightly or wrongly, are of the opinion that the police are pro-Fascist”.

The traders were concerned that the Blackshirts were having a negative impact on their trade. Their actions and language put off many of the customers of the market, so when they arrived many of the traders packed up and left too. This all came to a head at the Battle of Cable St on 4th October.

AT CLOAK LANE POLICE STATION

When I walked along Cloak Lane in the City a couple of weeks ago, I noticed this foundation stone on the corner laid by a Deputy Chairman of the Police Committee.

Plainly decorated and mainly brick with stone cladding on the ground floor, the building still projects a strong, functional image but the foundation stone is now the only reminder that this was built for the City of London Police and opened as Cloak Lane Police Station.

I cannot find the exact date when the new station opened, however it appears to have been built quickly since by 1886 newspapers were carrying reports about events there, including what must have been a most unusual use for the new police station.

“AN ADDER CAUGHT IN A LONDON STREET. There is now to be seen at the Police Station, Cloak Lane, City, an adder, about 15 inches long, which was seen in Cannon Street a morning or two ago basking in the sun on the foot pavement, although large numbers of persons were passing to and fro at the time.

A constable’s attention was drawn to the strange sight, and he managed to get it into a box and take it to the station. It is conjectured that it must have been inadvertently conveyed to town in some bale or other package of goods. The creature, which is pronounced to be a fine specimen, has been visited by large numbers of persons.”

I could not find any record of what happened to the adder after its appearance at Cloak Lane police station.

The River Thames features in a number of events that involved Cloak Lane police station. These often involved tragedy, due to the nature of police work and the dangers of the river, such as in April 1924:

“POLICEMAN VANISHES – BELIEVED TO HAVE BEEN BLOWN INTO THE THAMES. Police Constable Albert Condery is believed to have met with a tragic death by being blown into the Thames during a storm last night.

It is learned that Condery, who has been in the City Police Force for 20 years, left Cloak Lane Police Station last night to go on duty at Billingsgate Market. He was seen there by the sergeant, but later he was missed, and his helmet was found floating on the Thames near the market. The body has not been recovered.”

There were many strange events across the City. In November 1902, papers had the headline “EXTRAORDINARY AFFAIR AT BANK OF ENGLAND – ATTEMPT TO SHOOT THE SECRETARY. A sensation was caused in the Bank of England yesterday by the firing of a revolver by a young man who had entered the library. As he seemed about to continue his firing indiscriminately the officials overpowered and disarmed him. The police were called in, and he was removed to the Cloak Lane Police Station.”

He was unknown by anyone in the Bank of England and whilst at Cloak Lane, he was examined by a Doctor, who came up with the diagnosis that “the man’s mind had given way at the time”.

The very last report mentioning Cloak Lane Police Station was from December 1965 when an article titled “Foolish Driver in The City” . He was arrested on suspicion of being drunk and taken to Cloak Lane Police Station, where he “had to be supported by two officers because he was unsteady on his feet”. And so ended eighty years of policing from Cloak Lane.

YOU CAN STILL VISIT OUR CROWDFUND PAGE & CONTRIBUTE HERE

I am proud to publish these extracts from THE OXFORD SAUSAGE by a graduate of last spring’s blog writing course. The author set out to write a spicy mix of Oxford stories from a house once belonging to a city sausage maker.

Follow THE OXFORD SAUSAGE

I am now taking bookings for the next writing course, HOW TO WRITE A BLOG THAT PEOPLE WILL WANT TO READ on November 25th & 26th. Come to Spitalfields and spend a weekend with me in an eighteenth century weaver’s house in Fournier St, enjoy delicious lunches and eat cakes baked to historic recipes, all catered by Townhouse, and learn how to write your own blog. Click here for details

If you are graduate of my course and you would like me to feature your blog, please drop me a line.

In 1785

Today

THE OLDEST TREE IN OXFORD

In truth, I do have a bit of a soft spot for the yew tree. And therefore on a bright, sunny day this week I made a pilgrimage in its honour. I wanted to pay homage to this age-old tree. And I knew just the place to go.

Yews have lifespans of up to 3,000 years. In fact it must live to be at least 900 years before it can be considered ancient. In order to see one like that, I am told by the gardener at the Oxford Botanic Garden, I must head to St Mary’s Church in Iffley. That is where I will find Oxford’s oldest tree.

You can cycle all the way to Iffley along the river, whose banks at this time of year are high with Himalayan balsam and meadowsweet. It may be just under two miles from Carfax tower but I fancy I am off on a trip to the country. Though Iffley now forms part of the city’s suburban sprawl, it still calls itself a village and its pretty cottages and local shop make it feel that way.

Across the water at Iffley Lock and up the hill and you find yourself in the churchyard of the Romanesque church of St Mary the Virgin. It has six yew trees in its grounds but there is no mistaking the one I have come to see. It is a giant amongst its kind, its top dwarfing the tower, its massive branches reaching wide, and then bending over to hide ivy-clad monuments and gravestones, its inner shelter dappled in sunlight. There you can see that the trunk is hollow, its bark rust red, furrowed and covered with large knots and nodules. But there is still a vigorous growth of evergreen needle like leaves that are laden with berries.

This one is thought to be over 1600 years old, so more than double the age of St Mary’s which was built around 1170. The church was almost certainly erected on a site of pre-Christian worship – druids considered the evergreen sacred – and there are references to pagan imagery on the building’s southern doorway in the form of carvings of centaurs, beak heads and the green man.

But there are more practical reasons for its inclusion as well. The yew’s poisonous berries prevented people grazing their livestock on church land. And its strong, flexible wood was perfect for making longbows, a stalwart of medieval weaponry. After 1252 it was mandatory for everyone to engage in archery practice, so great was the need for bowmen.

It is awe inspiring to think that the magnificent tree here ‘must have been full-grown long before the first Oxford spire was raised in the vale below’ – so reads an entry in Chambers Journal written in 1892. Here it is described as ‘an ancient tree, whose furrowed half-prostrate trunk seems ‘weary worn with care’, and as we stand beside its bending form, a feeling of sympathy, akin to that which we extend to a fellow human being stooping low with a load of years, rises within us.’ Hurrah to that, and here’s to another thousand years.

Lewis Carroll is thought to have often visited St Mary’s, Iffley, and it is said that this drawing he made for ‘Alice’s Adventures Underground’ was inspired by the great yew.

THE STONE SAINTS’ RETIREMENT HOME

Antonia Hockton has been coming to New College twice a year for twenty-six years. She arrives as the students leave for the long vacation. For this is when her work as a stone conservator with the many statues, memorials and monuments can be undertaken without interruption. And so it is, late in the summer that I have managed to catch up with her. I wanted to find out more about her ancient profession. But I was also interested in a particular set of statues that once stood overlooking the city at the foot of the spire of the University Church of St Mary the Virgin. Replaced at the end of the nineteenth century, after languishing in the basement, they were bought here to New College fo rehabilitation.

I came across them when, after attending evensong in the chapel, I had taken a wrong turn. I found myself in the fourteenth century cloisters. There was no lighting and, despite only a gentle breeze, the rafters seemed to move and creak. Feeling spooked, I was just turning to go when a shaft of moonlight, hidden before by a cloud, illuminated the face of what looked like a seven foot giant. And there were nine more of these huge stone figures, some with staffs, others with croziers, crosses and mitres. They were arranged as sentinels on the corners and along the aisles of the covered walkways. I was totally smitten.

Returning in the daylight they have a gentler presence. Here are the saints of their day, St Patrick, patron saint of Ireland, St John the Baptist wearing a wool shirt, St Hugh with his tame swan, St Edward the Confessor and St Cedd. Also, St Mary the Virgin with baby Jesus, St William of York, St David, St Thomas à Becket and St Cuthbert holding the head of St Oswald. ‘They’ve become like old friends,’ explains Antonia, as she takes a break to introduce them. ‘I think it must be their stance. They are like biblical soldiers. I feel they are protecting me.’

These are not the original fourteenth century statues, which was when, according to Antonia, ‘the level of skill amongst stonemasons was at its peak.’ When Victorian architect TG Jackson took them down in 1896 to install these reproductions by George Frampton (famous for his Peter Pan statue in Hyde Park), his report was damning. Centuries of inclement weather, bad patching with totally inappropriate materials, and several inferior replacements had – he claimed – made them and much of the masonry a public hazard. There were finials and crockets that had fallen from above, piled around the church. Jackdaws had made nests behind the saints’ hollow backs, their once wooden croziers had rotted away and the metal bars that held them in place were completely rusted. On Sunday March 17th 1889, there was ‘serious alarm caused by the fall of the face of one of the statues close to the north door of the church, just after the congregation had entered for the University Sermon.’

‘There were bits missing and they were pitch black,’ remembers Antonia when, after a century of neglect, she was commissioned to perform her magic. Apprenticed at Lincoln Cathedral, working with stone was something she had always wanted to do. ‘Way back in my ancestry on my mother’s side there were French stonemasons ,’ she explains as we pause to admire the figure of St Cedd, her very first patient all those years ago. ‘Stonemasons were always journeymen, going from building to building, just as I still do. And I believe they came from France to the West Country and then one came up to the Midlands where I am from, where they happened to meet my great grandmum. Some of his work can still be seen on the Coventry Town Hall. ’

Dexterity and patience are the most important requirement for the job. A steady hand is essential too because a slip of the wrist could ruin months of work. What Antonia is doing is sympathetic restoration. ‘I was asked to put features back to how they would have looked,’ she explains in front of an imposing St Mary and a rather grumpy Christ child. Both have alarmingly large, out-of-proportion heads – apparently so when seen high up on the church they did not look too small. ‘For this one, I had to put a whole new head on the baby,’ she smiles. ‘People have said to me, ‘Couldn’t you have made him a bit prettier?’ but I had been given photographs from Jackson’s time as reference, so I can’t put my personality in really.’

When the statues were first carved, the stone came from local quarries, no longer extant. The belt of limestone is still there, running down from Lincolnshire, snaking across Oxfordshire and then under the channel to Northern France. As there was not enough height in these beds of stone to make the tall stature needed, they had to either be carved in sections or by what is known as ‘off the bed’. This is when they turn the block upward so the layers are stood on end. But this creates a vulnerability which explains the deterioration of the pieces. It was rain seeping in through the head that caused the face of that archbishop to fall off.

Antonia uses lime mortar to mould the shape. ‘It’s the same components as the blocks in the wall behind are made of,’ she says of the warm stone used to build the new college founded by William of Wykeham in 1379. ‘It’s just the seabed really. The bones of millions and millions of sea creatures. It’s amazing to think we dig something out of the earth that was once miles under the sea and carve it.’

Next to her stands St Hugh of Lincoln, the place where her work first started. He is my favourite figure, lovingly caressing the neck of his pet swan. And as I take my leave I cannot help but feel they both look serene and happy. St Hugh in his retirement with Antonia at hand should he require attention.

St Cedd, before and after

St Thomas à Becket

St Patrick, patron saint of Ireland

St William of York

St John the Baptist

St Hugh with his pet swan

St Edward the Confessor

St David, patron saint of Wales

YOU CAN STILL VISIT OUR CROWDFUND PAGE & CONTRIBUTE HERE

I am proud to publish these extracts from BUG WOMAN LONDON – a graduate of my blog writing course who has been publishing posts online for nearly ten years now. The author set out to explore our relationship with the natural world in the urban environment, yet her subject matter has expanded in all kinds of ways. Follow BUG WOMAN LONDON, because a community is more than just people

I am now taking bookings for the next writing course, HOW TO WRITE A BLOG THAT PEOPLE WILL WANT TO READ on November 25th & 26th. Come to Spitalfields and spend a weekend with me in an eighteenth century weaver’s house in Fournier St, enjoy delicious lunches and eat cakes baked to historic recipes, all catered by Townhouse, and learn how to write your own blog. Click here for details

If you are graduate of my course and you would like me to feature your blog, please drop me a line.

THE OWLS’ DUET

Dear Readers, there is something magical about owls and they are often nearer to us than we think. The two chicks above were photographed in Kensington Gardens, of all places, and there are Little Owls there too. And there are Tawny Owls in both of our local cemeteries (St Pancras and Islington and East Finchley) and probably in Coldfall Wood too.

The prime time for owl ‘conversations’ is in the spring, but there is something particularly spine-chilling about hearing them at this time of year, as the nights draw in and Halloween approaches. Of course, for the owls themselves the calls are many things, but mostly they are a way of helping the male and female owls to establish their territories in preparation for the spring breeding season. The ‘tu-whit, tu-whoo’ call is the two owls duetting, and typically it’s thought that the ‘tu-whit’ is the female’s soliciting call, the ‘tu-whoo’ part the male answering.

However, I learnt that male owls can also make the ‘tu-whit’ call (though at a lower pitch than the female does), and both sexes can answer. Which just goes to show that just when I think I have something about the natural world nailed down, it turns out to be more complicated which is a source of some pleasure.

Owls can tell a lot from one another’s calls, not just the sex of the caller but their size, weight, health and level of aggression. These are all important factors in choosing a mate. Will they be able to defend and hold a territory? Are they good hunters? Males with the highest levels of testosterone call more frequently and for longer, and this is often related to the size and quality of their territories.

The combination of the two owl ‘voices’ is a signal to other owls that the partnership is working, and that they are cooperating in defending their territories. It is hard work providing for owlets, so this teamwork is essential.

Although the cry of the owl has been seen as a harbinger of doom since before Shakespeare’s time, for me it signals that something in the ecosystem is working. If it can support two tawny owls, then the rest of the food chain is likely to also be relatively healthy.

The woods at night are an interesting soundscape but note that at this time of year you are most likely to hear the owls just after sunset, rather than at the dead of night. It is definitely worth going for a dusk walk, just to see what you can hear and see.

THE SAD STORY OF THE COMMUNITY VOLE

Dear Readers, I was rushing off to a meeting when I was stopped in my tracks by this little rodent all alone in the middle of the pavement. What on earth was s/he? With those tiny ears it was not a mouse and I wondered for a second if s/he was an escaped gerbil but then it clicked. I was looking at an East Finchley bank vole.

Two young women popped out from the house and we all looked at the vole. I was worried because you would never normally get this close to a wild rodent, bank voles are very skittish and can climb trees and shrubs. My Guide to British Mammals says that they ‘walk and run, often in quick stop-start dashes’, but not this one.

“Do either of you girls have a box?” I asked. I knew that the vole would get eaten by a cat or pecked to death by a magpie if s/he was left where she was. Neither girl had a box, so I dashed back home to get one. I thought that we needed to check a) if it was actually some kind of rodent pet and b) if it was a wild animal. I would keep it safe until after dark and then release it if it was well enough.

When I came back, the mother of the girl was also there and all four of us stood and gazed at the oblivious rodent. “He’s rather sweet”, said one of the girls. I always find it heartening when people are not scared of small furry things.

I scooped the vole up and popped them into a box. I got the slightest of nibbles – which did not break the skin – so I felt as if there was still some feistiness left, a good sign. I told my long-suffering husband what was going on and left him to find food/shelter/water etc for our guest.

When a message went out on the Whatsapp for the road, the little rodent was quickly christened ‘the Community Vole’.

When I got back, the Community Vole was having a little nibble at some muesli but clearly they were not well. There was that slight tremor I have seen before in mice that have eaten something poisoned, either by rat/mouse poison, or from their food plants being sprayed with pesticide or herbicide. But bank voles only have a lifespan of a year, so s/he could simply be getting to the end of their natural life. I realised that s/he was much too weak and wobbly to be released into a night-time garden full of cats and foxes. Plus, if s/he was poisoned, anything that ate them would also pick up some of the toxin.

Meantime, the street was full of suggestions for Community Vole’s name.

“Vole-taire”

“Vole-demort”

“Vole-erie”

But in between the jollity there was genuine concern for the well-being of this small animal.

I put some bedding into the box, made sure there were various kinds of food (grass, grapes, cashew nuts, sunflower seeds), covered the box and found a quiet spot for it. If the vole rallied by the next morning, I could release them. If they were still unwell, I would see if I could find a vet. But in my heart I knew that this little one was on its way out.

Next morning, they were tucked up in their bed, dead.

People were genuinely sad that s/he had died. There are an estimated twenty-three million bank voles in the United Kingdom but there is something about seeing an individual animal, or person, that activates our empathy. It is easy to dismiss whole rafts of animals as ‘vermin’ and frighteningly easy to do that to people as well. But when we hear the story of one creature or person we can somehow understand and start to build connections. Maybe that is how we save ourselves, one story at a time?

We may not have quite hit our target, but – thanks to 265 donors – we raised an astonishing £31,000 which is enough for us to work with creatively and relaunch Spitalfields Life Books. Meanwhile, our crowdfund page will remain open until we reach £35,000.

YOU CAN STILL VISIT OUR CROWDFUND PAGE & CONTRIBUTE HERE

Thanks to you, we can now put the pandemic behind us and step towards the future.

We have been working on David Hoffman’s book, A Place to Live: Endurance & Joy in the East End, 1971-87, for several years and now it can be published next spring. Tessa Hunkin’s Hackney Mosaic Project monograph and Sarah Ainslie’s book of portraits of Women at Work in the East End are both in advanced stages of development too, and they will follow next year.

In the meantime, next month I am bringing out a limited edition of my short story On Christmas Day, published jointly with Burley Fisher Books of Haggerston and designed by David Pearson. All those who supported the crowdfund as patrons, supporters or friends will receive personally inscribed copies in the post.

We are planning a launch celebration at Burley Fisher Books with a special guest to read the story and will publish the details here as soon as they are available.

The Gentle Author picks up the threads of Christmas fiction from Charles Dickens, Dylan Thomas and George Mackay Brown to weave a compelling tale of family conflicts ignited and resolved in the festive season.

THANKYOU to the 164 people who have contributed so far. With your help, I am hoping we can create a snowball effect in the next seven days to reach our target by next Saturday 14th October.

Please spread the word through your social media, and to friends, family and work colleagues. Consider supporting us as a patron and receive a signed fine art print by Doreen Fletcher, signed photographic prints by David Hoffman and Sarah Ainslie, plus an inscribed copy of my forthcoming book.

I believe in the primacy of books because – even if the web gets wiped out tomorrow – they will endure. Publishing is not an easy task, yet I am passionate to do it when I find stories that I want to cherish, that I know people will love, and that I believe deserve to be dignified in our time and for posterity.

Each of the new books I want to publish is a witness of our times and I am publishing them so you can have copies and we can share them with everyone, and they can be a legacy and record of our era.

CLICK HERE TO VISIT OUR CROWDFUND PAGE & CONTRIBUTE

Photographer David Hoffman outside Fieldgate Mansions in Whitechapel where he squatted in the seventies and eighties, while documenting the life of the people around him.

“The old East End was disappearing as I took these photographs, being able to bring back a glimpse of its spirit in this book means a lot to me.” David  Hoffman

Artist Tessa Hunkin at the pavilion on Hackney Downs which she and Hackney Mosaic Project have turned into a landmark with an epic  mosaic of wild creatures.

“A beautiful book about Hackney Mosaic Project will be the best reward for all the people who have worked on the mosaics, bringing their achievement to a wider public and giving them the recognition they so well deserve.” Tessa Hunkin

Photographer Sarah Ainslie in her studio in Bethnal Green explaining why she has chosen to take portraits of women at work in the East End over the past thirty years.

“It means so much to me and will be an important recognition of all the women I have photographed over the years for this book to be published by Spitalfields Life Books, a perfect home for it.” Sarah Ainslie

Films by Lucinda Douglas Menzies

Starting in 2013 with The Gentle Author’s London Album, Spitalfields Life Books published 15 books over 6 years until the pandemic shut us down. Now we are ready to begin again and we are inspired by a string of new titles that we have ready to publish.

We are launching a crowdfund to raise enough money to cover production of our next three books, then income from sales of these will permit us to continue and publish more. We print within Europe on paper from sustainable sources and we have established relationships with booksellers and distributors. Almost all copies of our previous titles have sold out.

Take a look at our future plans and consider our phenomenal publishing record.

CLICK HERE TO VISIT OUR CROWDFUND PAGE AND CONTRIBUTE

3 BOOKS WE WANT TO PUBLISH NOW

A PLACE TO LIVE: ENDURANCE & JOY IN THE EAST END 1971-87

David Hoffman’s bold, humane photography records a lost decade, speaking vividly to our own times. Living in Whitechapel through the 70s, David documented homelessness, racism, the incursion of developers and the rise of protest in startlingly intimate and compassionate pictures to compose a vital photographic testimony of resilience.

“The old East End was disappearing as I took these photographs, being able to bring back a glimpse of its spirit in this book means a lot to me.”

David Hoffman

TESSA HUNKIN & HACKNEY MOSAIC PROJECT

Tessa Hunkin and Hackney Mosaic Project have created breathtakingly beautiful and witty mosaics in locations all across the East End over the past ten years. In the process, Tessa has won the reputation as the pre-eminent mosaic designer in this country while leading a community endeavour that has elevated the lives of hundreds of participants.

“A beautiful book about Hackney Mosaic Project will be the best reward for all the people who have worked on the mosaics, bringing their achievement to a wider public and giving them the recognition they so well deserve.”

Tessa Hunkin

WOMEN AT WORK IN THE EAST END OF LONDON 1992-2023

Sarah Ainslie celebrates the contribution of female labour over the past thirty years in exuberant portraits that capture the passion and struggle of the working life. Drawn from Sarah’s personal archive and her work as Spitalfields Life Contributing Photographer, this is a panoramic survey of social change.

“It means so much to me and will be an important recognition of all the women I have photographed over the years for this book to be published by Spitalfields Life Books, a perfect home for it.” Sarah Ainslie

Beyond these titles, we are co-publishing a limited edition of The Gentle Author’s short story ON CHRISTMAS DAY with Burley Fisher Books and compiling a monograph of Markéta Luskačová’s photographs of Spitalfields for future publication.

Photograph by Markéta Luskačová, Cheshire St 1979

15 BOOKS WE HAVE ALREADY PUBLISHED

We are emboldened by the great success of our books to date. Here are a few important titles we published that have celebrated the culture of the East End.

In EAST END VERNACULAR, we published the first 20th century art history of the East End and we followed it with DOREEN FLETCHER: PAINTINGS, elevating the work of a major artist who had been unjustly neglected.

Clockwise: Still Standing, Pharmacy Commercial Rd, Hotdog Stand in Mile End Park and Royal London Hospital.

“When my monograph was published by Spitalfields Life Books it was very well received and the edition sold out quickly. I reached an audience I would never have encountered otherwise and those who already held my work gave it more prominence in their collections. The publication made a huge difference to my life and I am very appreciative of the immense support of The Gentle Author.”

Doreen Fletcher

In A MODEST LIVING by Suresh Singh, we published the first biography of a London Sikh, described the Observer as ‘a timely reminder of all that modern Britishness encompasses.’

Photograph of Suresh Singh and Jagir Kaur by Patricia Niven

“Jagir Kaur and I loved working with The Gentle Author on our book, TGA listened and cherished each word of our story giving us wisdom of layout, images and design”

Suresh Singh AKA ‘The Cockney Sikh’

We have championed and celebrated the previously unknown photography of Horace Warner (SPITALFIELDS NIPPERS), Colin O’Brien (LONDON LIFE), John Claridge (EAST END) and Bob Mazzer (UNDERGROUND).

Published 2015

Published 2017

Published 2014

“It was a complete joy to have my first book published by Spitalfields Life Books, and having the wise guidance and swift, brilliant decision-making of The Gentle Author at every turn.”

Eleanor Crow

‘Could hardly be bettered’ The Times

‘Real narrative verve’ Evening Standard

‘Deserves to become a standard work’ TLS

Julian Woodford was appointed as a fellow of the Royal Historical Society on the basis of his ground-breaking history.

“Working with Spitalfields Life Books was a joy from start to finish. Experts in editing, design, production and publicity worked together seamlessly, but the real differentiator was a genuine collective desire to produce a beautiful book. In this they succeeded magnificently and the excitement of seeing the first copy will live with me forever.”

Julian Woodford

Published 2013

Published 2018

“This small, beautiful book is an elegy to companionship. Encompassing both the everyday and the profound, it should be judged no less valid for the fact that the friend in question is a cat.” Times Literary Supplement

Published 2019

Published 2013

Published 2015

Published 2018

‘This book will provide even the most unaccustomed of map readers with hours of entertainment and intrigue’ Independent

‘The artist has a keen eye for pop culture and absurdity, which gives each artwork an unexpected zing’ Matthew Oldham, World of Interiors

Published 2017

‘Zola without the trimmings.’ The Observer

Published 2015

CLICK HERE TO VISIT OUR CROWDFUND PAGE AND CONTRIBUTE

Click here to book for my tour through September and October

Click here to discover more about this autumn’s blog course

Derrick Porter

This is the gentle face of Derrick Porter, craggy and wise, framed by snowy hair and punctuated with a pair of sharp eyes that reveal a hint of his imaginative capacity. Standing against a rural backdrop upon the banks of the river Ching in Essex not far from High Beach where John Clare was confined, Derrick looks every inch an English poet and he is quick to admit his love of nature. Yet, although he acquired an affection for the countryside at an early age and Chingford is his place of residence, the focus of Derrick’s literary landscape and centre of his personal universe is his place of origin – Hoxton.

“It was a place we all wanted to get out of – it was a tough place to live,” Derrick confessed to me, recalling his childhood, “but the the culture of Hoxton and that era was my imaginative education.”

“My interest in literature stems from spending so many years in hospital up to the age of thirteen and they used to read to us – I looked forward to it so much, I learnt to love reading stories,” he confided, explaining that he suffered from tuberculosis as a child and was exiled from London for long stretches in hospitals. “They made us stay out in the fresh air which was the worst possible thing because it actually helped the germs to flourish, when the foggy atmosphere of London was much more beneficial to sufferers – but they didn’t understand that in those days.

My dad worked at the Daily Mail as a printer and my mum was a housewife, but I never saw him until I was six when he returned from the war. He had been captured by the Japanese and was held in a prisoner of war camp. At first, they sent him to America which was where they kept them to build them up again before they came home.

Before the age of ten years old, I lived in a prefab in Vince St next to the Old St roundabout and then we moved to Fairchild House in Fanshawe St. The prefabs were made of asbestos without any insulation and were very cold in winter. As children, we used to break off pieces of asbestos and throw them on to the bonfire to watch them explode. Maybe that affected my health? We had free rein then and we played in the old bombed buildings at the back of Moorgate – that was our playground.

At thirteen, I had an operation to have half of my lung removed and they told my mother that they didn’t know if I would recover. From then on, I took care of my own health and I became a fitness and health junkie. When I left school I thought I’d like to go back to the countryside and, when the teacher asked my ambition, I said, ‘I’m going to work on a farm,’ he told me, ‘You won’t find many in ‘Oxton, Porter.’ My father got me a job as in the general printing trade but it did my lungs in.

I always had this compulsion to get away from Hoxton and write. So I decided to emigrate to Australia on my own. I knew I had to get away. I was nineteen when I went for two years. I was engaged to be married but I broke the engagement and emigrated. I went to writing workshops in Australia and my earliest poems were written while I was there. I got a job as a printer on the Sydney Morning Herald. At first, they told me I couldn’t get a job without a union card, but then there was a bit of skullduggery. They took pity on me and, when I got a job, they gave me a card.

After that, I travelled in the USA with this small bag of my poems. Then, in Las Vegas, I stayed in this $1-a-night fleapit for three nights while I was waiting for the coach to take me to Los Angeles. Twenty minutes after I had boarded the bus, I realised I had left my bag behind with all the poems I had written in the previous two years. I cried, I felt so dismayed. It was a significant loss.

On my return, I moved into Langbourne Buildings off Leonard St in Shoreditch. I was surrounded by my friends and family and this was where I first joined a writing group. It was in Dalston and I started to write regularly. After seven years, I began to write some decent poems and then I read in the Hackney Gazette about Centreprise Literary Trust. So I went along there and met Ken Worpole, and gave him some of my poems. Then he got back in touch and said he’d like to publish them, and that was the first work I ever had in print.

By now I was twenty-nine and married with two young children, and we were offered the opportunity of swapping our flat for a house in Orpington. It was a fabulous house with a garden and we couldn’t refuse, but the rent was three times the price. We lived there for thirty-odd years and my poetry developed, I became a member of the Poetry Society and had my works published in magazines, although I rarely send my poems out because I always think I can do better.

I bought paintings from D & J Simons & Sons Ltd, picture frame and moulding makers, in the Hackney Rd and, when I moved to Orpington, I bought all their ‘second’ picture frames off them and sold them there. I started working for myself, buying reproduction furniture and selling it in Orpington Village Hall and I earned a living from that for twenty years. But all the time I was writing, writing and I had a lot of encouragement from people.

I rework my poems a lot because I’d rather have one good one than a lot of mediocre ones. I have written a lot of poems and discarded most of them because I’d rather just keep my best. I love letter writing and I believe it can be an art if it is done well. As long as I live, I’ll carry on writing.”

Derrick and his childhood friend Roy Wild on the steps of the eighteenth century house in Charles Sq where they played as children

Sitting Under a Tree in Charles Square

The clear urgency of the voice caused me

to look up, my finger marking the place

in the newspaper I was then reading…

How old do you think this tree is? it asked.

I said it was here when I was a boy.

Well, it won’t be for much longer, it said.

The owner of the voice began to circle

the tree before running his hands over

the gnarled trunk as if in search of a precise spot.

From under his coat appeared a long-handled axe.

It would be better if you moved, he said.

But not before the tree had endured

several blows…and a large, older woman, shouted

Are we to suffer this nonsense again?

Come home and do something useful for once.

Instantly the attack ceased and – without

another word passing between them – his steps

quickened to reach, if not overtake, the other.

My thumb then lifted from the newspaper

returning my eye to the Middle East

where, as yet, no allaying voice can be heard.

Derrick standing outside the flat at Fairchild House in Fanshawe St where he grew up

Derby Day in Fairchild House

Walking along our third floor balcony

I can see – before I enter the door – the piano

blocking the view into our living room.

You are watching the TV, circling horses

in The Sporting Life as John Rickman

calls home another of those certainties

you always said you should have backed.

From the kitchen the clang of pots

tells me it’s a Friday and mum’s busy

preparing a stew. A day perhaps

when sand had been kicked into my face

and I’d come home to pump iron.

If so, my bedroom door will be locked

and I’ll be lifting sand-filled-petrol-cans

hung along an old broom handle.

It’s also possible it’s the evening

of the Pitfield Institute’s Weight-Lifting final

when I won my only trophy. Or the day

cash went missing and I bought my first watch.

But as I turn the key and enter the door

I want it to be the day when even

the piano joined in…and Gordon Richards

rode Pinza to victory in the Derby.

The Apprentice

When Mr Hounslow asked the class what jobs

we had in mind, I answered,

Working on a farm, sir. “You won’t find many

in Hoxton” the reply. Come summer

I started work for a musical instrument

supplier in Paul Street, close to the old Victorian

Fire Station later re-sited in Old Street.

For one day a week I was promoted

to van boy and helped deliver to the likes

of Ronnie Scott’s Jazz Club in Soho,

a world far removed from that of Hoxton.

Here I saw the upbeat side of the business,

the posh shiny part that could open doors

if you had the right kind of connections.

After a year working with men who enjoyed

nothing better than to send the new boys out

to buy rubber nails and glass hammers,

if never themselves discovering who put

the mouse droppings into their biscuit tin,

I began to question where I was heading.

That summer – while on holiday in Ostend

with the Lion Club – my dad handed in

my notice…and when I returned, was told

I had to start work in the Printing Trade.

Its every aspect – machinery, ink, oil,

noise and dust, the very air – a sort of

road taken, as old Hounslow might have said,

for there being no farms in Hoxton.

Derrick Porter at Fairchild House, Hoxton

Poems copyright © Derrick Porter

You may also like to read about

Sally Flood, Poet

King Sour, Poet & Rapper of Bethnal Green

Stephen Watts, Poet

Wilfred Owen at Shadwell Stairs

At John Keats House