“Beating the Bounds” of Rodborough Parish

Radical Stroud
Terminalia Walking Festival
Sunday 23 rd February 2020

“Beating the Bounds” of Rodborough Parish

In honour of the Roman God of boundaries we will walk around the limits of the parish of Rodborough.

Parishes were once very important administrative areas and ceremonially walking the boundaries of a parish (known as “Beating the Bounds”) was a significant local custom in many places. Important boundary landmarks such as trees or stones would be ceremonially beaten with birch or willow rods. Sometimes young boys (typically choir boys) would also be ceremonially beaten at key places (supposedly to ensure that they would remember the parish boundaries!).

On this walk we intend to revive certain aspects of this custom for one day. Specifically, walking the boundary and beating key landmarks, but most definitely NOT beating young boys. As we progress there will be discussions and performative celebration of local matters, historical, political, industrial, cultural, geological, ecological and mythological. The boundary of Rodborough parish follows canals and disused railway lines, makes steep ascents and descents of beautiful Cotswold valleys and crosses the limestone grassland of an ancient common.

Radical Stroud
Terminalia Walking Festival
Sunday 23 rd February 2020

“Beating the Bounds” of Rodborough Parish

In honour of the Roman God of boundaries we will walk around the limits of the parish of Rodborough.

Parishes were once very important administrative areas and ceremonially walking the boundaries of a parish (known as “Beating the Bounds”) was a significant local custom in many places. Important boundary landmarks such as trees or stones would be ceremonially beaten with birch or willow rods. Sometimes young boys (typically choir boys) would also be ceremonially beaten at key places (supposedly to ensure that they would remember the parish boundaries!).

On this walk we intend to revive certain aspects of this custom for one day. Specifically, walking the boundary and beating key landmarks, but most definitely NOT beating young boys. As we progress there will be discussions and performative celebration of local matters, historical, political, industrial, cultural, geological, ecological and mythological. The boundary of Rodborough parish follows canals and disused railway lines, makes steep ascents and descents of beautiful Cotswold valleys and crosses the limestone grassland of an ancient common.

Approximately 8 miles. Allow 6 hours. Bring refreshments and food. Towpaths and footpaths and some very steep climbs / descents. Several stiles to cross.

The walk will start and end at Stroud Railway station.
Map ref SO 84973 05124. Meet in the forecourt for a 10.00 am start.

Contact Bob Fry threemthree@icloud.com

Beating the Bounds of Rodborough
A free verse Perambulation by Stuart Butler

The origin of beating the parish boundaries
Is, of course, lost in the proverbial mists:
The Roman festival of Terminalia,
Anglo-Saxon affirmation of place,
The Christian ceremony of Rogation-tide …
But I think you can beat the boundaries
Whenever you like, with whoever you like,
At the drop of a Rodborough bobble hat.

You could start at the watery history
Of mill and factory Dudbridge,
Then walk past street names like Spillmans,
As you progress along the Bath Road turnpike,
Past the ghost sites of old toll houses,
And thence to Walbridge to skirt the canal,
Or River Frome or Great Western Railway,
To gaze up at Woodhouse, Rodborough Common,
Butterow Hill and Bagpath.

Then ascend Swells Hill, past Bownham;
On past Houndscroft, above the Nailsworth Valley,
To Rooksmoor and Kingscourt;
Your bounds direct you through Lightpill,
No ifs but The Butts above high above you,
And so back to Dudbridge.

On the way, you could say a prayer
In a couple of churches,
Bless the crops in a couple of allotments,
Have a pint in a couple of pubs or a hotel,
Have an ice cream at Winstone’s,
Or even write a record of your parish walk,
Your own beating the bounds act of heritage.

But remember:

‘The end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.’ (T.S. Eliot)

And the End of all our Exploring around Cirencester

The end of all our exploring

The day started auspiciously and unusually:
A chat at the bus stop with a direct descendant of Tom Paine:
‘My father maintained that we were related.
We did have first editions, in fact:
The Rights of Man and The Age of Reason’;
The 54A took us to Cirencester,
Where we congregated by the church,
Overhearing a conversation,
‘Hello. Pleased to meet you. I’m John the verger’;
Near where, in the aftermath of the Peasants’ Revolt,
‘Divers of the king’s lieges of Cirencester … assembled
And gone to the abbey … done unheard-of things
To the abbot and convent and threatened
to do all the damage they could’;
Fifteen years later they beheaded
The Earl of Salisbury and the Earl of Kent –
But we walked out through the Bathurst estate,
A colonial landscape for those with eyes,
To turn right by Alexander Pope’s seat,
Past vast polo grounds,
To reach a lambent pocket of arable land,
Hard by a bronze age tumulus,
Where ploughed field tesserae,
And nearby Ermine Way
Suggest a sumptuous Roman villa,
And where we processed along a gleaming pathway –
Like so many genius loci,
Hooded like cucullati against the rain,
Until a rainbow arch summoned Robin Treefellow
To declaim his hymn to Cuda,
Goddess of Cotswold fertility,
There by the fossil-full ploughed fields,
Where Penda of Mercia,
The last pagan king of England
Once held his crimson sword aloft in victory.

Spring waters trickled their music,
Rivulets reflected storm threat light
In the growing puddles of a rising water table,
While the ghosts of Welsh drovers silent stood,
In the elemental alchemy of autumn.

The end of all our exploring

The day started auspiciously and unusually:
A chat at the bus stop with a direct descendant of Tom Paine:
‘My father maintained that we were related.
We did have first editions, in fact:
The Rights of Man and The Age of Reason’;
The 54A took us to Cirencester,
Where we congregated by the church,
Overhearing a conversation,
‘Hello. Pleased to meet you. I’m John the verger’;
Near where, in the aftermath of the Peasants’ Revolt,
‘Divers of the king’s lieges of Cirencester … assembled
And gone to the abbey … done unheard-of things
To the abbot and convent and threatened
to do all the damage they could’;
Fifteen years later they beheaded
The Earl of Salisbury and the Earl of Kent –
But we walked out through the Bathurst estate,
A colonial landscape for those with eyes,
To turn right by Alexander Pope’s seat,
Past vast polo grounds,
To reach a lambent pocket of arable land,
Hard by a bronze age tumulus,
Where ploughed field tesserae,
And nearby Ermine Way
Suggest a sumptuous Roman villa,
And where we processed along a gleaming pathway –
Like so many genius loci,
Hooded like cucullati against the rain,
Until a rainbow arch summoned Robin Treefellow
To declaim his hymn to Cuda,
Goddess of Cotswold fertility,
There by the fossil-full ploughed fields,
Where Penda of Mercia,
The last pagan king of England
Once held his crimson sword aloft in victory.

Spring waters trickled their music,
Rivulets reflected storm threat light
In the growing puddles of a rising water table,
While the ghosts of Welsh drovers silent stood,
In the elemental alchemy of autumn.

We followed a Christian path to Daglingworth,
To Anglo-Saxon wall carvings of the crucifixion,
And a sundial whose gnomon shadow,
Danced to the music of time,
As Robin sang the Dream of the Rood;

Thunder and lightning alarmed a flock of rooks,
Their silhouettes flashing across the western sky,
While we surveyed the vast abyss of time
At Daglingworth Quarry: dinosaur footprints
Once imprinted at the top of these rocks,
Far above the fossils of oysters, scallops and sea urchins,
Deep down in the quarried recesses
Of this revelation of eternity.

We carried on, fording our way through torrents,
The swelling River Churn and the Dobunni
By our side, the oppidum melding
The Cotswold hills with the Vale of the Thames,
Here in the high big sky country,
Betwixt the magic of Sabrina,
And the ancient tracks of Wiltshire.

Gilded cumulus climbed high in the west,
While lustrous moss on drystone walls,
And shining woodland lichen led us on
Past Bagendon, to follow a trail
That arrowed through medieval greensward,
Straight towards the tower
Of Cirencester’s church,
Past Roman and medieval gateways,
Mute sentinels of time.

And there by the cross was a friend,
Covered in dust and flakes and shards of masonry,
After a day spent carving saints for niches;
She told us of her endeavours,
A lone woman carving her art
In a masculine fellowship of masons.

We wished her well and bade farewell,
Knowing once more that,
‘the end of all our exploring
will be to arrive where we started
and know the place for the first time’.

John Thelwall: Radical thoughts on Slavery, Empire and Landscape

A Pedestrian Excursion Through Several Parts of England and Wales

John Thelwall’s account of his rambles
Between the years of the naval mutinies
of 1797 and the 1801 Peace of Amiens:

‘The cottages in general, are small, wretched and dirty. Some of them are built of brick, others are plastered and may exhibit nothing but miserable mud walls, equally naked without and within. They are wretchedly and scantily furnished; and few have even the advantage of a bit of garden. To complete the catalogue of misery, there is a workhouse in the parish, in which a number of deserted infants are consigned to captivity and incessant application…’

And even though Citizen John was being pursued,
Followed and shadowed by spies,
With consequent anxiety,
Thelwall could still write that …

‘The vivacity of conversation made the miles pass unheeded under our feet. We canvassed various subjects of literature and criticism, the state of morals and the existing institutions of society. We lamented the condition of our fellow-beings, and formed Utopian plans of retirement and colonisations. On one subject, and only one, we essentially differed – America. I cannot look towards that country with all the sanguine expectations so frequently cherished. I think I discover in it much of the old leaven. Its avidity for commercial aggrandisement augurs but ill even for the present generation; and I tremble at the consequences which the enormous appropriation of land may entail upon posterity.’

A Pedestrian Excursion Through Several Parts of England and Wales

John Thelwall’s account of his rambles
Between the years of the naval mutinies
of 1797 and the 1801 Peace of Amiens:

‘The cottages in general, are small, wretched and dirty. Some of them are built of brick, others are plastered and may exhibit nothing but miserable mud walls, equally naked without and within. They are wretchedly and  scantily furnished; and few have even the advantage of a bit of garden. To  complete the catalogue of misery, there is a workhouse in the parish, in  which a number of deserted infants are consigned to captivity and incessant  application…’

And even though Citizen John was being pursued,
Followed and shadowed by spies,
With consequent anxiety,
Thelwall could still write that …

‘The vivacity of conversation made the miles pass unheeded under our feet. We canvassed various subjects of literature and criticism, the state of morals and the existing institutions of society. We lamented the condition of our fellow-beings, and formed Utopian plans of retirement and colonisations. On one subject, and only one, we essentially differed –  America. I cannot look towards that country with all the sanguine expectations so frequently cherished. I think I discover in it much of the old leaven. Its avidity for commercial aggrandisement augurs but ill even for the present generation; and I tremble at the consequences which the enormous appropriation of land may entail upon posterity.’

A visit to Wilton House led to musing
On art, gardens, the classics, literature,

And …

‘Our walk over the house and gardens had already cost us six shillings; and we flattered ourselves, that we had no more exactions to encounter. But, as we were going past the porter’s lodge, a servant stopped us with a fresh demand, informing us, in plain language, that they were all stationed there for their fees, and nobody could come in or out without paying. We  accordingly submitted to be fleeced once more. I am told, that this kind of tax upon the curiosity of travellers is peculiar to this country; and surely it is somewhat surprising, that the pride and ostentation of greatness should not spurn the illiberal idea of supporting its servants on the alms of curiosity. But there is a nobleman in the county of Derby, who is reported not only to save the expense of wages by this expedient, but absolutely to make a bargain with his housekeeper for half the vails collected by exhibiting his splendid mansion.’

Before we hear of Thelwall in Wiltshire again,
Here’s another radical topographer,
Philip Alston, from the United Nations,
Commenting on the pauperisation
Of 20% of the UK population,

In the spring of 2019:

‘I think breaking rocks has some similarity to the 35 hours of job search for
people who have been out of work for months or years’:
‘A digital and sanitised version of the workhouse’,

And, here, Citizen John:

‘The daily toil of these little infants (who if they are ever to attain the vigour and healthful activity of manhood, ought to be stretching their wanton limbs in noisy gambols over the green)…’

John Thelwall and Slavery
It goes without saying that John Thelwall
Would be a committed abolitionist,
An activist, who also used his pen against slavery,
In his Jacobin novel The Daughter of Adoption,

And in this poem:
The Negro’s Prayer

(1807, commemorating the abolition of the slave trade)
‘O SPIRIT! that rid’st in the whirlwind and storm,
Whose voice in the thunder is heard,
If ever from man, the poor indigent worm,
The prayer of affliction was heard,-
If black man, as white, is the will of thy hand –
(And who would create him but Thee?)
Oh give thy command –
Let it spread thro’ each land,
That Afric’s sad sons shall be free!

If while in the slave-ship, with many a groan,
I wept o’er my sufferings in vain;
While hundreds around reply’ to my moan,
And the clanking of many a chain;-
If then thou but deign’st, with a pitying eye,
Thy poor shackled creature to see,
Oh thy mercy apply,
Afric’s sorrow to dry,
And bid the poor Negro be free!
If, here, as I faint in the vertical sun,
And the scourge goads me on to my toil,
No hope faintly soothing, when labour is done,
Of one joy my lorn heart to beguile;-
If thou view’st me Great Spirit! as one thou hast made,
And my fate as dependent on thee,
O impart thou thy aid,
That the scourge may be stay’d,
And the Black Man, at last, may be free…’

Here we see three of the four (sometimes five) stanzas –
The tone doesn’t do justice, perhaps,
To Thelwall’s ability to see slavery
As part of an imperial nexus –
He would have noted the links between war,
Empire, colonies, slavery, and Stroud Scarlet,
In his stay here with radical clothiers,
After his ten days at Nether Stowey
With Coleridge, Wordsworth, and a watchful spy,

In the summer of 1797…

‘Had the Maroons and negroes never been most wickedly enslaved, their masters had never been murdered.’

How he would have enjoyed walking past Capel’s Mill,

Reflecting on coincidence,
For as Michael Scrivener has written:

‘In 1793, trying to circumvent the political repression, Thelwall spoke at a
debating club, The Capel Court Society’;

But as regards the hidden colonial landscape around us:

‘That great family of human beings, every one of which, whatever be his name, his colour or his country, is the brother of all the rest, and ought to enjoy with them a community of rights and happiness’;
‘It would be a happy thing for the universe in general, and for Britain in particular, if there were no such thing as a colony or dependency…’

Citizen John’s visit to Stroudwater
Obviously had a profound impact on him –
This landscape is remembered,
Possibly subliminally, in his slavery novel,
With the names of two of the protagonists –
He met with radical dyers and clothiers –
The Partridges at Bowbridge Mill;
The Newcombes at Bowbridge House,
And the Nortons at Nailsworth,
On that excursion from Nether Stowey,
In the summer of 1797:

There is a Newcombe in the novel and a Captain Bowbridge, too…

Conclusion

John Thelwall, the ‘Jacobin fox’,
Pursued by William Pitt’s spies,
Puts William Cobbett in the shade
With a rather more radical typography,
Straddling, as EP Thompson said,

‘The world of Wordsworth and Coleridge, and the world of the Spitalfields
weaver’ –

But he straddled the ways of Socrates too,
For as Michael Scrivener has said:

‘Socrates was found, as usual, in the places of public resort – in the workshops of the artists, among the labourers in the manufactories, uttering seditious allegories, and condemning the desolating tyranny of the Oligarch’;

Or in Thelwall’s words:

‘Hence every large workshop and manufactory is a sort of political society, which no act of parliament can silence, and no magistrate disperse’…

But there is also something of the Rimbaud
About him too – something almost synesthesic
About the motto for The Tribune:
‘To paint the voice, and fix the fleeting sound’;

His imagery also possibly
Subliminally influenced William Blake –
Blake’s ‘mind-forg’d manacles’ seem to echo
These words of Thelwall:

‘For it is better, according to my judgment, – ten times better, to be immured oneself in a Bastille, than to have the Bastille put into one’s mouth to lock up one’s tongue from all intercourse and communication with one’s heart’;

Which is partly why,
In 1832, at the age of 69,
He was the sole eulogiser
For his old LCS colleague, Thomas Hardy,
His voice carrying to some 30,000 people,
Gathered at Bunhill Fields,

For this public ceremony and act of remembrance,
A reminder of the days forty years before,
When he lectured to audiences in their hundreds…
A reminder of the time when ‘pedestrian’
Meant wandering beyond accustomed paths,
Rather than its current meaning…

‘I have been rambling, according to my wanted practice, in the true democratic way, on foot, from village to village, from pleasant hill to barren Heath, recreating my mind with the beauties, and with the deformities of nature’

(ITLIC Tribune speech, 1795),
A pedestrian who could talk readily with anyone,
A writer whose mixed-genre The Peripatetic

Would influence Wordsworth’s rather more conservative The Excursion;
An activist who connected Nether Stowey with Spitalfields,
Spitalfields with Socrates and with Stroudwater too,

And Stroud scarlet with Empire;

He challenged the cultural hegemony of the classics,
He challenged aristocratic assumptions
About culture, hierarchy, and enlightenment:
The point of reading for Citizen John,
Was not to be elegantly learned and cultured,
But – to use the idiom of our age –
To empower and give agency
To the voices of the dispossessed,
In the triumph of Democracy over the Gothick,
In the triumph of a democratic sublime

Over that of Edmund Burke,
And in the triumph of collective walking
Over the solitary subjectivism of William Hazlitt:
A radical topography based on observation,
Discussion, inquiry and critique,
In language more lyrical than Wordsworth’s.

Post-script:
Samuel Taylor Coleridge:

‘We were once sitting in a beautiful recess in the Quantocks when I said to him – ‘Citizen John! This is a fine place to talk treason in!’ – ‘Nay! Citizen Samuel, ‘ replied he, ‘it is a fine place to make a man forget that there is any necessity for treason!’

Ghost Mills Walks

Free, but just a few places left only – contact me if you wish to go: 9.45 – approx 13:00 FRIDAY SEPTEMBER 13TH
A leisurely walk along the towpath follows past old mills to Bowbridge and thence Stroud.
Uncovering a colonial landscape whilst in the footsteps of that ‘Jacobin fox’, ‘the most dangerous man in Britain’, John Thelwall, who left London, fed up with William Pitt’s prying spies, and walked to Nether Stowey. He stayed with Coleridge and Wordsworth for ten days, in that hectic summer that would lead to the Lyrical Ballads, before walking to Stroudwater.
Here he stayed with sympathetic clothiers and dyers, visiting Chalford, Uley, Nailsworth and Bowbridge, writing poems on the hoof.
We recreate his stay in that annus mirabilis of 1797, with a performative walk from Chalford to Bowbridge, whilst uncovering a colonial landscape.
John Thelwall was a colleague of THOMAS SPENCE – and we have a show about Thomas as part of the Stroud Theatre Festival in the evening.

Free, but just a few places left only – contact me if you wish to go: 9.45 – approx 13:00 FRIDAY SEPTEMBER 13TH
A leisurely walk along the towpath follows past old mills to Bowbridge and thence Stroud.
Uncovering a colonial landscape whilst in the footsteps of that ‘Jacobin fox’, ‘the most dangerous man in Britain’, John Thelwall, who left London, fed up with William Pitt’s prying spies, and walked to Nether Stowey. He stayed with Coleridge and Wordsworth for ten days, in that hectic summer that would lead to the Lyrical Ballads, before walking to Stroudwater.
Here he stayed with sympathetic clothiers and dyers, visiting Chalford, Uley, Nailsworth and Bowbridge, writing poems on the hoof.
We recreate his stay in that annus mirabilis of 1797, with a performative walk from Chalford to Bowbridge, whilst uncovering a colonial landscape.
John Thelwall was a colleague of THOMAS SPENCE – and we have a show about Thomas as part of the Stroud Theatre Festival in the evening.
There is an early bus to Chalford FROM STROUD at 9.30
Meet at the bus shelter in Chalford at 9.45
As there are limited numbers, booking is essential:
email: stfc12@hotmail.com
part of Walking the Land’s #GhostMills exhibition, taking place at SVA’s John Street gallery in early September as a part of Stroud’s #woolandwaterFestival. SIT select The Museum in the Park Lansdown Hall & Gallery SVA Good On Love Stroud – What’s On Paper: Stroud Events Stroudwater Textile Trust

Peterloo-Wiltshire Henry ‘Orator’ Hunt Walk

Peterloo Memorial Walk 2019
About thirty of us braved Manchester weather on August 16th on a performative walk around Henry ‘Orator’ Hunt’s birthplace in Wiltshire. Pictures here tell the picture of the day.
We carried out a dialogue between 2019 and 1819 as we processed: the poem below from Robin Treefellow gives a flavour of how memorialization of Peterloo can reach out to the new Extinction Rebellion generation.

Chalk and Treason

To the chalk
we must go walk.
On the chalk where vipers bugloss brightens
we must go to rebel, debate, and reinvent
This green island
owned by a small land owning minority.

So depart that moribund Houses of Parliament
mired in out-dated oppositional bun throwing.

To the high dreamy chalk we must go like the bees to nectar
discovering what Britain dreams:
dreams like a giant with ammonites in its beard.
When we have lost our way,
when the ways are all privatised,
when society is manacled to linear profit centred greed:
to the chalk we must go walk.
In walking by the yellow of toadflax and melliot
there is waking,
with waking we can change.
This green island where feudalism has gone on too long,
equality,
the earth common to all,
we must learn from the biotic knit of ground sward
and abandon the tenure under our hidden landlords.
For Britain dreams!
The land will be free of chemicals,
to breath and flourish.
So shall our life return
Rude and willed,
modernisation discarded by the road where mugwort grows.
O Albion calls us all
to remember!
freedom, green of leaf and brown of root.
freedom, bright as flowers by the way.

Peterloo Memorial Walk 2019
About thirty of us braved Manchester weather on August 16th on a performative walk around Henry ‘Orator’ Hunt’s birthplace in Wiltshire. Pictures here tell the picture of the day.
We carried out a dialogue between 2019 and 1819 as we processed: the poem below from Robin Treefellow gives a flavour of how memorialization of Peterloo can reach out to the new Extinction Rebellion generation.

Chalk and Treason

To the chalk
we must go walk.
On the chalk where vipers bugloss brightens
we must go to rebel, debate, and reinvent
This green island
owned by a small land owning minority.

So depart that moribund Houses of Parliament
mired in out-dated oppositional bun throwing.

To the high dreamy chalk we must go like the bees to nectar
discovering what Britain dreams:
dreams like a giant with ammonites in its beard.
When we have lost our way,
when the ways are all privatised,
when society is manacled to linear profit centred greed:
to the chalk we must go walk.
In walking by the yellow of toadflax and melliot
there is waking,
with waking we can change.
This green island where feudalism has gone on too long,
equality,
the earth common to all,
we must learn from the biotic knit of ground sward
and abandon the tenure under our hidden landlords.
For Britain dreams!
The land will be free of chemicals,
to breath and flourish.
So shall our life return
Rude and willed,
modernisation discarded by the road where mugwort grows.
O Albion calls us all
to remember!
freedom, green of leaf and brown of root.
freedom, bright as flowers by the way.

The text below is about how we put this walk together, with a recce in the spring of 2019. It contains a guide to the walk and aims to stimulate discussion about Hunt might be memorialized in Wiltshire. There is a post-script with a list of flowers and grasses seen on our second recce in early July.

How Henry Hunt is not memorialized in Wiltshire
And how Captain Swing almost is

Henry Hunt’s onetime associate,
Rural Rides’ William Cobbett,
Came down this way in late August 1826:

‘The shepherd showed me the way … and a most beautiful sight it was! Villages, hamlets, large farms, towers, steeples, meadows, orchards, and very fine timber trees, scattered all over the valley … downs, very lofty and steep in some places, and sloping miles back in others … From the edge of the downs begin capital arable fields generally of very great dimensions … After the corn-fields come meadows on each side, down to the brook or river … I sat upon my horse and looked over Milton and Easton and Pewsey for half an hour, though I had not breakfasted…’

We travelled by the cherry red
Swindon-Salisbury double-decker,
To alight at Enford to view the church
At 10.45 at the end of February 2019:
‘Above the arch is the COAT OF ARMS of King William 1V dating from 1831. Royal coats of arms were much in vogue in this period to display the parish’s loyalty and to add colour to the church …’
But obvs no mention of Captain Swing
Or the threat of revolution at this time …

But we went left to the crossroads.
For the lane towards Littlecot
And East Chisenbury and the Red Lion,
Thatched cottages and inns,
Flint and red brick and whitewash,
Just as in Cobbett’s and the Orator’s day;

A left hand turn on a footpath followed,
And so to the crossing of the main (turnpike) road,
Where we turned left along the verge to a stile on the right,
Where a footpath sign on a gate showed us our way up the hill;
We walked where Hunt no doubt took his horse,
A parliament of rooks democratically nesting
Below us on our left hand side,

Lichen splashing the track-way hawthorn,
The big sky landscape bare branched etched,
A solitary signpost standing to show our path
Across the lonely windswept downs,
Now resounding with ordnance,
Beyond the red flags down to Salisbury Plain:
An echo of the musket fire from the days of Swing,

Skylarks ascending to sing the spring,
While finches arced their way across the ploughed fields,

Barns with the ghosts of their threshing machines,
Boot-prints once down there in the oozing mud,
Cries of ‘Bread or Blood’ still there in the air,
The ashes of burnt hayricks and letters,
Once scattered across the nearby valley farms and fields,

The sun now gleaming on the puddled track-ways,
And on the white horse hillside to the south;
While, beyond, lay Hampshire and misty Dorset,
Where Captain Swing once rode on his white horse.

We wandered on to skirt a high Iron Age enclosure,
And so descend along a curving lane,
Past the birthplace of Henry Hunt on our right,
Widdington Farm:
‘I was born on the 6th November 1773, in Wiltshire, at Widdington Farm, not within a mile of any other habitation, near Upavon. Widdington Farm lies about a mile from the turnpike road … a lone farm, in a valley upon the downs.’
But no mention of the Orator today,
Instead:
‘WIDDINGTON SHOOT
WILTSHIRE
CLAY SHOOTING GROUND
OUR NEXT COMPETTION IS …’;

And this is how Henry ‘Orator’ Hunt,
And Wiltshire’s radical history is memorialized,
Mute and invisible in the Vale of the Avon,
Unless you use your imagination –
But, wait, in St Timothy’s Church in Upavon,
There is a brief but welcome reference to Captain Swing
On the information board:
‘In the beginning of the nineteenth century agricultural workers in general, and those of Wiltshire in particular, had been reduced to abject misery, and The Vale was a focal point of the agricultural unrest known as the Swing Riots of 1830.’
‘Abject misery’ is daring and arresting …
But the next sentence and paragraph
Guides the reader’s understanding thus:
‘By far the most important development was the Vale’s emergence as a transportation corridor … the Kennet & Avon Canal …’

‘By far the most important development …’
The subliminal suggestion …
Old fashioned Swing …
The modernity/progress transportation trope …
The modernity of ‘corridor’ …
The world of ‘abject misery’ has been left behind …
Mute and invisible,
Like Henry ‘Orator’ Hunt.

We hope to address this mute invisibility
On the 16th of August 2019,
The bi-centenary of Peterloo,
With a Henry ‘Orator’ Hunt performative walk:
Meet at the church in Enford at 10.45:
The walk will end at Upavon after about three hours,
A bit up and down and one bit by the main road;
Park at Enford and get the bus back from Upavon,
Or get the bus from Swindon to Enford and back from Upavon.

Post-script:

Wild flowers seen on July 11th on this walk:
Agrimony

Bird’s Foot Trefoil Black Medick
Bladder Campion Bramble
Broomrape
Buttercup
Burdock
Bush Vetch

Chicory
Clematis
Cleavers
Common Centaury Common Knapweed Common Toadflax Creeping Thistle
Cut Leafed Cranesbill Daisy
Dandelion
Dock
Dog Rose
Dogwood
Dove’s-Foot Cranesbill Elder Flower
Evening Primrose

Fairy Flax
Field Bindweed
Field Scabious

Goats Beard
Great Mullein
Great Willowherb Greater Knapweed Ground Ivy

Hedge Bedstraw Hedge Woundwort Hemp Agrimony
Herb Robert
Hoary Plantain Hogweed
Hop Trefoil

Ivy Leafed Speedwell

Lady’s Bedstraw

Marjoram
Meadow Cranesbill Meadowsweet Meadow Vetchling

Melilot
Milkwort
Mousear
Mousear Hawkweed Mugwort

Musk Mallow

Nipplewort

Oxeye Daisy

Pignut Pineapple Weed Poppy

Purple Toadflax Pyramidal Orchid

Quaking Grass

Ragwort

Red Bartsia
Red Clover
Rest Harrow
Red Valerian Ribwort Plantain Rock Rose
Rosebay Willowherb Rough Hawkbit

St. Johns Wort Salad Burnet Sanfoin
Selfheal Shepherds Purse Silverweed Small Scabious Sorrel Sow Thistle
Spear Thistle Speedwell
Spindle Tree

Teasel
Tufted Vetch

Vipers Bugloss

Watercress
Water Forget-Me-Not Weld

White Bryony White Campion Wild Carrot White Clover White Deadnettle Wild Basil
Wild Mignonette Wild Parsnip Wild Thyme Wood Avens

Yarrow
Yellow Rattle Yellow Vetchling

Re memorialization, readers might also want to look at the link below:
https://radicalstroud.co.uk/a-wiltshire-town-and-peterloo/

Happy Birthday Thomas Spence

Coming events cast shadows before,
Fings are wot they used to be,
Not so much a la recherce des temps perdu
As deja flippin’ vu:
London on Thomas Spence’s birthday,
(June 21st 1750)
Today June 21st 2019:
No need to try and slip through wormholes of time,
The present has caught up with the past:
Central London still owned by the aristocracy,
Not so much the old Paris Situationists’ cry,
‘Underneath the pavements the beach!’
As ‘Pavements owned by the dukes!’
Record numbers sleeping rough,
Nicked for ‘Loitering’ and ‘begging’
Under the 1824 Vagrancy Act,
‘Royal Ascot’ (Queen Anne 1711);
An antique selection method of an antique prime minister …
But the longest day dawned well,
With a message from Keith Anderson
At the Thomas Spence Society,
Wishing him a happy birthday,
With poems and songs and well wishes for our walk;

Coming events cast shadows before,
Fings are wot they used to be,
Not so much a la recherce des temps perdu
As deja flippin’ vu:
London on Thomas Spence’s birthday,
(June 21st 1750)
Today June 21st 2019:
No need to try and slip through wormholes of time,
The present has caught up with the past:
Central London still owned by the aristocracy,
Not so much the old Paris Situationists’ cry,
‘Underneath the pavements the beach!’
As ‘Pavements owned by the dukes!’
Record numbers sleeping rough,
Nicked for ‘Loitering’ and ‘begging’
Under the 1824 Vagrancy Act,
‘Royal Ascot’ (Queen Anne 1711);
An antique selection method of an antique prime minister …
But the longest day dawned well,
With a message from Keith Anderson
At the Thomas Spence Society,
Wishing him a happy birthday,
With poems and songs and well wishes for our walk;
I read the email and boarded the train for London,
Warmed and cheered by this instant letter,
A textual and oral culture for today,
An echo of Thomas Spence’s ‘free and easies’;

We met near what was once Robert Wedderburn’s radical chapel,
Near what was once a hayloft in Brewer Street, Soho,
Watched the world go by while chalking ‘Spence’s Plan’,
Just as they did back in the days of William Pitt:
‘No Landlords You Fools!’
‘The People’s Farm’;
Saw the ghosts of spies in the Ham and Windmill,
Wandered a ‘free and easy’ passage
Past the radical inns of the Spenceans
And the London Corresponding Society
(A maze, of course, un-memorialized),
On a pilgrimage from Soho to Long Acre,
Along the Strand to Chancery Lane,
Where William Hone once saw Thomas Spence
Assaulted by two Bow Street Runners,
To what once was The Hive of Liberty book shop
In Little Turnstile, High Holborn;
We exchanged facsimiles of Spence’s radical tokens,
Met David Rosenberg (‘Rebel Footprints’)
For a tour of radical Clerkenwell,
Bade farewell at Spa Fields’ information board –
The 1816 monster meeting of course unmentioned,
Despite the wealth of words on the board –
Pondering on how Mr. Thomas Spence
And all that associated history might be memorialized,
He is remembered in Newcastle
https://keithyboyarmstrong.blogspot.com/2019/06/thomas-spence-birthday-21st-june-1750.html
And that ‘Jacobin fox’, John Thelwall,
Is remembered in London
http://www.johnthelwall.org/2018/04/john-thelwall-blue-plaque-event-in-london-may-24/
Perhaps we could fashion our own unofficial blue plaque?
Perhaps I could visit the Little Venice café in Little Turnstile,
And see if we might place it there,
As an act of homage,
So all who pass by will see the name
Of Thomas Spence, The Hive of Liberty;
And some might then google those names,
Then talk and read and discuss further,
In a recreation of an oral and textual culture,
And who knows where those ‘free and easies’ might lead?
A Hive of Liberty meets Extinction Rebellion:
‘No Landlords You Fools!’
‘The People’s Farm!’
‘Spence’s Plan!’

Thomas Spence

Part the First

Hear his Trumpet of Jubilee
Take us far beyond the Tom Paine’s The Rights of Man,
Far beyond votes and politics
To agrarianism and ‘The People’s Farm’:
The Jubilee, the day of freedom,
The end of landlords when land would be held in common;

Hear snatches of his five verse rewriting
Of the National Anthem:
‘Hark! How the Trumpet’s sound …
A SONG, to be Sung at the End of Oppression, or the Commencement of the political Millennium, when there shall be neither Lord nor land-lords, but God and Man will be all in all. First printed in the Year 1782. Tune – “God save the King”

Hark! How the Trumpet’s sound*
Proclaims the land around
The Jubilee!
Tells all the poor oppress’d,
No more shall they be cess’d,
Nor Landlords more molest
Their Property.

Since then this Jubilee
Sets us all at Liberty,
Let us be glad.
Behold each man return
To his Right and his own,
No more like Doves to mourn
By Landlords sad!

Part the First

Hear his Trumpet of Jubilee
Take us far beyond the Tom Paine’s The Rights of Man,
Far beyond votes and politics
To agrarianism and ‘The People’s Farm’:
The Jubilee, the day of freedom,
The end of landlords when land would be held in common;

Hear snatches of his five verse rewriting
Of the National Anthem:
‘Hark! How the Trumpet’s sound …
A SONG, to be Sung at the End of Oppression, or the Commencement of the political Millennium, when there shall be neither Lord nor land-lords, but God and Man will be all in all. First printed in the Year 1782. Tune – “God save the King”

Hark! How the Trumpet’s sound*
Proclaims the land around
The Jubilee!
Tells all the poor oppress’d,
No more shall they be cess’d,
Nor Landlords more molest
Their Property.

Since then this Jubilee
Sets us all at Liberty,
Let us be glad.
Behold each man return
To his Right and his own,
No more like Doves to mourn
By Landlords sad!

*See Leviticus, Chap.25’

Buy his books, tracts and publications from his barrow,
Down in Chancery Lane
Or at The Hive of Liberty in Little Turnstile, High Holborn:
Pig’s Meat, or Lessons for the Swinish Multitude; The Rights of Infants;
The End of Oppression; The Giant-Killer; or Anti-landlord;
The Restorer of Society to its Natural State; Recantation of the End of Oppression, The Marine Republic, Agrarian Justice.

Part the Second

Remember his apocryphal tales:
‘”I tell you”, said he, “this wood is no common thing. It belongs to the Duke of Portland”… “But in the name of seriousness”, continued I, “must not one’s privileges be very great in a country where we dare not pluck a hazel nut? Is this an Englishman’s birthright? Is it for this we are called upon to serve in the militia, to defend this wood, and this country against the enemy?”’
Or to use his ubiquitous imagery,
He yearned to be as ‘Free as a cat’;
The reason why, at his trial,
He proffered this self-description:
The ‘unfed advocate of the disinherited seed of Adam’ –
He would eventually spend eight months in prison,
(A William Pitt stop spy-informer talked of drilling, with arms, in a room
above Thomas’ shop, which was, ‘decorated with lines in verse and prose expressing a determination to carry on this traffic in spite of Laws and Magistrates’;
but apart from this, the spy added, Spence lived in ‘the dirtiest poverty’),
On trial in 1801, for words such as the following in his
The Restorer of Society to its Natural State: ‘Now citizen if we really want to get rid of these evils … we must destroy not only personal and hereditary Lordship but the cause … which is private property in land, for this is the pillar that supports the aristocracy’

Part the Third

Ponder on the ephemerality of his graffiti –
Its tantalizing nature –
Evanescent chalking –
But we know it was widespread shared,
(The medium and the message),
Hear William Cobbett comment in the Spa Fields year of 1816:
‘We have all seen, for years past written on the walls,
in and near London, these words “Spence’s Plan”.’

Part the Fourth

Ponder on Thomas’ feminism,
The voice he used in his 1797 Rights of Infants:
‘Our sex were defenders of rights from the beginning … You shall find that we not only know our rights, but have spirit to assert them’;

Part the Fifth

Watch Thomas and his mates meet at the Swan,
Just over there in New Street Square,
Betwixt Holborn and Fleet Street,
Sharing beer and porter and radical songs,
Then disappearing into the darkness
Of London streets and thoroughfares,
Surreptitiously chalking their principles,
On pavements, pathways and high brick walls,
‘Spence’s Plan and Full Bellies’;
So ubiquitous was the graffiti,
That the Home Secretary declared that
‘Spence’s Plan’ was scrawled ‘on every wall in London’;
Others in high authority complained that,
‘Every wall in London has been covered
with inflammatory and seditious writings’;
While an observant London gentleman wrote.
‘We have all seen for years past written on walls in and near London the words “Spence’s Plan” and I never knew what it meant until … I received a pamphlet’:

‘SPENCE’S PLAN
By Mr. Porter

As I went forth one morn
For some recreation
My thoughts did quickly turn
Upon a Reformation.
But far I had not gone,
Or could my thoughts recall, Sir,
Ere I spied Spence’s Plan,
Wrote up against a wall, Sir.
I star’d with open Eyes,
And wonder’d what it meant, Sir,
But found with great surprise
As farther on I went, Sir,
Dispute it if you can,
I spied within a Lane, Sir,
Spence’s Rights of Man,
Wrote boldly up again, Sir.

Determin’d in my mind,
For to read his Plan, Sir,
I quickly went to find
This enterprising man, Sir,
To the Swan I took my flight
Down in New-Street-Square, Sir,
Where every Monday night,
Friend Tommy Spence comes there, Sir.

I purchased there a book,
And by the powers above, Sir,
When in it I did look.
I quickly did approve, Sir.’

Oh, Mr Porter what did you do?
The magistrates were after you,
From here to Waterloo –
And the pages of Hansard:
‘Utterly subversive of every well regulated state, subversive of all property, order and government’, and, in consequence, uniquely in British history,
A set of ideas and an ideology were illegalized:
‘All societies or clubs calling themselves Spencean or Spencean Philanthropists, and all other societies and clubs, by whatever name or deception the same are called or known, who hold and profess or shall hold and profess their objects and doctrines’ …
(The earlier ‘FREE AND EASIES’,
The tavern-carousing-radicalism, had been replaced
After 1812, just as Luddism took root in the north,
With the formation of a ‘Spencean Philanthropists’ Society,
Often meeting at the Fleece in Little Windmill Street),
The government was alarmed that Spenceanism
Was spreading in popularity in the provinces,
Alarmed that formal organization was far more potent
Than the free and easies in the taverns:
In Bristol: ‘ a Sett of Villains who stile themselves Spencean
or Hampton Club Men and who … have the impudence
Still to circulate their Damnible Doctrines of Levelling’;
There was also anxiety about the North and Midlands too;

Part the Sixth

The Spenceans slipped rather more underground after this
(The effect of the Seditious Meetings Act of 1817),
But five of their more forthright fraternity
Would be executed for their part
In the 1820 Cato Street Conspiracy,
But Allen Davenport and co kept the flame alive,
‘The People’s Farm’, reviled by Malthus,
Remembered by Marx,
Admired by Chartists – for example,
The Chartist newspaper Nation:
‘As yet no stone or other memorial marks the spot where this persecuted friend of mankind at length found rest. When will the gratitude of the working classes raise a fitting monument to commemorate the virtues, and martyr-like sacrifices, of this model man of their “order”?’

Part the Seventh

Sweet reason and the printing press had failed to bring about the Jubilee,
While attempts and plans for coup d’etats
Also, of course, failed: Colonel Despard,
The United Englishmen,
The United Irishmen,
Spa Fields, the Penrtidge Rising,
The Cato Street Conspiracy,
And back at the turn of the century,
When Spence was jailed in 1801,
For seditious libel, he wrote these
Melancholy and despairing words:
‘The people without treat me with the contempt due to a lunatic … it is only the Government that wishes to make me appear of consequence, and the people within treat me as bad or worse than the most notorious Felons among them.’

Part the Eighth

He did not live to hear these words:
‘I wish to join the Society of Spencean Philanthropists.’
‘Why then, sir, follow this catechism:
Are you of the opinion that the land or territory of the nation is by nature the people’s farm … Are you then willing to become a true Spencean Philanthropist, by endeavouring to extend a knowledge of these natural rights…?’
And to conclude, before we follow his cortege,
Let us remember Thomas Spence
For his work on a dictionary and literacy,
He may have followed in the wake of Dr. Johnson,
But Spence sought to empower working people,
Not satisfy aristocratic patrons,
But instead empower working people who lived within an oral culture,
And so he developed a spelling reform,
And The ‘Crusonian’ Alphabet,
To try and make reading and writing easier
For the labouring classes,
So they could confront their so-called betters –
The graffiti, the tokens, the tracts,
The pamphlets, the songs, the poems, the sayings, the slogans,
But especially the songs, in taverns, clubs and the streets,
The free and easies,
This was all part of ‘Spence’s Plan’,
These weren’t a series of random ideas and actions,
It was all part of a coherent strategy:
A fusion of the oral and the textual:
‘Spence’s Plan’;

And now, finally, a few words about the funeral –
The 1814 ceremony was attended
‘by a numerous throng of political admirers … medallions were distributed; and a pair of scales preceded his corpse, indicative of his view’ …

Let’s celebrate and commemorate the view and life of Thomas Spence,
On each and every mid-summer’s day,
June 21st, the anniversary of Thomas Spence’s birthday,
Let’s raise a toast and sing a song to Thomas Spence,
The Jubilee and the People’s Farm,
For as Thomas exhorted:
‘Meet and sing and sing and meet’,
For, ‘A song that awakens applause
Is better than speaking or preaching’ –

‘That man, that honest man, was Thomas Spence
Whose genius, judgment, wit, and manly sense,
Confounded all the dogmas of the schools,
And prov’d that statesmen are but leaned fools;
That priests preach future worlds of pain and bliss,
To cheat the weak, and rob the poor in this!
Or else their practice and their cry would be,
“Let all be equal, and let all be free!”’
(Allen Davenport)

High Holborn, November 2018
The Hive of Liberty

After a high church ceremony
At St Botolph-without-Bishopgate,
With attendant high church Christian charity,
And allegiance sworn to Her Majesty the Queen
(DG Reg and FD still on the coins left in my pocket),
I went in search of the High Holborn spot
Where revolutionary Thomas Spence
Hawked his revolutionary tracts,
And where he ruminated on the slogans
That he and his followers would chalk
On the pavements and walls of London town,
And where he would cogitate on the words
And imagery of the tokens
That he would circulate through the capital,
Or throw at the crowds processing towards Newgate:
‘No Landlords You Fools”,
Or the depiction of the hanging
Of Prime Minister William Pitt, perhaps –
And there, in Little Turnstile,
High Holborn,
Just by the Little Venice Café,
The Pret a Manger,
The pub and the William Hill’s,
Just there in William Blake’s chartered streets,
A beggar held out her hands just where Tom once stood,
Calling for a Jubilee, not charity.

She shivered in the cold on the pavement
Once chalked by Thomas Spence –
I pressed a few coins of the realm into her hand,
The few I had left after last night’s service.
Still no Jubilee:
Charity.

Sources used:
Artisans and Politics in Early 19th Century London John Gast and His Times
Iorweth Prothero Methuen 1979
The Life and Times of Thomas Spence P.M. Ashraf 1983
The Poor Man’s Revolutionary ed by Alastair Bonnett and Keith Armstrong
The People’s Farm English Radical Agrarianism 1775-1840 Malcolm Chase
The Life and Literary Pursuits of Allen Davenport With a further selection of the author’s work Compiled and Edited by Malcolm Chase Scolar Press 1994
The Muses’s Wreath, containing Hornsey Wood and other Poems Allen Davenport
Radical Underworld Ian McCalman Clarendon Paperbacks
Radical Culture David Worrall Wayne State University
William Cuffay The Life & Times of a Chartist Leader by Martin Hoyles

Vernal Equinox Arlingham Walk. 20 March 2019

Radical Stroud
Vernal Equinox Walk
20th March 2019
Around the Arlingham Peninsula
On a map, the Arlingham peninsula is irresistible. Created by a large meander in the Severn estuary, it appears to jut at a rather jaunty (or even phallic) angle toward Newnham and the Forest of Dean. Well endowed with footpaths and history and subject to the tidal forces of the estuary, it seemed the ideal place for an equinox expedition.

It was an early spring day full of skylark song, Lady’s Smock, Celandines, Violets and lambs. We began at Arlingham, pausing at the church of St Mary the Virgin to admire the single hand of its clock, pointing out the hour only. Even today, do we really need another hand to show us the precise minute?

We progressed to the banks of the Severn: to wide estuarine skies and marching pylons. Crumbling WW2 defensive pill boxes sinking into Severn mud marked our route. At the site of the “old passage” we looked for traces of the old way to ford the river to Newnham and discussed the many lives lost to the waters.

Radical Stroud
Vernal Equinox Walk
20th March 2019
Around the Arlingham Peninsula

On a map, the Arlingham peninsula is irresistible. Created by a large meander in the Severn estuary, it appears to jut at a rather jaunty (or even phallic) angle toward Newnham and the Forest of Dean. Well endowed with footpaths and history and subject to the tidal forces of the estuary, it seemed the ideal place for an equinox expedition.

It was an early spring day full of skylark song, Lady’s Smock, Celandines, Violets and lambs. We began at Arlingham, pausing at the church of St Mary the Virgin to admire the single hand of its clock, pointing out the hour only. Even today, do we really need another hand to show us the precise minute?

We progressed to the banks of the Severn: to wide estuarine skies and marching pylons. Crumbling WW2 defensive pill boxes sinking into Severn mud marked our route. At the site of the “old passage” we looked for traces of the old way to ford the river to Newnham and discussed the many lives lost to the waters.

Sabrina washes our bones
by Robin Treefellow

How your waters flow,
the ebb, surge and ripple.

The drowning.

We may keep nothing in the end.

Not our faces, names or talents,
all is given up to Sabrina’s moon burnished tide.

In death we are sloughed naked.

She pours through every corner of your soul,
washes out of ancient necessity
the places you named secret and out of reach,
forbidden to most.

How Sabrina completes us,
with this cold, slimy sluicing out.

She works through all
we carried in life,
puts her many witch willow fingers,
through the life baggage she tidally
spins and sorts.

She smoothes our bones into jewellery,
how Sabrina brings out the glow in our bones
as we all go adrift,

Every shard into the estuarine flow
slipping off like glass eyed eels,
into the silver no-faced moon,
to sleep on her breath reborn
a scuttler,
in Sabrina’s silky mud.

The last part of me I hoped I could keep,
Sabrina sucked in with her serpent kiss.

Shivering in reeds
I hear the sedge warblers chafing
scratch call

I stood there
precariously resting on her sifting shores,
waiting to become immured once more,
to sink into absence unmade.

Dissolve and dispersed
nothing can stay,
Sabrina offers only temporary footing
before the tide goes out,
and we are swept away
through to the last bit.

We cannot stay or keep,
the river flows away.

We’re left with only bones.

Our circumnavigation continued past fields of ancient ridge and furrow, blackthorn hedges and lambs. The Severn constantly to our left looking deceptively fordable. Surely we could just wade from sandbank to mudflat, all the way to the other side?

Wisely, we turned inland to traverse the neck of the peninsula, through a Ladybird book landscape of lambs playing in ancient orchards and Bluebell woods. On reaching the Severn again, we returned footsore to Arlingham via riverbank and mud heavy footpaths to complete our circumnavigation of this singular geographical feature and ancient place.

Oakridge Walk February 23rd 2019

‘When vapours rolling down a valley
Made a lonely scene more lonesome’,
Wrote Wordsworth in The Prelude
Well, we weren’t lonely, a group of ten
Walking through early morning mists and fog,
Discussing enclosure of Oakridge common land,
A death-threatening letter for the squire,
Demeaning shouts of ‘Who stole the donkey’s dinner?’
Loud following him on his daily rounds
Past Lilyhorn Farm and Bournes Green.

A watery sun shone vaporous
As we stopped at a spectral crossroads,
Cogitating upon the Roman villa,
Down in the nearby fields of Bakers Farm,
Then processing Neolithic track-ways,
Past a field of sheep and hidden long barrow,
The sun now silvering the streams that run
Down to the Frome and thence to the Severn.

With thanks to Charlotte Rooney for the above photos.

Oakridge Walk February 23rd 2019
(Qui feratus est asinus est scriptor prandium?)

‘When vapours rolling down a valley
Made a lonely scene more lonesome’,
Wrote Wordsworth in The Prelude
Well, we weren’t lonely, a group of ten
Walking through early morning mists and fog,
Discussing enclosure of Oakridge common land,
A death-threatening letter for the squire,
Demeaning shouts of ‘Who stole the donkey’s dinner?’
Loud following him on his daily rounds
Past Lilyhorn Farm and Bournes Green.

A watery sun shone vaporous
As we stopped at a spectral crossroads,
Cogitating upon the Roman villa,
Down in the nearby fields of Bakers Farm,
Then processing Neolithic track-ways,
Past a field of sheep and hidden long barrow,
The sun now silvering the streams that run
Down to the Frome and thence to the Severn.

Spring was in the air: blossom and catkins,
While on the ground, snowdrops and primroses,
Celandine, daffodils, and wild garlic,
Autumn’s crab apple windfalls perfectly
Preserved, still, in bare branched woodland.

We sat down at Strawberry Bank,
A butterfly arcing through the air,
Just where a Battle of Britain dogfight
Brought down a Junkers 88 bomber,
In the field right behind our resting backs;
We climbed up to St Bartholomew’s Church,
Thence to Wear Farm, the birthplace and home
Of Charles Mason of the Mason-Dixon Line:
We drew lines on our own maps of the past,
To take our varied ways back into the present,
But knowing if we whistle loud and clear,
Then we shall all be able to hear
‘Qui feratus est asinus est scriptor prandium ?

Wherever we are and wherever we go.

Qui feratus est asinus est scriptor prandium ?
See?

Chip Shop Walk

Chip Shop Hop

A group of us gathered at the corner Bath Road and Frome Park Road, initially in search of the legendary Rodborough Chip Machine
https://radicalstroud.co.uk/the-face-that-launched-thousand-chips/

We then flexibly followed the score from walkwalkwalk – thanks to Clare Qualmann, Gail Burton and Serena Korda – (see at the end), so as to be part of a worldwide chip shop exploration. Our chip shop heritage pilgrimage took us from Bath Road to Cainscross, to Cashes Green to the High Street, to Simpsons, to Nelson Street and so to sunset and bed.
We had a lovely time chatting with staff in all the shops and explained our quest, emphasizing that this was not, as Deb Roberts put it, anything to do with ‘Chip Advisor’. Robin Treefellow wrote a poem especially for the occasion, which he performed in two different locations, once outside a cloth mill and once, natch, outside a chip shop.
Chips are not from Hell
they come from Heaven Highest
chips are winged angels
flying with greasy wings
coated in sparkling salt
into our contentious world
where they relieve our tearful cries
for help is here
the chips, the excellent and goodly chips
we partake of their ambrosia
soaked in vinegar
stubbled in salt
hot and rewarding between the teeth
as we swallow
the chip carries us up to the golden light
in the knowledge our troubles have passed
the chips!
O, heavenly chips!
Sanctus, Sanctus, Excelsus
Amen.

Thanks to Deborah Roberts for the above photos.

Chip Shop Hop

A group of us gathered at the corner of Bath Road and Frome Park Road, initially in search of the legendary Rodborough Chip Machine
https://radicalstroud.co.uk/the-face-that-launched-thousand-chips/

We then flexibly followed the score from walkwalkwalk – thanks to Clare Qualmann, Gail Burton and Serena Korda – (see at the end), so as to be part of a worldwide chip shop exploration. Our chip shop heritage pilgrimage took us from Bath Road to Cainscross, to Cashes Green to the High Street, to Simpsons, to Nelson Street and so to sunset and bed.
We had a lovely time chatting with staff in all the shops and explained our quest, emphasizing that this was not, as Deb Roberts put it, anything to do with ‘Chip Advisor’. Robin Treefellow wrote a poem especially for the occasion, which he performed in two different locations, once outside a cloth mill and once, natch, outside a chip shop.
Chips are not from Hell
they come from Heaven Highest
chips are winged angels
flying with greasy wings
coated in sparkling salt
into our contentious world
where they relieve our tearful cries
for help is here
the chips, the excellent and goodly chips
we partake of their ambrosia
soaked in vinegar
stubbled in salt
hot and rewarding between the teeth
as we swallow
the chip carries us up to the golden light
in the knowledge our troubles have passed
the chips!
O, heavenly chips!
Sanctus, Sanctus, Excelsus
Amen.

This is part of the overall project: A Wander is not a Slog

https://awanderisnotaslog.wordpress.com

Other walks are scheduled for London, Greece (aiding refugees), Canada and the USA. It may be that our expedition is the only one in the world featuring chip shop poesy.
The piece immediately below is about the social history of chip shops within the context of the industrial revolution:

Common

Common – Low- Coarse – Vulgar – Immodest – Inelegant – Indelicate – Plebeian – Uncouth – Uncultivated – Unrefined – Lower class – Working class – Humble – Mean – Simple – Plain – Obscure – Low born – Rude – Base – Unwashed

‘You’ve had your chips’

Fish and chips and football and fags and fog:
Steam trawlers off the Dogger Bank,
Or off Iceland or in Arctic waters,
Home to Hull and Aberdeen and Grimsby,
North Shields, Milford Haven,
And then the railway lines to Billingsgate.

While down at the other stations, railway halts,
Markets, depots and railway sidings:
Potatoes, peas, coke, gas, oil, lard;

While over in the engineering works:
Trays for fish, trays for chips,
Scuttles and scoops and baskets for spuds,
Batter bowls, fish slicers, cruets, egg whisks,
Washing, peeling and chopping machines,
Refrigerators, tiles,
Shop fittings, counters, chairs and tables and cloths.

And in the fish and chip shop:
Steam and smoke and condensation,
Collective conviviality,
Eating with your fingers while reading
Last week’s newspaper’s football results;
Betting, the pools, a smell of beer,
Undomesticated housewives spurning cooking …
Common …
Such a loud and visible working class merriment
That fuelled middle class condescension,
Snobbery and suburban distaste:
As with Hemel Hempstead’s mayor in 1913:
‘I think that probably the fish frying trade
is the most terrible in existence.’

But seven years later came the music hall song:
‘Chips and Fish! Chips and Fish!
Eh! By gum it’s a Champion Dish!
Oh! What a smell when they fry ‘em,
Just get a penn’orth and try ‘em.
Put some Salt and Vinegar on, as much as ever you wish,
You can do, do, do without supper when you’ve
Had a bob’s worth o’ Chips and Fish!’

There were over 30,000 chip shops then,
Keeping the working class going through war,
The General Strike, the Great Depression,
Unemployment, short time working,
Debt, rent arrears, and shared kitchens,
With a welcome alternative
To the ubiquitous bread and dripping,
Bread and jam and milky tea,

I don’t know how many chip shops there are now,
But they still offer solace as well as sustenance,
For who can forget Jilted John:
‘I was so upset that I cried all the way to the chip shop’ –

But what happens when the last real chip shop closes for the last time?

‘You’ve had yer chips, mate.’

Unless we keep the real chip shop frying
And the chip shop red flag flying.

Inspired by a re-read of Fish & Chips and the British Working Class 1870-1940 John K. Walton Leicester University Press 2000

The Chip Shop Walk Score

‘To be practised in unknown cities (or parts of cities) or any place with potential for multiple chip shops. 1. Locate a chip shop. 2. Buy a bag of chips. 3. Have them wrapped ‘open’ to eat whilst walking. 4. Choose a direction to walk in. 5. Walk and eat. 6. When you locate another chip shop, repeat from step 2. 7. If you finish your chips before locating another chip shop, ask passers-by to point you towards one. 8. Cease when exhausted/sated … Best practised in a small group (sharing chips) in order to avoid chip poisoning. Can be adapted to other foodstuffs, depending on local ubiquity.’

Addendum
We walked on August 16th: the 199th anniversary of Peterloo. We commemorated this tragedy with a reading of Oliver Lomax’s poem – each walker was given a copy of the poem to wrap around their chips and read as they walked. Here’s the first stanza:

Peterloo
I beg you will endeavour to preserve the most
perfect silence. Put your hand to the ground and
take its pulse.

The poem can be found in its entirety here: https://www.wcml.org.uk/blogs/Lynette-Cawthra/A-new-poem-about-Peterloo/