When our son was small we invested in a National Trust annual family pass  - it enabled us, at a time when funds were very modest, to take him regularly to Bodiam Castle, Scotney Castle, and Bateman’s (Rudyard Kipling’s House), all (almost) on our doorstep.  These days I’m the owner of an English Heritage pass, which means wherever I go I keep a weather-eye open for that nice brown castellated square sign!

Last week on a work trip I found myself early for an appointment in Adwick le Street, South Yorkshire, and observing lunchtime was nigh, in the happy position of spying one such serendipitous find: Brodsworth Hall - just three miles from my destination. I had a quick bit of snap (delicious leek tart and salad) in its tea rooms, then whizzed off round the house.

This is one of those properties which have not been refurbished and refurnished with items from elsewhere, but left largely as it was when its last owner, Sylvia Grant-Dalton, died there in 1988. In some ways it reminded me of Erddig, which I visited as a child, with its peeling wallpaper, and, in some areas like the kitchen, a charming unreconstructed mix of old and new. Brodsworth Hall, a grand Victorian family house, was built by Charles Thellusson, and the same family lived there for over 120 years. An earlier house, built in the 17th  century,  had been demolished and the site moved from beside the nearby church of St Michael and All Angels.

One of the guides told me that the Thellussons had come from French Huguenot ancestry, making their fortune in the 18th century originally, from banking, among other things, and sugar plantations in Montserrat. Might the Jamaican mahogany doors on the ground floor, recycled from the old house, have come from another plantation? I wonder how many great English country houses owe their grandeur to wealth partly gained from slave-owning?

It amuses me when people speak reverently of ‘old families’ (like for example the Brudenells, who are said to have been established as aristocrats before the Norman Conquest). Aren’t we all from old families, even if our ancestors haven’t lived in the same house for hundreds of years?

I didn’t have time to see the wonderful formal gardens at Brodsworth, but I was powerless to resist the room full of second-hand books for sale in aid of English Heritage’s work. I was delighted to find two good’uns:

Everyman and Medieval Miracle Plays (particularly welcome as I was so disappointed with the National Theatre’s recent version of Everyman, re-modelled by Carol Ann Duffy, and am keen to read the original), and The Wreck of the Abergavenny - The Wordsworths and Catastrophe by my kinswoman Alethea Hayter*. Sadly I never had the pleasure of meeting her, though her brother Sir William Hayter was my godfather, so I’m very much looking forward to reading it.
 
Amazing what you can find when you’ve got your eyes open!

​*
Obituary of Alethea Hayter 
Click on Family photo under Childhood on this page - Alethea and William Hayter are 2nd and 3rd from the left in the back row

My son is an artist and an art teacher, and one of his favourite artists is Pieter Brueghel  the Elder. We both love the painting entitled Children’s Games, and much enjoy identifying the different activities.

When I worked at a large girls’ school which boasted an excellent library, I was known by the librarians for checking out the weighty tomes which, more often than not, no pupil or indeed teacher had ever borrowed. One such book was the acclaimed study by Iona & Peter Opie, The Lore and Language of Schoolchildren, which took me weeks to plough through, but not without reward!  One of the things that interested me was their conclusion that the learning of  games in the main by-passes adults: it is mostly children who communicate and pass them on to other children.

When I was a girl, it was fashionable to hold seances, and I remember the time I set up a circle of letters round a glass in my older sister’s bedroom (most of the family were out), and I and two cousins began to summon the spirits. As the glass started to move we rose as one and fled screaming from the room! Later in life I met a 1960s alumna of above school who recalled the time when a seance had been organised in one of the dormitories.

“Is there anybody there?” was asked.

At this, the glass began to move, and after affirming that there was, spelt out the word F-I-R-E. Seconds later, the school fire-bell went off, and it transpired that at that moment a fire had been discovered in the Domestic Science block, formerly the great house’s stables. Needless to say, the girls were terrified, and the story spread round the school rapidly. The Bishop of Dover was summoned by the Headmistress and spoke at Assembly the following Sunday on the evils of tampering with the dark arts of the Ungodly.

Reading Pepys’ Diary last night, I was delighted to come across a mention of a lunch-time game we played at Tunbridge Wells Grammar School in the late 1960s/early 1970s, which was clearly being played by children at least 400 years earlier. I recall six of us standing around another girl, who lay on a table in the empty art room. We went round the circle, ceremoniously uttering in turn the words:

“She looks pale.” This was followed, one line at a time, and each reciting by rote, by the following:

“She is pale.”

“She looks ill.”

“She is ill.”

“She looks dead.”

“She is dead.”

And with this, we each slipped one forefinger under the prone girl and, together, lifted her several feet in the air with seemingly no effort at all, as if she was weightless.  We had no idea how it worked, but it did work, and it afforded us great satisfaction!

So when I came across Pepys’ entry for 31 July 1665, I called out to my husband: “Listen to this!” (he had also, I knew, played the game at school):

This evening with Mr Brisband speaking of inchantments and spells, I telling him some of my Charmes, he told me this of his own knowledge at Bourdeaux in France. The words these:

Voicy un Corps mort
Royde comme un Baston
Froid comme Marbre
Leger comme un Esprit
Levons te au nom de Jesus Christ.

He saw four little Girles, very young ones, all kneeling, each of them upon one knee; and one begin the first line, whispering in the care of the next, and the second to the third, and the third to the fourth, and she to the first. Then the first begun the second line, and so round quite through. And putting each one finger only to a boy that lay flat upon his back on the ground, as if he was dead. At the end of the words they did with their four fingers raise this boy as high as they could reach. And he being there and wondering at it (as also being afeared to see it - for they would have had him to have bore a part in saying the words in the room of one of the little girls, that was so young that they could hardly make her learn to repeat the words), did, for fear there might be some sleight used in it by the boy, or that the boy might be light, called the cook of the house, as Sir G. Carteret’s Cooke, who is very big, and they did raise him in just the same manner.
 
Fascinating, eh? Love to hear from any of you with your experiences and stories about children’s games - comments welcome!

Some years back an elderly lady who was moving into sheltered accommodation made me a present of three lovely gifts: a Himalayan blackberry briar from her garden, a vintage Creda Debonair spin-dryer, and a complete set of the Latham/Matthews version of The Diary of Samuel Pepys in hardback (ten volumes including Companion and Index).

My bedtime routine includes writing a diary, followed by a nightly dip into Mr Pepys’s - I’m currently up to July 1665,with the Plague building to a crescendo.

I’ve a few things in common with Samuel, I find. I hope, for instance, that I might be distantly related to his clerk, Mr Thomas Hayter, whose character, the Companion informs me “seems to declare itself in his neat and regular handwriting”. I lived for some years in both Islington and Hackney,  Pepys’s favourite summer jaunt , and may have cycled past some of his childhood haunts in Kingsland and Newington. We were both born under the sign of Pisces, love London, art, music, reading, and derive great pleasure from the execution of an administrative task well done! Were he alive today, I think Samuel would have been tickled to know that George Frederick Handel, another devoted Londoner, was born on his 52nd birthday. I hope he would also relish, as I do, the sea-stories of Patrick O’Brian featuring Captain Jack Aubrey & Stephen Maturin.

One of my birthday treats this year was a visit to the National Maritime Museum to see their exhibition: Samuel Pepys: Plague, Fire, Revolution. I love the NMM in its beautiful setting, with the Royal Observatory above on the hill. It never fails to touch me when I walk past the model of the Rawalpindi on the way in, and remember the fate of those who died in her in World War 2, including  a man from the town where I live.

I was a little bemused initially by the half-light in the exhibition rooms (emulating 17th century light levels ?), but it was great to see the many artefacts and portraits on display, including the John Hayls portrait of Pepys. I loved the large slipware plate which commemorated the Boscobel oak in which Charles II hid after his defeat at the Battle of Worcester in 1651 (am I mistaken in recalling that the tomb of his companion on that day, Richard Penderel, was located in St Giles’ Churchyard off London’s Denmark Street? Last time I went there I found the lettering so eroded, it could no longer be read).

The engraving of a man being prepared for the surgical removal of a kidney stone was twingingly graphic, the medical instruments displayed even more so! The stark digital presentation of the numbers who died during the time of Plague showed  how shocking the mounting death levels must have been, peaking, in August and September 1665, in  over 7,000 per week in London alone. I was prompted, on my return home, to download the Kindle version of Daniel Defoe’s A Journal of the Plague Year for further reading!

Pepys’ diary, together with documenting the great dramas of life, recording historic events and encounters with the great and the good, also brings home the truth that people from earlier centuries shared similar concerns with our own: worries about job prospects, upsetting the boss, financial insecurity, family squabbles, aging parents, marital tiffs, overspending, aches and pains, and (for we churchgoers) the occasional boring sermon, etc! There was a reproduction in the exhibition of a large group portrait showing a visit to Christ’s Hospital of the King and courtiers, with Pepys (a Governor of the School) perusing a map. It included  some charming detail depicting schoolchildren doing the things children  do - and being ticked off in the same way they presumably have been since time immemorial!

Pepys dearly loved having family and friends over for a meal and a good time, and the day after our visit we enjoyed a jolly get-together. We were very merry, in true Pepys fashion, and, amazingly in this smartphone age, we realised, once everyone had gone, that no-one had taken the now almost obligatory photo for Facebook, so only fond memories and my diary must stand as a record of the occasion. I feel glad for that too!

The exhibition has left me determined to take a trip some time to Magdalene College, Cambridge to see Pepys’s library, and another to the Historic Dockyard at Chatham. In the meantime, for those of you who might like to see the Exhibition at Greenwich, it closes at the end of this week on 28 March - so hurry if you want to catch it!

There's a marvellous passage in Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart's A life in Letters (Penguin Classics), in a letter to his father, dated 17 October 1777, about Stein, a man who makes pianos:

'However I attack the keys, the tone is always even. It's true, he won't part with a pianoforte like this for under 300 florins, but the effort and labour that he expends on it can't be paid for. A particular feature of his instruments is their escape action. Not one maker in a hundred bothers with this. But without escape action it's impossible for a pianoforte not to produce a clattering sound or to go on sounding after the note has been struck; when you strike the keys, his hammers fall back again the moment they hit the strings, whether you hold down the keys or release them. He told me that only when he's finished making a piano like this does he sit down and try out all the passagework, runs and leaps, and, using a shave, works away at the instrument until it can do everything. For he works only to serve the music, not just for his own profit, otherwise he'd be finished at once.

He often says that if he weren't such a great music lover and didn't have some slight skill on the instrument, he'd long since have run out of patience with his work; but he loves an instrument that never lets the player down and that will last.'

When I read this letter I made a note at the back of the book (reprehensible habit, my husband has chided, writing in books): 'P 186 Stein - like my Martin, a maker of good things!'

I have in the past accused my husband of being a perfectionist, but in truth, it is, more than that, an essential part of his being that he loves to make things as good as he can get them, while acknowledging that there is a point at which he is happy to sit back and say to himself - that's good enough.

He trained as an actor at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art, but eventually, like so many actors (they say only 3.5% of actors work are lucky enough to be in full-time work), that work began to dry up.  Over the years we have been together, I have seen him work at all kinds of things with an increasing capacity for stamina and perseverance, often with no more instruction than the careful, thoughtful study of publications like The Reader's Digest Complete DIY Manual or Geoff Hamilton's Organic Gardening! 

In our first home he built shelving and cupboards. In the next he replaced a whole floor of wood-wormed planks, built kitchen units, and dug out a concrete bomb-shelter that had been buried in our Hackney kitchen. When we moved to Sussex, he cleared, designed and laid out two gardens, one with a huge vegetable patch, where he grew brassicas, legumes, roots, sweet-corn, squashes. In our current home he has renovated virtually the whole house, and recently re-pointed the gable end of the external brickwork, laid some beautiful brick paths and low walls. And when I look at our son, now expecting his own child, I see someone who shows the tangible benefits of having received constant good fathering.

For the last few years I have also seen my husband's energies turned to something flowering later in life: writing. Again, the same dogged determination and love of creating, polishing and getting something as good as possible, is being applied to the art of writing what he likes to think of ripping yarns. He doesn't aspire to be a great writer, though he loves to read them (Charles Portis is a current joy!) - but there's nothing more gratifying to him than a new review or communication from a reader who has throroughly enjoyed one of his books.

Lacking interest from the established publishing world, and even most book-sellers, we have published Niedermayer & Hart and Roadrage under our own imprint, Odd Dog Press. Consequently, even with the help of the internet, no mass-marketing means that it is a struggle, in the face of an ever-growing book glut, to encourage readers to nudge the books onto their book-pile.

But here's where the perseverance comes in - Martin is writing the sequel to Niedermayer & Hart, and labouring hard at making it something that the former's fans will enjoy reading. Working to serve the writing.

And in the meantime, also finding time to perfect his recipe for onion bhajis (see picture)!

I usually read a number of books at one time, although currently ‘reading-lite’ (for me!), having only two on the go: The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin, and AE Housman’s poetry collection A Shropshire Lad. I like to mix up the book buffet, interspersing big guns with thinner volumes, fiction with non-fiction, poetry, the odd graphic novel. I like popular fiction as well as the literary stuff, but there are limits - sorry to her fans, but you won’t find me reading Barbara Cartland....

There’s so much out there! Never mind the steady information stream from Twitter, Facebook, BBC website, daily papers etc etc. They say that a Sunday newspaper alone, with all of its supplements, amounts to what would have been the lifetime input for the average medieval person (had more than a handful been able to read!).

The website par excellence, of course, for keen readers, must surely be Goodreads, and I’ve already had a lot of fun adding my 1300+ reads to my page. I’ve had to withdraw from the conversation threads though - looking at these was taking up too much of my precious reading time!

I drive to work, and have my packed lunch round the table with colleagues, so it seems a bit rude to get a book out. My sister, however, who has 40 minutes each way on the train Monday-Friday, gets through a lot more books than me. She’s currently enjoying Gabriel Garcia-Marquez, having recently returned from holiday in Colombia.

As a confirmed bibliophile, and nosey with it,  one of life’s pleasures is sneaking a look over people’s shoulders to see what they’re reading, so e-readers can frustrate this innocent pastime for me, though there is always the cryptic-crossword-style game of trying to guess, from the page on view, what the book might be!

I thought I’d ask people I met this last week what they’re reading, which turned out to be a wide selection. Here’s a dozen of them (six by the fairer sex - hoorah!):

The Talented Mr Ripley    Patricia Highsmith
 Corvus   Esther Woolfson
 Elizabeth is Missing   Emma Healey
 Germany: Memories of a Nation   Neil MacGregor
 Americanah   Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
 How Music Works    David Byrne
 Le Chapeau de Mitterand   Antoine Laurain
 Rubicon  Tom Holland
 The Diary of Anne Frank’(in Spanish)
 The Private Eye Annual of 2014   Ian Hislop
 The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying   Marie Kondo
 The Bone Clocks   David Mitchell

But  if I thought I read a lot of books at once, the rosette must surely go to a running friend, whose current reads I enquired upon (breathlessly) the other evening on our 4 mile mostly uphill jaunt round Tunbridge Wells. Here they are - be impressed!!

Hunters of Dune   Brian Herbert and Kevin J Anderson
Lila   Marilynne Robinson
Who runs this place?   Anthony Sampson
Greek Political Oratory  Penguin Classics
Stardust  Neil Gaiman (on Kindle)

and has recently finished:

The Peripheral    William Gibson
Liberty    Shami Chakrabati
The Trial of Henry Kissinger   Christopher Hitchens

so no David Baldacci or John Grisham there then ...!

I’ll finish with a plug for my husband’s two books, Niedermayer & Hart, a horror thriller, and psychological thriller Roadrage  - both of which he is not ashamed to admit are popular fiction. I really enjoyed reading them, they are both good yarns with well-drawn characters; in spite of my long-term doula/midwife duties before their births (listening to ideas, encouraging, researching and proof-reading) I still found them thrilling, moving and hard to put down, which is a kind of small amazing miracle in itself!  I won’t go on - you can find reviews (the genuine article!) on Goodreads, Amazon and Martin’s website and decide for yourself, but he has a Kindle offer on over the next week (only available on Amazon UK from 8 am Monday 26 January until 2 February) for Niedermayer & Hart, which might be of interest.

If you haven’t heard of an author but the reviews are good, I guess 99p is an acceptable outlay!

Martin’s website: www.mj-johnson.com

The changing of the seasons is one of life’s many quiet joys. I love the signs of autumn: spiders spinning webs in the hedges, blue-black scarab beetles on Southborough Common, skeins of wild geese flying high, toadstools in the forest.

My primary school was a converted oast-house in Rolvenden, where John Wesley had once preached under a nearby oak. In September, the beams were always hung with hops, and at home there were apples drying in the attic. I loved the harvest hymns, and often whistle “We plough the fields and scatter” now as I walk along the lanes through Bough Beech’s fields and woods.

I treasure my copy of Ladybird Books’ What to Look for in Autumn, published in 1960. The page pictured here shows women picking up potatoes in the field. When we lived in the Sussex village of Robertsbridge, I met a lovely old lady in her nineties, who had farmed there since 1947. She recalled that when she and her husband first moved there, they employed almost everyone in our lane of about thirty houses to pick the potato crop. By the 1990s, none of the residents worked on the land.

Some things change, and some things stay the same, thank goodness. There are still hops, apples, blackberries and conkers to be found in the hedgerows of the High Weald.

Another perennial pleasure is the annual scarecrow competition in Speldhurst. I drive through the village on my way to work, so it’s always fun, in the first week of September, to come upon this year’s entries. I don’t know which one won the prize at the Village Flower Show last weekend, but Bertie Bassett, sitting on the bench by St Mary’s Church lych-gate, was probably my personal favourite, made with great attention to detail from biscuit tins. Fantastic!