Spitfire Women by Rebecca Alexander

At the start of the second world war, the government realised that the Royal Air Force (RAF) would play a pivotal role in defending Britain. The German air force, the Luftwaffe, had been devastatingly successful in invading first Poland then progressing through Europe. Fighter planes harried troops, provided intelligence and protected the heavier bombers. These strategically blew up important defence positions and infrastructure and demoralised the civilians on the ground. In response, the RAF needed to rapidly build its supply of modern planes, trained pilots and air fields. 

First Officer Maureen Dunlop on the cover of Picture Post magazine 1944

In response to this need, a organisation called the Air Transport Auxiliary (ATA) was set up rapidly, starting at White Waltham in Berkshire. Originally formed out of volunteers who had already learned to fly, whether commercially, through the RAF or recreationally. The service was created to ferry planes to where they were needed, the active aerodromes, to support the combat pilots. Eventually, the ATA had fifteen ‘ferry pools’, with women making up about twelve percent of the total at 166. The male pilots were mostly unsuitable for active service with the RAF, being impaired in some way or disqualified by age. Many came from other countries who were not able to recruit for combatant roles as their countries were neutral. 

The female recruits were different. Most had learned to fly for pleasure before the flying clubs closed in 1939. A few had worked in flying circuses or had taught flying. They ranged in age from teenagers to grandmothers. As well as the British recruits, led by Pauline Gower, groups of American and Polish pilots bolstered the number of active pilots. They were also joined by famous flyers like Amy Johnson, who had become a celebrity after flying solo to Australia in 1930. The press followed the story of the gallant band of diverse characters, calling them the ‘Attagirls’, as they worked through accelerated training to fly everything from low powered Tiger Moths to four engine American bombers like Liberators and Flying Fortresses. Much of their work was delivering new planes such as the Supermarine Spitfires and Hawker Hurricanes for fighter pilot units, and returning damaged planes back for repairs. Women of all ages joined up, married or not, and some had children during their service.

Women pilots were also teaching new pilots, especially in the more difficult planes. When the Bristol Beaufighter was introduced, the RAF refused to test it, considering it too unstable and temperamental. Guy Gibson VC DSO DFC described the moment one was delivered to an airfield in his book Enemy Coast Ahead (1944). 

“There is a story that one particular squadron in the north had got to the stage when they almost refused to fly it. They said that it stalled too quickly and that it was unmanageable in tight turns. They were sitting about one foggy day on their aerodrome when there was no flying possible, and were discussing the subject heatedly, when suddenly a Beau whistled over their heads at about 100ft, pulled up into a stall turn, dropped its wheels and flaps and pulled off a perfect landing on the runway. Naturally, this attracted a lot of attention. They all thought that this pilot must have been one of the crack test pilots who had come up to show them how. As it taxied up to the watch office, they all crowded around to get the gen. However, a lot of faces dropped to the ground when from underneath the Beau crawled a figure in a white flying-suit, capped by blonde, floating hair; it was one of the ATA girls. I am told that this squadron had no trouble from Beaus from that day on.”

Diana Barnato Walker climbing into the cockpit of a Spitfire

The ATA were required to fly their planes without radio or radar. They couldn’t phone ahead for weather reports or advice on enemy aircraft, they were on their own. They flew missions in weather conditions that were deemed unacceptable for RAF pilots. There was even a shortage of maps for the ATA, who had to carry out of date charts where they could. Each plane was described in a manual that covered all the most common planes with important information like weight, maximum velocity, fuel capacity and stall speed. Unlike RAF pilots who trained in the planes they were going to fly, ATA pilots were expected to fly anything in the manual. If they met an enemy plane (they did occasion) they carried no ammunition so the best they could do is try to evade the enemy. 

The recovery flights of damaged planes were highly dangerous. Aircraft could be labelled ‘one landing only’ or given speed restrictions because they were so damaged they might need to be brought down in an emergency. Many ATA flights ended with a crash landing on a beach, field or road. The ATA soon needed their own engineers, both men and women, who often flew with the pilots to help with the bigger planes or where the damage was unknown or severe. Pilots often flew two or three missions in succession, making their way back from their final drop off or delivery by train. 

Writing about a fictional ATA pilot in my latest book, I found it hard not to write about all the heroic women who defied social expectations and took on the most dangerous challenges. A US Army Air Force pilot caught a lift with one of the female pilots, to be absolutely horrified to see her hunkered in the pilot’s seat apparently reading a book while flying, single handed, a huge American bomber. He was not relieved when she explained she’d never flown one before and was just running through her manual before the landing. In many cases, I found true stories were more extreme than fiction. 

The ATA women were recognised in 1943 when they were given the same pay as the male ATA pilots. This was the first time any government agency had paid women the same rate as men. By the end of the war, the women had lost eighteen pilots and engineers to crashes, including Amy Johnson. She had been forced to put her plane down on the Thames Estuary on 5 January 1941, in thick fog, attempted to bale out and despite efforts to save her, disappeared under the water. 

Amy Johnson 1930

Over the course of the war, 1320 ATA pilots flew 309,000 delivery or recovery missions with a loss of 174 pilots in total. Without their efforts, RAF fighter and bomber pilots would have had to fly those missions, at a cost of half a million pilot hours flying.  

Further reading: 

Air Transport Auxiliary at War: 80th Anniversary of its Formation by Stephen Wynn (2021)

A Spitfire Girl by Mary Ellis (2016) 

Amy Johnson by Constance Babington Smith (1967)

A taste of Homer, Virgil and Ovid by Caroline K. Mackenzie

Five years ago, almost to the day, in March 2020, the pandemic had taken hold and daily life as we knew it was turned upside down. Everyone scrambled to find ways of keeping in touch, since meeting up in person was out of the question, and plans that had been made had to be abandoned. And so my Classics Club, newly formed and a weekly event in the picturesque Pavilion of Burwash Common migrated to Zoom instead. We had no idea how long the restrictions, or our reading material, would last so agreed simply to continue meeting for as long as everyone wished.

One of our members recently mentioned that we are about to celebrate our fifth birthday – tempus fugit, as Virgil observed. When Classics Club was just one year old, I wrote a History Girls' blog about its origins. Now, five years in, seems a good time to reflect on the works we have read and to share some of the highlights.

It is almost impossible to pick the ‘best bits’, as each week we have read something that resonates, entertains, surprises or even comforts us. Therefore, I decided to flick through my well-worn copies of each of the books and to stop where I noticed the most scribbles in the margin, or perhaps highlighted sections of the text, and have chosen from those pages a selection of passages which I hope you will enjoy. If you are new to Homer, Virgil and Ovid, this may give you a flavour of the style and subject matter of these wonderful poets and, I hope, tempt you to read more.

All quotations are taken from the Penguin Classics series, the cover images of which I have included for each work. I have chosen this set of translations as they were the first versions of these poems which I read and have therefore been on my bookshelves for as long as I have been studying and teaching Classics. But the variations between translations and the difficulty of choosing just one for each Greek or Latin work was the topic of a History Girls’ blog I wrote last year.

As these passages are simply a taster, I have not attempted to summarise the stories of the epics or provide a detailed background. Some of the themes, such as the Trojan War, or characters from Greek mythology, such as the Cyclops, may be familiar in any event. However, for each one I have noted whether the original poem was Greek or Latin and the approximate date when the poem was composed and/or completed. The dates for Homer’s epics are approximate and the source of much academic debate.

Homer’s Iliad - Greek - around 750BC

Homer’s characters often utter observations which have a distinctly proverbial flavour, such as this musing by one of the warriors on the battlefield outside Troy:

The generation of men is just like that of leaves. The wind scatters one year’s leaves on the ground, but the forest burgeons and puts out others, as the season of spring comes round. So it is with men: one generation grows on, and another is passing away. (Book 6: 146-9.)

Or this:

…whatever we do, the fates of death stand over us in a thousand forms, and no mortal can run from them or escape them… (Book 12: 326-7.)

Homer is also known for his vivid and striking similes. The Trojan prince, Paris, whose love affair with Helen was the cause of the Trojan war, is cleverly captured with this simile:

Paris did not dally long in his high house, but once he had put on his glorious armour of intricate bronze, he dashed through the city, sure of the speed of his legs. As when some stalled horse who has fed full at the manger breaks his halter and gallops thudding across the plain, eager for his usual bathe in the lovely flow of a river, and glorying as he runs. He holds his head high, and the mane streams back along his shoulders: sure of his own magnificence, his legs carry him lightly to the haunts where the mares are at pasture. So Paris, son of Priam, came down from the height of Pergamos, bright in his armour like the beaming sun, and laughing as he came, his quick legs carrying him on. (Book 6: 503-14.)

Similes are also used to heighten the pathos of a scene. Note here the reference to Menelaos, the Spartan king and husband of Helen, now in the thick of the Trojan war and trying to reclaim his wife from Paris:

As when a woman stains ivory with crimson dye, in Maionia or Caria, making a cheek-piece for horses. It lies there in her room, and many horsemen yearn to have it for the wearing: but it waits there to be a treasure for a king, both horse’s finery and rider’s glory. Such, Menelaos was the staining with blood of your sturdy thighs, and your legs, and your fine ankles below. (Book 4: 141-7.)

A simile is used to great effect to describe the leader of the Greeks, and brother of Menelaos, Agamemnon:

Agamemnon rose to speak, letting his tears fall like a spring of black water which trickles its dark stream down a sheer rock’s face. (Book 9: 13-15.)

Words, so important in Homer’s oral tradition, are often likened to nature:

But when he released that great voice from his chest and the words which flocked down like snowflakes in winter, no other mortal man could then rival Odysseus. (Book 3: 221-3.)

Nestor the sweet-spoken, … from his tongue the words flowed sweeter than honey. (Book 1: 247-9.)

Homer’s Odyssey - Greek - around 725BC

Odysseus returns home to Ithaca after twenty years of absence: 10 years at the Trojan war and 10 years making his tumultuous journey home. He is disguised but his faithful dog recognises him:

As they stood talking, a dog lying there lifted his head and pricked up his ears. Argus was his name. Patient Odysseus himself had owned and bred him, though he had sailed for holy Ilium [Troy] before he could reap the benefit… in his owner’s absence, he lay abandoned on the heaps of dung from the mules and cattle which lay in profusion at the gate…. But directly he became aware of Odysseus’ presence, he wagged his tail and dropped his ears, though he lacked the strength now to come nearer his master. Odysseus turned his eyes away, and, making sure Eumaeus did not notice, brushed away a tear….. As for Argus, the black hand of Death descended on him the moment he caught sight of Odysseus – after twenty years. (Book 17: 291-305… 326-7.)

Odysseus is cunning, crafty and has a way with words. The word-play in the following episode is one of his more famous tricks. The Cyclops has just eaten alive some of Odysseus’ companions and washes them down with wine. Odysseus is narrating the story:

The Cyclops took the wine and drank it up. And the delicious drink gave him such exquisite pleasure that he asked me for another bowlful. “Give me more, please, and tell me your name, here and now – I would like to make you a gift that will please you. We Cyclopes have wine of our own made from the grapes that our rich soil and rains from Zeus produce. But this vintage of yours is a drop of the real nectar and ambrosia.”…

“Cyclops,” I said, “you ask me my name. I’ll tell it to you; and in return give me the gift you promised me. My name is Nobody.”…

The Cyclops answered me from his cruel heart. “Of all his company I will eat Nobody last, and the rest before him. That shall be your gift.” He had hardly spoken before he toppled over and fell face upwards on the floor, where he lay with his great neck twisted to one side, and all-compelling sleep overpowered him. In his drunken stupor he vomited, and a stream of wine mixed with morsels of men’s flesh poured from his throat. (Book 9: 353-9… 364-74.)

Odysseus and his men seize the opportunity and drive a sharpened olive stake, heated in fire, into the Cyclops’ single eye, blinding him. He shrieks and calls for help from his fellow Cyclopes who gather outside his cave and ask what is wrong and whether somebody is trying to kill him. The conversation that follows goes like this:

“O my friends, it's Nobody’s treachery… that is doing me to death.”

“Well then," came the immediate reply, "if you are alone and nobody is assaulting you, you must be sick… and cannot be helped.” (Book 9: 408, 410-11.)

Odysseus’ trick has worked, just as the Trojan horse trick worked, another of Odysseus’ cunning plans, which brought an end to the ten year Trojan war. That story was not told by Homer but by our next poet, Virgil, in his epic poem, the Aeneid.

Virgil’s Aeneid - Latin - 19 BC

Virgil’s use of personification is perhaps best showcased in this wonderful description of rumour. An ancient take on ‘fake news’:

Rumour did not take long to go through the great cities of Libya. Of all the ills there are, Rumour is the swiftest. She thrives on movement and gathers strength as she goes. From small and timorous beginnings she soon lifts herself up into the air, her feet still on the ground and her head hidden in the clouds…. Rumour is quick of foot and swift on the wing, a huge and horrible monster, and under every feather on her body, strange to tell, there lies an eye that never sleeps, a mouth and tongue that are never silent and an ear always pricked. By night she flies between earth and sky, squawking through the darkness, and never lowers her eyelids in sweet sleep. By day she keeps watch perched on the tops of gables or on high towers and causes fear in great cities, holding fast to her lies and distortions as often as she tells the truth. (Book 4: 173-88.)

Book 4 is dedicated to the story of Dido and Aeneas. If you only have time to read one book of the Aeneid, this might be the one to pick. It inspired Purcell’s opera Dido and Aeneas which includes the haunting and exquisite Dido’s Lament. Virgil’s account hints at the tragic ending with this observation:

Love is a cruel master. There are no lengths to which it does not force the human heart. (Book 4: 412.)

Ovid’s Metamorphoses - Latin - AD 8

Perhaps what sets Ovid apart from Homer and Virgil is his wit and rather mischievous take on popular myths. He can certainly rival his predecessors in beautiful narrative and storytelling but this passage demonstrates his comic portrayal of the man-eating monster, the Cyclops, named Polyphemus, whom we met above. In Ovid’s version, Polyphemus has fallen in love with a beautiful nymph, Galatea, and attempts to win her affections:

The wild Polyphemus was combing his prickly locks with a mattock, attempting to trim his shaggy beard with a pruning-hook, and trying to look less fierce when he gazed at his face in a pool…. (Book 13: 765-7.)

“Truly, I know myself, I recently saw my reflection in pure clear water and liked the image that met my gaze…Don’t think me ugly because my body’s a bristling thicket of prickly hair….I’ve only one eye on my brow, in the middle, but that is as big as a fair-sized shield. Does it matter?” (Book 13: 840-1, 846, 851-2.)

Ovid invites sympathy for Polyphemus and shows his romantic side when Polyphemus attempts to woo Galatea with promises of gifts: 

“My orchards are groaning with apples, my trailing vines are swollen with grapes, both golden yellow and purply red; I am storing each harvest for your delight.” (Book 13: 812-4.)

Sadly for Polyphemus his love is unrequited and, to add insult to injury, his beloved Galatea is smitten instead with ‘a beautiful boy of sixteen, with the first smooth down on his cheeks’ (753-4) – quite the opposite of a huge, hairy monster. Polyphemus’ romantic side soon turns to anger when he is rejected and he issues this threat about his love rival: 

“I’ll draw his guts from his living body, then tear it to pieces and scatter his limbs all over the fields and the waves where your home is.” (Book 13: 865-6.)

This sounds more like the Cyclops we met in Homer.

What next? Greek plays - 5th century BC

It is hard to follow the works of Homer, Virgil and Ovid but, inspired by our theatre trips to West End productions of Oedipus (two different ones within just a few months) and Elektra, Classics Club will spend the summer term reading Greek tragedies written by the playwrights, Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides. One of our members discovered this lovely edition with 16 plays in total: how will we choose which ones to read together? Perhaps we shall simply read them all.

www.carolinetutor.co.uk

Medieval Women (and a few men) by Mary Hoffman

 

 

The Middle Ages are having a bit of a moment, at least in the UK. This is a boon for me, as I am writing a "Plantagenet novel" covering the rough half century from 1352 to 1403. In January, I went to a day conference on Women of the Wars of the Roses, which is a bit after the scope of the first book but bang on the money for books two and three of what I see, somewhat ambitiously, as a trilogy. More in a couple of months when the first book should be finished.

The day conference, held in Southwark cathedral by Tudor Times consisted of six talks given by experts on six prominent women of the fifteenth century, four of whom were queen consorts of England. Since I have researched all these women, I was hoping to be surprised by one or two nuggets of information.

First up, Marguerite (Margaret) of Anjou.

From the Book of Romances 1445

 

The talk was given by Lauren Johnson, who has written books on Henry Vl, Henry Vlll, and Margaret Beaufort and she gave me what I hoped for early on. I should have known, but didn't, that among the many gifts the young Henry Vl showered on his bride, was a lion. What a wedding present! *

Next up was Cecily Neville:

Neville Book of Hours 1445

The talk was given by Joanna Laynesmith, whose book on the last medieval queens is now insanely expensive to buy on A*a**n. Fortunately, I bought it when it came out. Cecily was one of the two women discussed who did not become queen - though all Yorkists believe she should have. She had to be content that two of her sons, Edward lV and Richard lll were kings. I didn't know that she had been friendly with the Woodvilles in France, or that she had written a book of household management. She died a wealthy woman at eighty, so perhaps she was the winner in her rivalry with Margaret of Anjou, althgough the latter had the title.

Alison Weir talked about Elizabeth of York:

16th century image from Royal Collection

 

Alison told us that Elizabeth, one of the "good queens" and beloved of the people, might have had an iron deficiency. But if she told us the source, I didn't note it down. More research needed.

Elizabeth Woodville:

A copy of a portrait in Queens College

 

Melita Thomas, who wrote The King's Pearl about Henry Vlll and his daughter Mary, talked about this controversial figure. The first Wars of the Roses course I did in Oxford was taught by Lynda Pidgeon, whose subsequent book Brought up out of Nought did her best to rectify the notion that Elizabeth was a grasping, ambitious woman, out to get preferment for her numerous siblings. It is not completely baseless but more nuanced than many historians have seen it.

She was one of the most tragic of queens, losing her husband young and seeing her father, brothers and sons all put to death. Good to know that seven years after Bosworth, she was reinstated as Queen Mother.

Sarah Gristwood thought she might have drawn the short straw, being allocated to talk about Anne Neville:

Salisbury Roll 1483

 

Anne would seem to be the answer to "Who suffered most in the Wars of the Roses?" We know so little about Anne or what she thought of Richard as husband or usurping king. Their only child died and overwhelmed them both with grief, which shows a human side. As Sarah said, "Anne Neville was not a strong or powerful woman." But she is a good example of how heiresses are pawns in the hands of ambitious men.

Margaret Beaufort:

Meynart Wewyck 1510, Christ's College, Cambridge

So much has been written about this remarkable woman, both in history and fiction, that it was hard to see what was left for Elizabeth Norton to say about her. But she has written several books about Tudoe women and queens, including Margaret Beaufort. Her opening statement, that Margaret "did not kill the princes in the tower," was met with a resounding cheer that echoed round the nave of the cathedral.

She attended Richard lll's coronation gorgeously gowned in crimson, blue and gold, at odds with the image of her above, which is how she is usually thought of, as a single-minded and pious mother. She lived long enough to see her grandson crowned Henry Vlll but got food poisonming at the Coronation Feast and died.

I left the conference with sheaves of notes and too many books, energised that there was still so much to say and find out about these women.

Interlude with kings

Helen Castor, who wrote She-wolves: the Women who Ruled England before Elizabeth and has been a guest on the History Girls, has a new book out. The Eagle and the Hart is subtitled "the Tragedy of Richard ll and Henry lV." which is right on topic for what I am writing now. Before this the best book I knew about the first cousins born only months apart was Ian Mortimer's The Fears of Henry lV. It's a fascinatinmg topic: two boys, one born and raised in France, the other in England, both grandsons of Edward lll, both equal in royal blood and so different in their routes to the English crown.

 

Richard was in every way unsuited to be king, except one: he was the undisputed legal heir. His father Edward (known to later centuries as the Black Prince) predeceased Edward lll and Richard's older brother, another Edward, who never set foot in England, was also dead when Richard inherited the throne at the age of ten. Hopes were high, especially when the boy king rode out to face the rebels in what is no longer known as the Peasants' Revolt. It was probably his finest hour. But he had left his cousin Henry in the Tower to take his chances while other nobles were summarily executed by the mob. Richard did not go back for him.

Henry, on the other hand, was robust where Richard was effete, a champion jouster, a soldier, a traveller, an intellectual. He would have made a splendid king at any point before his usurpation. But he wasn't first in line. His father, the fabulously rich Duke of Lancaster, John of Gaunt, was Edward lll's third son to reach adulthood. The brother in between, Lionel Duke of Clarence, had sired one daughter and her descendant married one of the York line, descended from Edmund, the next brother down. But could a woman inherit? There you have the crux of the Wars of the Roses, as it is still convenient to call them.

Henry was more robust in other ways too: he married Mary de Bohun when they were both young teenagers, having known each other since infancy. As soon as they were old enough to co-habit, they had a child every year, the first four boys. Richard married soon after his cousin, his wife his contemporary, Anne of Bohemia, and she never became pregnant. Both wives died in same year, 1394, Mary in giving birth to her sixth child, a second daughter. 

Was Richard gay? He certainly had "favourites," his relationship with Robert de Vere closer than friendship. When de Vere was exiled and died in France in a boar hunt some years later, Richard arranged for his embalmed body to be brought back to England. At the re-interment, the king ordered the coffin to be opened and, in one of his typically theatrical gestures, gazed upon his lost love's face and held his embalmed hand for the last time. 

But he was also very fond of his queen and had Eltham Palace razed to the ground a year after she died there of the plague. But it was different from the love between Henry and Mary, who made a new baby, every time he returned from his restless travels. It is doubtful whether the marriage was even consummated. And Richard chose as his second wife, Isabella of France, who was a five-year-old child when the marriage was first proposed. Richard's thirtieth birthday was the day after her coronation.

Was it a relief for him not to have to prove his manhood for another decade? We can't know, as he had been deposed and died long before Isabella reached puberty. She was not the grown woman Shakespeare shows us in his play. Her second marriage, to her cousin, Charles d'Orléans, showed she was fertile but she died in childbirth at the age of twenty, her daughter surviving. 

So there are women in the story of the rival cousins but mostly with sad stories. Death in childbirth was very common, even if you were the first lady in the land, with all the medical help money could provide. As Elma Brenner writes in the catalogue to the Bitish Library's Medieval Women: Voices and Visions, "Childbirth and its aftermath marked a moment of significant danger in the Middle Ages, with risks of great pain, infection and death."

She also tells us that Richard's queen in the year before her death bought plantain water, spikenard and theriac from an apothecary, These were all remedies for infertility so perhaps they had been to bed together but perhaps also she didn't at that stage know the facts of life. 

Most of the women in the exhibition, which finished last Sunday, were from periods before or after the one I am working in. But guess who turned up.

 

*The label tells us that this skull, found in the moat of the Tower of London, is that of Margaret of Anjou's lion! It has been carbon-dated to 1420-80, which is the right period. But it seems that Margaret brought the lion with her from France so it wasn't, after all, a present from her husband-to-be.  Presumably it was a lioness, rather than a male, but it lived in the Menagerie at the Tower and wasn't a pet being fed scraps from her table.

Don't worry if you missed the exhibition, as the catalogue is excellent. It covers women from from the continent of Europe, like Joan of Arc and Hildegarde of Bingen, as well as the home-grown Julian of Norwich and Margarets Beaufort and Paston.

 

 

'A Happy Accident of War' by Karen Maitland

Daffodils in the hedgerow in Tamar Valley
Photo:Tony Atkin

‘Daffy-down-dilly is new come to town, with a yellow petticoat, and a green gown.’

A traditional nursery rhyme recorded in Songs for the Nursery, 1805

Daffy-down-dilly, is an old name for the daffodil dating back to 1500’s. Other ancient English names for the flower were affodil, affodilly, dilly, daff-a-down-dilly or the Lent lily. And, if you are lucky enough to find yourself in the beautiful Tamar Valley on the border of Devon and Cornwall at this time of year, you will discover that the high banks that line the narrow winding lanes around the villages of Weir Quay and Bere Alston are bursting with daffodils. Not just the plain yellow ones you might expect, but white ones too, and double blooms with twisted petals, or vivid orange trumpets. Between February and May, you can spot as many as 15 different varieties growing wild in the hedgerows and woods there, a riot of perfumed flowers – all as a result of a happy accident from a much darker time in world history.

Wild Daffodil known as the 'Lent Lily'
Photo: Meneerke bloem

As early as 1597, John Gerard noted in his herbal, ‘Historie of Plants’ that ‘The common wilde Daffodill growth wilde in fields and sides of woods in the West parts of England.’ But he added that, unlike the ancient Greek nymphs who went out to gather wild daffodils, Londoners had no need to seek out the wild ones, since daffodils grew ‘in great aboundance’ in London gardens.

But in the sheltered and sunny Tamar valley of Devon, daffodils came into bloom much earlier than the rest of England, not that this was much use to the locals. You can’t eat daffodils and in fact, country folk were wary about even bringing them into the house. There was an old superstition in Devon that if these flowers were brought inside, no ducks would be hatched that year on that farm. On the Isle of Man, daffodils in the house would prevent geese hatching and if daffodils were brought indoors when hens were sitting on eggs in Hertfordshire, it was said no chicks would hatch. 

Flower Women of Covent Garden 
Photo: LSE Library
From 'Street Life in London, 1877
By John Thomson & Adolphe Smith

But by the 19th century, gardens had become a luxury in London and in the other rapidly expanding and overcrowded industrial towns and few city dwellers hatched their own poultry. So, the scented golden daffodils, far from being ‘unlucky’, were prized in the soot-caked towns as welcome sign of spring. Enterprising Devonians began to gathered both wild and cultivated blooms which they sent down the Tamar River by ‘market boat’ to the great port of Plymouth, where the wives of merchants had money enough to spare for such luxuries. 

But with the building of the railways across England, suddenly a very large and lucrative market for daffodils opened up. From 1865 onwards, daffodils grown in the warm fields of the Tamar could be taken by river boat to the railway stations and thence by train to Covent Garden market in London. So, more and more fields were planted up with this botanical gold.

Bere Alston Station, Devon 1930
Photo: Roger Griffith

So, important was the trade that in 1890, a railway station was built at the village of Bere Alston where daffodils and other market garden produce could be loaded directly on to trains for London, eliminating the need to carry them down river by boat. This ensured the blooms reached London faster and in better condition. 

Many different varieties were cultivated in the Tamar valley to extend the flowering season. One, known as the ‘Whitsun Lily’ because it blooms late in May, was a beautiful double white blossom, which had been discovered in a local hedge in 1880, and was so prized in London it was transported packed in boxes lined with blue tissue paper to help preserve its strong sweet perfume.

Maximus superbus
Photo: Uleli

Some varieties they grew were old and native to England, such as the daffodil now known Maximus superbus, a large yellow trumpet with twisted petals which was has been recorded since the mid-16th century. Perhaps Shakespeare was thinking of this one when he wrote in The Winter’s Tale (1610) - ‘Daffodils that come before the swallow dares and take the winds of March with beauty.’ (take is used here in the Elizabethan sense, meaning to ‘enchant’ or ‘bewitch’) 

But the Tamar farmers began to try other varieties too, such as Van Sion, a double star-shaped daffodil developed by a Flemish man recorded as living in London in 1620. In fact – whisper this if you dare – some Devonians even lay claim to making the sweet-scented daffodil a more popular button-hole for the Welsh on St David’s Day than the pungent leek, when a Devon engineer discovered the pretty yellow daffodil known as Sir Watkin in 1810, and introduced it to Wales.

The daffodil business was blooming. But in 1939, came disaster in the form of the World War II. Britain could no longer rely on imported food. All over country, flowers and lawns in parks and gardens were dug up and the land re-planted with food crops. The daffodil fields of the Tamar could not be spared. The bulbs were torn up. But what to do with them? Daffodil bulbs are poisonous so they could not be fed to livestock, but the fields needed to be cleared swiftly. So, the bulbs were dumped in the surrounding hedgerows to rot. But some took root and began to naturalize – rays of golden sunshine in the darkest hours of the war. 

Ice Follies 
Photo: Phil Sangwell

After the war, bulb fields were once again planted, some with new varieties such as the white Ice Follies brought over from the Netherlands in 1953, as a vigorous grower. But as country railway lines and stations were closed, the trade never thrived again in the Tamar as it had before the war, and when rail transport for daffodils finally ended in 1969, the Ice Follies too were dug up and tossed into the hedges and verges. But like their older cousins, these daffodils still run wild in valley, bringing joy.

In some of the former fields left to pasture,
the daffodils still come up each spring.
Photo: Tony Atkin
geograph.org.uk

If you discover a daffodil growing wild and want to know if it is one of the old varieties, a rough guide is that those which existed before 1890, have thin, twisted or rolled petals which are separated at the base, and often twisted leaves too. Varieties developed since 1890 have broader flatter petals that overlap at the base. Enjoy your dilly spotting this spring!

All Women's History Matters by Janet Few

 

Here on the History Girls’ website you will read posts about women’s history, posts about the history of women and sometimes, accounts of the lives of individual women. If you are a woman reading this, have you told your own story? Every woman’s life story is part of the fabric of women’s history, no story is too ‘ordinary’, no story is boring or irrelevant. History is weighted in favour of men; it is important to redress the balance.

Writing your life story can be a daunting and for some, a painful experience. At best, we relive life’s less than wise decisions and teenaged embarrassments, at worst, we confront traumas of the past that may have been left buried. Every woman owes it to herself to record an account of her life, the achievements and the hardships alike. For most of us, it is not going to become a best-seller, maybe no one will read it but the writing itself is a satisfying and cathartic process. Your story is about so much more than you, it is also about the history of the communities that you lived in, the schools you attended, the people whose lives you have touched. In a fast-changing society, the lifestyles of our childhoods seem like another world to subsequent generations.

 

Everyone can tell their own story; you don’t have to be a writer. Back in 2014, I set out to help eighty women recount their memories, with particular emphasis on the period 1946-1969. This era, like many others, was one of enormous change, as post-war Britain transformed into the ‘Swinging Sixties’. We moved from liberty bodices to mini-skirts , from ration books to ready meals. These years heralded the dawn of the National Health Service, the comprehensive education system, a new wave of feminism and conspicuous consumerism. In the end, those memories became a book,  Remember Then: women’s memories of 1946-1969 and how to write your own. The book has my name on the cover but the words are those of my eighty volunteers.

 

If you are wondering how to set about writing your own life story, here is some advice that others who have taken this step have found useful. Set yourself a deadline and make that realistic; there is nothing worse than not meeting self-imposed deadline. Most people find that about a year is a suitable time-scale. Divide the task into sections and subsections. Although the temptation is to write chronologically, it is actually easier and often more interesting, to take a thematic approach. Having said that, a timeline is helpful as a framework. Add key dates of births, marriages and death of those close to you. List house moves and changes of school and work. You can include holidays, concerts, sporting events and other special occasions. Don’t forget achievements, learning to  driving, passing an exam, winning a competition and anything else you are proud of. Note down local, national and international events that had an impact on your life. Raid your photograph album and any souvenirs you may have kept to help jog your memory; reminisce with contemporaries.

Then start to put notes together. Take a topic at a time; covering one a month works well. In this way you can write about, clothes, homes, neighbourhoods, work, leisure time, food, schools, celebrations and relationships with friends and family, for example. Let’s just think about the topic of clothes. There is no need to spend a whole day writing all you can remember about what you and your family used to wear. In ten to fifteen minutes you can write about footwear, or swimwear, or nightwear. The key is to break the task down into manageable chunks. When you are writing about homes, take one home at a time, one room at a time and describe it. As you do so, can you recall an incident that happened in that room? If so, include it at that point.

 

Don’t put this task off until next year, the year after or when you retire, make a start now. One word of warning, depending on who you decide to share your story with. Your
story is also the story of your parents, your siblings, your spouse and others whose lives have touched your own. You may have to face ethical dilemmas about what you share, who you anonymise and what you leave out. Of course you want to tell the complete story, the good, the bad and the ugly; a sanitised account of just the successes and the cheerful bits does you no favours and paints a distorted version of the past. History hurts, it can be an uncomfortable and dark place. We’ve have all made mistakes and done things that we regret and we shouldn’t airbrush this from our stories. Just be mindful of the impact on others whose lives have touched your own. Good luck.

A Broch Blog by Susan Price

 

The broch of Mousa: by kind permission of David Simpson.

Mousa is a small island off the coast of mainland Shetland with a Norse name. The 'a' at the end, as in many British place-names, means 'island.' 'Mous' means 'mossy.'

The 'Mousa boat' ferries you across to the moss. It's a nature reserve now, and well worth visiting for the birds and seals alone. But what I wanted to see -- what I'd wanted to see for years -- was the Broch of Mousa. It did not disappoint.

The first glimpse of the broch is a striking: a monumental tower, against sky and sea, its walls gently curving like those of a modern cooling tower.

Amazement only grows from there.

Towers in the North by Armit

To consider place-names again, the word ‘broch’ is the same as the ‘borough’ or ‘bury’. It means ‘fortified place’ or ‘castle.’ Archaeologists adopted the Scottish form ‘broch’ as a name for the ‘towers in the north,’ the dry-stone, ancient towers found all over Scotland and only in Scotland.

It’s impossible to accurately date these mysterious towers though it’s broadly agreed that they are ‘Iron Age’ and the oldest may be as much as three thousand years old— but Maeshowe, in Orkney, shows that there was a strong tradition of building dry-stone corbelled structures, going back five thousand years. (A corbelled roof is where dry-stone slabs are skilfully overlapped to form a smooth, inward curving roof sealed with a single cap-stone.)

 

The interior of Maeshowe, Orkney: Islandhopper, wikimedia

 

Above, the interior of the passage-grave, Maeshowe, on Orkney, showing its smooth, inward curving, corbelled ceiling. It is acknowledged as 'the finest Neolithic building surviving in north-west Europe.' The main building is estimated to be at least 5000 years old, making it older than the pyramids. Its entrance is aligned to the setting sun at the midwinter solstice.

The immense, upright stone slabs at the corners have no constructive purpose at all. They are not holding up the roof or supporting the walls as you might think. They were already in place before Maeshowe was built. The grave was built around them, as if to preserve or honour them. Possibly they were standing stones. Perhaps the remains of another house or grave. I don't know about you, but this makes my brain boggle.

Mousa’s broch is the most complete of all brochs, still standing 13m (42/43 feet) high. Its twin, the broch of Burraland, which stood on the other side of the strait between Mousa and mainland Shetland, was ‘robbed out’ for building stone and is now only 2-5 metres (8 feet) high. It's sometimes suggested that Mousa's broch was protected from destruction by its position on a small island -- even though Mousa was home to stone-hungry crofters until the 19th century.

Mousa’s excellent preservation tempts us to take it as a model for all brochs but archaeology shows that Mousa is very untypical. It’s quite small, underwent considerable alteration in antiquity and, overall, is much better built than your average broch. Its superior construction may have been its salvation: it was simply harder to dismantle than other brochs. Whatever preserved it, there’s no doubt it deserves its status as a World Heritage Site.

To give a simple account of the broch’s interior:

 

Inside the broch of Mousa: copyright: David Simpson.

There are no windows in the outer wall and only one entrance, facing the sea. This entrance is 1-5 metres (5 ft) high and the passage behind it is 5 metres (16ft) long. At the end of the passage a ‘bar-hole’ can be seen in the wall. This is where a solid wooden 'bar' would have been put in place, to prevent the door being opened from outside. Whoever lived -- or took shelter -- within these massive walls was keen on some other people staying outside.

The entrance passage opens into a roughly circular space. At its centre is a hearth and a stone water-tank, reminiscent of the five thousand year old neolithic houses at Orkney’s Skara Brae. 

Although the outer circumference of Mousa Broch is 15m (45ft), the interior is only 6m (19-20ft) in diameter. Built into the massive base of the broch are three large corbelled cells, differing slightly in size. The largest is about 1-5 metres (5ft) wide, 4 meters (13ft) long and 3 metres (11 ft) high. The doors into these cells are raised above the floor of the broch, perhaps to keep out draughts. Each also has a built-in shelf— again, like Skara Brae, where the bed-spaces had shelves built into the walls beside them.

The walls above the cell-doors have gaps or windows constructed into them, possibly to lighten the load each lintel has to bear and to allow light into the cells.

Modern houses can have rooms smaller than these without the storage.

Mousa's tower is double-skinned, with a ring of outer wall, a ring of inner wall and a gap between them. The outer and inner walls are pinned together with slabs of slate. In this way ‘galleries’ were formed between the walls. It's possible, with some stooping and squeezing, to walk along these galleries to their blind ends. At other brochs, at least where enough of these galleries remain to judge, it isn't. They are too low and too much stone protrudes into them.

These galleries are due to Mousa broch's method of construction: the twin walls were built up to a certain height, then slates were used to bridge the gap between them; and then the walls were built higher and 'pinned' again. The galleries weren't intended to be lived in, or to be used as storage -- but all the same, I'd guess that they were so used, at least to some extent.

The broch's builders used the gap between the walls and the pinning slabs to make an interior stair which winds inside the walls right to the top of the tower. (The hand-rail is modern.)

Mousa's stairs: Wikimedia: Nicholas Mutton

 

 Beyond this, much is conjecture.

Wikimedia

For instance, the inner wall was constructed with tall rows of gaps, (giving ancient Mousa a startlingly modern ‘architectural’ look.) It’s often argued that these were to ‘light the stairwell’ and the corbelled cells, which they certainly do today because now the tower is roofless. Perhaps it was roofed somehow, in the past, and the purpose of the 'gaps' was to reduce weight on the walls?

 

 

Roofed or Open?

 There are endless arguments about what the summit of the broch was originally like. The top was somewhat reconstructed -- with guesswork -- in the 1960s and '80s, so that now you can walk around on top, admiring the view. But no one knows for certain what the top of the broch was like when first built.

Some argue that there was no walkway and that the broch was always open to the weather, as now, allowing the rain and snow to fall down between the concentric walls.

Another argument insists that the broch was roofed somehow, though no one can quite figure out how. Maybe the gap between the walls was turfed or thatched, leaving the courtyard open... Maybe the whole top of the broch was covered by a conical thatch, making the broch look like a very tall Iron Age roundhouse.

 

Photo: wikimedia

 

 Stretch!

 The Open-to-the-Sky mob reply that the weight of the supporting timbers, plus thatch, pressing outward against the walls would make this unlikely. Also, it would make the broch's interior impenetrably dark. (True, but many houses in the past were windowless and dark. Viking longhouses, for instance. Inhabitants spent much of the day outside and, at night, there was fire and lamplight.)

It's a conundrum. About the roof, I'm neutral but think there must have been some kind of platform up the top there. Why go to the enormous effort of building a dry-stone tower that may, originally,
have been more than fifteen metres high (49 ft) , with a stair climbing all the way to the top, if not to stand up there and see further than from ground level?

More Conjecture

At some point in antiquity, a stone wheelhouse was built inside the stone tower. The hearthstone and water tank belong to this wheelhouse, as does the wide stone ‘bench’ that runs around the inside of the tower. (You can see the 'bench' or wall in the photo of the interior above, running around the wall towards the left,)

The builders of the stone wheelhouse continued to use the broch's corbelled cells, because they left gaps in their own stone wall, to allow them entrance. But they built across the entrance to the broch's stairs and galleries, blocking them off. Obviously, they had no love of a sea-view or a need to know who was approaching.

It was possibly around the time this inner wheelhouse was built that the broch’s entrance was altered, making it much larger. This also meant breaking through the floor of a corbelled cell built above the entrance. (This cell must originally have been entered via the stairs and some kind of upper floor. There are also endless arguments about how this upper floor may have been built into the broch.)

 

Dun Carloway, Lewis: by permission of David Simpson

By making Mousa's entrance larger, it was also made less defensive
than the entrances of other brochs, such as Dun Carloway on Lewis, where the doorway is much smaller and narrower.

Why were the brochs built? The theory favoured in the 19th Century was that they were defensive ‘castles.’ Hence their name: 'broch, a fortified place.' Then, in the 'Peace and Love' of the 1960s and 70s, it became fashionable to say that they weren’t defensive because they couldn’t have withstood a determined attack. No, they were merely the prestigious houses of a ruling elite.

Brochs have tall, thick walls, entirely windowless on the outside. Most brochs, unlike Mousa, have low narrow doors, that make you stoop double to enter. Yet the builders could make corbelled ‘cells’ 3 metres high, so the entrances weren’t low for ease of building. They could construct windows too, so the outer walls were deliberately made without openings.

Behind the entrance, brochs have long, low, easily defended passages with doors which could be strongly barred. None of this speaks to me of an elite’s comfort. It positively screams ‘defensive’.

If a broch couldn’t have withstood a determined attack, neither could the later pele towers of the Borders but no one doubts they were defensive. Rather than withstand ‘determined attack' the peles were meant to discourage attack from largely opportunistic bands of reivers. They said: 'We're ready for you and you won't have it easy.'

The reivers were some three thousand years later but human nature stays much the same. Why invest so much time and effort into building a broch unless there’s somebody around who scares you? People capable of building a broch could, if they'd wished, have built something equally impressive and much more comfortable.

Who were the scary people? Unruly neighbours or passing armies, as with the reivers? Other commentators favour the idea that it was the Romans— but some brochs were probably built long before any possible appearance of any Roman ships off the Scottish coast.

Again, the truth is, no one knows -- which leads to many more fun arguments? Castles? Manor-houses? Cathedrals?

Many brochs seem to have had clusters of much smaller wheelhouses around them -- there are faint traces at Mousa. This might support the manor-house theory or make the broch a place of refuge during raids. Did they, like the peles, have a signalling beacon on top? Or were they look-out towers, watching for danger approaching from land or sea?

The majority of brochs are near the sea. Mousa, and the Burraland broch had views up and down the Shetland coast. Dun Carloway stands near a natural harbour on Lewis. During the time they were built, we know there was trade between Ireland and the islands -- and with what was then not yet England.

A natural harbour often becomes a market-place. Prosperous markets attract thieves and ‘trade’ easily turns into ‘raid’ and slave-taking. If a market town wants to keep its trade, it has to provide protection. Were the brochs garrisons and look-out towers, protecting a market?

In reality, the brochs may have had several purposes: defensive, if need be, but also providing advance warning of the approach of ships, for good or ill. They discouraged attacks by loudly declaring in stone: ‘We’re ready for you.’

All of which may be nonsense. Perhaps they were very expensive and uncomfortable prestige homes for the Iron Age plutocrat. What is without question is that they are astonishing feats of ancient ingenuity and engineering. Anyone who thinks the pre-Roman inhabitants of these islands were 'unsophisticated' should visit the Broch of Mousa.

And Maeshowe.

And Skara Brae.

Follow this link for a short video tour of Mousa Broch.

And if you're interested in more discussion about how, or if, the broch was roofed and what exactly it was used for, follow this link

 Susan Price's website

Tom Lehrer is Still Alive - Joan Lennon

Tom Lehrer in 1960 (wiki commons)

We live in insane times. And the Cold War was an insane time. And so I guess it's not surprising I've been thinking a lot about what it was like growing up during that craziness and now being old in this craziness.

The Berlin Wall did come down, though it was impossible to imagine it ever would. What will be our symbol of a new and better time? Whatever it'll be, we can't stop working towards it.

And meanwhile, please spend some time with the inimitable Tom Lehrer here. I wrote about him back in 2020. He's 96 now, still alive, and still my hero.

Joan Lennon website

Joan Lennon Instagram