July 2021 Reviews

By John Cowell

Cazneau Publishing 2019 xvi+751pp ISBN 978-1-5272-4972-1) £29 inc p&p (cheque payable to author) 5 Tinsley Avenue, Southport PR8 6HT southportjewishhistory.co.uk/

The fact that this magnum opus is a labour of love shines through its 768 informative pages. John Cowell is a retired librarian and chairman of the Liverpool Branch of the Jewish Historical Society. This history, by a ‘friendly outsider’ as the author calls himself, took six years to write, and his extensive research has produced an honest description of a vibrant and quarrelsome seaside community that will add to our understanding of the struggles they went through and the problems they faced.

Small Jewish businesses were starting to be noticed in Southport as early as 1849, but not until 1893 was the small Hebrew congregation able to convert a chapel belonging to the Plymouth Brethren for their religious services, after an appeal for funds in the Jewish Chronicle. The Chief Rabbi’s arrival from London to consecrate the new building signified the official acceptance of the community. The first marriage took place in the synagogue on 20 December 1893 when a general dealer, Ralph Hurwitz, married Rachel Pauline Price, daughter of a local furniture dealer. The need for a Jewish cemetery soon became apparent, and the honour of the first interment (in May 1894) went to an elderly cigar manufacturer, Joseph Hompes, who had fallen backwards out of a train drawing into the station. There was now even a popular Jewish boarding house, aptly named ‘Sorrento’, where visitors would find a friendly welcome. Hebrew classes commenced, which unfortunately caused concern when the pupils became unruly, and in 1902 the appointment of a young Christian assistant teacher and choirmaster, Philip Flower of London, was formally ratified.

The advent of the First World War seems to have been a period of great anxiety in the Southport community, while they tried to help with the local war effort and to mourn their own young men lost in battle. There were many differences among the leading lights, a special general meeting was called, there were resignations and adjournments at meetings, fully justifying the use of the word ‘broiges’ in the title—it is Yiddish for ‘major disputes. The minutes of meetings were often very cursory, sometimes not even circulated among committee members, or were ‘accidentally’ deleted. Complaints were handled strangely, and controversial matters were hushed up. The Second World War and its aftermath was another traumatic time for the community, and the establishment of a Reform Congregation in 1948 was bound to cause dissension. The Southport Jewish community survived after its early promise, but there is no doubt that it is shrinking in numbers and two different denominations have had to come to terms with each other in order to live in peace.

Throughout the book there are individual photographs and, even more importantly for the local historian, there are thirteen appendixes. These include pages from Harfield’s Commercial Directory of 1934, census information from 1911, lists of officers of the two congregations, the rabbis and ministers, Jewish hotels and boarding houses and changes of name. Finally, the author has collated biographies of the leading lights in the community. He has meticulously examined the minutes of synagogue meetings and reports from the Jewish and national newspapers since the foundation of the Southport Jewish community. The thoroughness of his research does him much credit and we are the fortunate recipients of his findings. John Cowell is to be congratulated.Doreen Berger is chair of the Anglo-Jewish Special Interest Group of The Jewish Genealogical Society of Great Britain. She is author of The Jewish Victorian: Genealogical Information from the Jewish Newspapers, one volume covering 1861-70 and one 1871-80. She has written many genealogical articles, has featured in the Jewish Chronicle and for some years wrote in The Family and Local History Handbook.

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By Val Horton

(YouCaxton 2019 262pp ISBN: 978-1-912419-76-0) £12.99

David Olusoga’s several television series of A House Through Time have popularised the concept of using a specific to consider the general. While in no way suggesting that the author was influenced by him, this book shows how successfully the format can translate to the printed word. With a subtitle ‘Aspects of ordinary life in Stratford-upon-Avon 1775–1915’, it is a fascinating blend of the detailed and more general. The original intention of researching the history of the author’s house in Mayfield Avenue evolved into a much broader history of the town over 150 years, using the intriguing pattern of alternating odd numbered chapters on the history of the land, house, and its owners, with even numbered chapters dealing with relevant social history (enclosure, policing, poor law, medicine, education etc). The reader can choose to read consecutively as written, or thematically, reading alternate chapters. Whichever way is chosen, or indeed the third option of ‘dipping’, this is a valuable addition to the non-Shakespearean history of a town which has far more to offer the historian.

Using the extensive archives of the Shakespeare Birthplace Trust’s Local Collections, Horton begins with the 1776 enclosure of the open fields of Stratford, and the allotting of the land, on which her house was built in the early years of the twentieth century, to John Keen, a maltster. A discussion of the enclosure process in the town leads to a consideration of the importance of the White Lion inn, and its owner John Payton, in the proceedings, and its role in the Garrick Jubilee of 1769. The pattern established continues throughout the book, tracing the ownership and development of the land to the north of the town which, by looking at the successive owners and their occupations, financial transactions and social activities, leads to alternate chapters on the agricultural unrest of the 1820s, slavery, the development of the postal service, law and order, education, the treatment of the poor, the sick and the insane, suffragism, working class housing and the Great War. These are not just ‘tacked on’, but arise naturally from the actions of the people intimately concerned with Mayfield Avenue, who are researched in detail and provide a surprisingly accurate reflection of the ‘clogs to clogs in three generations’ proverb: all too often a successful businessman or woman acquired the property, stretching themselves to improve their social and economic position, with the subsequent coming home to roost of financial chickens.

The owners of the land possess names well known to historians of Stratford—Keen, Morris, Fetherston, Newland, Durant and Edwards—and all appear in the social history chapters. They were the rising middle class characteristic of Victorian England, successful businessmen aspiring to be gentry, who saw it as a social and religious duty to be active in the life of their town as overseers, churchwardens, and town councillors. The several women who as widows or daughters came to own the land could not serve in office, but they made their marks as charitable and educational leaders. Mary Newland, who inherited on the death of her last sibling in 1854, used her wealth not only to help the infirmary financially with £500 but to build and endow four almshouses for poor spinsters and widows, which today form part of the town’s Municipal Charities. Women too, were responsible for the building of the houses which now stand on the south side of Mayfield Avenue. Jane Edwards, who came into the property of the death of her husband, a grocer, had had a successful career as a draper, though never appearing as such in the censuses. She finally developed the land for housing, while carefully imposing the restriction that it could only be used for the building of ‘private dwelling houses with necessary outbuildings’ at an annual rateable value of no less than £17. Mayfield Avenue was to be ‘select’. Jane developed the north side of the road, while the south side, including the author’s house, was the work of her daughter, Ann.

All too often readable, and most importantly, accessible local history books, fall down on the acknowledgement of sources, but this is a most honourable exception; every reference is given at the end of the book, together with an extensive bibliography, enabling the reader to follow up whatever trail may take their fancy. ‘Lavishly illustrated’ is a phrase used very frequently in publishers’ flyers, but this book really is—and every one makes a relevant point in the story.Mairi Macdonald was an archivist in the local collections of the Shakespeare Birthplace Trust for 35 years, retiring as Head of Local Collections. She lectures and writes on local history topics and, in addition to articles and booklets, two works have been published by the Dugdale Society: The Register of the Guild of the Holy Cross, Stratford-upon-Avon (2007) and Stratford-upon-Avon Wills, 1348-1701, with Stephanie Appleton (2020).

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By Jennifer and David Boxall / David Butcher

(Poppyland 2020 84pp ISBN 978-1-909796-74-4) £9.95;

(Poppyland 2020 98pp ISBN 978-1-909796-78-2) £9.95

As their titles indicate, the two volumes of The Photographs of William Rayson Smith reproduce photographs taken by Smith (1841–1932), who was Jennifer Boxall’s mother’s great uncle. He was baptised in Dickleburgh and died in Harleston, just five miles away, but travelled widely. In 1868 he married Maria Hudson; shortly afterwards they moved to Belleville, Canada, returning to England before 1887. Two bound volumes contain 328 photographs, taken between the mid-1880s and 1899; about 180 have been published in these two books, the others being mostly duplications of subject matter or of poor quality. Collections of old photographs can sometimes be frustrating because the subject and approximate date are often not noted; Smith sometimes included his own captions (reproduced or noted in italics in the books) and the authors have carried out a great deal of research to supplement these.

In Norfolk and Beyond the photographs are mostly of the mid-Waveney valley in south Norfolk. The first three sections have been organised by place, opening with 22 photos of Dickleburgh, where his father owned the corn mill. Many of these pictures show buildings much as they are today; others record those since demolished, such as the mill; yet others record events, such as skating on the frozen wetland near Dickleburgh Hall and the villagers’ ‘Jubilee Dinner’, to celebrate 50 years of Queen Victoria’s reign, both in 1887. The photographs of Belleville, Canada, reveal a growing new town dependent on the logging industry. When the Smiths returned to England they lived in Harleston, at Mill House, Maria’s family home. Unsurprisingly, since both his father and father-in-law had owned mills, there are several photographs of mills, mostly recording buildings now gone. Also recorded are visits to William’s married sisters at South Walsham, Woodbridge and Ovington, and social occasions such as Fressingfield Horse Show and a travelling circus with elephants visiting Harleston. Particularly interesting (to me) are two Gothic revival carvings by Godbold of Harleston: one a font cover, the other perhaps an altar piece—their current whereabouts unknown. There are also several photographs of railways (the Smiths lived near Harleston station, the corn mill having its own siding), churches and places outside Norfolk.

In 1881 Smith’s father, also William, retired as miller of Dickleburgh and moved to Lowestoft, undoubtedly the reason for the 44 photographs taken by his son of that town and its area which form the subject matter of the second volume. The images have substantial commentaries by David Butcher, drawing out what it is portrayed. As he notes in the introduction, the 1880s were an important and significant time in the history of Lowestoft: ‘the town was reaching social and economic heights’. Thanks to the far-sighted financial investment of Samuel Morton Peto, between 1844 and 1859 the existing harbour facilities had been improved, a new harbour had been built on the seaward side of the existing road bridge, rail links with Norwich and elsewhere had been established, and a seafront esplanade was built to the south of the new harbour. These investments in Lowestoft’s maritime strengths (fishing, overseas trade, and leisure amenities) enabled the town to prosper and grow. Within the context of this prosperity, we have Smith’s photographs. Butcher has organised them by theme: coastal scenes; town and surrounds; harvest of the sea (fishing boats); harbour views (both the commercial harbour and yacht basin, and regatta day); and resort activity (views of and from the South Pier). His detailed commentary brings these photographs to life, and indicates the skill with which Smith photographed what he saw and what his pictures can reveal of a bygone age.Heather Falvey is the Reviews Editor of The Local Historian.

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By David Butcher

(Poppyland Publishing 2020 268pp ISBN 978-1-909796-48-5) £14.95

In The Last Haul David Butcher presents a crucial aspect of Lowestoft’s history. The last in a series of five books, commenced in 1979, it records fishermen’s recollections of commercial fishing in East Anglia during the first half of the twentieth century, revealing various types of fishing not covered in the other books. The respondents were recorded some 40 years ago, between 1976 and 1983, since when there has been even more change and decline in the British fishing industry: the industry recalled here reflects another age. The substantial passages of personal recollection by named speakers are prefaced and linked by a knowledgeable commentary that provides a framework for the narrative and gives the reader the necessary background. The speakers have a broad East Anglian dialect which is reflected in the text but to ease the reading flow it has not been reproduced entirely phonetically. Also to assist the reader, there are excellent sketches and photographs of boats and fishing methods, useful maps and an extensive glossary.

‘The Danish seine’ was a particular type of net introduced in the 1920s which, when used effectively, was considered by Ned Mullender (1896-1981) ‘Far superior to trawlin’, with regard to the size of the catch, but it was tiring, physical work and required young yet experienced men. Ned also describes how he went longline fishing: a mode that dated back centuries and is still in use today around the British Isles by inshore craft (those working within easy reach of the shore). Lines were baited with whelks and then shot across the tide to ensure that the current carried the lines clear of the boat and stretched them out. Hauling the lines back in ‘wuz hard work … Yuh hands swole at the back, with the grip’. George Kent (1907-1998) and Tom Outlaw (1915-1997) describe various aspects of longlining off the coasts of Wales, Cornwall and Ireland in the 1930s. Everything had to be done within the six hours of the tide: ‘You had to haul as soon as the tide turned [otherwise it] pushed you past your lines’. Outlaw was only 15 when he first went to Milford Haven to longline: his father was skipper and part-owner of the vessel. Hooks were baited as the lines were being shot, so occasionally a hook might catch on something and ‘then hooks and lines would be flyin’ in all directions’ such that ‘someone would finish up with a hook in his hand or finger’. The work was demanding, and the fishermen very practical: their descriptions, 50 years on, convey without sentimentality traditional work. They also indicate the precarious nature of their employment, not only literally, but economically: there was a fine line between a boat making money on a trip and failing to break even. Those engaged in herring fishing or lining were sharefishermen who were rewarded out of the profit of a voyage according to their role on board. Technically self-employed, they were not entitled to unemployment pay when out of work; trawler men earned a weekly wage and paid unemployment contributions. Sharefishermen, therefore, tried to keep working all year round.

Harry Colby (1902-1995) served on the Blanche with ‘Oscar’ Pipe, a Lowestoft man operating from Fleetwood (Lancashire). Pipe engaged in different kinds of commercial activity, not all of them legal: for example, bribing the men aboard the lightship of Wexford to let him know when a fisheries patrol vessel was around. Harry relates how one day they were boarded, and subsequently appeared in court for poaching—and got away with it. Pipe also bought and sold all manner of items in Ireland. Ted Quantrill (1911-1988) worked on sailing smacks, a type of trawler only in use until the outbreak of the Second Word War. He recounts some of his personal experiences as both a deckhand and a cook: if it was cold, he would make a ‘hot pot o’ cocoa. Thames Mud we used to call it!’. He had to go easy on the sugar so that it did not run out during the voyage. He also recounts a voyage that nearly ended in disaster. In October 1928 they caught out in a storm for 12 days: ‘We more or less slept standin’ up’. They drifted some 70 miles and had been gone 14 days. Six days overdue, and without any wireless, they were believed lost: ‘Cor, that wuz a rum trip’. As Billy Thorpe (1908-1994) had a wide knowledge of numerous aspects of the Lowestoft fishing industry, his varied narrative backs up those of the other men.

In the decade after the Second World War the North Sea herring industry declined and collapsed, having been a staple local industry for more than 800 years. Herbert Doy (1900-1987) discusses the work of the research laboratory established in Lowestoft in 1902 and the separation between the fishing community and the scientific establishment (partly in relation to over-fishing). The railway network enabled catches to be transported to Ipswich, London and Norwich. In ‘The other side of the tracks’ Bill Thurling (1908-1997) discusses his experiences as a fisherman in his earlier working life and as a railway man for 43 years (he lost his right eye during the Second World War). Jack Turrell (1912-1985) had been in the Merchant Navy, then joined Trinity House, before joining the Railway Police at Lowestoft, dealing with ‘any trouble, or anything on the line’. Tom Outlaw was also a lightshipman for 37 years (1938 to 1975) working for Trinity House on lightships that marked the presence of coastal sandbanks: this service was instrumental in preventing vessels from foundering on treacherous shoals, but tends to be overshadowed by lighthouses. These men were on board for two months and then worked one month ashore at the depot at Great Yarmouth. The final chapter recounts ‘The Veracity affair’, when that boat was the floating headquarters and supply vessel for a consortium trying to recover hidden treasure at Cocos Island, in the Pacific Ocean about 340 miles southwest of Costa Rica. This fascinating book will be of interest to anyone studying the history of the British fishing industry. A photocopied set of the original tape transcripts is lodged at the University of Frieburg (Germany), where it is used for the study of linguistics relating to English regional dialects.Heather Falvey is the Reviews Editor for The Local Historian.

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By Martin T. Brooks

(Leavesden Hospital History Association 2021 538pp ISBN: 978-1-7892-740-1) £25+£2.50 p&p from www.leavesdenhospital.org

Asylum histories may be of the institutional kind, which is probably necessary for each, however dry they might be. Hospitals of note, or with noteworthy records or history, may elicit more academic studies. But a further and more popular approach is the anecdotal, whose value is in capturing the memory and reminiscence that would otherwise soon be lost, unlike the preserved archival record. This approach values and presents the human dimension of these sprawling places, giving equal voice to the cook, service-user, doctor, visitor, local resident and gardener. Indeed, it was a groundsman who felt inspired to amass as much memory as possible of the vanished hospital considered here. Martin Brooks’ sense of place, history and community is tangible, and what he could not find in his native United States he found working as a park ranger on the footprint of Leavesden Asylum. This was one of several mental hospitals in Hertfordshire which were administered from London, in this case by the Metropolitan Asylums Board. It was established in Abbots Langley in 1870, closed in 1995, and was for ‘administering care for the numerous quiet and harmless imbeciles’ of London.

That quotation is used on Brooks’ linked website, that of the Leavesden Hospital History Association which he founded in 2011. Former senior staff member Monica Diplock had written a short publication, The History of Leavesden Hospital, and challenged Brooks to take up the work beyond her leaving date of 1984. Acts of Caring fulfils this, focusing on Leavesden’s more recent history but within a context of its longer operation. Any work on an asylum is ambitious and cannot possibly cover all bases. This volume has its drawbacks: there are typos, the binding is tight, the text not justified, the arrangement perplexing, some sources are simply lifted from elsewhere, and there is no index. There is no mention of the record offices which hold original records and secondary sources (the London Metropolitan Archives holds the archives). The historical records referred to on the website are privately held, but at least are made freely available digitally. That said, as much as possible is packed into well over 500 pages and the effort to source, record, and bring this to publication during lockdown is impressive. Unseen photographs have been sourced to complement the text. Aside from the forays into general history, the hospital timeline is particularly useful, and also the legislative context of mental health which is standard and crucial for any such work.

What is particularly good is that a liberal range of experiences of the hospital and its site is included. We hear of a series of paranormal investigations. We hear of a purported case of poisoning among staff members in 1906. We hear of its use as an emergency hospital in the Second World War for the Canadians and French, then as a short-lived ‘khaki university’ opened by Monty, and visited by the king and queen in 1946. We hear the story of a rescued 1950s ‘dolls house’ representing a proposed hospital, and of valuable work on the cemetery, in remembrance of those buried there. Although we hear little from service-users, there are many detailed and touching accounts from former staff and locals. A self-acknowledged ‘humble attempt’, and hampered in the making by Covid-19 restrictions, the book is an admirable and substantial compendium of reminiscence and experience. It stays true to the tenet that ‘a community’s history, heritage and culture are created by everyday people, living everyday lives’. In their ‘unedited and uncensored’ accounts we are presented the raw recall of those people, allowed to speak openly and candidly about an array of encounters with the characters and institution of Leavesden Hospital.Gary Moyle is an archivist at Hertfordshire Archives and Local Studies who catalogued the records of Hill End and Cell Barnes hospitals, and has written on the county’s private madhouses.

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By Pamela M. Slocombe

(Hobnob Press 2020 620pp ISBN 978-1-906978-98-3) £25 www.hobnobpress.co.uk

Its history covered in just two and a half pages in volume VII of the Victoria County History of Wiltshire (1953), Whaddon is now the subject of a far more comprehensive study. In 1969 Pamela Slocombe embarked on what she must have imagined initially to be a manageable history of a small rural community, whose population has probably never exceeded the total of 63 achieved in 1821, and which is widely considered to be isolated despite its close proximity to Trowbridge, the county town. Aware that the Long family were lords of the manor from 1555 to 1911, she very quickly determined to expand her research to include this prominent local family—clothiers in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, emerging onto the national scene in the mid-seventeenth century. The survival of an extensive family and estate archive, catalogued and held in the Wiltshire and Swindon History Centre, provided her with a rich source of material which was unavailable to the VCH historians.

Pamela Slocombe was a founder member of Wiltshire Buildings Record, is author of a series of books on the vernacular buildings of Wiltshire, and is a highly respected authority in this field. Running parallel with this is a keen interest in local history which led her to write a history of her home parish: Mark: A Somerset Moorland Village (1999). She brings her formidable skills of interpretation of the physical and documentary evidence to excellent effect in this exhaustive history of family and place. The book is divided into three sections: Whaddon before the Longs; the Longs; and the village and people. Topics covered in each are highlighted by chapter headings making navigating the text easier.

In 1555 Henry Long purchased the manor, which had previously been held by the family on lease. They were prominent local clothiers, the most renowned being Robert Long of South Wraxall, born c.1390, who contributed to the enlargement of Steeple Ashton church. However, Whaddon was associated with the woollen cloth industry well before the arrival of the Longs. One of the earliest references to the industry locally concerns a fulling mill at Whaddon in 1306. The connection continued into the seventeenth century. Whaddon mill was described as a tucking mill in 1616 and again in 1621, but by 1630 was a grist mill. The field name ‘Rackhayes’, near to Whaddon House, indicated the site of tentering racks for cloths, providing valuable evidence of the association. The analysis of the appearance of Whaddon House, pulled down in 1835, uses detailed drawings and insets in maps, together with an inventory and estate accounts from the mid-seventeenth century, and is an excellent piece of research and interpretation. After 1835 the materials were used in the construction of Rood Ashton House, Steeple Ashton, which became the seat of a branch of the family, but that was largely pulled down in the 1970s.

The church and rectory are covered effectively, as are roads and bridges and the economy of the village. Details of the tenants of the demesne and the tenements themselves, from estate surveys, accounts and leases, are fleshed out with genealogical details from parish registers and wills. Information on livelihoods and homes gleaned from extensive extracts from probate inventories gives an informative and rounded picture of working and domestic life in the village. The reader is in the safe hands of an experienced local historian, extremely knowledgeable about her patch, and able to lead through the complexities of a story which she handles with considerable skill and competence. The interpretation of field and place-names is particularly well presented. The estate extended beyond the village and included Lower Paxcroft, a detached part of Whaddon, and Upper Paxcroft in Steeple Ashton, which was purchased by the Whaddon Longs in 1599, sold a century later, bought back in 1885 and sold in 1911. Properties in Hilperton, Melksham and in Church Street, Trowbridge (occupied in the seventeenth century by the Fox family of pipe-makers), were all part of the Long estates and are covered here. Some of the property histories are brought up to date. The thoroughness of the research is further illustrated by details of families of farmers and labourers whose residences could not be identified.

Some fascinating sources enliven the account. In 1616 Rebecca, widow of Henry Long, married Henry Sherfield, a lawyer based in Salisbury. An important cache of letters in the Sherfield archives in the Hampshire Record Office reveals a compelling story of courtship and marriage between a widower and widow, in which Rebecca displayed a due sense of propriety and modesty. They cover a range of matters relating to Henry’s professional work on behalf of the family, including letters to Walter Long (1592–1672), who was tried before Star Chamber, and imprisoned from 1629 to 1633, for seditious practices when sheriff of Wiltshire. His rather tumultuous subsequent career during and following the Civil War is also covered. He rose to become colonel in the Parliamentarian side, but controversy followed him and there were complaints about the manner in which he disarmed Catholics in Essex and seized money and plate. A song or libel circulated in 1614 by John Hulbert, gently mocking several Whaddon residents, provides fascinating details about them. Written as the will of the mare of John Brine, it comprises various bequests: her guts were to go to Mr [William] Shipman, the rector, to make strings for sewing up sections of books; John Branker was to have the fat from the horse’s backside to grease his squeaking throat. Shipman fell foul of several parishioners, who brought a case against him in 1637 citing many examples of neglect of duty and challenging his competence. His excuse of poor eyesight when garbling the Creed (by saying that Christ was born of Pontius Pilate) probably did his cause little good.

The issue of why the village did not grow after the early medieval period is addressed. Suggestions include the sequence of non-resident lords before the acquisition by Henry Long in mid-sixteenth century, and that family members had interests further afield. The number of inhabitants declined significantly in the early twentieth century, but there has been a slight increase in recent times because of the desire for rural homes, which has led to the conversion of redundant farm buildings. Perhaps this will restore the numbers of those living and working in the parish to levels not seen for over one hundred years.

Having decided to produce such an inclusive history, the managing and presentation of such a vast amount of original material clearly presented a challenge, which has generally been handled competently and effectively. Most sources are covered in the footnotes, but in a few cases links are not made. For example, the 1623 Star Chamber case against William Brounker regarding grazing of livestock and the inventory of 1612 of Henry Long III are discussed p.381 but not cross-referenced to the brief descriptions of them on pp.190–193 and 125 respectively. Similarly, the 1558 inventory of Henry Long I is discussed in detail pp.74–77, but is mentioned on pp.380–383 without cross reference. It might have been helpful to have a list of archives cited on several occasions with covering dates and reference numbers. The extensive use of family entries in the index makes tracking down an individual something of a challenge—it is understandable that the entry for the Long family is covered by passim, but the inclusion of a selective index of the significant persons and events would have been helpful. However, these are minor quibbles which should not detract from the considerable merits and importance of this most thorough and detailed account. The quality of the illustrations, layout and presentation of the book are to the usual high standard expected for Hobnob Press.

Steve Hobbs retired in 2019 having worked for over forty years as an archivist in Cornwall, Somerset and Wiltshire. He has published three volumes of records and written several articles on local history. He was general editor for the Wiltshire Record Society for five years from 2013, and is currently holding that position pro temp during a vacancy.

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By Kirby[sic], Great Broughton & Ingleby Greenhow Local History Group

(Kirby, Great Broughton & Ingleby Greenhow Local History Group 2019 52pp no ISBN) £6

Published to coincide with the 80th anniversary of the beginning of the Second World War, Kirkby in 1939 captures life in the village at that time and includes details provided by residents who can remember the 1930s and 1940s and personal recollections by others gleaned from parents, relatives or neighbours. The starting point is the 1939 War Register (the archival reference is not given: it is TNA RG 101), and changes between the 1911 census and the 1939 register are analysed. There had been a slight increase in residents, from 245 people in 56 households to 275 people in 66 households. In 1932 electricity and mains water were supplied to the village, but not yet mains sewerage; gas has never been supplied. The 1939 register indicates preparations for war: nine air raid wardens, three special constables, two women volunteers, one army reservist and two in the War Department store. Evacuees from Gateshead were billeted in Kirkby, but the exact numbers, and how long they stayed, have not been ascertained. One resident remembers a brother and sister arriving at his home but they only stayed a couple of weeks. Memories of inmates at the nearby Italian POW camp indicate that these young men were pleased to help out with the harvest and with electrical repairs. In addition to defensive ‘pill-boxes’, three ‘Special Forces’ bunkers were constructed in the area, the locations of which were kept secret (users were bound by the Official Secrets Act). The local Special Forces (part of the Home Guard) stationed in them were instructed how to act in the event of invasion: place obstructions in the road ahead of the enemy convoy, blow up bridges and ambush the invading enemy. In December 1942 a Wellington bomber crashed in one of the fields, but the crew and pilot had bailed out safely. In addition to memories, documentary evidence is used, such as a series of newspaper extracts about the ‘countdown to war’ during 1939. Details are also taken from the school logbook, which started in 1926 on the appointment of Sydney Callender as headmaster—he left in December 1942. Other individuals and institutions are remembered, such as the Women’s Land Army, one member of which married a farmhand, and Benjamin Bainbridge, a butcher before and after the war, who joined the Military Police and served in Egypt and Italy. Kirkby Parish meeting records provide details of various matters including the erection of a telephone kiosk in about 1934 and the continuation of the sub-post office in 1941 following the retirement of the 80-year-old sub-postmistress. These varied recollections have been nicely produced, and are accompanied by many captioned photographs and two useful maps. Appendices include a list of people appearing in both the 1911 census and 1939 register, and a transcript of the latter.

Heather Falvey is the Reviews Editor for The Local Historian.

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By Celia Clark, with Martin Marks

(Tricorn Books 2020 450pp ISBN: 978-1-912821-64-8) £40+£4 p&p from 8 Florence Road, Southsea PO5 2NE

Lavishly illustrated, this tome weighs in at 4½lbs (2.041kg) and will cost the discerning reader £40. Examining and assessing the role of defence heritage once buildings, facilities and plant are no longer required as originally planned, this study adds to a growing corpus of literature on an area of increasing change and importance but one of comparative–what to do with buildings and facilities once the initial purposes for which such structures were erected have changed and, in some instances, disappeared completely. Indeed, as the shape and scope of warfare changed over time, the problem not only escalated but became more complex. In this respect, the authors have set themselves a formidable challenge. They have produced a wide-ranging survey, embracing defence needs and their physical manifestation, from forts to submarines, from educational facilities to hovercraft, from ships of the line to operating bases and training establishments, from military spaces to museums, galleries, military and naval hospitals, from early civilian and service airfields to the conversion of service churches to unusual housing. In dealing with such issues, they are to be congratulated in trying to explain to the lay reader how the state seeks to dispose of buildings and facilities that are no longer required and which, in some instances, are no longer fit for purpose. Neglect simply adds to the problem, as they show clearly.

However, in seeking to explain the complex sequence of disposal, heritage progression, value and bureaucratic complexities with numerous bodies and vested interests (along with issues such as long-term soil contamination) the authors do themselves only a few favours. Unwittingly, they demonstrate that they have mastered their brief in part only. If anything, their material, valuable as it is, has overwhelmed them, rather than vice versa. Part of this is explained by the evident need to adhere to a much more firmly constructed over-arching plan. That their effort was extensive is not in doubt—not least, it is shown by the two pages of acknowledgements to experts whose advice, information and input was sought. They have endeavoured to embrace as many aspects as possible, and furthermore have attempted to set their argument within the firm context of Portsmouth Harbour and its surrounding heritage sites. As the most heavily fortified community in the British Empire, Portsmouth’s problems were bound to be unique, especially after the Second World War.

Given the foregoing, and useful as the volume is, in making clear the nature and extent of the problem the volume exhibits, inadvertently, major drawbacks or failings. It would have been stronger and more effective with stylistic and writing improvements, such as tightening and polishing the text and the removal of elements of repetition. It is unwise, for example, to have sentences repeated verbatim, as happens on pages 35 and 37. Clarity and syntax needed far greater attention, while some listing, particularly of illustrations and technical terminology, would have sharpened the book’s aims and objectives. Removal of the authorly paean would help, while chapter titles in the table of contents should match exactly those in the text. Sources and references do not necessarily match, as on pages 161 and 162. The plethora of thin paragraphs, and the presentation of a sentence as a paragraph, detract from the volume’s overall impact. At times, a little more context would help. We are told, for example, on page 350, that Winifred Platt purchased Alverbank House, Gosport, in 1912, but who was she? Are we made any the wiser? Above all else, scrupulous proof reading and checking should have been observed throughout the work.

The volume certainly makes abundantly clear the complexities, in some cases conflicting, that come into play. It shows how, in a wider setting, this increasingly intractable problem is faced by a substantial number of countries. A clear lead and precedent is set by the USA, with its very useful Association of Defense Communities. While the authors are to be commended on the wide-ranging nature of their survey, the volume should focus more clearly, rather than only in the last twelve pages, on some of the solutions to a substantial raft of problems. The volume will appeal to local readers and those interested in the armed forces over time and how the state comes to dispose of properties for different reasons. In the final analysis, however, the book would have been better and stronger with careful checking, editing and tightening. It was, for example, surprising to learn that a particular ‘cast iron caisson which controlled access to No.2 Basin [was] opened in 1945 by Queen Victoria’. If handled carefully, the book contributes to a field of growing significance. Specialists and non-specialists alike can make use of it. At the very least, it makes the reader think about the impact of the intersection between the historical past, state responsibility, heritage and the environment.James H. Thomas of the University of Portsmouth spent much of his career examining Portsmouth’s society and economy between 1650 and 1850. Part of his work considered the impact that the expansion of the armed forces had upon eighteenth- and early nineteenth-century Portsmouth, the opening stages of the lengthy process dealt with by this volume.

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By Michael Loftus

(self-published 2019 151pp ISBN: 978-1-916181-49-6) £8.50 from Amazon

Kidderminster was among the first towns to have a purpose-built municipal swimming pool. First proposed in 1851, the building, which was wholly publicly funded and included baths, a swimming pool and wash house, opened on Mill Street in 1855. Later facilities provided for the town included the somewhat exotic municipal Turkish baths in 1871, an open-air swimming pool in 1900, a lido in 1930, and in 1932 a new swimming pool and baths to replace those on Mill Street.

Unsurprisingly there were numerous arguments and delays, since some council members were against over-burdening ratepayers with projects that were not deemed necessary, especially considering the ‘state of trade’ in the local carpet factories. The Public Bath & Wash House Act of 1846 was instrumental in the provision of those first baths. Permissive rather than enforceable, it allowed local authorities to use rate income to support the establishment of facilities for baths and laundries. That Act and the subsequent Public Health Act of 1848 were driven by general concerns about public health and specific anxieties resulting from cholera outbreaks in urban areas. In a period when disease was a constant threat and there was increasing awareness that, in general, people were unable properly to wash themselves, their clothing or bedding, the Kidderminster councillors in favour of the baths eventually managed to secure a majority decision—although it appears that the water in the baths was not always particularly clean.

Swimming being more popular in summer than winter, an outdoor pool would be well-used. Councillor Joseph Ray was the prime mover behind the opening in 1900 of an outdoor swimming pool, which comprised a quarter of a reservoir—at 60 metres square, even that quarter was much larger than the Mill Street pool which was a mere 8 metres by 5. It was a good 30-minute walk from Kidderminster town centre, but a tram service had just begun to operate between there and Stourport, passing directly by the reservoir.

In addition to numerous personality clashes over eighty years, the author reveals how a range of other social changes in the town, and in Britain more widely—education, women’s ambitions and expectations, and general leisure pursuits—were reflected in the protracted debates about the baths. He also discusses the advent of the ‘art of natation’ and the benefits of learning to swim: appendix 1 lists numbers of swimmers using Kidderminster pools from 1890 to 1937. As well as general books on the history of swimming, the sources include printed primary sources such as the Report on public baths and wash-houses in the United Kingdom by Agnes Campbell (Carnegie United Kingdom Trust, Edinburgh University Press, 1918: available via archive.org); local newspapers, which reported local opinions, events and council meetings in great detail; and minute books of the Town Council and of the Baths Committee, held in the county archives. This useful study, highlighting the background to the establishment of local facilities that are often taken for granted, could be replicated elsewhere because the necessary sources should be widely available.Heather Falvey is the Reviews Editor for The Local Historian.

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By Bill Cooke

(Matador 2020 xvi+502pp ISBN 978-1-838594-38-1) £20

This volume impresses in several ways. First, it is a major work in the physical sense, with its almost 520 pages weighing in at exactly 2lb. Second, it is the product of extensive and detailed research in mostly but not exclusively secondary sources, attested by the 31 pages of notes and references and a 15-page bibliography. Third, it is outward-looking, placing the history of Warrington firmly in context, within a geographical framework which extends beyond the counties of Lancashire and Cheshire, and within a thematic structure which clearly and sensibly locates what was happening to the town and its people in the wider pattern of social, economic and, particularly, cultural trends and processes. This is all the more impressive because the author is not a historian by training or profession, but is a lecturer in philosophy and religious studies at a college in Warrington.

Cooke begins on a somewhat self-deprecating note, observing that in 2015 the Royal Society of Arts named Warrington as the least culturally-alive town in England—one of those headline-grabbing but totally meaningless claims that are among the curses of our age. The reality, as I know from my own wide-ranging work on its history, is that Warrington is typical of many medium-sized urban centres, with its museum and art gallery, its surprisingly rich archive and local studies collection, its long-neglected but now more secure architectural heritage (including a magnificent town hall which is a splendid eighteenth-century country house), and its thriving arts scene. And there is more, for in 1848 this became the first town in Britain to open a free municipal public library and the third municipal museum, both funded by the rates. That was a proud and worthy achievement over 170 years ago.

But Warrington, like so many other towns with a long, interesting and varied history, is assumed by many—especially outsiders—not to have a long, interesting and varied history. This is despite, for example, the fact that it was a major Roman supply and distribution centre with an important industrial role; that it had a short-lived Norman castle, and was a prosperous medieval market town with a friary; that it has has been a key route centre for more than two millennia; emerged as a very important focus of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century industrial development of a distinctly non-stereotypical kind, with a range of highly-specialised trades such as wire-drawing and pin-making; and was the place where Persil was invented and manufactured. All these attributes—and much more—contributed to a history which is actually rich, complex and highly distinctive.

None of these phenomena, however, can match the great ‘might have been’ of Warrington’s history, which explains the sub-title of this volume. Surely Edinburgh was ‘the Athens of the north’? Did not Manchester proudly label itself as ‘the modern Athens’ in the mid-Victorian period? Yes, but Warrington had a better claim to the title, for in the middle part of the eighteenth century the town possessed a seat of learning that was of international reputation and importance. Warrington Academy was founded in 1757 as a centre of nonconformist and dissenter learning, ‘a centre of scientific and literary activity, and a citadel of religious and political freedom’. Among those who worked and taught there was Joseph Priestley, the greatest scientist of the mid-eighteenth century world. It stood fair to develop into a modern and progressive university, in sharp contrast to the ossified and hide-bound world of Oxbridge but, tragically, after thirty years a series of managerial and financial problems forced the Academy to close. Bill Cooke’s history of the town centres on this brief magnificence, quite rightly devoting over 70 pages to its story.

Equally correctly, it gives generous coverage to the nineteenth century, during which Warrington underwent profound changes—some of them familiar from other industrialising towns, others unique to this one. It is satisfying to see that the twentieth century, which is so often dismissed in local histories of this sort, is also treated with respect and proper depth. This book is, as I noted at the beginning, an impressive achievement. I especially commend the breadth of the research and the contextualising of the story, but of particular note—and a lesson for many who embark upon local history investigation and writing—is that the ‘issues’ are given as much prominence as the ‘facts’. There is proper analysis of the whys and the wherefores, explanations of how what happened in Warrington fitted into contemporary debates, arguments and developments, and much that leavens and enlivens what could have been minutiae of purely local interest. This book has much to offer for readers and researchers well beyond ‘the Athens of the North’.Alan Crosby is the editor of The Local Historian. His book A History of Warrington (2002) won the Library Association’s Alan Ball Award for Local History in 2003. He has also written, jointly with Janice Hayes, two other books on the town: Warrington at work: images from the collections of Warrington Library, Museum and Archive Service (2003) and Warrington for ever! A portrait of the town and its people (2006)

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By John Dewhurst

(Lizard House Publishing 2021 vi+120pp ISBN 978-1-5272-8436-4) £7.50 inc p&p from 34 Princes Road, Teddington TW11 0RW, cheques to ‘All Saints Church, Kingston’

On the wall of the south aisle of All Saints, Kingston-upon-Thames, is a brass plaque that commemorates Francis Edward Blackwood, aged 30, ‘Lieutenant, East Surrey Regiment and Mounted Infantry of the Northern Nigeria Regiment … who was killed in action on 14 February 1906 at Satiru, near Sokoto, whilst gallantly leading his Company’. John Dewhurst, intrigued by various aspects of this inscription, investigates Blackwood’s identity and why he had been serving in Northern Nigeria.

Blackwood came from a well-connected family. His military career, such as it was, is outlined: he did not go to Sandhurst, but was transferred from the militia. In June 1900 he was appointed 2nd lieutenant in the East Surrey regiment, serving in India from September 1900 to February 1903 but gaining no significant combat experience. While in India he was promoted to 1st lieutenant. On his return to England he completed a mounted infantry course: these troops travelled around on horseback but, unlike cavalry, fought on foot. On 10 June 1904 he was seconded to the Northern Nigeria Regiment. The posting to Nigeria related to the carving up of Africa among European powers, where borders had been determined with an almost complete lack of awareness of traditional territorial boundaries. The objective of Captain Frederick Lugard of the Northern Nigeria Regiment was to conquer the entire region for the British Crown. Resistance to colonial rule simmered just below the surface, characterised by sporadic localised outbreaks of Mahdist-inspired risings, one of which was the cause of the conflict in which Blackwood lost his life.

In the northern Nigeria Islam was the predominant religion: two powerful Islamic empires had been consolidated by the early nineteenth century, the Sokoto Caliphate and the Kanu-Borno empire. Lieutenant Blackwood arrived in Sokoto in January 1906, on his return from home leave for ophthalmic treatment. He was in command of ‘C’ Company of the Mounted Infantry there. In February a civilian-led enterprise went from Sokoto to Satiru, when Mr Preston-Hillary (senior official in the British civilian administration) decided to confront insurgents at Satiru to discuss the causes of disturbances in the area. He was escorted by Blackwood’s company, which was badly equipped as their Maxim gun was not ready to leave the fort when the main company set out: it was brought later but was not with them when it was urgently needed. When Preston-Hillary went forward to talk with the insurgents he was attacked and Blackwood decided to go to his aid. Much confusion ensued when he tried to make a traditional square formation with his company, which was complicated due to presence of horses. He was unable to open fire on the charging insurgents, who overwhelmed the British position. In the comprehensive defeat, Preston-Hillary, another civilian, Blackwood and 25 rank-and file troops were killed; two groups of men managed to get back to Sokoto.

The defeat was reported in varying detail, and differently, in the press. In July 1907, when the official report was published, newspapers had the headline ‘Lieutenant’s costly mistake’. There was also much correspondence in the Army and Navy Gazette, not least due to conflicting reports from Captain Lugard. Blackwood was awarded neither the Victoria Cross nor Distinguished Service Order, the two gallantry medals available at the time. In 1908 he was posthumously awarded the African General Service medal with clasp ‘Northern Nigeria 1906’. As its name suggests, this was a general medal, not one awarded for gallantry: the author argues that Blackwood became a scapegoat for the debacle, but it also seems that his military skills were somewhat limited.

The plaque at All Saints’ was erected by Blackwood’s ‘Brother Officers who served with him in the MI Northern Nigeria regiment 1904-1905’. The officers of the East Surrey Regiment presented a communion chalice and patten to the church in his memory. The author has used many sources to flesh out Blackwood’s career and the events surrounding his death. Much is known of life in the Northern Nigeria regiment’s Mounted Infantry thanks to the published memoirs and biography of Brigadier-General Frank Crozier, who served with Blackwood in Nigeria as a captain but was in England in early 1906.Heather Falvey is the Reviews Editor for The Local Historian.

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By Martin Cook and Neil Kidd

(Logaston Press 2020 254pp ISBN 978-1-910839-47-8) £12.95

Largely bypassed in the historical record, Longtown castle in Herefordshire has been a puzzle for generations of historians. Who built it and what role did it play in the Welsh Marcher lordship of Ewyas Lacy? Was it built on the site of a former Roman camp? The square-shaped ramparts suggest the reuse of a Roman enclosure, though as yet this is unconfirmed. The mysteries have been compounded by a twelfth century reference to ‘the Castle of Ewyas and the New Castle’. A candidate second castle survives as a motte at Ponthendre on farmland about half a mile from Longtown, but why build two castles so close to each other—and which one was ‘the Castle of Ewyas’ and which was ‘new’?

These questions inspired a community-based and Heritage Lottery-funded programme of excavation and historical research into the origin and use of the two sites. Carried out in 2016-2018, the project included two seasons of excavation, alternating between Longtown and Ponthendre. The project was led by local residents Martin Cook and Neil Kidd who also authored this engaging book, which is replete with stunning illustrations. The topics covered include a broad sweep of regional history as well as a forensic appraisal of old and new evidence. A dynastic history of the Norman overlords addresses the search for a proposed builder of the keep at Longtown. The headline title ‘The March of Ewyas’ (it is pronounced ‘you-us’) pinpoints a segment of border country between England and Wales. The authors sketch out its wider regional context from prehistory through the Roman occupation, Dark Ages, Anglo-Saxon and Viking periods until reaching greater detail at the Norman Conquest and its sequel. A generous supply of location maps shows significant regional places in the various phases. In particular, Ewyas was a corridor on a north/south axis in both the Roman and Norman periods.

The second element of the title, ‘The story of Longtown Castle’, takes in the excavation. The castle itself is a round stone keep standing on a motte in one corner of a walled bailey, occupying roughly half of a square enclosure banked by earthen ramparts. Elsewhere within this larger enclosure is the village green where the Longtown excavation took place, confirming both a Roman and Norman presence. The finds, many illustrated and discussed, support a vivid portrayal of the site in scenes at each period of occupation. Lidar images showing the below-ground layout of Ponthendre and the medieval village of Longtown answer many longstanding questions. Excavation has also confirmed that the height of the ramparts was increased after the Roman occupation, probably before the Normans arrived. As for Ponthendre, excavation failed to find any signs of occupation, leading to the compelling conclusion that the site was never completed or brought into use. This surprising result has put paid to various scenarios of Ponthendre as one of two functioning castles taxed in 1186-1189.

Finally, ‘The de Lacy Dynasty’ recounts the careers of successive de Lacy overlords from 1066 to 1240, which the authors dub as a ‘whodunit’ search for the builder of the stone keep at Longtown. For the most part the cast list takes us far from Ewyas Lacy (as then renamed): the de Lacy overlords as major players in power politics were on the move to establish and protect their hegemony. Among their exploits two episodes in the twelfth century stand out: involvement in the Anarchy when civil war was rampant throughout the kingdom, and the de Lacy role in the colonisation of Ireland, centred on Trim castle in Meath.

And the denouement? Surprisingly a hitherto absent figure, Gilbert de Lacy, emerges from the shadows. Raised in Normandy, he came to England to reclaim de Lacy lands lost by his rebel father Roger de Lacy. As well as an active role in various conflicts elsewhere during the Anarchy, Gilbert took an interest locally in supporting the monastic community at Llanthony Abbey, including bequests of income from two churches in Ewyas Lacy. The authors propose that the round keep at Longtown was built at some time in the 1150s, and that the design was inspired by Gilbert’s first-hand knowledge of a similar design at Houdan near Paris. In later years Gilbert became a Templar and was last recorded escorting pilgrims en route to Antioch. The authors place the ‘new’ castle at Llancillo: the secluded ruin of a stone keep on the eastern boundary of Ewyas Lacy is envisaged as likely to have been an operational defence and therefore subject to tax along with Longtown castle. On this reckoning Ponthendre is seen as a very early attempt by the Normans to counter possible Welsh resistance based at the ancient Roman site in Longtown—a plan which proved to be unnecessary as the Normans soon gained control.

While adopting a conversational style, the authors put forward a well-argued synthesis of Longtown castle’s elusive history. A detailed examination of round keep design, with comparative plan drawings and photographs from elsewhere, is a new contribution to dating with wider than local relevance. Copious illustrations, including watercolours and line drawings by the authors, enhance the text. The bibliography covers the relevant range of primary and secondary sources and there is an index. References cited in the text are mainly to primary sources, many of which the authors point out are available online. The several appendices include a timeline for Ewyas and the de Lacys. The authors have achieved a difficult balance in reaching those readers without prior knowledge as well as those already well versed in the conundrum of Longtown castle. They have also set out some intriguing proposals about its origin and role which offer a new agenda for ongoing interpretation.Nina Wedell is a founder member and co-editor of ‘The History of Ewyas Lacy’ website (http://www.ewyaslacy.org.uk/) which comprises resource documents and commentaries relating to the ten parishes in the former Ewyas Lacy. She has written a number of studies focused on the local area of Longtown.

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By Cottesmore History and Archaeology Group

(Cottesmore History and Archaeology Group 2020 34pp ISBN: 978-1-999697-20-4) £5

Voices of Cottesmore is a set of oral history recollections. Very soon after its formation, the Cottesmore History and Archaeology Group (Rutland) decided that a priority should be to record the memories of those older village inhabitants whose association with the village covered a long period. Reproduced here are extracts from recordings of fifteen individuals covering the 1930s onwards, with editing notes appearing in italics. The editors cannot ‘vouch for the absolute accuracy of all the reminiscences’ but they are confident that ‘the picture of village life is in all significant aspects’ true and valid. The sections on childhood, education and school days recount aspects of children’s lives. Within the long chapter on ‘village life’ are details of numerous shops and businesses, including the undertaker, Collard’s shop, Granny Ireland’s shop (which was by all accounts a health hazard, even as recognised by the speakers, with hens everywhere), Strickland’s, the Post Office, the butcher’s/slaughterhouse, bakehouse, blacksmith and cobbler. There were feast days and fetes (‘feast week’ seems to have been week-long fair), rectors and the Reading Room/Institute. Interviewees tell of the arrival of electricity (in the 1930s) but there was no sewerage system or mains water until the 1950s: until then water came from a well where the bakehouse was, some pumps and a public tap. Money was raised to pay for the Village Hall, including a local man making a large stuffed horse, with bridle, saddle and stirrups, that raised £1,000 in a raffle. ‘Work and employment’ reveals details of ironstone quarrying near the village, which went on until the 1970s, with a ‘mineral tramway’ to transport it. RAF Cottesmore also played a large part in village life, but farming was the main source of employment. This has been broken down into the different farms, with details of milking cows and how they were allowed to graze on the side of the road. ‘Travel and leisure’ reveals the importance of Bland’s Coaches at a time when few people had cars. ‘Wartime’ introduces evacuees at Cottesmore Hall and military connections. The memoirs recorded here are unattributed, but locals would probably know who was speaking (and the individuals are listed at the end); however, the contributions are distinguished only by paragraph breaks, making the text rather disjointed as the reader needs to realise that a different voice has taken over. For local people, in particular, this is a valuable collection.Heather Falvey is the Reviews Editor for The Local Historian.

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By Margaret Dowland

(Poppyland Publishing 2021 162pp ISBN 978-1-909796-79-9) £9.95

This is a well-produced and lavishly illustrated history of a Norfolk village school. The author is a governor of the school and, although she is not well served by the availability of surviving sources, she has probed what there is in detail and carried out some meticulous analysis. The school dates from 1826 and owes its origins to the Suffields, the local lords, who paid for it and the headteacher in the early days before it became a Board School following the 1870 Act. The original building is still the core of the present school. Like so many other rural schools, its mainstay for so long were the children of low paid agricultural workers.

The book addresses many aspects of its history from 1826 right up to the current Covid closure. In many respects the school has had an unexceptional history, with little that would surprise historians of rural village schools throughout England. That does not mean that it is boring—on the contrary, it is well-written with plenty of interesting information providing a coherent account of a school that faced and overcame challenges. Challenges included reorganisations following legislation such as the 1862 Revised Code, the 1870 Act, compulsory attendance after 1880 and the abolition of school fees after 1891. Then came its role as a county council school, and becoming an academy in recent years. Finance was always an issue. Despite the benevolence of the Suffields, money for staff and improvements was nearly always in short supply. School fees did not cover costs and parents often struggled to pay the fees anyway. In 1880 16 per cent of parents were in arrears and some were taken to Court. The local Board of Guardians often provided funding for the school, since poor parents could apply to them for relief.

Many of the usual themes of school histories are here, with the local situation often being placed effectively in the wider context. These include the curriculum, teachers, holidays, punishments, buildings and facilities. One can trace improved conditions but things often came late to this school. The original two schoolrooms, a schoolhouse (used by headteachers until 1971), boar room, porch and outbuilding soon proved inadequate. The 1877 extension included stabling for the managers’ horses which also doubled up as the boys play shed. Extension work was not infrequently slipshod with regular correspondence about defects and who was to blame. The later additions such as medical rooms, libraries, cycle sheds, canteens, secretaries’ offices, staff car parks, handicraft and computer rooms are testament to a changing world. Here, though, improvements did not come quickly: electricity came in 1951, oil-fired boilers in 1970 and mains drainage only in 1979.

Biographies are a feature of the book--there are mini-biographies of the six Lords Suffield, many of whom had an interest in education; and of all the headmasters (all heads of the main school, although females were invariably heads of, or in charge of, the infant section). The varied bunch of headteachers stayed various lengths of time, the longest being William Elliott Amies who served from 1877 to 1913. He had the dubious pleasure of living in the schoolhouse with its three bedrooms though he had a family of 14. Some of the time there were separate boys’, girls’ and infant schools but these all eventually came together. The most detailed biographies occur in the appendices where Margaret Dowland has taken those pupils named in the school logbooks from 1878 to 1918 and followed them through by investigating public records such as censuses.

Other features of Antingham and Southrepps were fairly common elsewhere, such as family members being involved in the life of the school, and the generally poor attendance in the early days. The first attendance officer, appointed in 1878, must have had a difficult task—not only chasing poor attendees but also collecting school fees. The 1879 average attendance was a paltry 41 per cent, rising to 53 per cent by 1890 but, even after education was free, the school had to resort to other incentives such as prize medals and ornate certificates. Attendance averaged 88 per cent between 1920 and 1953 and is now around 98 per cent. His Majesty’s Inspectors commented several times on the late start many pupils had at the school—sometimes well past their sixth birthday. Although there were many reasons for poor attendance, illness was clearly a major cause and the school witnessed a host of infectious diseases such as scarlet fever, measles, chicken pox, whooping cough, diphtheria, typhoid, German measles and mumps as well as seasonal influenza. It tried to contain outbreaks but sometimes they involved whole school closures for up to a month. Although School Medical Services date from 1907 vaccinations here had to wait until 1941. As elsewhere tooth decay was endemic and there was much under-nourishment. Sometimes the school environment was not conducive to good health. Ventilation was a recurrent problem and there are logbook entries such as that reporting a decomposed mouse in the drinking water supply in 1947, and in 1950 a reference to a teacher being absent because of a snake bite.

Three themes provide dramatic contrasts with schools today—holidays, punishments and what was taught. For much of its history holidays were flexible and at the whim of the school managers. They themselves were often guided by the agricultural year especially the harvest break, which might mean very little advance notice. There were a series of half days such as church treats and fairs as well as royal occasions. Schools then as now often serve as polling stations meaning a temporary school closure, but unlike today though polling took place over several days. School punishments always excite interest, largely as an indicator of what mischief people got up to. The number meted out at this school, including canings, do not seem excessive. Among those that were punishable were truancy, disobedience, throwing stones, bullying, laziness, impertinence, setting fire to a bush in the road, bad work and rudeness to teachers. The curriculum is not covered extensively in the book, especially the conventional 3Rs and the grant earning subjects, although HMI reports are summarised in the appendix. There is, however, a separate chapter on the more vocational elements such as needlework, embroidery, knitting, cooking and laundry. Woodwork lessons started rather later in 1921. Like many other rural schools gardening was also on the curriculum.

Most schools were affected in some ways by war and Antingham and Southrepps was no exception. For example, the infant school was temporarily commandeered by the military in the First World War, some former pupils were killed, and children contributed to the war effort, such as picking blackberries and fundraising. In the Second World War evacuees arrived from Dagenham, tripling the school roll.

Overall, this is a readable and well-researched school history. Of course, there is a plethora of school histories available but that can only be a good thing as each school has its own distinctiveness and is a microcosm of its community. This is a very good addition to that impressive list of published school histories.Tim Lomas is a trustee of the BALH and its former chair.

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By James Boyce

(Icon Books 2020 xxiii+248pp ISBN 978-1-78578-650-1) £12.99

James Boyce, a multi-award-winning Australian historian, has several links with the fens, including descent from the Peet family from the Lincolnshire Fenland and possible descent from the Boyce family who participated in riots in Whittlesey Fen in 1643. He also connects his interest in the defence of the ancient fenland way of life with his research on the Australian frontier, likening ‘the tragic reality of invasion and conquest’ in Australia to the ways in which outsiders acted, or rather attempted, to transform the wetlands of the Fens into arable plains, regardless of the effects on the indigenous population. Here, then, is the origin of ‘imperial mud’. This is also a story of the defenders of an ancient way of life against plunderers seeking to benefit themselves, or the state at large, despite local and entrenched traditions. As such it is a vigorous account of the activities of these heroes. In early modern records they are called ‘fenmen’, or ‘fenmen and women’, but Boyce chose not to use this designation. Other historians have used the term ‘fenlanders’. In 1586 William Camden called them ‘Fen-dwellers’, who ‘inhabit the fennish country’. Boyce therefore chose to call the Fen-dwellers the ‘Fennish’: this is pure invention on his part.

The setting for the drama is the Cambridgeshire, Norfolk and Lincolnshire Fens and also the Isle of Axholme, partly in South Yorkshire. The fenlands were bountiful in resources to sustain life: rich grazing and cropping grounds, birds, fish and edible plants. The nature of the land, however, was not uniform: in some areas it was silt fen, the level of which when drained remained broadly constant; in other areas it was peat which, when drained and exposed to air, decomposed, causing the level of the drained land to lower. Fenland rivers were sluggish and in need of constant dredging to keep them flowing. In peat areas watercourses sat ever higher above the adjacent land, so there was pressure on their artificial banks, and floods were more likely when they broke. Drainage was always a work in progress.

Human settlement in marsh areas has continued for centuries—indeed, remnants of the oldest construction in the United Kingdom have been found at Flag Fen. Although Boyce decries the attempted Roman invasion of the Fens, he admits that their technology of the metal spade was very useful and also their attempts at flood control. The fen-dwellers put in place small localised works to control water flows and mitigate flooding. The area was prosperous in the medieval period as its products were much sought after. Indeed, the economic structure was different from elsewhere: as Joan Thirsk noted, there was a large group of middling-rich yeomen and even the landless could make a living. Medieval prosperity resulted from the vast undrained wetland (not in spite of it), but there were problems with ‘inundations’—flooding caused by rain, or even melted snow, that resulted in the flood-protection dykes (ditches in the Fens, not banks as in the Netherlands) overflowing. Disputes over who was responsible for maintaining flood protection led to Commissions of Sewers being established, their powers being codified by the Statute of Sewers in Henry VIII’s reign.

Chapter 4, ‘Reformation to Reclamation: 1530 to 1630’, discusses opposition to drainage and enclosure schemes. There was widespread defence of the Fens and their inhabitants’ way of life, not only by locals but also by outside writers such as William Camden, who advised that the best course was ‘Not to intermeddle at all with that which God hath ordeined’. However, the main source of political support for drainage was the cash-hungry early Stuart kings. One of the prime movers in early modern fenland drainage was Francis Russell, 4th earl of Bedford, who owned a large estate near Thorney and Whittlesey. Chapter 5, ‘The fight for the Great Level’, provides accounts of various acts of defiance and riots against his works, including the use of football as guise for rioting. The struggle for the Fens became intertwined with the conflict of the civil war and the somewhat ambiguous role of Oliver Cromwell, himself a fenman: he was against drainage, but some leading drainers were also parliamentarians. Locals were supported by the Levellers. In January 1650 Cornelius Vermuyden was appointed to complete the New Bedford Level: the washlands created still fill up every winter. Resistance took various forms and Cromwell acted in favour of the drainers, issuing an ordinance to protect the works. Boyce argues that had the Levellers been triumphant things would have been different: in fact, their appeal was very limited. This is a prime example of where trying to write a broad-brush history of a very complex locality fails: Boyce does not necessarily understand the period that he is writing about. Similarly in Chapter 7, ‘The fight for Whittlesey’, he takes at face value the petition of local ‘poor men’ to the House of Lords, and ignores the fact that this was a legal strategy: the petitioners were not poor at all. He also states that allotments in the drained land would not compensate for the destruction of their homes. But at Whittlesey, no local people lived in the fen itself: their houses were on the ‘high ground’, 26 feet above sea level, where the town had been established. In his desire to make the fenlanders heroes, he deduces conditions that did not exist. The only people who lived in the fen at Whittlesey were foreigners who had leased farms in the newly-drained fen: their homes were attacked by the rioters. The focus then moves to the Isle of Axholme: 60,000 acres of wetland, described here as the ‘longest-lasting front in the fight for the Fens’. Next is resistance to the drainage and enclosure of Holland Fen. Due to problems with technology, drainage schemes literally foundered in the mud: overflowing of flood defences could not be prevented and the Fens reverted in many areas.

The eloquence of Boyce’s writing is most apparent in chapter 10, ‘The foundations of Fennish freedom’. The Fens in 1700 were ‘not just the last large “untamed” region of lowland England in an ecological sense but in a human one too. The Fennish comprised the largest group of English people still to be brought under effective state, ecclesiastical, landlord and employer control’. He describes the productive local economy, including the numerous uses of geese and, somewhat ironically, how locals adopted the technique of decoys for trapping wild birds, a method introduced by post-drainage Dutch settlers. With the expansion of empire overseas in the eighteenth century parliamentary enclosure came to the Fens. Enclosure and drainage now was less about increasing production than appropriating its wealth. Various enclosure acts comprised ‘agreements’ with the owners; protests followed, not least because on these occasions evictions had occurred. Enclosure proceeded according to law and was enforced by the military acting on the orders of central government, but it was not easy to defeat the locals.

Over time the urge to drain has given way to the urge to conserve. in the late-nineteenth century the draining of Whittlesey Mere, near Peterborough, went ahead despite widespread opposition. In 1877 Charles Kingsley gave an account of the birds and butterflies that had disappeared from that area, evincing nostalgia for vanished beauty. Conserving the countryside became a concern a generation later; for example, Charles Rothschild (died 1923) bought Wicken Fen and donated it to the National Trust. There were devastating floods in 1947 and 1953, but since then intensive farming and draining has occurred so that by 2000 99.9 per cent of the Fens were drained. But keeping the entire region dry is not sustainable over the long term—there are now moves to restore wetlands and recreate traditional land management: living with the waters rather than fighting them.

Boyce argues that the reason that drainage took so long to ‘achieve’ was the success of the resistance. According to him, over the centuries the feisty Fennish fought for their land and their rights against invaders; hence the Fens have survived. I have two observations on this. Firstly, I am fully aware of the strength of local feeling against drainage in the early modern period: Boyce draws extensively on my PhD thesis because it includes a detailed study of the 1643 Whittlesey riots. However, he ignores my discussion of the complaint voiced in March 1699 that the Bedford Level Corporation was failing to maintain adequately the drained fens against floods: the focus of these protesters had shifted. Secondly, the reason for the failure of drainage in the peat fens is that the more efficient the system of drainage, the quicker the peat fen shrinks and so is inundated again. So, rather than the resistance of the Fennish beating the drainers in every period, it was the very nature of the ‘fennish country’ itself that triumphed.

Heather Falvey’s PhD thesis, ‘Custom, resistance and politics: local experiences of improvement in early modern England’, (a study of enclosure and unrest in the 1630s and 1640s)’, considered the riots in Whittlesey Fen and in the Derbyshire forest of Duffield Frith.

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