Clarissa et al.

It was murder coming home from the museum today. I usually travel one junction on the M180 rather than go through Brigg and Wrawby, and that is what I did today. What I didn't know was that a lorry had shed its load on the A180 towards Grimsby and that everybody was being filtered off the M180 at the Elsham junction (where I would normally leave) creating long tail backs.

Apparently the accident happened at 12.50. I joined the motorway around 3.15. Wouldn't you think that in that time the police could have had signs up directing people away from joining the motorway at Scunthorpe to reduce congestion one junction on and keep the traffic moving?

I don't respond well to traffic jams: I'm not used to them.

I remember one outside Frankfurt in 1964, one on the M6 in 1978, one outside Conwy in the 1980s, and one near Chesterfield last year. That isn't a selection; it's a total, and I was asleep in the back seat for most of the first two. But the fact that they have been so few doesn't make me react any better when I encounter them.

The seville oranges being in season, I made marmalade yesterday. I make marmalade every year. I have been making marmalade since I was about four years old. I make pounds and pounds and pounds of it, and I probably eat less than half a jar a year, but it all gets finished - mainly by the aged parent.

This year's is not as good as last. For some reason it wouldn't set and I had to keep on boiling it till it was darker than I really like, and there is nothing good looking enough for village fete produce stalls.

The boiling marmalade turned mean on me and decided to splash my hand - I'm not blistered or anything, but it hurt and I had to waste some several minutes with my hand in cold water while the heat went out of my fingers and the marmalade got even darker. And the whole kitchen seems to be sticky.

Marmalade is also the name of the large, ugly orange bear we take to schools when we do the Toys outreach workshop. We introduce him as our own favourite childhood toy, and I make a little game of guessing his name based on his colour, something we like for breakfast and something Paddington would like.

Children love the simple old-fashioned wooden toys of the Tudor and Victorian periods, and go mad for the tin plate cranes etc. of the 'Grandparents' Toys' section. Today's school was odd. Everything ran very smoothly, but somehow I didn't feel any real connection with the teachers or the place. Usually when I go into the staffroom for a cup of tea at playtime conversations open up to allow the visitor in if she so wishes (and generally this visitor does wish), but today all the conversations were closed. Can it really just be that they were tensed up for tomorrow's Ofsted inspection? Even the children seemed a bit subdued.

On Wednesday I was at work teaching our 'Take Cover' workshop which is about the Second World War. The children undertake three activities.

They learn about evacuees and rationing by packing a suitcase looking at the coupon value of each garments and realising how few new clothes the children would have each year, while the Home Front is studied by handling and discussing objects used by members of the Home Guard, the Auxialliary Fire Service, the Red Cross, the Police and the ARP. These are both done sitting at a table in the education room.

Downstairs in the War Gallery they sit in the Anderson shelter listening to an air-raid, look round the gallery at the 'typical' back parlour, the ARP post, the various displays and at the gas masks - one of which is safe for them to try on, and one is one of those whole body respirators for a baby into which they insert a life-size baby doll.

Baby Dolly is very well behaved and allows herself to be inserted in the repirator every time, unlike my Uncle Steve who, according to my father, screamed and kicked and went stiff so much that they never got him into the thing. Just as well there never was a gas attack really.

I've been doing this workshop since it was devised about four years ago, and on Wednesday was just putting everything away when Vicky came in and asked me if I would be willing to do an interview for television about it. (When I say television I don't mean the BBC, but some local digital channel) So I unpacked some of the things and went down to the War Gallery in costume where I talked about evacuation, put Dolly in the respirator, chatted about my father and his baby brother, grabbed baby and rushed into the Anderson shelter where I chatted about my mother's family's belief that the cat had a sixth sense about bombs so that they only went into the shelter if she did, and drank imaginary tea (real cup) in the parlour.

I'm sure I look absolutely wonderful with my bright red lipstick, my strange hairdo and my grandmother's hat, but I don't think that I'll make any attempt to watch me. The extra hour's pay will be nice though - a small contribution towards the £200 excess I have to pay when I collect my car tomorrow. In 1939 that would probably have bought a whole new car!

Messing around with Google Images, I came upon these two pictures.

This is the lane which leads from our house to the farm where Glen's* parents live. The cottage you can see on the horizon is where Helen and Glen lived from their marriage in 1980 until 1996, and where Glen's nephew now lives.

And this is the walk through the woods which leads from that house to Helen's* and Glen's* current home and their farm.

They are by Clive Tappin who kindly gave me permission to copy them on to this blog. You can find more of his drawings under Family Interests "Not just a hill walker" on http://www.tappin.org.uk/

*For anyone who is confused: Helen is my sister and Glen is my brother-in-law. There are just 3 people out of 18 living in the square mile of 8 households covered by our postcode who are not related to them by blood or marriage.

I have just posted some of my granddad's watercolours on http://doggerel.blog.co.uk/.

This picture, brought by Mike Kendall to the Family History Evening a couple of weeks back, is of the Taylor Family who lived in Swallow. On the back is written (in a modern hand) that it was taken in about 1888. This date is wrong as Sarah (Mrs. Taylor) died on August 2nd 1886. A likely date for the picture is 1885 when Sarah would have been pregnant with Gertrude, her youngest child.

Using Census returns 1881-1901 and Parish Registers we can deduce that they are
Back Row – William jr., William sr., Emma or Olive, David, George
Middle Row – Mary (on William’s lap), Sarah, Sewell (on Sarah’s lap), Olive or Emma
Front Row – John, Charles, Ellen
I am not certain about Olive and Emma as it is hard to guess which of them is the elder by just one year.

William Taylor born in Thornton (likely to be the one near Horncastle, rather than Thornton Curtis or Thornton-le-Moor, as Sarah was from Belchford) in 1844 farm labourer / road labourer

Sarah Taylor born in Belchford in 1847, and died in Swallow in 1886

George Herbert Taylor born in Cuxwold circa 1874, labourer, married 1895 Ada Cottam. Daughter, Olive May, baptised in Swallow in 1898.

Olive Ann Taylor born in Cuxwold circa 1875. Maid at Glebe Farm, married Walter Rose, police constable, in 1908. (He died aged 51 in Grimsby in 1932 and was buried in Swallow)

Emma Taylor born in Swallow circa 1876 married 1902 John Welch, farm labourer, of Hatcliffe.

David Oliver Taylor born circa 1877 in Swallow, platelayer/striker (blacksmith) in wagon shop, married 1902 Mary Ann Campling

Ellen Taylor born in Swallow circa 1878 married 1902 Heber Holmes, joiner, of Fotherby.

Charles Henry Taylor born in Swallow 1879 (baptised 23rd June)

William Birkitt Taylor born in Swallow 1880 (baptised 26th September) married Mary Jane ??? (She may have died in 1955.) Moved to Doncaster. Daughter, Ivy May, baptised in Swallow in 1901.

John Taylor born in Swallow circa 1882, shepherd, married 1908 Ellen Taylor of Binbrook (She may have died in 1949) Six children baptised in Swallow – Edward (1908) [buried 1975], Albert (1909), Walter (1911), Jack (1914), James Robert (1917) and Arthur (1920)

Mary Taylor born in Swallow circa 1883

Sewell Taylor born in Swallow circa 1884 married 1908 Harriet Huteson of Fiskerton

Gertrude Taylor born in Swallow 1885 (baptised 29th November) married1906 Arthur Clark, brickmaker, of South Killingholme (Not in photograph)

They lived in Chapel Lane (called Town street in 1901) – either in one of the end cottages of the three (Normaja or The Old Post Office) or one of the pair on the south side of the road (North View or Birch View).

In May we plan to put on a exhibition in the church under the heading of Swallow People; it would be fascinating to meet the descendants of one or more of the people pictured here and to be able to add stories and modern pictures to the above.

Yesterday they announced the world's cheapest car, the Tata 'Nano'. It sounds and looks good, but having described my ideal holiday day, I thought that I would describe my ideal car.

I'm not a speed fiend: I'd probably like a bit of extra acceleration to get me out of hairy situations, but I'm quite happy with a top cruising speed of 70mph, which is the most the law allows, nor do I want a giant to pull horse boxes or caravans, so a huge engine is not on my remit - in fact somewhere in the region of 1,000cc will probably suit me fine.

Under the bonnet I want reliable, long-lasting and not too complex. There's a lot of me which says the Morris Minor 1000 which can be repaired without trouble by anyone in possession of a spanner, a screwdriver and half-a-yard of elastic is pretty well the perfect car. However, there are certain improvements in the last half century which are genuine improvements and which I would want to include in my ideal car.

Let's leave the engine to the experts - it's not as if I am ever going to do more to it than check the oil and water before a long journey, and only if I can't find someone else to do so for me.

Inside I want leather upholstery and a walnut veneered dashboard with nice round readable speedo etc. I want a glove compartment with a lock, and another which also closes. I want door pockets wide enough to hold the de-icer, drink holders, a clip for reusable carrier bags (that could be in the boot), a fire extinguisher, a first-aid box, a pen holder, a container for small change, a drawer big enough to hold a road atlas and a waste bin which is accessible from both front and back seats. In the back I would like a pull-down arm rest which is a box which contains puzzles, games and books which can be changed according to the age of the passengers; it should also fold away to provide a centre seat with a three point seat belt. The back seat should have sufficient leg room for three six-footers even when the front seats are as far back as they can go.

I'm not bothered about a radio/cd player, but if I have one there should be earphones in the back so that I never ever have to listen to Galaxy again!

Could the heating/air-conditioning be independent for the driver and passengers? Possibly even independent for the driver's head and feet?

I need a good big boot, and I don't want to have to take everything out (probably in the dark, in pouring rain and sub-zero temperatures) to get at the jack and the spare wheel. (The spare wheel, by the way, should be a proper one, not one of those potty 'get you home' jobs!) I'd like a certain number of straps (like old fashioned adjustable seat-belts) to hold shopping (including bottles) and luggage in place. I want the boot to be fully enclosed without one of those daft, removable shelves held in place by plastic which invariably breaks before the car reaches its second owner (i.e. me). I would rather like the boot to open out flat in such a way that it makes a surface on which to put the picnic basket or even a gas ring on which to boil a kettle, and so that you can pull boxes and suitcases out without having to bruise your knuckles getting a grip underneath them to lift them over some vicious edge.

As regards the external look of my car, I'd like a nice round organic shape somewhere between Morris 1000 and Jaguar mk 2, in bright red or racing green, with plenty of chrome trim. I also want plenty of ground clearance which copes well with climbing on to grass verges or kerbs when meeting on-coming vehicles in narrow country lanes and equally narrow town and village streets.

Well that's it: not unlike a Wolseley 1500 with a few modern modifications.

I was thinking of summer and holidays (mine is booked for the third week in May in a cottage in Beddgelert) and I came up with my ideal holiday day.

I start, accompanied by Joe, by taking a ride in a steam train along a scenic, coastal route to a charming little town where I meet Becky and Liz for morning coffee at some old fashioned tea shop called The Copper Kettle something similar. Replete with teacake and chat, we call in at the small but excellent local museum where Derek is working as a volunteer guide and shows us round.

Thence we walk up to the ruined castle where we are met by Isabel, Inge and a picnic. (In an ideal world Issy would be driving a lovely old Morris 1000 traveller - my ideal, not hers). We look round the castle and enjoy the wonderful views along the coast from the cliff top, by which time the picnic is set up and we settle down to a feast of seafood, asparagus, new potatoes, salad and freshly baked bread and very dry white wine, followed by raspberries and/or strawberries and cream. By now the kettle is boiling on the gas ring for tea (coffee for Liz) so we lounge about chatting while Joe clears up. (One can dream!)

After lunch we go in the Morris (and another car) to vist the local stately home which is predominantly late mediaeval with a charming Regency front. We go round in twos - I'm with Liz. In the long gallery there is a particularly good exhibition of costumes and portraits, and the gardens are a delight. I particularly enjoy the herbacious borders and the rose garden which is at its best with very fragrant old roses, and I have an interesting conversation with the owner who is working there. We then have afternoon tea in the tea room.

Joe and I (possibly with some of the others) return on the steam train, where I run into Bill who tells me (in between technical details about the railway) that there is a concert of English Song from Byrd to Britten at the parish church that evening. It proves to be an excellent concert and it even includes an audience singalong section in each half and really imaginative refreshments in the interval.

I return to my delightful holiday cottage, and drink my late night cup of tea on the terrace beside the stream, enjoying the balmy twilight and the scent of honeysuckle and roses.

A bit crowded maybe, but that is my perfect holiday day, spent with many of my favourite people all of whom (except Joe who is only 21) have been my friends for between a quarter and half a century. Since the locations are largely invented with borrowings from sites all over the British Isles and the friends are almost equally spread out (although only in England at present) such a day is impossible, but it would be fun.

In those years when Twelfth Night falls on a Friday, Saturday or Sunday I have a Twelfth Night party. I like the idea of Christmas celebrations running from St. Nicholas (December 6th) to Epiphany/Twelfth Night/Old Christmas Day (January 6th). I like the idea of Christmas ending with a bang rather than the whimper of just taking down the decorations and muttering 'Well, that's over for another year'. Epiphany deserves better than that. Tradition tells us that it was on that day the Magi/Wise Men/Three Kings came to Jesus bearing gifts, the prayer book calls it The Manifestation of Christ to the Gentiles, and most people seem to ignore this very special day. Today there was just one communion service within our group of parishes, and there were just six of us in church this morning. OK, 11.30 is not the most convenient time for a service, and there is a very nasty cold doing the rounds, but that bad . . . !?!

So, we zoomed home at 12.30 to put the finishing touches to the food for our lunch party, and the first guests turned up just before one. I was expecting about forty people - never quite sure how many because there are always a few who don't RSVP either way - but four croaky phonecalls brought the numbers down to the middle thirties which is probably enough on a day when it is too cold for the party to spill out into the garden. It was a real mix of people with an age range of eighty-six years from the youngest guest to the oldest, and surprisingly an overlap of only about half-a-dozen people with my last Twelfth Night party two years ago. (I didn't have one last year since my father has a limited tolerance for giving parties and we had pulled out all the stops for his 'surprise' eightieth birthday party.) I had opted for a lunch party in the hope that father's oldest friends (some of whom don't do night-time driving anymore) would come, but that bit didn't quite work out. (We will get Bill, Cyril and Vic - plus, of course, Norah, Luise and Kath - all here at the same time one day D.V.)

It's January so hot food was the order of the day, so I did big pots of peasant food - Hot Pot, Penne with a tomato and bacon sauce my mother was taught in Nice but which originates in Milan, Mrs. Hammond's Beef Curry, Isabel's Sausage Casserole, and Mushroom Risotto - in other words dishes which are easy to prepare in advance, which I have cooked so often I could do probably make them in my sleep, and none of which demand split second timing. I did my preparation yesterday. The puddings were cold - trifles, apple pie, Stollen, Lincolnshire Plum Loaf and cheese, and - courtesy of our guests - Pavlova and Cheese Cake. I approve of guests who bring things to parties.

Mostly, of course it is wine that they bring, and (as usual) we have ended with more and better wine than we started with since so many people bring a bottle and then, because they are driving, drink one small glass of whatever plonk is open before sticking to fruit juice or coffee for the rest of the party. Our friends are nothing if not responsible.

Tomorrow is a Swallow Book Worms evening and is going to half party and half meeting.

They predicted snow.

It snowed. That is it snowed in Yorkshire and apparently it snowed in parts of Lincolnshire: the weather map on TV showed a ruddy great snow symbol right over us, and we did have about a millimetre overnight, but nothing to notice.

Anyway, partly because we had run out of cat food, partly because it might snow properly sometime, and partly because it had to be done before the weekend, I decided to go to Morrisons. I made a list, but forgot my reuseable carriers (see Liz's blog http://trickymum.blog.co.uk), and did the deed. I hate shopping, but it could have been worse and there was no queue at the checkout. Sadly I have still forgotten to buy any red wine, but we have several different whites in the garage and loads of juice, not to mention an enormous variety of teas both normal and exotic.

Q. Why do communists always drink herbal tea?
A. Because all proper tea is theft.
Boom-boom!