FFB - Castles

Having covered a castle or two in my posts about Segovia/Salamanca/Avila, it seems appropriate to feature this book review, originally published in the Portsmouth Post in 2005. Castles is a lovely tome to own, a fascinating book to read and it’s also useful as the definitive guide to the most impressive historic buildings and sites in England, Scotland, Wales and Ireland. This is the latest revision of a classic bestselling book by Plantagenet Somerset Fry who died in 1996. Fry was a world-renowned authority on castles and, in case you wondered, actually changed his name by deed poll. A second edition was published in 2009 and is still available.

British and Irish castles are fascinating and romantic places to visit. Whether they’re ruins, restored heritage sites or still occupied, they evoke times past, the scenes of historic events that shaped our countries and our people – battles, sieges, executions, negotiations, kidnappings and betrayals. Grim and compelling history written in stone.

The vast majority of the castles were constructed as a result of the Norman invasion and are generally characterised by the motte and bailey. The motte is a mound on which a castle was built while the bailey is the courtyard within the castle walls, often circling the motte.

While these castles acted as places of defence and offence, they were also occupied by the local lord and his family. As time passed and society became more settled and secure, the need for castles diminished, save for defence against foreign invasion. The last to see active service was Dover Castle, which was used as the control centre for Operation Dynamo, the evacuation of Dunkirk. A garrison was maintained there until the 1950s.

Portchester is a fine example of a Norman castle built within the confines of a late third century Roman Saxon shore fort. Reputedly, it has the most complete Roman walls to exist in northern Europe. Portchester was well used by England’s royalty and still has the old twelfth century church. Basing House near Basingstoke is worth a look too, where Civil War re-enactments are staged each year.

Arundel is another castle which began life just a few years following 1066 and was added to in subsequent centuries, being rebuilt after serious damage during the Civil War. It was brought up to its present magnificent appearance in the latter part of the nineteenth century.

In East Sussex, Herstmonceux is more a great fortified mansion than a castle and became the Royal Greenwich Observatory in 1946 but it’s now a study centre.

Lewes is one of the very few castles with two mottes associated with one bailey. When the castle was built, boats could navigate from the Channel up the Ouse so that Lewes was actually a useful port in East Sussex. Way back in 1846 the London and Brighton South Coast Railway constructed a tunnel, which is still in use, under the bailey of the castle.

 
As this book attests, there are literally hundreds of castles in Britain and Ireland. Virtually every one is covered, many descriptions accompanied by attractive and often haunting colour photographs.

Many of the castle names have impinged into our subconscious. Names such as Bodiam in Sussex, Colchester in Essex, Hever and Rochester, Kent. Chester in Cheshire, Windsor, Tintagel in Cornwall, Ludlow in Shropshire, Warwick in Warwickshire, Barnard in Durham, Bamburgh and Alnwick in Northumberland. St Andrews and Ravenscraig in Fife, Stirling in Aberdeenshire, Beaumaris on the Isle of Anglesey, Edinburgh, Caerphilly, Prembroke, Newport, Powys, Caerleon in Newport, Caernarfon and Conwy in Gwynedd and Hay-on-Wye in Powys, whose remains now house several of the famous second-hand bookshops. Ardrossan in North Ayrshire, Drogheda in Louth, Dublin, Donegal, Dunluce in Antrim, Enniskillen, Wicklow, Waterford and Trim which was used in the film Braveheart. Falkland Castle in Fife, where you can still find the original royal tennis court built in 1539.

 
There are at least five Newcastles – Bridgend, Emlyn in Carmarthanshire, Lyons in Dublin, Under-Lyme in Staffordshire and Upon-Tyne. The latter was built by the Conqueror’s son in 1080. Nearby is Tynemouth which was one of the largest fortified sites in England; it was integrated into the Priory and now all that’s left are the ruins of the priory and the castle gatehouse, which overlook the mouth of the Tyne and the bleak North Sea.
 
For the purpose of this review I’ve gleaned a few interesting snippets from the book concerning several notable castles. Every castle is identified by its national grid map reference and basic opening times and access details are provided (though subject to change, naturally).

Cornwall’s St Michael’s Mount’s original church was consecrated in 1144 but was destroyed in an earthquake in 1275. This is a magical place to visit.

 
Leeds Castle is nowhere near Yorkshire; this Kent castle’s name stems from the original Esledes and was bought by a wealthy Anglo-American lady in the 1920s and she spent the rest of her life transforming it.
 
Blair in Pitlochry doesn’t belong to the Prime Minister but to the Dukes of Atholl. Dumbarton in Scotland is recorded as a stronghold for longer than any other site in Britain; it was built on a volcanic neck of basalt rock jutting out into the Clyde.

Glamis in Angus was the childhood home of the Queen Mother and was featured in Macbeth. Linlithgow in West Lothian was the birth-place of Mary, Queen of Scots.

Cardiff castle was raised on the site of a Roman fort in 1080 and over the centuries has been remodelled and improved and is considered one of the best to visit in Wales; note especially the ornate ceiling in the Arab Room.

 
Ireland has more than 3,000 castles, most overgrown ruins and until recently they were resented and seen as symbols of hated foreign rule and domination. Castle Blarney is famous for its stone; anyone who kisses it is supposed to be blessed with eloquence. Besides being a twelfth century castle, Carrickfergus has served as a prison, armoury and air-raid shelter.

Corfe in Dorset was owned by Sir John Bankes; his widow led the garrison to fight off two Parliamentarian sieges, though she was defeated by an act of treachery and the castle was slighted – one of several useful terms to be found in the glossary – damage or destroy to make it unfit for further use.

 
Ashby de la Zouch (Leicestershire) features in Sir Walter Scott’s classic Ivanhoe. Scott was clearly besotted by castles, writing the two-novel tome Kenilworth after the castle of that name in Warwickshire.
 
I can’t resist mentioning the rarity Shropshire’s Moreton Corbet which was built by the head of an old Saxon family rather than a Norman, in about 1200. Another Morton can be found in Dumfries - a fourteenth century castle tower on a high promontory overlooking Morton Loch.
 
Brief but illuminating feature spreads with illustrations provide more facts and anecdotes on life in early castles, medieval weapons and the people’s food and drink. There are also articles on sieges, entertainment, sport and the English Civil War, among others.
 
You’ll spend many an hour with this book and if you live in the UK you’ll be inspired to go out and seek out the castles themselves, to celebrate your heritage and glory in the rich human tapestry of our islands’ history by visiting a castle.
 

'Gifts from a dead race' - part 2 of 2

GIFTS FROM A DEAD RACE

Part 2 of 2

 

Nik Morton

 ****

An arm round the old woman's throat, folds of wobbling flesh overlapping his hand, her breath foul in his nostrils, cloying, mixing with body odour. Her damned terrier snarled and snapped at his heels. And she was very much alive, struggling with verve. 'Come on, Paula! For God's sake, where's-?'

            Paula clamped the anaesthetic over nose and mouth and the wrestling slackened then stopped. The woman was now a dead weight in his arms. The dog sensed the change and backed off, mewling, confused, and suddenly afraid.

            They glanced up and down the street. Ill-lit and deserted. They dragged their unwilling patient across the pavement to the waiting ambulance. They all shuffled up the steps and into the back. Paula shut the doors and Rawlings shouted, 'Right, Lindman, get moving!' And he knelt down to check the old woman's breathing and blood-pressure. They christened her Old Minerva, in the superstitious hope that that goddess of the arts and sciences was looking favourably upon them.

****

Beneath the Basement Operating Theatre's glaring hot lights, Rachel lay cold and naked, lifeless and almost boneless.

            Rawlings pulled his eyes away but could not shake off the memories of their marriage. He looked across at Old Minerva's comatose figure, his throat dry. 'Let's hope the old woman's sacrifice will be worth it.'

            This was no longer Rachel, he told himself. Perversely, though he had the choice of corpses, he had picked hers; to give her death some meaning, to be useful, saving life even from the grave? He made deep incisions with the argon-laser knife, the focused beam sealing off blood vessels as it cut.

            All of Rachel's organs and their secretions were analysed and checked. Towards the end, he had to let Paula take over.

            Eleven aching, tiring hours passed. Effectively, they were sealed off from upstairs and the outside world. The result of the autopsy on Rachel Rawlings was now on reams of continuous printout paper, recordings, tabulations and computer-drawn graphs.

            'We'll take a break,' he said, feeding more information into the comparative physiology computer. 'I'll set the alarm for four hours' time. Okay?' Nobody disagreed. 'Then we'll start on Old Minerva.'

            He woke with a splitting headache, stiffness in his shoulder and a leathery mouth. 'The humming's stopped?'

            Lindman spoke. 'I think the hospital's shut down, Doctor...'

            The ceiling-to-floor ventilation was off. He jabbed a light-switch, the tube flickered into brilliant whiteness. At least the standby generators were working...

            'I switched over an hour ago, but let you all sleep.' Paula added, correctly interpreting his concern, 'Old Minerva is all right.'

            'How do you all feel?'

            They smiled, but he didn't miss the purple-rimmed eyes. 'Thermograph's warmed up and ready,' Mosely said.

            'Good.' As the heat camera measured the old woman's infra-red glow, translating the temperature distribution symmetry on a view-screen in varied colours, Rawlings asked Sister Summers, 'How'd the x-rays come out?'

            'Negative, Doctor. A couple of hairline fractures, self-healed. Nothing else.'

            'Nothing here, either,' Paula said, checking the thermograph.

            Rawlings sighed. 'Let's open her up, then.'

****

Lindman handed over another scalpel as the electricity from the Grid returned; the ceiling-to-floor ventilation now gusted like an arctic wind, splashing blood everywhere. 'Mosely, can't you turn the damned thing off?' Rawlings snapped, bracing himself as he performed an awkward excision.

            'I'll try...' Leaving the anaesthetic trolley, she twiddled the theatre console. The airflow decreased to a reasonable down-draught, but now piped music - used as an anaesthetic for low-pain operations - surged in, deafening. Mozart's Jupiter suite. Distraught, Mosely ripped out the wires and the muzak stopped abruptly.

            In the strange silence of snapped tapes, they repeated all the tests they had done on Rachel. A nagging fear was that the disease began in the bones; if so, then they were stymied, for the computer analysis Sister Summers produced revealed there had been nothing organically wrong with Rachel - except that her bones had turned to powder.

            Rawlings suddenly grinned. 'Well, well. Look - a real appendix!'

            Disinterestedly, Paula looked. 'So what?'

            'Remember our argument? If you're practising medicine in 20 years time,' he said, poking at it, 'you'll be lucky to see one of these perishers then!'

            'I suppose so,' Paula conceded, yawning.

            The appendix poked back at his scalpel.

            'More light, Sister!'

            As the lamps were hydraulically lowered, he watched, scrutinising one single section of the vermiform appendage. Fibrous tissue glowed red. But he never blinked; he out-stared it. The appendix moved.

            'It's alive, for God's sake - look!'

            'I am,' Paula answered in a hushed voice. She shook her head, disbelieving. 'But it - it's supposed to be dead - defunct three million years! It can't be functioning...'

            'Quick, we'll take some samples, analyse...' He was trembling, fearful lest his imagination was running away with the exhaustion.

            All the old woman's organs were functioning correctly - and he grudgingly thanked the modern medicine for that. Extensive tests empirically showed that the appendix was no longer defunct but secreting some kind of natural vaccine. Though there was no way of knowing, it seemed probable that the secretion had been triggered by the infection itself.

            'Check Rachel's records, Sister,' said Paula.

            'There's no need,' he interrupted. 'She's got an appendectomy scar. Negative appendix...'

            Paula's tired eyes glistened with tears. 'I think - you were right...'

            He couldn't swallow, staring down at the silly little worm-shape. He recalled his words at the outset - something about God not being able to help...

            For millions of years, it had been lying there, dormant not dead, apparently useless, just waiting for such an eventuality as this terrible plague from space. Fanciful, of course, flavoured with exhaustion and emotion. Instinctively, he felt his abdomen. At least he had managed to keep his own appendix intact, more by accident than by design. Could the new-born of the last three decades say the same? No. Many were doomed to die. Unless...

            Voice tremulous, Paula said, 'We must isolate Old Minerva's appendix secretion.'

            He wondered about her appendix then, hurriedly, added, 'If not, we'll use some of mine. We've got to devise a broad-spectrum antidote.'

****

In the high-streets of the affected world those who had avoided the pandemic space-virus began looting. Military curfews commenced on the evening that Rawlings and Paula isolated the vaccine, identifying its molecular structure so that it could be manufactured.

            The crash of the ground-floor window jerked his head round, cricked his stiff neck.

            'I'll see what's happening,' Lindman offered.

            For four isolated days without let-up, injecting adrenalin and Benzedrine derivatives, he had kept going. Now, with the phial of artificial vaccine by his side, he was close to tears and mental collapse. Hoarsely, he kept saying, 'We did it, Paula - we did it!'

            But she did not answer, was too intent on the doorway. She let out an involuntary gasp, and gripped his shoulder.

            Three armed paramilitary men stood there, one gripping Lindman who was sobbing; her skirt and blouse were torn.

            Tiredly, Rawlings stared, wondering what was happening. 'Who - who are you?' he asked weakly.

            'You're quite cosy here, mate, with all these women, eh?' growled the unshaven leader, his feral eyes glinting. 'In fact,' he spat on the floor, 'you're so sure of yourself, maybe you know something about this plague.' He turned to his mates. 'I reckon I heard you say you did it.'

            'You're mistaken,' Paula said icily, walking towards them. 'Doctor Rawlings has found-'

            The leader's SLR butt crunched into her jaw, sent her reeling into the bench.

            One of the soldiers cheered.

            Still not fully comprehending, his euphoria at their success still hazing his thoughts, Rawlings stepped forward. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. Paula was hurt. Why? 'Paula?' he croaked. And as he manhandled the surprised leader out of the way so he could attend to Paula, bullets punched into him, jerking him into blackness, into oblivion.

            Blood coursed from his ears. Ears that were deaf to the screams of Lindman and Mosely.

            Sister Summers fought in vain while Paula retched in a corner, painfully supporting her broken jaw with bloody hands.

            Forgotten, the phial stood in a rack on the anaesthetic trolley.

* * * * *

Originally published in Auguries magazine, 1984.

Copyright Nik Morton, 2015

GIFTS FROM A DEAD RACE started life as an explanation for the appendix and was first written as a sexier and longer version and was accepted for publication in MEN ONLY, but due to editorial staff changes it never saw the light of day until featured in AUGURIES in this much tamer offering. 

***

If you enjoyed this story, you might like my collection of crime tales, Spanish Eye, published by Crooked Cat (2013), which features 22 cases from Leon Cazador, private eye, ‘in his own words’.  He is also featured in the story ‘Processionary Penitents’ in the Crooked Cat Collection of twenty tales, Crooked Cats’ Tales.

Spanish Eye, released by Crooked Cat Publishing is available as a paperback and as an e-book.

 
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Spanish-Eye-Nik-Morton/dp/1909841315/ref=tmm_pap_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1399383023&sr=1-4

http://www.amazon.com/Spanish-Eye-Nik-Morton/dp/1909841315/ref=tmm_pap_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1399382967&sr=1-5

 
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Spanish-Eye-Nik-Morton-ebook/dp/B00GXK5C6S/ref=sr_1_4?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1399383023&sr=1-4&keywords=nik+morton
 
http://www.amazon.com/Spanish-Eye-Nik-Morton-ebook/dp/B00GXK5C6S/ref=sr_1_5?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1399382967&sr=1-5&keywords=nik+morton
 
Or you could try my co-authored fantasy novel Wings of the Overlord (by Morton Faulkner) currently available in hardback (5 good glowing reviews):

Floreskand, where myth, mystery and magic reign. The sky above the city of Lornwater darkens as thousands of red tellars, the magnificent birds of the Overlord, wing their way towards dark Arisa. Inexplicably drawn to discover why, the innman Ulran sets out on a quest. Although he prefers to travel alone, he accedes to being accompanied by the ascetic Cobrora Fhord, who seems to harbour a secret or two. Before long, they realise that it's a race against time: they must get to Arisa within seventy days and unlock the secret of the scheduled magical rites. On their way, they stay at the ghostly inn on the shores of dreaded Lake and meet up with the mighty warrior Courdour Alomar. Alomar has his own reasons for going to Arisa and thus is forged an unlikely alliance. Gradually, the trio learn more about each other -- whether it's the strange link Ulran has with the red tellar Scalrin, the lost love of Alomar, or the superstitious heart of Cobrora. Plagued by assassins, forces of nature and magic, the ill-matched threesome must follow their fate across the plains of Floreskand, combat the Baronculer hordes, scale the snow-clad Sonalume Mountains and penetrate the dark heart of Arisa. Only here will they uncover the truth. Here too they will find pain and death in their struggle against the evil Yip-nef Dom.

Blog Guest - Robin Moreton - historian and author of erotic thrillers

Today, my blog guest is Robin Moreton, the penname of the author of Assignment Kilimanjaro, an erotic thriller set in the First World War. A while ago it struck me that it might be a novel idea to interview other writing Mortons from time to time. My first interview was with Alison Morton in May this year and can be found here and I've downloaded her books Inceptio, Perfiditas, and Successio. Also, I’ve recently downloaded four books – Mrs Jones, Molly Brown, Wildewood Revenge, and Bedlam by B.A. Morton, who has a strong following. As far as I know, she is not a relative, either.

Q & A

Interesting to meet you, namesake!

Thanks for inviting me, Nik.

I’ve got several books by other Mortons; coincidentally one of them, Babs Morton comes from the north-east, my neck of the woods! Where do you hail from, Robin?

It’s a small world. Hampshire, England. I think my forebears come from the north of England, but it’s a long time ago since they moved south – I think it was just after the Jarrow marches…

Erotic fiction is almost respectable these days. As this is your first foray into fiction, having previously settled on writing history books, why were you drawn to erotic fiction?

Well, it’s partial fiction, in my view, since I’m rather the official narrator for Tilda Cuve-Banks. Tilda’s record of her exploits – or that may even be sexploits! – were acquired by my agent. She’s mysterious regarding the provenance of ‘the packages’, as she calls them. Anyway, my agent knew of my interest in the period, which is also the time that Tilda operated, and felt I could perhaps put a modern spin on the yarns. Tilda was certainly ahead of her time in many respects. It’s a myth that the Victorians and Edwardians were afraid of sex. In fact, many revelled in it, and particularly enjoyed writing and reading about it.

Tilda was a spy for the British. How many missions did she go on?

The current batch of papers give details of three – East Africa, the Balkans, and Turkey. My agent is being close-lipped regarding the possibility of any more ‘packages’…

So Kilimanjaro might not be a one-off?

That depends on the readers. If enough clamoured for more, I’d be happy to sift through those papers again and write a sequel. I have plenty of non-fiction projects to occupy me until that time arrives.

The story seems to show a strong affinity for Africa. Is this something you picked up from Tilda?

 
Partly. She has a wonderful turn of phrase, but some of her pages are merely notes and observations. I was already in love with Africa, actually. I was fortunate enough to visit the continent on several occasions. This fulfilled a long held ambition of mine, as I’d been brought up on a diet of the books by H Rider Haggard and Edgar Rice Burroughs.

Me, too! Sorry, go on…

 
Well, I visited Mombasa, where some of Assignment Kilimanjaro is set, as well as Bahrain and South Africa. The continent does tend to get in your blood, in your heart. History fascinates me, naturally, and that’s why writing about it is my first love.
 
Even so, I’d always wanted to write a sexy adventure about a strong woman. You know, there were many brave and intrepid women explorers who defied convention in the 1800s and travelled the ‘dark continent’. These Tilda papers seemed like a dream come true. I was doubly pleased to be able to go back to the time of the First World War in east Africa, a neglected period.

Assignment Kilimanjaro is a heady mix of fact and fiction, it seems to me. How much is fact?

Often, I found that I had to extrapolate from Tilda’s notes at certain points. Yes, she definitely did meet the real historical characters that keep cropping up. Winston Churchill, the heroic Paul Emil von Lettow-Vorbeck, and spymaster Mansfield Smith-Cumming, for example. In that respect it’s a variation on the Flashman books, though Tilda is no coward – quite the opposite.

I like the realism you’ve injected. I must admit I tend to think of Tilda as reminiscent of Modesty Blaise.

Yes, only with much more sex. In some ways she resembles the wartime comic strip Jane, who always seemed to lose her clothes yet raise the morale of the troops…

Yes, I recall that some commentators said that the more clothes Jane lost, the more morale rose in the troops! What else have you written?

I’ve also written a non-Tilda erotic short story set in the American Civil War – ‘The Corporal’s Punishment’, published by Xcite Books. It's a play on words and is featured in a collection of erotic stories here by four other Xcite authors. My other works are academic, non-fiction, and written under a different penname.

 

Why use a penname?

While I’m not fazed by the nature of this type of book, it’s quite possible that in the academic field my reputation, such as it is, could unwittingly be affected. That’s why I haven’t provided you with an author photograph!

 
I would certainly caution any potential reader, that if you’re offended by graphic sex descriptions, then sorry, but this book isn’t for you. Not the best of sales pitches, I know, but I want to be up-front about that. Bad choice of words there, perhaps?
 
Not at all…
 
My publisher, Accent Press – under the imprint Xcite Books – is offering Assignment Kilimanjaro in a free iTunes offer for October, ending on the 31^st . Amazon may also Price Match this offer. If you could promote this offer that would be great! All this week it has been in the top 20 on Amazon. Here is the iTunes link:
https://itunes.apple.com/gb/book/assignment-kilimanjaro/id546634091?ls=1&mt=11

Thank you, Robin!

Excerpt

ASSIGNMENT KILIMANJARO

 

PART ONE – TILDA GOES DOWN IN THE JUNGLE

 

Chapter 1: A memorable flight

 

Lake Amboseli, British East Africa – February, 1915

‘You seem pleased to see me,’ she said. Good heavens, she thought, he certainly fills his khaki shorts! So the gentleman dresses on the right. ‘My name’s Tilda Cuve-Banks. What is yours?’

            ‘Hal Denby,’ he replied, the slight warm breeze ruffling his dark-brown hair and the short sleeves of his sweat-patched shirt. A careworn brown leather belt supported a sheathed knife, a belt of .45 ACP cartridges and a holstered pistol – it looked like a Colt M1911. His shorts came to a couple of inches above his knees. Nice, sturdy knees, too; his legs were deeply tanned and very muscular and covered in quite a few old scars. Socks round his ankles and tough worn boots ensured he could travel in any terrain.

Denby’s dark left eyebrow arched and his steel-grey eyes roved over her. ‘Is that Mrs Cuve-Banks, then?’ His quick darting eyes had noted her wedding ring.

She nodded her head. ‘Yes,’ she said but had no intention of explaining that Lord Quentin Banks, her young husband of four weeks, had died in the trenches. Even in these war-torn times, it usually felt safer if travelling as a married woman.

He smiled, the mouth thin and a little on the cruel side, she thought. Judging by the tumescence in the right leg of his shorts, he seemed to like what he saw.

            Tilda was as tall as he was, though high-heeled lace-up white kid boots aided her in this. She wore a long-sleeved white chiffon dress with a high collar, the bodice decorated with white beads. As she stood there, her bulging leather briefcase in one hand, her other hand clamping the white pith hat on her head, he could just distinguish the tanned flesh contours of her legs and arms as the light wind blew off the lake against her. Tilda’s dark auburn hair was tied in a chignon but already wisps had broken free and fluttered around her elegant neck and high cheekbones.

            He took her hand and shook it. His grip was firm, as was hers. He let go and turned to look at the biplane that bounced on the water of the rippling lake; its fuselage was tethered alongside a long thin jetty made up of wooden planks on sturdy thick piles of tree trunks. A man – probably the pilot – was tinkering in the front cockpit.

Denby frowned dubiously at the patched canvas and repaired struts and dangling rigging wires and gestured at the seaplane. ‘We seem to be fellow passengers,’ he said in an ominous tone.

            Ignoring his statement of the obvious, Tilda checked out her immediate surroundings.

Tied to the other side of the jetty was a small fishing boat. Four Africans were unloading wooden boxes of fish; she could smell them from here – men and fish. Behind her was a mud-spattered Ford box-truck, already half full with fish and other produce. Four mules were tethered beside the vehicle; the rich smell of manure and the perpetual buzz of flies also carried to her on the breeze.

The fishermen and farmers would get a fair price for the food, she knew. All to help the war effort against the Prussian Colonel Paul von Lettow-Vorbeck.

As she hadn’t responded to Denby, he tried again: ‘Are you going all the way?’

‘I always do,’ she replied, her light blue eyes flashing suggestively as he jerked round and studied her.

Assignment Kilimanjaro (Xcite Books, an imprint of Accent Press)

 

from Amazon UK here 

from Amazon COM here

 

Note: Apparently, Robin started a blog for Tilda but hasn't had time to add to it; for what it's worth, it is here 

 

 

Mum’s the word

My mother was born Florence Lillian Ross on this day in 1918. Harking from the north-east, I called her Mam. At some point I probably changed from using Mummy or Mammy, but don’t know when that happens. When self-consciousness sets in? Who knows. My mother-in-law came from the north-west, so I called her Mum. Americans use Mom. It all means the same, really.

I was adopted as a baby. She was and always will be my Mam. One day in the 1950s, sitting in Junior School class, I felt my face glow red when my Mam walked in to have a brief chat with our teacher. She looked really elegant, in a summer frock similar to that pictured below. A friend sitting next to me noticed my embarrassment and said, ‘Who’s that – your sister?’ When I got home, I told Mam about that and it made her day.

 

Mam and me in Carlisle forest

Mam in our garden

 

She was diagnosed with cancer a few weeks after Jen and I were married and we were on our way to Malta for eighteen months; she held our daughter once, when she was three months old, and the cancer claimed her on 7 June 1976, aged 58.

I was at sea on HMS Mermaid at the time, the ship’s Petty Officer Writer, and received the signal about her death. Because my Mam was dead, Family Welfare couldn’t finance the flight on compassionate grounds, so I’d have to; however, before I could make arrangements, an extraordinary meeting was held by the ship’s welfare committee and they voted to pay the funds for my flight. I’d barely been on the ship three months and was humbled by this generous gesture. I flew from Gibraltar to UK and thence northwards to attend the funeral. My return to Gibraltar a few days later was uneventful, save that the ship was no longer there, it had been called out on a Subsunk exercise in the Med. By their very nature, these exercises are unplanned. The ship has to set sail at once, allowing very little time to recall crew legitimately ashore, so often a handful of crew might not be found by patrols and announcements before the warship casts off. The ship’s next port of call was Malta, so I had to fly back to UK and then on to Malta, since there were no direct flights.

Later, a rose was planted in the garden of remembrance and Dad regularly painted its plaque. By the time it was his turn to shuffle off this mortal coil in 2000, it was no longer permitted to plant anything in remembrance; maintenance cutbacks, perhaps...

 

Rest in peace, Mam.

Make a date - 1st, 14th, 23rd and 30th April

War, Wolf and Who

 

Some time ago a series of my articles were published in a regular monthly column linking a set selection of dates in history. The series was popular. I'm busy coordinating the articles into book form. As today is 14 April, here are a number of linked events for that date plus three other April dates. To avoid repetition, I've simply indicated the relevant date in brackets.

The three dates for this article are:

1, 14, 23 and 30 April

 
April has a close connection with warfare, as an unusually large number of wars have started or ended in April and many military leaders have been born in April. Just a few wars that started/ended in April - American Revolution started (Paul Revere’s Ride: April 18-19, 1775) American Civil War (started April 1861, Ended April 1865) and the Second World War (Germany Surrendered in April, 1945).

The latter had a lot to do with the massed forces of the Allies but it was also highly relevant that Adolf Hitler and Eva Braun committed suicide the day after they were married in their Berlin bunker (30).

As a precursor to the Normandy landings, the Allies needed to penetrate the ‘soft underbelly of Europe’ and the success of the Allied landings in Sicily depended on a British Intelligence ploy to get the German High Command to shift its forces to Greece. Operation Mincemeat was devised in which the submarine HMS Seraph surfaced off the Mediterranean coast of Spain in 1943 and released a dead man into the sea (30). ‘Major Martin’ was carrying papers showing false invasion plans for Greece. This event was immortalised by the film The Man Who Never Was and was one of the greatest wartime hoaxes ever. It fooled the Nazis, which was the point. [An excellent book, by the way...]

 

Which was appropriate in the month of April Fool’s Day. Sadly, not all things that happened on this day (1) were foolish or funny.

In 1924 Hitler was sentenced to jail for five years (1) for his participation in the Beer Hall Putsch (essentially, treason), though he only spent nine months there – long enough for his world-shaking ideas to gestate in the form of his book, Mein Kampf (My Struggle). And on the same day seven years later, the newly elected Nazis organised a one-day boycott of all Jewish-owned businesses in Germany, ushering in a series of anti-Semitic laws which eventually culminated in the Holocaust.

A disaster on a vastly smaller scale than the Second World War was the sinking of the British steamer SS Atlantic (1) off Nova Scotia, killing 547 in 1873. Thirty-nine years later RMS Titanic struck an iceberg (14) and sank the next morning.

The same day that the iceberg was struck so was Abraham Lincoln (14) - by a bullet fired by John Wilkes Booth in 1865.

Two years later the president’s namesake William Lincoln patented (23) the Zoetrope, a machine which shows animated pictures by mounting a strip of drawings in a wheel and rotating it. And in 1894 the ubiquitous Thomas Edison demonstrated the kinetoscope (14), a device for peep-show viewing utilising photographs that flip in sequence, a precursor of movies.

 

And seventy-five years later to the day (14) at the Academy Awards there was a tie for best actress between Katherine Hepburn and Barbra Streisand. Another Oscar winner was Rod Steiger (for In the Heat of the Night in 1967) – he was born on the same day (14) in 1925, sharing the same birthday with Julie Christie (1941), who appeared with him in Dr Zhivago, and Sir John Gielgud, though twenty-one years younger than the illustrious thespian.
 
On the same day (14) in 1986, that actor who never won an Oscar but became president – Ronald Reagan - ordered bombing raids against Tripoli and Benghazi in Libya, killing sixty people, in retaliation for the bombing of a West Berlin nightclub where a US serviceman was killed.

Yet nature still manages to kill more people than man ever could: on the same day and year as Reagan’s raid (14), 2.2lb hailstones fell on a district in Bangladesh, killing 92. Apparently, these are the heaviest hailstones ever recorded. Bangladesh suffers regularly from natural disasters and April in 1991 was no exception (30) when a tropical cyclone killed about 125,000 people.

 
Meteorologists can actually save lives these days though this science was in its infancy in 1865 when Robert Fitzroy died (30). He was the captain of HMS Beagle and took Darwin on his trip to the Galapagos where he developed his theory of evolution. Fitzroy became an admiral and was the first to issue ‘weather forecasts’ – and the sea area Finisterre was renamed after him in 2002 for the shipping forecasts. [See my blog on the novel about Fitzroy here]
 
Definitely less devastating than the Asian tsunami, a modern instance when forecasting didn’t save lives, a 7.8 magnitude earthquake in 1946 near the Aleutian Islands caused a tidal wave that struck the Hawaiian islands (1) and killed 159. Many commentators lay the blame for natural disasters such as these on modern industrialisation. That famous ecologist, Rachel Carson, author of Silent Spring and founder of the modern environmental movement, died (14) in 1964.

The ecological movement has become legitimate these days and has followers worldwide. The same can be said for Esperanto, the constructed language invented by Ludovich Lazarus Zamenhof (14) who died in 1917. He introduced it under the pseudonym Dr Esperanto, hence the name. His intention was to create an easy-to-learn neutral language to supplement other languages, not replace them. It currently has two million speakers.

Certainly Esperanto might have been useful for Columbus if it had been invented in 1492 when he was given his commission of exploration (30). Little did he realise what he’d set in motion. Some 311 years later, the United States purchased the Louisiana Territory from France for fifteen million dollars (30).

 
That’s not a lot of money for such a massive amount of land. The French have probably regretted it ever since. Talking of money, the first UK decimal coins were introduced this month (23) in 1968 in anticipation of the big event three years later.

Decimalisation certainly made calculations easier – especially on the computer which was in its infancy in those days. In fact, the Apple Computer company was formed in 1976 by Jobs and Wozniak (1). Things moved apace after that, of course, yet it was twenty-five years (23) before Intel introduced the Pentium IV processor.

It’s doubtful if modern synthesised music would have been invented without computers. And one of the most famous composers in this field is Morton Subotnick, who was born (14) in 1933 [and it’s pure coincidence that my name is submerged in his!] A composer of the more traditional sort was Georg Friedrich Handel, who died (14) on Subotnick’s birthday in 1759. Two composers with the name Sergei were born in April: Rachmaninoff (1) in 1873 and Prokofiev (23) in 1891.

Prokofiev is famous for many compositions, notably though Peter and the Wolf which has echoes of old vampire stories. Buffy the Vampire Slayer actress Sarah Michelle Gellar was born (14) in 1977 and none of the vampire characters would have been possible without the discovery of blood circulation by William Harvey who was born (1) in 1578.

Another William is the first Dr Who, William Hartnell, who died (23) in 1975 though he’s now destined to be remembered for all Time.

 

Science fiction author Anne McCaffrey, creator of the series of books about the Dragons of Pern, was born (1) in 1926, the same day as the silent movie star of the Phantom of the Opera, Lon Chaney, in 1883. Another actor who featured in science fiction films – Flash Gordon and Buck Rogers – was Buster Crabbe, who won Olympic gold medals for swimming in 1928 and 1932. He died this month (23) in 1983.

 
It would be remiss not to mention that England’s patron saint, St. George, was murdered in 303 AD because of his strong faith (23) and that both William Shakespeare and Miguel Cervantes died on this day in 1616. One wonders what Darwin would have thought about prolific author Edgar Wallace who was born (1) in 1875, the same year as another prolific author Edgar Rice Burroughs. Among many other books, Wallace wrote To Have and To Hold (which starred William Hartnell), The Four Just Men and King Kong, which has been remade into a state-of-the-art feature film by antipodean Peter Jackson. Fellow New Zealander Dame Ngaio Marsh was born (23) in 1899 and wrote about Chief Inspector Roderick Alleyn.

  

The two Edgars - Wallace and Rice Burroughs

Reminiscences, Naval-02 - 'New Entry'

October, 1965

[More notes scribbled at the time.] The preceding blog can be read here

On arrival in the Royal Naval training camp, we were informed we’d be staying in the New Entry Block for a week; virtual isolation.

New Entry consisted of a row of connecting huts (or messes, as we learned later), a dining hall, and a NAAFI hut out the back of the mess. Firstly, we were led into the kitting-room and were confronted by Mr Marney, who seemed to have adorned New Entry since time immemorial. Set out on metal counters were neat piles of bedding, with the respective cards for same. Mr Marney was Irish and spoke rapidly, and every word seemed to be learned off pat (no pun intended), for he frequently repeated himself word-for-word for the benefit of any inattentive listener: a human record which in that week we desired to be turned off many times. In fairness, it was the only way to process the new recruits – a kind of mass production line.

Outside our hut:

Mick, me, Wyatt and (foreground) Taff

We were all issued with a wooden block, letters of our name glued together to form a name-stamp. In one of Mr Marney’s ‘classes’ we stamped our names on all our items of clothing and bedding, using black paint. My stamp read R.W.N-MORTON, as Nicholson-Morton was a bit too long! We were also issued with a ‘housewife’, a small cloth bag, which contained cotton thread, sewing needles, pins, scissors, and darning wool. The scissors were inscribed with our names – I’ve still got mine, a blade incised in script R. Nicholson-Morton.

By coincidence Mick Siddle’s gear was next to mine. Having been instructed to carry our stuff and follow Mr Marney, we carried the gear and followed the man: we were learning fast.

The hut next door (down a small flight of five steps and along the connecting corridor) was Mess 11; a number of us were escorted within its hallowed walls, yet another contingent of prospective matelots. [Some 49 years later, my house number is... 11...]

Apparently, this was a bad week for recruiting numbers; only 87 had joined up. We filled three messes. I don't know what constitutes a good week these days, but I suspect that the numbers are quite low, thanks to political meddling.

***

If you want to read more about the joining process, try the book Odd Shoes and Medals. This is the memoire of Ron Hudson, who joined the RN a over decade earlier than me, but the process was very much the same.

Non-fiction from Manatee Books. “War broke out when I was eight. My short pants had holes in the backside, which was doubly embarrassing because I didn’t have any underwear and anyone could see my bum. So I used to walk sideways to school if any other kids or grown-ups came by. Miss Grafton, the teacher, let me stay at my desk during playtime to avoid embarrassing exposure. She liked me a lot and I used to take love letters for her to an American soldier. “

These reminiscences cover a span of over seventy years and will jog several memories and remind people that the so-called poverty of present times is nothing compared to the 1940s and 1950s.

Young Ron and his sister Audrey were shunted from one home to another, in excess of a dozen, ‘fostered’ by ‘aunts’ and ‘uncles’, and indeed for many years the pair of them didn’t know where the other sibling lived!  His absentee father barely gave him a thought – though he did present him with ill-fitting clogs, once…

Occasionally, he was bestowed with kindness and, despite moments of great despair, he carried on and eventually joined the Royal Navy. Ironically, for the first time he found a place he could call his home: the navy. He travelled the world, saw the sights, and ‘learned a trade’. When he was demobbed prematurely by politicians, he embarked on a career in British Gas, and has a few amusing tales to tell about (nameless) customers! He set up his own business and became the oldest registered gas fitter in the country, until he retired at age eighty.

As told to Nik Morton

 

Paperback available from Amazon.co.uk here

Paperback available from Amazon.com here

 

 

 

It’s all history now - Portsmouth Historic Dockyard

Doubtless, Nelson is turning in his grave, along with many other great naval men, as a result of the craven decision to effectively close down all shipbuilding in Portsmouth, England. For the information of any global readers, I’ll paraphrase the news. Defence giant BAE Systems announced it was cutting 1,775 jobs. That’s 1,110 from Portsmouth will be laid off; another 835 jobs will be lost at yards in Goven and Scotstoun on the Clyde in Glasgow, at Rosyth in Fife and at the firm’s Filton office near Bristol. BAE bosses apparently told the Portsmouth workers that they could apply for voluntary redundancy, retrain or be redeployed to Govan – this last seems most odd, since Govan is taking a personnel cut as well. Needless to say, those directly affected, and indeed most observers and pundits smell a rat, and it isn’t a rum rat. Though it may be a rum do.

I’ve got every sympathy for anyone made redundant. It happened to me three times in the 1990s. Indeed, there may be sound commercial reasons for reducing the workforce at BAE Systems, to make it leaner – though some commentators have been heard to wonder how lean their fat cats are on the weighing machine… BAE’s proposed tie-up with European aerospace giant EADS collapsed in October 2012, so BAE has had to refocus outside UK. Their negotiations with Saudi Arabia are not going anywhere fast either, apparently. So, because the highly paid individuals who drive desks and posh cars can’t get their ducks in a row, the chop has to descend on the grafters. Usual story. The writing’s been on the wall for some time – but, hey, no problem, let’s break it to them gently, just before Christmas.

One redundancy I suffered, I returned from the Christmas break to be told I was no longer required, they were cutting back staff. They’d known I was destined to go before the holiday, but decided not to spoil my Christmas. That was good of them, in retrospect.

The elephant in the room, of course, regarding this latest decision is the imminent referendum next year – will Scotland vote to stay in the UK or vote to leave. (Nobody has given the English the opportunity to vote, which seems most odd, too). Most suspect that retaining the shipbuilding capacity in Scotland was a sop to the Scots. We’ll see.

Painting of Mary Rose by Geoff Hunt

 

It’s the 210^th anniversary of Trafalgar in 2015. What dismal celebrations they will be – as compared with the Trafalgar 200 commemoration. Then there was weekly family-based entertainment, including a giant jigsaw based on Admiral Lord Nelson; knot demonstrations; shanty singing; circus performers; eccentric street theatre such as Monkey Madness and Morris Men riding Harley Davidsons! (Maybe not much singing now…) Other highlights at the time included Victorian Navy Days on board HMS Warrior with gun drills, guards of honour, piping party, idlers and Victorian messing all authentically re-created. 

The dockyard will still offer maintenance to Royal Navy vessels, and stores and equipment replenishment will occur, as before. The feeling is that the place will be a shadow of its former self, though there are promises of £100m investment to extend the dockyard for its expanded ship servicing role. Whether that happens or not, another slice of Great Britain has been whittled away, probably for political expediency.

 
Even so, there’s plenty of history still to enjoy in Portsmouth’s Historic Dockyard – Henry VIII’s Mary Rose, HMS Victory – the oldest commissioned ship, HMS Warrior, and the Royal Naval Museum. Housed in the RN Museum is a forty-two feet long panorama painted in 1930 by famous maritime artist W L Wyllie: Panorama of the Battle of Trafalgar. It’s free to enter Portsmouth Historic Dockyard and visit the shops, art gallery, cafes and restaurants. Tickets are only required to visit the attractions.

HMS Warrior

There’s also the Trafalgar Sail – the largest, single artefact from the Battle of Trafalgar, the ninety cannon-ball holes that pock mark the sail pay chilling testimony to the ferocity of the battle on the day. Many a British ship was bloody but unbowed at the end; Portsmouth suffered its own blitz in WWII and has fought back before; I hope it will do so again, and not be consigned to history.

Footnotes:

The national archives have listed all the British sailors who served in the British fleet during the battle; you can find out here - http://www.nationalarchives.gov.uk/trafalgarancestors/

The historic dockyard website:

 http://www.historicdockyard.co.uk/

HMS Victory, Portsmouth

 

HMS Victory website:

http://www.hms-victory.com/

 

A list of Mortons who served in Trafalgar - from National Archives         

Name	Age at Trafalgar	Born at	Rate	Ship at Trafalgar	Joined from
John Morton (Moreton)			Private, Marine	HMS Bellerophon	Plymouth HQ
John Morton	24	London, mother Margaret)	Ordinary Seaman	HMS Defiance	HMS Indefatigable
John Morton	32	North Shields, Northumberland	Coxswain	HMS Temeraire
Thomas Morton			Private, Marine	HMS Temeraire	HMS Goliath
William Morton	38	Fleatham, Northumberland	Able Seaman	HMS Victory (Post Trafalgar, joined HMS Ocean and deserted 1806 at Gravesend)	HMS Penelope

Interesting that at least two came from Northumberland, which was my home county (until the politicians messed up the boundaries some years back).