The 'post' arrives at last!

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Now this IS the post that I have been trying

to publish for days.

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The reason it has taken so long to appear,

apart from being sidetracked onto other topics,

is because I been scouring the web for pictures of Austin cars.

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Amongst my boxes of old photos was this.

This is my Great Grandfather with his nice new Austin.

In the front with him, is Great Gran with

my great aunties Alice, Daisy and Doreen in the back.

But what is the car?

Well my Dad always told me it was an Austin 18,

and that GGD had picked it up new from the works

at Longbridge.

Web searches don't come up with photos of such a model.

Only Austin 7, Austin 12 & Austin 20.

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It's obviously not an Austin 7,

but could be either of the others.

My dear friend Angus came to the rescue

after finding a site in New Zealand with lots of pictures.

He reckons it's probably a 12 hp Clifton tourer.

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Here's a restored Austin looking very similar.

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Is there a connection between :-

"Little Missenden",

"Helen",

"Australia",

and

"Austin cars"?

Read on,

Herbert Austin.

Born Little Missenden, Buckinghamshire, England, 8 November 1866

The son of a farmer, he was born in Little Missenden, Buckinghamshire, but the family moved to Wentworth Woodhouse, near Rotherham, Yorkshire in 1870. The Missenden farmhouse is still there alongside the main road rather than in the village, which is tucked away off the main road to Wendover and Aylesbury.

I have driven by hundreds of times and it is, I‘m afraid, nothing special except for its famous connection with Herbert Austin.

In 1884 Herbert emigrated to Australia, with an uncle, on his mother's side, who lived in Melbourne, Australia.

He went to Art School in Melbourne to develop his skills in technical drawing, and it was here, in Melbourne that he met and married his wife Helen.

He worked for quite a number of different firms but ended up joining the Wolseley Sheep Shearing Machine Company, founded in 1887 in Sydney.

In 1893 he returned to England with Frederick Wolseley to set up the company in Birmingham. Frederick resigned in 1894 and Austin became manager.

Later in 1905, Austin raised capital of £37,000 and took over an old print works at Longbridge (then) just outside Birmingham to manufacture ‘Austin cars‘.

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The Austin car works at Longbridge was later to become one of the greatest car manufacturers in the world.

I believe most of it has now been demolished. Sad really.

He died at Lickey Grange, near Bromsgrove, Worcestershire, 23 May 1941

My Grandfather worked at Longbridge for most of his life,

and as an employee, was entitled to a discount on a new car.

It was still a huge amount to find, but in the late fifties,

mustered up enough for an 'A40 Devon',

similar to the one below.

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Slight snag!

He couldn't drive.

My Gran, or Nan as we called her, came to the rescue

and did all the driving.

In 'early days' you didn't need to take a test,

you just applied for a licence.

Whether she had taken a test or not, I don't know.

What I do remember though, was that the registration

number was KOP 716.

I can still remember that after 50 odd years.

There were more photos of more cars.

Perhaps another time.

An afterthought.

Actually Grandad could drive and did have a licence,

but he had Parkinsons at that time and was a bit shakey.

Nan felt safer behind the wheel and drove on L plates

with Pop sitting along side.

It was just as well he was never required to take the wheel.

They were the days!

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"Off the Beaten Track"

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I'm afraid this is, yet again,

not the post I was planning to do next!

I'll get there eventually, but with the weather

being kind to us it is always a shame to stay in.

I've recently spent several days in the workshop,

making a new set of organ pipes and I felt I needed some fresh air.

So it was off to Thame market (again)!

Actually I never tire of markets and always find something new.

Yesterday it was 'duck eggs'!

Now, I have never tried these before, so it will be a first for me.

And, they were only £1.56 for half a dozen.

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On the way home I called in at Emmington.

It is only about a mile from Sydenham, on the opposite side of the main road.

You will see from the map above,

that the church is tucked away behind the Rectory.

and you can only reach it on foot.

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There is a footpath alongside the Rectory gardens,

and then a shared drive up to the church gates.

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Everything was so very tidy,

and obviously well cared for.

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A real hidden gem, off the beaten track.

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This was the view from the church door,

looking back towards the Rectory.

The Rector obviously believed that the shortest

distance between two points, is a straight line!

Now, back across the main road,

I called in again at Sydenham to see this keyhole that I had read about.

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The folk of Sydenham couldn't afford a gravel drive,

so the path to the Church door was simply turf.

Alright in the summer, but a bit muddy

during our wet Winter months.

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And there it was.

The sundial keyhole plate.

The little church at Sydenham, near Thame, has found a most unusual use for a sundial.

Of brass, small and rectangular, it is fixed to the main door as a keyhole plate.

It has incised Roman numerals which run from the bottom, to the left Ito VIII and to the right IX to IIII.

Although it is a nice idea, the shaft of the key would not, in this position, work as a gnomon.

It was simply a repair/replacement for the previous keyhole plate, or escutcheon as it is correctly termed.

Rectangular?

Looks octagonal to me.

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Indeed, some books do state that the Church Warden could tell the time,

from the shadow cast by the key.

A nice tale but, not true.

Oh well, off to have a duck egg and 'soldiers'.

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In Search of Snowdrops.

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As some of you noticed,

I repeated this year my 'Snowdrop post'

from Great Missenden.

So on a sunny Tuesday, a couple of weeks ago,

I went off in search of a different location.

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I stopped off for a picnic at the village of Sydenham.

It is on the way back from Thame market so I didn't go too far out of my way.

Now Sydenham is not in Buckinghamshire,

but just over the border into Oxfordshire.

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It is a very attractive village, having a good selection of timber framed,

brick, flint and wychert (a clay-like material)

cottages under thatch and old tiled roofs.

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This one is dated 1797.

I was wondering how many times it had been re-thatched

in those 214 years?

Further down by the little stream I found a few snowdrops.

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Probably planted by the residents.

The name 'Sydenham' by the way,

means 'at the wide hamm or meadow'.

And here's a few in some-ones garden.

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One of my 'better' photos I thought?

And then on over to the flint and stone St. Mary's Church

with its oak shingled spire.

This is much older than those cottages above,

as it dates back to the 13th century.

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Now when I got home I read up on the village and the Church.

I seem to have done things the wrong way round here,

because I read that the Church door had a very unusual keyhole.

It was cut out from an old sundial.

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I remembered reading about this in one of my books on clocks.

Did I take photo? No!

Do you think I can find that picture in my clock books? No!

I must remind myself to read up on a place

before setting out.

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Anyway, the Church was home to a sweet little organ.

One manual, four stops and two candle holders!

Years ago it would have been hand pumped

by a boy around the back.

He even had his own little seat (picture right),

so he could take a rest between hymns.

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And, as in all true English villages.....

The Pub. Right next to the Church.

And........

right next to the Pub was.....

the

Village Information Centre.

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Housed in the now defunct telephone box!

(Shame I parked the car in the wrong place)

and

shame about the keyhole photo - if I come across it,

I'll post it up.

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All the Deans!

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As you know I like to include a front sheet of some music with my posts -

and this was the best I could think of today.

Yesterday I was playing, not Nellie Dean but,

at a delightful little village up in Chilterns called North Dean.

(Do I hear groans all round?)

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I took a few pictures at the start before the crowds arrived.

That's my pitch on the right.

I tried to find out something about North Dean, but all my books cover Speen, but nothing about the two Dean's - North & South. The whole area is beautiful farming countryside and years ago would have been home to lace makers, farmers and chair makers working in the Hampden woods.

This Saturday was, however, the day of the Village Fete

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My friend Dennis (another Deane - but with an ' e') was asked to play there, as he had on previous years, but this time he was booked to play elsewhere. I was asked if I would take his place.

How could I miss out on such a charming location and only a few miles from home.

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Some familiar stopping places.

Dennis, unfortunately didn't make it to either of the locations this year!

Last week, whilst cutting back his apple tree,

he fell off the ladder and damaged his knee.

So, Dennis, if you are reading this, here's to speedy recovery.

Look what you missed out on!

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And just look at the size of those sausages!

They looked like real Farmer's sausages to me.

I was tempted - but being on a low fat diet, I resisted.

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A real Coconuts Shy

And I just had to take a closer look at that those fantastic houses behind where I was playing.

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Idyllic.

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"I just Fancy a Pineapple"

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The “Pine Apple Rag” was written by Scott Joplin in 1908. It is supposed to be played as a Slow March and is one of many of his works to include the instruction;

“NOTE: Do not play this piece fast. Composer.”

A lot of ragtime is played much too fast as pianists try to show off.

(ie “The Entertainer” in The Sting) .

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Last week I was over near Dorney, which I mentioned in my bit on Monkey Island.

There used to be a particularly good “Pick your Own” in the grounds of Dorney Court.

It is great fun to pick your own fruit and especially Pineapples.

But, like a lot of things today the “Elf ’n Safety” gang had got there first and it had closed down.

How sad.

I just fancied a Pineapple.

I am only joking about PYO pineapples - BUT they were really grown there in “Good King Charles Days”. In fact the very first pineapple to be grown in England was cultivated here at Dorney Court in 1661.

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Dorney Court has been the home of the Palmer family for more than 450 years, passing from father to son through thirteen generations. It is a Grade 1 listed building, further designated as being of outstanding architectural and historical interest. Dorney Court has always been the manor house of Dorney village which was first recorded in the Doomsday Book.

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A large carved stone pineapple standing in the Great Hall commemorates the first pineapple ever to be grown in England - here at Dorney Court.

The story is that at a dinner in the Mansion House, the King cut the top off a pineapple which had come from Barbados, and gave it to the Earl of Castlemaine to see if he could get it to grow!

The Earls gardener, a Mr Rose (!), planted the top and the first fruit was duly presented to King Charles II in 1661.

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It is only a story, but a nice one, as it has never been proved, however there is a painting by a Dutch painter, Danckaert of the first pineapple being presented to the King.

The background in the picture bears no resemblance to Dorney but as it was painted in Holland, it is thought that he painted what to him, was a typical English home!

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Further down the road is of course a pub.

And yes you've guessed; it is called the "Pineapple".

In fact, the pub is not in Dorney but in the neighbouring hamlet of Lake End.

The connection with beer does not end here either, for in 1840, a new brewer came to Maidenhead - WILLIAM NICHOLSON. William was a trained chemist and he used his skills to perfect his beer. The water for the beer came from a 320ft. artesian well under his premises; this well is on pure chalk and gave the beer its distinctive flavour. (In other words - "Thames Water").

William named his brewery PINEAPPLE BREWERY; he chose this name because the first pineapple to be grown in England was at nearby Dorney Court.

I took quite a few pictures - I think another post is called for.

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Monkey Island.

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The new Olympic rowing venue (which appears to be called Dorney Lake) is situated not far from Bray, which I posted about last week. It is an artificial lake (or lakes as there are actually two side by side) and is easily spotted from Google Earth.

But back on the main river, about half a mile from Bray Lock is a eyot which has acquired the name of “Monkey Island“.

It is generally assumed that the Island takes its name from the monkey paintings in the pavilion but this is not correct.

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The 'Monkey Hall'.

The name derives from the earlier title of "Monks Eyot" indicating that the island was being used by Monks, probably in association with their fishery in the Thames. The monks in question resided at Amerden Bank, a moated site near Bray Lock on the Buckinghamshire bank of the river.

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The centre picture.

On this island, which contains about three acres, the Duke of Marlborough built a pavilion or fishing lodge, and on the ceiling of one of the rooms he commissioned these paintings.

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The room is often referred to as the 'Monkey Hall' as the ceiling paintings depict monkey engaged in various human occupations.

Some are fishing, some shooting and one is sitting in a boat smoking, while a female is rowing him over the river!

They never seem to me to be very good representations of monkeys, but there you go.

The pictures are sometimes attributed to a French artist named Clermont.

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The Cherry Fayre

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Perched on top of one of the southernmost ridges of the Chiltern hills, Flackwell Heath enjoys superb views on three sides; to the south over the Thames valley to the South Downs far beyond, and to the east and north over the Wye valley curving round from Wycombe through Wooburn to Bourne End.

The cherry industry was important to several Chiltern villages, for example Prestwood and Holmer Green. Whereas these two villages tended to have larger, commercial orchards, it was Flackwell Heath with its prettier mosaic of smaller fields and meadows that seems to have been generally regarded as the queen of the Chiltern cherry villages.

There were two main events that marked the cherry season. On Cherry Sunday, the Sunday in April that coincided most closely with the peak of the cherry blossom, visitors from Wycombe and surrounding villages would pack Flackwell Heath's narrow country lanes to admire the trees, before most likely fortifying themselves in one or other of the local pubs before the long walk back home again.

To mark the completion of the cherry picking season in July there was the Cherry Fair, an occasion of revelry and celebration.

Most local people would be involved in the cherry picking in one way or another. Ladders up to 30 feet tall and with a wide base for stability were manipulated with ease and skill to reach the tops of the trees.

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Many children (playing truant?) would earn a few pence as "bird starvers", vying with each other to devise and construct rattles and other apparatus that would make as much noise as possible to try to scare blackbirds and starlings away from the rapidly ripening crop.

The last Flackwell Heath cherry orchard was planted in 1889, and none exists today, their sites having all been built on.

With the demise of the orchards the Cherry Fair lapsed, but was revived in 2005 as Flackwell Heath village carnival and fete, and has been held every July since then but is now called the ‘Cherry Fayre‘.

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This years Fayre was on Sunday just gone and by the time I arrived there were no cherries to be seen anywhere!

Never mind, I went there to help out turning Dennis's organ. He had a sore thumb so I did a spot of grinding whilst he had a look around. This is one of the problems with doing a grind on your own - you can't get to walk around. Even a 'comfort' break is difficult to arrange.

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This years theme was "The 1940's" and there was plenty of WW2 memorabilia around including Jones van from the "Dad's Army" series.

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Vintage cars.

And Pony Rides.

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I was not allowed a go - she said it was for children.

And there was me being constantly told that......

"all men are little boys at heart!"

Showing my complete ignorance,

I asked if this chap below was a Welsh pit-pony.

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"No", she said, "He's a Shetland as well".

See, I can't even guess right.

I therefore sort refuge from the heat in the Beer Tent and listened to the jazz from that excellent group called "Rhythm & Booze".

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This was the same group that were in the Amersham Memorial gardens last year.

They are due back in August - must check the date.

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The singing Vicar of Bray

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At secondary school, and I expect also at primary school, the song books were passed around and we all joined in a jolly good sing-song.

Cherry Ripe, Bobby Shafto, My Darling Clementine and somewhere in there would be:-

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In those days I lived a hundred miles from Bray and had no idea where it was, or what this Vicar had been up to.

Now I live only a matter of miles away, and have been through many times by road and river.

The famous Singing Vicar of Bray had a well-known ballad written about him in which he promised to remain the Vicar of Bray, Sir, no matter what religious denomination he had to adopt.

Living under King Henry VIII, King Edward VI, Queen Mary, and Queen Elizabeth, he was first a Papist, then a Protestant, then a Papist, then a Protestant again. He had seen some martyrs burnt (two miles off) at Windsor, and found this fire too hot for his tender temper.

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Old Bray from a painting by A.R.Quinton.

This vicar, being taxed by one for being a turncoat and an inconstant changeling, said,

"Not so, for I always kept my principle, which is this - to live and die the Vicar of Bray".

"And this is law I will maintain

Until my dying day, sir,

That whatsoever King shall reign,

I'll be Vicar of Bray, sir."

Todays Bray, is still fairly attractive, spoilt like most small villages by an increase in traffic.

The most prominent object in the village from the river is the fine old church, close to which stands the vicarage, with trim gardens, and smooth shaven lawns running down to the river. A profusion of fine trees adds to the beauty of the view, and the place is very happily situated at a beautiful bend of the river.

(Here I was going to paste one of my pen & ink drawings - but, do you think I could find it? - Never mind. Another day).

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A very expensive place to live. If I remember correctly, the pubs there only served beer in half pint glasses and made you feel out of place if you turned up without a tie! I can remember the days when Princess Margaret used to frequent the 'posh restaurants' here. They are still there with their rows of Gold Stars outside.

Here's a snippet about The Waterside Inn. Bray.

It was taken from a review in the ‘Torygraph’ :-

“As my wife’s eyebrows descended, so did her jaw. “Good grief,” she murmured. “Oh my.” The set lunch is £69.50 with two glasses of house wine lobbed in, but with the à la carte you’d certainly want something stronger than a harmless rosé from Provence. A poached egg starter is £37, a crème brûlée £29.

However, with its fine floral prints nestling between mirrors, gorgeous flowers, gentle, elegant red carpet and doors opened on to the river and weeping willows beyond, this is a very handsome and gratifyingly unstuffy place in which to eat in summer.

The cheese trolley is spectacular, and the selection of Auvergne cheeses flawlessly kept (a pity, as my mother would say, at £26.50). My “dark equatorial chocolate dessert” with vanilla ice cream was also good, as were the petits fours served with coffee (shame again at £12 a cup). “

“I punched in my PIN without checking the bill, but I’ve now glanced, and despite the set lunch and abstemious boozing, it came to £115 per head.”

The Waterside Inn, Ferry Road, Bray, Berkshire; (waterside-inn.co.uk).

Lunch for two: £230 and....... they only awarded it 6 out of ten!

As you missed out on my pen & ink,

here's a much better picture by Alexander Ansted.

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Shadows of departing day at Bray.

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