About johnshortlandwriter

John the Writer: It is as natural for me to write as it is for me to eat or drink (sometimes I forget to do both when the ink is flowing). For years I would write – then shuffle the words until satisfied - then shred it. The act of writing was enough. One day I thought that seemed just a tiny bit silly so saved them on the computer and Life in the English Cotswolds was born. That was in 2009 and to my surprise people like you came along and liked what you saw. Since then, over 180,000 of you have visited, commented and become ‘friends’. Thank you! 2012 saw the very first Chipping Norton Literary Festival take place with which I was closely involved for several years. It was there that I was approached to write my book, Why Can’t my Garden Look Like That?, published a year later by How To Books, an imprint of Constable & Robinson and now part of Little, Brown. Over the years, my blog has expanded to cover many topics ranging from travel to family history and much else. This has brought a new audience with it for which I am both delighted and grateful. John the Gardener: The earliest image of me gardening is one of me as a child of about four using – well that’s too strong a word for it – a rake. Gardening is in my blood for every member of my family have been keen amateur gardeners (I am the only one doing it for a living). Whether it was aunts, grandparents or my father, everywhere I went they were in the garden tending flowers and vegetables or in the greenhouse potting up seedlings. Indoors, around the table, the talk was all about plants. Despite that, I started off my working life (apart from a short stint on a remote Exmoor farm) in the rag trade – selling men’s and women’s fashions. All the time, the great outdoors beckoned so it was off to horticultural college as a mature student before becoming Head Gardener to several large, country estates. That was twenty years ago now and every day I realise that not only did I make a great career move but just how lucky I am. Another sideways step brought me to where I am now – designing gardens, showing others how to garden and looking after gardens. And, of course, writing about it. John the Countryman: I have lived in the country all my life. As a child I spent my time exploring the lanes, woodlands and orchards of the Chilterns, that range of glorious, chalk hills cloaked with beech trees. Each spring they become carpeted with tens of thousands of bluebells. It was here, as a small boy, that I learnt about the wild plants and animals that share our world, a magical place. In more recent times I moved to the Cotswolds – only 50 miles away yet a completely different range of hills both geologically and in character. Here, there are wide open views and skyscapes, dry stone walls and rushing streams and some of the prettiest towns and villages in Britain. I now live in a tiny stone cottage beside the winding river in the photo above, all tucked way in a secret valley. Bliss. Horses and dogs play an important part in my life too. More bliss. John the Explorer: The description is a tad exaggerated but I have had my moments. I guess that spending a night in a hostel for down and outs in the Rocky Mountains (how did I mistake it for a hotel and why didn’t I leave, I often ask myself), being stuck in a blizzard in an Indian reservation at 3 am in the morning in the far north of Canada or getting caught up in an attempted coup in Sudan probably allows me some claim to the title. Recent years have seen my exploring closer to home, in considerably more comfort and a lot less scary. Well, in principle, it is. I spend a lot of time on Exmoor, my spiritual home of over 45 years, and Ireland is another place that I visit frequently. Strangely, things still don’t always seem to go quite to plan …

A Naughty Boy?

Posted on September 17, 2024 by johnshortlandwriter

I wonder when Henry started going ‘off the rails.’ Was it down to his parentage? Perhaps living in the small, Thames-side village of Medmenham, where everyone knew one another and so would have known the story behind his birth, may have been a factor. Or was this considered too shameful to be ever spoken of openly again. Whatever, the cause, by 1838 he already had a string of petty offences under his belt when once again he found himself standing in front of the Buckinghamshire Assizes for larceny.

Poor Henry’s troubles really began before he was even born. His mother, Ann Chown, planned to marry local lad Thomas Burridge in the village church in the May of 1809 but on the 14^th, halfway through the Banns being called, Thomas had them cancelled. He had discovered that Ann was pregnant with Henry, the father being another village boy, Elias Nibbs. Ann had very nearly got away with her deception for Henry had been born and baptised by 4^th June. Ann and Elias never married nor, it seems, lived together, for within a short time they had both married others.

Henry couldn’t have been a clever thief for, on the 4^th April 1838, he was sentenced to six months imprisonment with hard labour for the theft of an axe and mattock from William Chown, his uncle, and a billhook from John Rockall, his stepfather. He was even less clever when he tried his hand at burglary again despite travelling four miles to the local town of Marlow for his crime. This time he stole a shovel, the property of William Brangwin and so, within weeks of being freed from jail, in November he was back before the bench once again.

Standing before the magistrate, Squire Robert Hammond, Henry heard how the shovel was readily identified by Brangwin’s initials being burnt into the handle. Richard Ayres testified that he had been using it on the day of the theft and Thomas Wright, the local pawnbroker told how Henry (using the alias Beaver) pawned it for one shilling – 5p in modern coinage. Hammond was not prepared to give Henry another chance. For this crime he was sentenced to seven years transportation to Australia. It would be interesting to know how the family and villagers reacted to the sentence. Perhaps it was relief for most but more likely, for his mother Ann, it was harrowing.

Henry was taken from prison on 13^th May 1839 to Sheerness, a port east of London, where he boarded Convict Ship Parkfield. There were already one hundred prisoners aboard and now it was filled to capacity with the addition of one hundred and forty more men. A military guard of over thirty kept order and six women and nine children also boarded – as this was a male convict ship, one assumes they were planning to join loved ones or just hoping to seek a better life. The voyage was better than normal; with no storms the sea remained calm. When they arrived at Port Jackson, New South Wales, on 1^st September, the ship’s Surgeon, Alexander Neill was commended for the cleanliness of the ship and the health of the men for there had been no deaths. Interestingly, in his Journal he mentions that he had rejected one prisoner with scurvy: “one of the worst cases I’ve ever seen and him, not yet at sea.” The convicts were taken ashore to Hyde Park Barracks for processing. We hear nothing more of Henry until the 29^th May 1840 – a simple entry in the register: Henry Chown, drowned, Sydney. No further details were given.

*Details of Henry’s, and others, crimes listed in the 1838 Register*

What became of Ann, Thomas Burridge and Elias Nibbs? Ann married John Rockall in 1811 and had nine children, dying in 1872, aged 85. Elias married in 1813 and had one known child, Richard, before he disappears from the scene. Interestingly, a Richard Nibbs was also transported on the same ship as Henry – were they half-brothers in crime? And Thomas Burridge? He obviously recovered from the upset for within eight months he had married Ann’s younger sister Mary. They had seven children before Mary died in 1828. He later married again and fathered three more children. For such a small place, Medmenham, had its fair share of scandal and excitement!

*Henry Chown – drowned. The last entry in the Convict Deaths Register*

I have been researching my family history for many years and have uncovered all sorts of stories. There seems to be a disproportionate number of ancestors that had illustrious careers, reaching both fame and wealth. How very exciting to find, at last, a real black sheep in the family!

Henry Chown, my ancestral 1st cousin born 9th May 1809 Medmenham, Buckinghamshire, England died 29th May 1840 Sydney, New South Wales, Australia, aged 31

Sources:

The National Archive British Newspaper Archive Wikipedia Convict Records, Australia Ancestry UK

A Good Walk Home

Posted on August 31, 2024 by johnshortlandwriter

Both my partner and I like walking but, more often than not, we walk alone. Somehow it just works out like that and there is no doubt about it, that when you walk without company you do see and hear so much more. It isn’t that we chatter away non-stop – we’ve been together for far too long for that!! It’s just that with no-one to speak to, or alongside, one becomes far more aware of all that’s around you. And with only the sound from one pair of walking boots the wild creatures are less aware or concerned of your presence.

*Walking quietly it’s possible to get quite close to wildlife*

Usually, from necessity, our walks are circular – either back to the car or back to the house if we’ve started from home. Recently I cadged a lift to Duns Tew, just outside the Cotswolds but still in Oxfordshire and not that far from home and the secret valley. The village is an interesting mix of houses and makes use of their local ironstone as well as the Cotswold limestone. I find it fascinating knowing that I live on the edge of two quite different rock formations, 0ne literally as hard as iron and the other, soft and easily worked. The photo below shows the pretty church built of yellow ironstone and banded with paler limestone – a familiar pattern in the locality.

*The thousand year-old Church of St Mary Magdalen, Duns Tew*

The houses vary in style and age as well as building materials. Some have thatched roofs; others slate and some stone tiles. The traditional village pub has a stone tile roof made from Cotswold stone split into thin tiles. Just to confuse the unknowing, these tiles are known locally as slates even though they are not made of slate! The craft of making these roof tiles is centuries old – they have even been found by archaeologists when excavating Roman villas (of which there are quite a few in the Cotswolds) which means the manufacture of them has remained unchanged for the best part of two thousand years. The pub also has a drystone garden wall, also made from Cotswold stone for which it is so ideal and makes such a memorable feature of the Cotswold Hills.

*Village houses: contrasting style and stonework. The thatched house was built in the early 1600s*. *There are a number of these old signposts still standing locally*

*The village pub: this dates from the late 1600s. Note the stone ‘slate’ roof*

One of the great things about walking in England is that we have a huge network of public footpaths, many of which date back to pre-history. Now that I realise (thanks to my overseas readers) that being able to walk across privately-owned land by right is almost unique I intend to write specifically about them at a later date. Suffice to say here, is that it is possible to walk from one end of the country to the other over thousands of miles of paths that must not, by ancient law, be obstructed. This path is beautifully maintained by the owner. Just outside the village, partly hidden in undergrowth, were the remains of old pony carts.

*A well-maintained public right of way that is also a driveway to the owner’s house*

*Half-hidden at the back of a semi-derelict shed*

The path opened onto cornfields, the wheat harvested and the remaining stubble giving a real autumnal look to the countryside. The hedgerow is also offering its autumnal fruits for the picking – crab apples, elderberries and blackberries; the sloes although looking good won’t be ready to collect until after the first frosts. The squirrels have taken all the hazelnuts (you have to be quick to get them before they do – but already the embryo catkins, the male flowers, are beginning to appear. It will be early February before they show the familiar ‘lamb’s tails’ that release clouds of yellow pollen with the slightest breeze.

*The path is now gras covered passes ‘twixt hedgerow and cornfield*

*Crab apples*, *blackberries, elderberries. Tiny catkins are just forming amongst the blackberries*

Although the path, now a wider track, looks obstructed here, the farmer/landowner has to leave the gate unlocked so that people on foot or on horseback can pass. Crossing the lane it returns to being a path, this time skirting a large wood. Now hidden by high hedgerows in the spring when the leaves are all bare, the woodland floor is carpeted with bluebells. In the centre of the field is a stand of mature oaks. Why were they left there? For me, they always have a mystical look about them; stepping into their midst the atmosphere changes as if its centuries old story is being told to those that might listen. Perhaps it’s just my imagination but the fancy is palpable.

*As this is a public right of way, one of the gates must be kept unlocked by law*

*The copse in the middle of the field* – *was it once a sacred site?*

Once again the path changes character. Now a track crossing a small stream, the movement of a young coot searching for food catches my eye and we watch one another for a while before it decides that food is far more important than me. At such close range I see it snatch a small water beetle before it disappears into the undergrowth. For a while the path becomes woodland again and then opens up onto a concrete track. The concrete is all that remains of a WW2 airfield, far inland to be out of the range of German bombers. I stop to listen and am met with silence. How different the scene would have been eighty years ago.

*The baby coot carried on about its business…*

*The old wartime concrete paths make easy walking*

Finally back home. Being an Englishman through and through (if you ignore the foreign bits of me!) I sit on the old stone bench in the garden with a refreshing cup of tea and lean back against the walls of our own stone-built house built 170 years ago. Looking out beyond the garden I can’t help feeling how privileged I am to be seeing the best views of the whole walk!

Yorkshire Cheese

Posted on July 29, 2024 by johnshortlandwriter

Over the many years of writing this blog I have rarely posted reviews of products or of venues. From time to time such requests are made and turned down as that sort of writing has never been my intention. The few that I have written have been chosen solely on their merit – it is usually because I have come away with that ‘wow’ feeling. And so it is with this one for, as others will testify, cheese is certainly, or can be, able to give it.

*Judging cheese at the Great Yorkshire Show*

My partner and I had chosen to spend a week in the Yorkshire Dales, a National Park with spectacular scenery. Austwick is a classic north of England village – solid stone-built cottages, a church, a village green, a couple of village shops and for us, a great base for some wonderful walks over what can be challenging terrain. As it happened, it turned out to be a little too challenging as my partner is recovering from a broken foot – the cross-country walks will have to wait for another visit. Instead, we decided to explore the area mostly by car with a few short, gentle walks thrown in as ‘therapy’.

On our first outing, we had only driven two miles before we saw a sign marked The Courtyard Dairy. Not expecting too much other than an ice cream (they do those too), we were blown away by what we saw. The Courtyard Dairy – trading from a converted barn – is a family run affair and there is little doubt upon entering that they are certainly having a love affair with cheese. There are cheeses of every colour, size and consistency everywhere you look. I suppose we shouldn’t have been surprised for the fields we’d passed were full of black and white milking cattle and, of course, as every Wallace & Gromit fan knows, Wensleydale (just a few miles up the road) is famous for its cheese. There is even a black and white – plus a few extra colours – cow to greet you as you walk into the Dairy yard.

The people that run the Dairy couldn’t have been more friendly and were quick to correct us (nicely!) when we said we were staying at Austwick and pronouncing it in the typical Southern way, Oorstwick. “Oh, you mean Austwick – Aust as in Australia.” It reminded us of a time some years ago when we were up north and asked a local policeman how we reached the village of Oertop. It took some time before he realised that the person who had given us directions had said, when translated into southern speak, “over the top” which had meant we needed to take the road that went over the hill.

*Friendly staff and a great selection at The Courtyard Dairy*

As with all good cheese shops, we were able to taste the cheeses before deciding which ones to buy and, needless to say, came away with a classic cheeseboard: a couple of hard cheeses, a soft cheese, a blue cheese and a goat cheese. Of course, no cheese should be unaccompanied without wine and across the courtyard there is a wine shop with a tremendous selection. A bottle of Bordeaux was suggested as the perfect partner for the hard cheeses.

Behind the cheese shop the Swinscoe family have created a small museum telling the story of cheesemaking in the Dales. The old equipment used is on display as well as boards explaining the family’s connection to the Dales, to cheese making and to farming. For me, I found the recipe notes dating from 1912 and written by Great Granny Mary Reid of especial interest for I have a few recipes similarly handed down from my Polish great-grandmother Rachel. She died in Poland before my mother was born and these precious mementos seem to give life back to these people of long ago that would otherwise be unknown.

*Great-Granny Reid’s cheesemaking notes, 1912*

Neither great-grandmother had, to my knowledge, a recipe for pizzas using local cheeses but if you fancy one these are also available in the restaurant attached to the Dairy. All in all, a great visit and well worth making a special trip for. However, if you are unable to find an excuse for a few days in Yorkshire an online order service and a cheese club are available. I think there’s a very good chance that I shall be joining!

*Not a picture but the view from the museum window!*

The Courtyard Dairy is situated on the A65 Kirkby Lonsdale to Settle road, and about 2 miles south-east of Austwick

The Courtyard Dairy website

It is not surprising that I was so delighted to have discovered this place for it has received many accolades before: Cheesemonger of the Year in the World Cheese Awards, visits from King Charles III as Prince of Wales, Nadiya Hussein to mention just a few…

Talk: A Short History of Shortlands

Posted on July 6, 2024 by johnshortlandwriter

Further to my post Thirty Years On – Sadness & Celebration (part one) (link here), I am delighted to be giving an illustrated talk to the newly-formed Bourne End (Bucks) One-Place Study Group on Thursday 15th August, 8.00pm at the Bourne End Community Centre.

The talk will look at both the early days of the store, why it came to Bourne End, as well as its more recent history. There should be plenty of opportunity afterwards for reminiscing and to share memories.

Bourne End (Bucks) One-Place Study (link here)

30 Years On – Sadness & Celebration (part two)

Posted on May 6, 2024 by johnshortlandwriter

Earlier I wrote about the sadness felt within my family, as well as the wider community, at the closure of our small department store that bore the family name, Shortlands. It had spanned the generations for almost one hundred years, firstly as Langstons – my great-grandfather’s surname, and then, after one of his sales assistants married the boss’s daughter, renamed Arthur Shortland. Clever chap, my grandad! Later still, during my tenure, the ‘Arthur’ was dropped. I locked the doors for the final time thirty years ago this spring. Last month seemed an appropriate time to celebrate its history and tell the story, not just of our family connection, but also of the incredible people that worked there over the decades. It can be read in Part One by c lick ing on the link here. I found the response to that blog incredible with so many people contacting me through my website or social media. It was lovely, as well as humbling, to hear their memories and to know that Shortlands had not been forgotten after such a length of time. Although I gave a hint in the blog, I was also asked what have I been doing since 1994. In this post, Part Two, I bring the story up to the present date.

A reaction to my choice of careers that I receive quite regularly is one of surprise. Surprise that I once worked in the world of fashion, and wearing a suit and tie each day, or surprise that I am now working outdoors and wearing jeans and a t-shirt – although, I do have to look smarter on occasion [laughs]. When my retail career of twenty-five years ended, I was in my early forties and my future looked uncertain. I toyed with various career plans, none of which appealed very much. Unsure of what to do next, I decided to take a night class at our local agricultural college, Hall Place at Burchett’s Green. Little did I realise, on the evening of my enrolment, that I would soon be working at the Chelsea Flower Show, working on a gardening series for Channel 4 television or travelling to Hungary, only recently free from Russian occupation, on a horticultural study tour.

My visit to Hall Place had ended not with a night class but a two-year, full-time crammer course in Horticulture where I studied Landscape & Estate Management. Gardening had been the major hobby across the Shortland family for generations; I was the first in modern times to try and make a career of it. Knowing I still had a mortgage to pay, and therefore failure wasn’t an option, I studied hard in a way that I had never managed in my school days and came away with a good qualification. By then, I knew that I wanted to run gardens for large country estates. I had the good fortune to be offered, during my training, a work placement with the Getty family, then the wealthiest in the world. Their Head Gardener, Andrew Banbury, gave me various tasks and projects to carry out, frequently pushing me beyond my comfort zone. I have a lot to be grateful to Andrew for. When it was time for me to leave, I stepped straight into the role of managing gardens for a Swedish family who, again, were keen for me to develop further skills as well as their garden. Over the next few years, I had the opportunity to develop an arboretum, create a lake and, best of all, to manage and develop a one-acre walled kitchen garden.

*The new lake two years after construction*

The Millennium saw a change once again for I left the Chilterns and the area I had known all my life and moved to the Cotswolds, there to manage an historic, Italianate Garden, Kiddington Hall. This had new challenges but, although I enjoyed it enormously, the call of working for myself once again beckoned. In 2005 I set up a design and landscaping business which, I am glad to say, flourished; now I have virtually retired.

One of my last projects had been designing and overseeing a garden that has many elements to it: a 50 metre ha-ha, a cottage garden, formal lawns, terraces, topiary, wildflower meadows and kitchen garden, most of which have been created from scratch. As I watched the garden come to shape, with all the hard work being carried out by the owner’s own team of builders and gardeners, how grateful I was that I could now ‘pull the age card’ and let others do the physical tasks!

When I moved to the Cotswolds in 2001, for the first time in my life I was no longer ‘a local’ and knew no-one. Hearing that Oxfordshire was one of the few counties without a Gardens Trust and that one was being formed, I volunteered and for several years organised talks and visits to gardens which introduced me to many new people. One, hearing of my attempts at writing suggested I joined the local writers group. Feeling very out-of-place I did and before long the talk of ‘doing something big’ with books came about. From those very casual thoughts I found myself part of a small team that created the Chipping Norton Literary Festival. My title of Author, Agent and Publisher Liaison brought me into contact with many people in the literary world and soon I was commissioned by one to write a book on gardening. Three years later it was me being interviewed and giving talks on stage and the radio, a surreal experience.

*Being interviewed at the Chipping Norton Literary Festival*

Looking back over the past thirty years I realise just what a chance I took with my career choice and how fortunate I was for it to have ended well. It has taken me on the most incredible of journeys and given me the opportunity to meet/work with some very special people and places. It has had both tearful and joyful moments – it has also had bizarre and funny ones too: being invited to play in a ‘friendly’ cricket match only to find myself bowled out for two by the Captain of South Africa, or sharing an ice cream with American model, and ex-wife of Mick Jagger, Jerry Hall, these being just two of them. As with the shop, it has been a mix of celebration and sadness. I am so grateful that I have had the privilege of two careers both of which I can look back on with pleasure and a certain degree of pride.

Thirty Years On – Sadness & Celebration (part one)

Posted on April 14, 2024 by johnshortlandwriter

How time flies by. I know that’s a bit of a cliché to open with but, even so, it hardly seems possible that thirty years could have passed since that early spring day in 1994 when I locked the door of Shortlands clothing and footwear store for the very last time, and wondering where my career would go to next. I was in my early forties and knew that I would have to do something to earn my keep and pay the mortgage but what? It was a time of great sadness, not just for me and my family but also for our loyal staff some of whom had been with us for many years. Thirty years on it seems time to write the shop’s story to celebrate it having been at the centre of community life for the best part of a hundred years.

The shop that was to become Shortlands began with my great-grandfather, William Bradby Langston, who had already established shops in Marlow High Street and in nearby Lane End. He was quite entrepreneurial, something he and his brothers inherited from their mother. Poor Sophia, widowed in 1863 at the age of 34 with five children under the age of 13 and a baby due at any time needed to provide for herself and her family. She set up a shop in her front living room which later expanded to become Langstons Department Store in Reading, Berkshire. As well as those already mentioned, she and her sons between them also had shops in Boscombe (Hampshire) and Ilford (Essex). Unsurprisingly, she is remembered as being rather a force to be reckoned with – you can read her life story, Rebel in the Family, by clicking here.

*The first generations of retailers*
*l to r: My great-great grandmother Sophia Langston (nee Bradby); my great-grandfather William Bradby Langston; my grandfather Arthur Shortland*

William opened his ‘Boot and Shoe Warehouse’ in Marlow in 1884 at the age of 22. Seven years later he opened another, opposite the first, specialising in boating and tennis shoes as well as other sporting footwear. When a newly built parade of shops became available in Bourne End in 1899 he established what was to become Shortlands. At first the shop was tiny but by 1904 he had expanded to sell not just shoes but also mens and boys clothing. Four years later William’s daughter, Nellie, married Arthur Shortland who had come to Marlow to work for William a few years earlier. The newly married couple came to Bourne End and by 1915 Arthur was listed as the owner in Kelly’s Directory.

*Langstons – the Bourne End branch c1910*

The shop continued to prosper and during the 1920s the adjoining shop was purchased and ladies clothing and footwear as well as carpets, haberdashery, dress fabrics and knitting wools, soft furnishings, household linens and luggage were added to create Bourne End’s own department store. The 1920s photo below shows my grandfather Arthur using the steam (clothes) press although it was a (much hated!) task given to my father Hedley as soon as he returned from school.

*Langstons, now expanded and with my grandfather’s name on the fascia 1920s*

*My grandfather, Arthur Shortland using the steam press*,*1920s*

With the outset of WW2 my father joined the army and it was left to the older generation, including my great-aunt Edith Shortland, to run the business. Both the Langstons and the Shortlands were deeply religious and scrupulous in the way they behaved towards others. My mother would tell the story of how when some silk stockings arrived (which were rationed and in short supply) she rather assumed that she would have a pair. She was told quite firmly that her name would go on the bottom of the list like anyone else – she never did get her stockings. Aunt Edie was quite diminutive but with a voice that belied her stature. One day she spotted a lady conceal some goods inside her coat. “Jesus saw you do that” came a thundering voice from nowhere; the woman screamed, dropped the goods and her shopping and was last seen running down the street fearing the wrath of God was upon her! After the war, my father returned to the business along with his brother Jack, later to be joined by their cousin Maurice Phipps.

During the 1960s the shop expanded again. The garden and old shoe repair workshops at the rear of the property were built over and a new shopfront installed. Made of aluminium, it was considerably ahead of its time and was featured in several design magazines both here and on the Continent. By the late 1970s both my father and my uncle Jack had died and soon after the shop was due for another major refit. The interior, as well as the fascia, was modernised and the displays became more open and accessible to customers. Until that time stock was kept hidden away in drawers and boxes – if you wanted to buy something it was necessary to ask and an assistant would show what was available. Personal service, nowadays a rarity, was the norm back then. How times have changed! To make space for the improved selection of clothing, all of the other departments closed and the shop concentrated on mens and womens fashions and footwear for all the family. The toiletries and gift department was retained; the soaps and potpourri helping to make the shop always smell rather nice!

*The ‘new and modern’ shopfront in 1969 featured in design magazines* *of the time* – *by the 1990s it was looking tired and old-fashioned*

*By the 1990s the displays were brighter and (to use 2020s speak) more ‘on trend’*

I suppose it was because the shop was ‘always there’ that we have no photographs of the shop interior through the decades which is rather sad. Fortunately, I did take a few in the early 1990s and these will probably trigger some memories for local people. The 1990s brought new challenges for the business with recession and changing shopping habits sounding the death knell for businesses like ours. I had joined the firm in 1971 and my business partner, John Pheby had begun even earlier, as a lad, working for the family. It was a hard but inevitable decision that we decided to close and were fortunate to find a buyer almost immediately. They converted the property to three shops and the accommodation and stockrooms above to flats. Since that time Bourne End has changed quite considerably and most of the old shop names (and several of the buildings too) have disappeared. I believe that there must be photos of the interior held by local people somewhere – it would be wonderful to see them. I seem to recall Jean Peasley taking photos during our last few days…

*a small section of the* *Ladies Fashions Department* *1990*

So, what happened to our employees? In the early days of my tenure there was Ivy Taplin (Akela to us cubs of the late 50s!), Yvonne Ludgate, June Charlton (later to become June Billinghurst), Cissy Hyde, Mrs Faulkner, Liz Hill and Diana Spokes. Later, Pauline Harvey, Marjorie Kane, Wendy Manley, David and Marian Bratter, Diane Douneen, Kath Bowdrey, Iris Halstead and Cissy Vickers. I’m afraid I can’t remember the names of them all but some of those listed will be familiar to Bourne End locals – please don’t be offended if I have left you out, you were all valued! The younger generation I purposely have not named but they aren’t forgotten either – I still keep in touch with several of them thanks to social media. It was thanks to a succession of great staff through the years that the business was so successful. It seems appropriate to thank our loyal customers too – I can still picture many of them and the frequent kind comments that I still receive on social media shows that they haven’t forgotten Shortlands either which, after all this time, is rather humbling as well as very special.

And what have I been doing the past thirty years? Retailing had been a passion for my family for generations but I decided to follow another of the Shortland passions and forge a new and very different career – you’ll have to wait a short while for part two to find out what but the photo below may give a clue!

Part Two of this blog focussing on the last thirty years is now published and can be found by clicking on the link here

A Yorkshire Tradition

Posted on March 23, 2024 by johnshortlandwriter

I have just returned home from a 48-hour trip up north to Yorkshire. I felt a bit reckless travelling so far, only to discover that ‘up north’ isn’t as far away as we southerners always believe. We may have got that wrong but the famed warm Yorkshire welcome is as true as ever. The reason for my visit was to watch the oldest horse race in the English sporting calendar.

Taking place on the third Thursday in March (when the weather can be very variable), tradition says that if for any reason it is cancelled it will never be run again. To ensure its continuity during Covid restrictions one horse took part; in the harsh winter of 1947 again one horse took part, its jockey sometimes having to dismount to clear a path through the snowdrifts. This year, although the weather has been exceptionally wet, the race took place with nineteen entries and a large supporting crowd. It was the 505^th race for It has been run since 1519.

*Crowds line the unconventional racecourse*

Like all traditions the race has its quirks. Perhaps the strangest being that the race begins at the finish post. From there the competitors walk the 4+ miles to the starting point where they turn around and go hell-for-leather back to the finish. Although the winner receives a trophy and the cache of being first, it is coming second that is the most contested place for the runner-up receives all the prize money – now that is quirky! As with ‘normal’ races, placing bets on favoured horses or jockeys adds to the day’s excitement.

We had travelled to the race to watch our good friend, Carole Johnston, compete. Not only had Carole never raced before she was also not riding a racehorse but a lovely Irish cob that had until recently belonged to her friend, Kate Jeffery. Kate had loaned the horse to Carole when she found that she had been diagnosed with cancer. Sadly, Kate’s treatment was not successful and Carole decided to ride her horse, Lorna, at the Derby to raise funds for the local St Leonard’s Hospice in Kate’s memory.

*Carole Johnston and Lorna – ready for the off*

As word spread of Carole’s intention and bravery – for she suffers from back and balance issues – so the fund-raising gathered pace. Newspaper interviews and television appearances followed and, on the day, both were present to speak to her before and after the race. As if training for the race and competing wasn’t enough, Carole who is an excellent baker, opened the home she shares with her partner Ollie Heywood to all for much-needed warming soup, cake and pudding. More than seventy people joined them after the race and generously adding more to the funds already raised.

*Television and the press have been following Carole’s progress*

*Carole and Lorna being cheered on to the Finish post*

Carole always said that taking part in the race was all about Kate and her horse, Lorna. The course is difficult for it takes place not on a conventional racecourse but along muddy and often rutted lanes, tracks and field margins. Carole’s intention was solely to reach the finish line with both her and Lorna in one piece. As it happened, she did manage this, and in some style, as can be seen from the photos, both thoroughly enjoyed themselves. To date, many thousands of pounds has been raised for the hospice in Kate’s memory but more is always welcome. If you are able to add to the funds and help to take it over £10,000, Carole, the hospice and Kate’s husband, Chris will be more than grateful. Click on the link here to donate.

Viewing Planet Earth

Posted on February 22, 2024 by johnshortlandwriter

I think it would be fair to say that the chances of my viewing Earth from the Moon is so improbable that I have never even considered it. That changed when, with an hour to spare en route elsewhere, I decided to explore the Abbey Church of Tewkesbury, little knowing that I would leave having had an out-of-space experience.

The name Tewkesbury Abbey, as it is usually called, is really a misnomer for the church has been the Parish Church of the Gloucestershire town of Tewkesbury for centuries. When, in 1087, Robert Fitzhamon was gifted Tewkesbury by his cousin William the Conqueror, there had already been a monastery on the site for four hundred years. However, in 1102 the building of the present church commenced, its stone coming from Caen in Normandy, France and floated up the River Severn which passes just yards from the door. For the next four hundred years, as part of the Benedictine monastery, it really was Tewkesbury Abbey.

Ancient buildings line the streets that lead to Tewkesbury Abbey

I’ve driven through Tewkesbury dozens of times. It’s an interesting town with some beautiful old buildings and I’d always intended to stop and explore. With limited time, the town would have to wait for another day. I entered the Abbey church expecting to be overawed by it for it for several reasons: it is now almost a thousand years old, it is one of the finest Norman buildings in England, it has the largest Romanesque cross-tower in Europe and contains more medieval monuments than any other church apart from Westminster Abbey in London. I hadn’t however expected to be be confronted, upon entering, by a large, hanging globe – our Planet Earth.

Rotating slowly, the seven metre diameter Earth sculpture is as seen from the Moon. As Luke Jerram, who created this Gaia exhibit states, “man has been gazing at the moon for Millenia but it was only in 1972, with the Apollo 17 mission, that man was able to see our planet floating through space – a sight that changed our perception of Earth forever.” When standing 211 metres away from the globe, viewers see the Earth to scale, exactly as it was viewed from the Moon.

The Abbey, of course, has many wonders of its own to be viewed. For me, an unexpected delight was the chantry chapel built as a memorial to Isabella, Countess of Warwick and her two husbands, Richard Beauchamp, Earl of Worcester and, later, (another) Richard Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick. Erected in 1430, Isabella’s first husband was killed during the Battle of Mieux and she died in 1439. It was her second husband, the Earl of Warwick, that excited me the most. For his first marriage to Elizabeth de Berkeley (who died in 1422) is part of a long line that I can trace back to in my family tree: Richard and Elizabeth were my 15x great-grandparents. Over the generations, the women in my ancestry have often been rebellious and married against their parent’s wishes (see A Rebel in the Family for an example) – hence the fact that I am just a plain old commoner! Grandfather Richard commissioned another, more splendid brass tomb for himself in Warwick – another place on my list of ‘must visits’.

Bronze effigy of Richard Beauchamp who died in 1439 [*Wikipedia: Robin Stevenson*]

So what caused the Abbey Church to become just a Parish Church? It was, of course, due to the desire of Henry VIII to divorce and remarry brought about his separation from the Church of Rome. His subsequent Dissolution of the Monasteries swept away the buildings and created the spectacular ruins that we find dotted around the English countryside today. A similar fate would have happened to the church in Tewkesbury if it had not been for the argument, fortunately won, that to demolish the church would leave town without a place of worship. How fortunate for us today, for the architecture, history and splendour of the building makes it an almost unique example of early Norman ecclesiastical buildings.

The tall Norman arch is unmatched for size in England

Tewkesbury, as has been stated, is built along the banks of the River Severn, England’s longest river which is subject to tidal bores and rapid changes in it’s flow height. As a result, the town is often flooded. Despite being built so close to the river, the floodwaters have only entered the church on two occasions, in 1760 and, more recently, in 2007. It is often shown in news features totally surrounded by the flood waters.

Modern stained glass at Tewkesbury Abbey

The Gaia exhibit has now ended at Tewkesbury. It is being shown as an ongoing exhibition in the UK at UCL, London; International Centre for Life, Newcastle; Dynamic Earth, Scotland. In Ireland: Trinity College, Dublin. In Canada: Canadian Museum of Nature, Ontario. American readers have the opportunity of seeing it in the USA at Houston Museum of Natural Sciences 12-28 April 2024.

To find our more about the Abbey church, its history and other topics in this blog follow the links below:
Tewkesbury Abbey
Gaia / Luke Jerram Isabel, Countess of Warwick Dissolution of the Monasteries

In Pursuit of Spooky

Posted on October 31, 2023 by johnshortlandwriter

It’s Halloween so when can be a better time to consider what scares us and what doesn’t? To be honest, I don’t really ‘get’ Halloween. I don’t find any excitement in all those ghoulish faces cut into pumpkins or in the buying of fake cobwebs and skeletons. Perhaps it’s because I don’t care for fancy dress of any kind: for me there is only a feeling of mild embarrassment on other people’s behalf as they don face paint and hideous costumes. Quite why I should feel the need to apologise for other people’s silliness when they are obviously enjoying themselves enormously, as are those around them, goodness knows. After all, it’s just a bit of harmless fun, isn’t it? Possibly, but then again, possibly not.

Like many teenagers, I messed around with Ouija boards without any lasting harm, but they can be a great source of trauma and anxiety for others. It isn’t pumpkins and fancy dress that are scary, or for that matter, it isn’t the dead either, it’s the living. And the one that’s likely to scare us the most is our living self for who knows what our minds are capable of conjuring up. Despite my indifference to Halloween, I do like a good scary moment as much as (or perhaps even more than) the next person. There is nothing like exploring a derelict building – especially if you can visit at dusk as I did, the old mansion in the photos below – to get the mind working overtime.

*The abandoned and derelict Dunmore Park*

My feeling of unease only increased when, following a maze of passageways, I found myself in the cellars. I had forgotten my mobile phone and the only source of light I had was to trigger the flash on my camera. Of course, that only gave the briefest moment of vision before plunging me into even greater darkness. Extracting myself from the cellars, I made my way through derelict gardens only to find an equally ruined tower. Pushing open the door I chose not to explore further when I realised that I was entering an empty crypt – were the coffins scattered nearby, I wondered. It was definitely time to get back home and to the land of the living.

*I just couldn’t resist entering the far door…*

*The empty crypt in the tower was just a little too creepy for me!*

A few years ago I received an invitation to a house party and stay overnight in a remote, medieval manor house. Arriving, again at dusk, and expecting to find a throng of people, instead I entered an empty and dark house. Fortunately, the electric lights worked but as I explored the building with its stone staircases and grotesque carvings I half-wondered if I was about to star in a real-life crime drama, tricked by someone with a long-held grudge. My imagination went into overdrive when leaning against a wall of oak panelling, it opened to reveal a secret room. I was glad when my fellow partygoers arrived and the house became a lively and wonderful place to stay.

*Just one of several staircases at medieval Wortham Manor*

*The grotesque carvings with eyes that seemed to follow you…*

*The panel opened unexpectedly to reveal a secret room*

Of the various creepy experiences that I have sought out or endured (depending on the circumstance) perhaps, rather surprisingly, the ones that have unsettled me most of all have been places that are normally associated with crowds, bustle and noise. The ferry to Ireland is a case in point and an unlikely candidate for spooky. Somehow, I became the first person to board and as I walked along empty decks and through deserted lounges, it felt rather as if I had just discovered the Marie Celeste. Of course, it was only a very short while before other passengers arrived but not before I’d begun to think that others must have known something that I didn’t and had decided to stay away.

*The deserted ferry to Ireland was surprisingly spooky*

*What had happened to all the other passengers???*

Perhaps the very creepiest place I’ve experienced was also the one I would have least expected it to be. Walking home late one night I decided to take a short cut through the fairground which had closed a couple of hours earlier. Associated with noise, excitement, music and flashing lights, the area was silent and deserted. There was no danger but around each corner I expected to find someone lurking in the shadows, not helped by the ghoul I came across hanging from a scaffold behind the blacked-out House of Horrors. Arriving back home in the darkness and silence of the secret valley I was met by the reflection of a hundred eyes watching me. Fortunately, they were real-life sheep and thankfully, not the ghosts of countless Sunday roasts coming back to haunt me.

*The deserted fairground: shadows and surprises around every corner…*

*Being watched as I walk home late at night*

So, what do you like/dislike about Halloween? What scares you the most? I will be intrigued to know!

Moving Into Autumn

Posted on September 24, 2023 by johnshortlandwriter

The autumnal equinox has just past and with it comes those rare, clear and sunny days when the outdoors beckons, and your senses become alive to every detail. Perhaps it is because you’re all too aware that soon there will be many days when the countryside is shrouded in a clinging, wet mist that takes hours to lift, if it does at all. An early-start walk is all the better for several reasons: the light is extraordinary, the air clear, and there are few, if any, people out and about. Perhaps, best of all, with the shortening days, early isn’t at some God-forsaken hour 😉

From our little, Cotswold stone-built house it is only a matter of yards to the river. Unlike the true days of Autumn, the river is also clear. All too soon, the warmth mixing with the cool will see the vapours rise, often hiding the surface and sometimes blanketing the whole valley. Today, despite the frequent rain showers we’ve been having the water levels are low, there are no birds singing and I have only a sentinel heron to share it with. Dismayed at my appearance, he flies off lazily with a scolding, harsh croak only to settle a few yards further away to watch me as I pass. No sooner have I done so than he returns to his favoured spot to continue his hunt for crayfish.

Although the sun is shining, it is still set low in the sky, casting lengthy shadows and intensifying the first changes of colour in the trees. As it climbs higher, so the colours will appear to fade and the shadows shorten, and another part of the early-morn magic will be lost for another day.

Reaching the plantation, the sun filters through the still-densely clothed branches, diffusing the light and giving it the look of an Impressionist painting. Perhaps this is how Monet got his inspiration when looking at his waterlily pool. The path stretching ahead just invites you to walk onwards. At its end, where it meets the lane, the first of the stone houses in the nearby village remain silent, as do they all, for their occupants are still either asleep or not yet venturing out. They are missing so much but I relish the silence and glad that it isn’t disturbed by the sounds of civilisation.

*Almost, if not quite*, *an Impressionist painting!*

There are four lanes that lead into the secret valley. The one that I now take is little used and the grass grows thickly in its centre. Another is similar and, with no passing places for a mile should you meet another vehicle, only those with good reversing skills tend to use it. Occasionally a ‘lost’ driver attempts it, thinking it will be a short cut to their intended route, only to end up traumatised by the experience.

*One of the little-use lanes out of the secret valley…*

All along the lanes, the banks and hedgerows are thick with berries and the fading flowers of summer. Every year I intend to make a note of what I see but, although I never do, I can be fairly certain of seeing the same late bloomers, sometimes right though to Christmas. These single flowers are extra-special, as they cling onto life reminding us of their glories past and giving us hope for the following year.

*l-r top: hawthorn berries, crab apples, campion*
*l-r bottom: cranes-bill, prickly sow-thistle*

I have reached the cattle sheds now at the top of the hill above my cottage. Large and airy, they are empty and silent now for the livestock is still out in the fields and making the most of the last of the summer grazing. By Christmas if the season is reasonably mild and dry, or sooner if not, they will be brought in to be kept dry, warm and fed. The barns surrounding the sheds are stacked high with straw and hay, their bedding and feed – in a good year, there will be enough to last the winter however long it maybe; in poor summers extra will need be purchased for they will not be returned to the valley’s water-meadows until they have calved and the weather is right.

*Enjoying the last of the good weather…*

It is a short downhill walk to home now. Within minutes I will be back, the kettle on and looking forward to a well-deserved breakfast.

Life in the English Cotswolds

WRITER, GARDENER, COUNTRYMAN, EXPLORER – the last's a bit of an exaggeration…

Author Archives: johnshortlandwriter

About johnshortlandwriter

A Naughty Boy?

A Good Walk Home

Yorkshire Cheese

Talk: A Short History of Shortlands

30 Years On – Sadness & Celebration (part two)

Thirty Years On – Sadness & Celebration (part one)

A Yorkshire Tradition

Viewing Planet Earth

In Pursuit of Spooky

Moving Into Autumn

About johnshortlandwriter

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