Whispers from the past.

History - social history, fascinating, it is everywhere you look.

We both have a passion for history, whether it is researching family roots, standing in historic buildings wondering what stories the walls could tell, learning to make a flint neolithic axe head, listening to how Shamanic stories are passed down generations, binge watching TV programs about archaeological digs, staring into the depths of an ancient woodland or just rummaging in a junk shop. It is all around us, it makes up our world. We might wander into a village hall jumble sale, a charity shop, or an old warehouse grandly named ‘Vintage Emporium’ and the history cries out to you from the things you find, not to mention the very building itself.

The wood panelling or Victorian tiles in a hallway; which maid polished and cleaned; what was her name; how old was she; did she go home once a week or only on Mothering Sunday? Who sat on that church pew; touched the polished wood with gloved hand; what child wiggled with impatience throughout a long sermon?

Sometimes we spy an old cardboard box stuffed with faded sepia papers - whose handwriting is that? An old envelope, crinkled stained edges, a stamp, postmark almost unreadable. A faded picture postcard from Torquay- "Hope all is well, weather grand, love to the children. From May and Fred x". Where have these messages travelled? Handled by a Postmistress, with a smile and a chat, onto a chuntering, puffing steam train, mail train, the night mail, an old Morris GPO van, a post office bicycle, a uniformed postman with smart flat hat.

A pair of ladies black elbow length gloves and a dainty marcasite watch, worn to a dance? A dinner? With a sleeveless Audrey Hepburn dress, hair swept up in tortoiseshell combes. A black barrelled fountain pen with gold, ink-stained nib, used by a schoolteacher, a grandfather, a bank manager, the village Doctor? A chipped Pyrex casserole dish, a blue and white striped milk jug and a China rolling pin, certainly the pride and joy of a busy lady, a Mum, a Granny, a farmer’s wife, a WI lady? Maybe all of the above! Such finds lead to endless questions, wonderings, ponderings.

We have a daughter who has a passion for mid-20th century history, (Lifethymesblog.wordpress.com). Recently, she purchased a 1940's dress, handmade, no designer label machined into the inside for her, just hours of careful measuring, cutting and sewing. Made to wear to a party, a wedding, or maybe just for Sunday best with summer in mind? We washed it gently and pressed the seams marvelling at every hem and join, wondering if it had previously been pressed on a blanket covered kitchen table with a new electric iron plugged into the light socket. A tiny stitch here, a reinforcing stitch there, and it was good as new. Hair up and a spot of scarlet 1940s lippy and she stepped back in time.

© Lifethymesblog.wordpress.com

Recently a little story brought a smile, a lovely eco-friendly, lover of self-sufficiency, craftswoman, Kate, (Themoonandthefurrow.co.uk) told of how she had received a gift found in a charity shop. An unfinished project, hundreds of carefully cut patchwork hexagons of mismatched fabric stitched onto off cuts of paper and cards ready to be sewn into a quilt. Oh, what joy it will be for her to take out all those pieces of card, when the task is complete, and read any writing on them! Not just someone's labour of love for Kate to complete but another whole story, as yet untold, to be pieced together.

Do you love book shops? Second hand, pre-loved books, old books, even new books, the history they hold is unending. the author, the original idea, the story unwinding, the pen, the typewriter, the printing, the list goes on. There are certain shops locally, and indeed often found on trips further afield, that we are simply unable to walk past, and sometimes you find a gem, a book with an inscription from an unknown giver, a bookmark, a postcard used as such, but sometimes, folded neatly between relevant pages, pieces of research, dated newspaper cuttings, a map, part of a family tree written in classic school script. These are real treasures indeed. Recently whilst shopping for candles, one attracted our attention - scented, the label read, like old books in a book shop! Ha! We laughed; our house probably smells like that without the aid of a candle!

Most families celebrate birthdays, anniversaries, the celebrations becoming more special as decades pass until, if not kept alive the memories turn to stories, which float down the years and turn into history which some day, hopefully, will be discovered again and bring further joy.

Both of us, who share with you this little column of adventures and thoughts, have, like everyone, little moments of memories that come to mind and the resulting curiosity, may become a trip, a book purchased for research, an Internet search or a simple walk down a country lane to stand and question - did they live here? Are we walking in their footsteps now?

One of us has a memories of a 1959 steam locomotive puffing up the hill into Ilfracombe Station, in Devon, a little chap’s delight as the town and sea spread below him with the possibility of Horlicks or an ice cream sundae in that café far below.

A sepia photo hangs on our wall, the little chap is Bill, William James, taken with his Ilfracombe Granny Anne Elizabeth Taylor (nee Comer). Bill's mother 'Bubbles' Vera Muriel was Ilfracombe born and bred. There are few faded sepia pictures of Bubbles, who sadly died when Bill was just 14 years old, after being evacuated back to Ilfracombe during WWII with Bill and his sister Vera. For many years Bubble's unmarried sisters Kit and Flo Taylor, both midwives which surely was no easy job in the 1940/50s hilly Ilfracombe fishing town, still lived in Marlborough Road, and welcomed Bill home each summer with his own little family.

We have just spent a few days exploring the route of the Barnstaple to Ilfracombe disused railway line along which Bill would bring his family to holiday with the Aunties in 1950/60s summer via the hilltop station. As we walked these tracks we stopped to listen, to smell the coal smoke drift on steam driven puffs, we heard the ghostly wheels rumble, the uphill pull making the engines grumble, the echo of the whistle, the hot air whoosh through the hand dug tunnel. If only walls and photos talked. See the pride in Grannie's smile.

Here in Sussex, close to where we live, there is an open air museum, a living museum, (wealddown.co.uk) where historic buildings are rescued from destruction and loss, taken apart with loving care, transported and reconstructed to preserve their history for generations to visit, school children to explore and learn, lest these life styles and traditions be lost forever. Here there is a stable, with standing room for 4 or 5 horses and room for a horse driven chaff cutting machine, brought to the museum in 1976 from Watersfield village close by in West Sussex. Watersfield is a little hamlet below the edge of the South Downs, stretching down the hillside to the river Arun. It is here that several generations of Granddad Barnes' family lived and worked. Two brothers, families and cousins living and working side by side on the land, farm labourers all, and when you stand inside this barn with straw dust motes dancing in the sunbeams it is not difficult to imagine Barnes lads, young and old tending to the horses or Sussex oxen, turning hay and mending tack. There are stores of old, whispering around on the dusty air, was it here, in this barn that Percy and John, James and Hayward and others worked? Are we standing where they stood? We will probably never know but the imagination runs riot, and we continue to walk the lanes and tracks and talk to friendly ghosts in whispers from the past.

© Weald and Downland Living Museum

Words and pictures by Artist and Druid © 2023 unless otherwise indicated.