What’s the point of museums? Maybe they exist to remind us, as novelist L. P. Hartley explained in The Go Between, that “the past is a foreign country; they do things differently there”. Museums reveal the weird and wacky ways of our ancestors, and in so doing make us grateful we’ve not had to live like that. We don’t expect to see our own lives on display in a museum.
Street scene from Beamish 1950s Town
A couple of months ago Mrs P and I made a return visit to the Beamish Open Air Museum in County Durham, a “living, working museum that uses its collections to connect with people from all walks of life and tells the story of everyday life in the North East of England.” Since our last visit in 2019, they’ve opened a major new exhibit: The 1950s Town. And this was where Beamish Museum got spooky – I was born in the 50s, and many of the items on display seemed achingly familiar. I was home again, in a land I’d all but forgotten.
The 1950s Town comprises several houses dressed and furnished in the style prevalent at the time. Walking through them I feel as if I’m back in my dear old grandmother’s West London terrace, the living room with its tedious wallpaper, chunky brown furniture and a curvy clock ticking happily on the mantelpiece; the kitchen with its plain, glass-fronted cupboards, “Belfast sink” and shiny white enamelled cooker. I almost expect her to walk through the door and offer to make me a bread pudding, one of my childhood favourites. Yes please, nan!
Achingly familiar. My grandmother would have felt at home here.
There is also a reconstructed street comprising shops and similar outlets, done out in 1950s style. These include a music shop, displaying vinyl records and various electrical appliances that must have been state-of-the-art back in the day. There was no streaming back in the 50s, no Spotify, no Amazon! How did they ever manage, we wonder ironically?
In the 1950s / early 1960s stuff like this would have been the wonder of the age.
The street also houses a toy shop stocked with items that were popular with mid-century kids, and here I stumble across an item that takes my breath away. It must be nearly 60 years since I last saw or thought about my Bayko Building Set, “the fascinating never failing diversion for Boys and Girls”, but here’s one, staring back at me from its friendly yellow box.
Memories of my childhood. Oh, happy days!
Bayko was a construction toy based on plastic and metal components, and could be used to build little houses of various designs. Other kids in my class had Lego, but I had Bayko and I loved it. For a few months it was my go-to toy, and as I stand in the shop at Beamish the memories come flooding back. Oh, happy days!
I never managed to build anything as grand as this. But I could dream!
But how odd it feels, to see part of my childhood behind glass in a museum display cabinet. I can just imagine kids born a few years ago dragging their attention away from their mobile phones for a few moments to inspect the exhibit, then saying “Mummy, did children really play with THAT sort of thing? Did they? Really?”
And that, I think, is the scariest things about going to the museum – finding your own treasured past put out there for everyone to inspect, and then dismissed as boring or quirky or quaint. A reminder, if ever we needed one, that all things pass, and that stuff which today seems so important will eventually be regarded as odd and inconsequential. Nothing is forever,
It was the summer 2024 public art trail that prompted my first ever visit to Newark-on-Trent. Launched in July to coincide with the start of the Newark Book Festival, the trail features bench sculptures shaped like an open book, each decorated by artists from the East Midlands. The colourful designs showcase a range of themes from Newark’s rich history, the beauty of nature, cultural stories and nursery rhymes.
“Corporal Ciapek” by Nottingham artist Nicola Mills.
Some of the benches tell stories from the real world. Corporal Ciapek, for example, is inspired by the story of the artist’s grandfather, who was a member of the Polish Air Force. During WW2 her grandad was based in England, where he met his future wife. He was part of the Polish 305 bomber squadron, whose mascot dog – known as Corporal Ciapek – is shown in the design of the bench.
“Shimmer and Shine” by Carla Dee.
The design of several benches includes the River Trent, which runs through the centre of Newark. “Shimmer and Shine”, for example, references a poem that speaks of 30 tributaries of the Trent, and 30 types of fish found in its waters.
The book-benches were colourful, inventive and lots of fun, and wandering the streets in search of them proved to be a good introduction to the town’s other attractions. It turns out that Newark has a lot to offer.
Newark Castle and the River TrentSpot the book-bench in front of the castle!
Standing on the banks of the River Trent, the ruins of Newark Castle dominate the centre of the town. A castle was built on this site around 1068, shortly after the Norman conquest of England, but the current remains are of a building constructed at the start of the 12th century.
Newark Castle is notable as the place where King John died from dysentery in August 1216. John was incompetent, sadistic and deeply unpopular with his people, so much so that chronicler Matthew Parris was moved to observe that “”Foul as it is, Hell itself is made fouler by the presence of John.” I bet they were dancing in the streets of Newark the night he finally succumbed!
The River Trent was once a thriving hub for waterborne commerce
For centuries, the River Trent was the lifeblood of Newark, which grew into a thriving hub for waterborne commerce, particularly trade in wool. The river’s bank became home to numerous wharves, warehouses and mills, as well as maltings and breweries. Keeping the boats moving freely became a priority, so a lock was built in 1773 and extended in the 1830s.
A narrow boat passes through Newark Town Lock, towards the ruins of the castle beyond.
These days, of course, commercial use of the river is minimal, but it remains popular with people who like to spend their leisure time boating along inland waterways. We were delighted to watch one very handsome narrowboat pass through the lock to continue its journey along the Trent.
Chain Lane – delightfully quaint and picturesque.
Away from the river, Newark has many picturesque streets and handsome heritage properties that get historians and photographers excited. Chain Lane, for example, is lined with historic buildings, while the hanging baskets of flowers added to the charm of this oasis of calm.
It seemed as if, every time we turned a corner, we spotted more historic gems, like those shown in the photos above. And yet, rather than a tired museum piece, the town seemed lively and relatively prosperous. Although Newark’s history is clearly cherished, the town isn’t living in the past.
“The Little House” (centre of photo, above the arch). The Town Hall is to its right.
One unusually quirky building we encountered was the so-called “Little House”, which at just 6ft 9ins (2m) wide is one of the thinnest buildings in the UK. The origins of this three storey curiosity are unclear, but it is believed to be older than the Town Hall which it adjoins. Eventually, the Little House was knocked through into the Town Hall. Today, its sitting room on the first floor is used as a robing room, where the Mayor of Newark puts on his (or her) ceremonial costume before attending civic functions.
More bizarrely, perhaps, the Little House also contains a toilet specially installed for the visit of Princess Anne to the town in the 1970s. Strange, but true. Clearly royalty doesn’t “go” where the rest of us “go”! Well, who’s a lucky lady then?
The Governor’s House
We ended our day in Newark by treating ourselves to afternoon tea in the Governor’s House café. The half-timbered building dates from 1475, and is a glorious example of late-medieval architecture. Drinking tea and eating cream cakes in a room oozing with history gave us the chance to reflect on our visit to this small, underrated Nottinghamshire town. The public art trail was great*, but by the time you read this it will already have been dismantled. However, there are countless other reasons to visit this place, and Mrs P and I will undoubtedly return. Newark is so much more than a bunch of colourful book-benches!
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* Postscript: In case you’re bored with historic buildings and yearn instead for book-benches, here are a couple more examples
This summer a herd of 74 colourful elephants have been parading proudly through the Staffordshire city of Lichfield, as well as the nearby towns of Tamworth and Sutton Coldfield. And what a show they put on, bringing welcome colour to the urban landscape, supporting local businesses by boosting tourist numbers, and lifting the spirits of anyone spotting them.
“Fruity Frida” by Lucy Hebden, inspired by the markets of Lichfield, Tamworth and Sutton Coldfield.
But there’s more! Working in association with the events management company Wild in Art, a local Lichfield hospice – St Giles – has been instrumental in the organisation of the art trail. As a result of this collaboration, when autumn comes and the show is over, many of the sculptures will be auctioned off to raise funds that will help support local people who are living with a terminal illness. Everyone’s a winner when the elephants come to town.
“Mighty Oak” by Donna Newman. The design is a celebration of British wildlife and promotes the message of conservation.
Lichfield lies a few miles north of the city of Birmingham, and has a population of around 35,000. Although boasting a number of historic buildings, by the far the most famous is its medieval cathedral, the only three-spired cathedral in the UK. The organisers of the March of the Elephants public art trail were canny enough to place one of the sculptures in the grounds of the cathedral, enabling photographers like Mrs P to record this improbable sight for posterity.
“Staffie” by Anne-Marie Byrne, dwarfed by the majestic Lichfield Cathedral.
Sculptures along the trail come in two sizes. The larger elephants are designed and painted by professional artists, some local and others with a national profile. Without exception these are eye-catching creations, and it was great to see how both adults and children engaged with them.
Clockwise from top left: “Elovephant” by Reilly Creative; “Nellie” by Sophie li-Rocchi; “Tony” by the St Giles Hospice team; “Flora” by Becky Smith; “Henry the Elephant” by Donna Newman; “Trunkful of Memories” by Gayani Ariyaratne.
In addition there are around 40 smaller sculptures designed by local schools and community groups, displayed in shops and venues like the local library. This aspect of the trail is particularly pleasing to see, an obvious attempt to make art inclusive and for everyone, rather than a minority, elitist pursuit.
A selection of “mini-elephants”, the work of local schools and community groups.
Our day in Lichfield was a day well spent. It’s not a place I would ever have considered visiting were it not for the March of the Elephants. It plainly has a lot more to offer, including a scattering of historic buildings, a museum dedicated to the 18th century writer Samuel Johnson (“Dr Johnson”) who was born in the city, and a well maintained public park. But our visit to Lichfield was so crammed with elephants that we failed to do the rest of the city justice. Oh dear, we’ll just have to go back!
Once upon a time, the interior of the typical English church was a riot of colour. In the Middle Ages churchgoers were greeted by vibrant images on just about every available surface; images featuring great biblical events and stories from the gospels. At a time when most of the population were illiterate, wall paintings were an important teaching aid, communicating key messages of Christianity to the masses. And then the Reformation came along, and put a stop to all of that.
St Michael and All Angels Church, Berwick, dates from the Middle Ages, but the paintings are several hundred years younger.
The Protestants who found themselves empowered by the Reformation in the 16th century regarded painted murals as just one more example of Roman Catholic frivolity, a distraction from the deadly serious business of religion. Convinced that God was on their side, the Protestants ordered the whitewashing of church murals. Soon, church interiors were uniformly white. Boring!
The exterior of the church gives no hint of the artistic treasures that lie within.
Although some murals survived, hidden for centuries beneath successive layers of whitewash, most were destroyed when the whitewashed plaster was eventually hacked off prior to resurfacing. The newly applied plaster was equally white, and equally boring. But in just a few places, enlightened individuals speculated that the return of wall paintings would not provoke the wrath of God, but instead might serve to celebrate the glory of His creation. One such place was the village of Berwick, in the southern English county of East Sussex.
The chancel arch, depicting Christ in Glory, was painted by Duncan Grant – one of the Bloomsbury Group – in 1941.
The murals that now adorn St Michael and All Angels Church, Berwick, were the brainchild of Bishop George Bell of Chichester, in whose diocese the church is to be found. The Bishop had a personal interest in Modernist art, and was keen to forge links between the church and the arts. With his encouragement the project was undertaken at the height of World War II: it was commissioned in 1941, and a service of dedication to mark the completion of the murals was held in October 1943.
These paintings at the bottom of the chancel screen depict the Four Seasons. They were painted by Duncan Grantin 1944.
The Berwick murals were painted by renowned artists Duncan Grant, Vanessa Bell and Quentin Bell, who all happened to be living just a few miles away at the time. They were all part of the Bloomsbury Group, an informal circle of English writers, intellectuals, philosophers and artists active in the first half of the 20th century. Members of the Group also included Virginia Woolf, John Maynard Keynes, E. M. Forster and Lytton Strachey.
The reredos screen (behind the altar) was painted by Julian Bell in 2020. He is the grandson of Vanessa Bell.
Those associated with the Bloomsbury Group were regarded as unorthodox in terms of attitudes to aesthetics, fashion, gender, politics, sex and war, and it’s therefore no surprise that what the artists came up with at Berwick is unlike anything else to be found in an English church.
“The Supper at Emmaus” by Quentin Bell
Although the subject matter of the Berwick murals is religious, they have a distinctly modern feel. For example, the landscapes that form the background to the paintings are representations of the local South Downs area of Sussex, while many of the figures represented in them are based on local farmworkers, their families and children.
The three servicemen depicted here, to the left of the chancel arch, were from Berwick village. They are a reminder that the country was at war when the church’s murals were painted.
Given that the country was at war with Adolf Hitler and his henchmen, the murals celebrate a way of life that was then under threat. One of them, Christ in Glory, depicts three servicemen, representative of the countless soldiers, sailors and airmen who put their lives at risk to keep the people of Berwick, and all their compatriots, safe from the Nazi hordes.
The pulpit was originally painted by Vanessa Bell. It was vandalised in 1962. As she had died the previous year Duncan Grant repainted them to designs by her daughter Angelica Garnett (Bell), a painter and writer in her own right.
The aim of the artists was clearly to make Christianity more accessible and relevant to the local community. Bishop Bell (who, incidentally, was unrelated to either of the artists who shared his surname) put it this way:
“The pictures will bring home to you the real truth of the Bible story …help the pages of the New Testament speak to you – not as sacred personages living in a far-off land and time, but as human beings …with the same kind of human troubles, and faults, and goodness, and dangers, that we know in Sussex today.“
I’m not a religious man, nor do I have any artistic tendencies or abilities, but I have to say that I found Berwick Church to be extraordinary, quite unlike any other that I’ve visited before. Sir Nicholas Serota, Chair of Arts Council England since 2017, summed it up perfectly when he said:
“…the remarkable decorative scheme in Berwick church is of national and even international importance. It is, critically, the only example in the country of the complete decoration of the interior of an ancient rural parish church by twentieth century artists of repute.”
I can’t help thinking, however, that the Protestant zealots who whitewashed the walls of parish churches up and down the land in the 16th century wouldn’t have been nearly as impressed as either me or the estimable Mr Serota!
Left: The Annunciation, by Vanessa Bell (1941). Top Right: The Nativity, by Vanessa Bell (1941). Bottom Right: Christ in Glory, by Duncan Bell (1941).
On its website, Pashley Manor Gardens in East Sussex claims to be “one of the finest gardens in England”. That may or may not be a bit of an exaggeration – I’m no expert on things horticultural! – but when we visited last autumn it seemed like a pleasant place to while away an afternoon. The flowers were colourful and the manor house was a picture of Tudor charm, but for my taste what raised Pashley to another level was the mix of modern sculptures scattered throughout the gardens. The most compelling of these depicts the tragic figure of Anne Boleyn.
“To the Show” by Helen Sinclair. The flower towering above her is Brugmansia or Angel’s Trumpets, a member of the nightshade family.
The current manor, which is not open to visitors, dates from 1550 and retains its classic Tudor half-timbered frontage. But this is not the estate’s original house, as prior to its construction there was a hunting lodge on another part of the grounds.
Pashley Manor House dates from 1550
The hunting lodge was owned by the Boleyn family, and it is believed that Anne Boleyn – King Henry VIII’s second wife, who was executed in 1536 – spent part of her childhood here. Appropriately, there is a sculpture of Anne near the spot where the hunting lodge once stood. This haunting work by local sculptor Philip Jackson is a moving tribute to a woman who married for love, and later died on the orders of her paranoid, brutal husband. The gardens that we see today bear little if any resemblance to what Anne would have witnessed 500 years ago, but clearly her ghost still walks the land.
Anne Boleyn by Philip Jackson
Following Anne’s execution, the fortunes of the entire Boleyn family went into freefall, and in 1540 the estate was sold to Sir Thomas May, who set about building the house that still stands today. In the centuries that followed the Pashley estate passed through the hands of several more families, who further developed it in accordance with the fashions of their age.
The manor house was unoccupied during the period 1922-45, and fell into disrepair. When the current owners, Mr and Mrs James Sellick, bought the property in 1981 the gardens had been long neglected, but the Sellicks were determined to restore them to their former glory. They opened Pashley Manor Gardens to the public for the first time in 1992. Just five years later the gardens won the Historic Houses Association / Christie’s Garden of the Year award, and in the decades since then work has continued to develop them further.
“The Sky Turned Upside Down” by Helen Sinclair “St Francis” by Mary Cox“Pan” by Mary Cox“Amelia” by Yvonne WildiSadly, the title and attribution of this one are unknown
The Sellicks clearly spotted the growing popularity of sculpture parks and gardens, and calculated that a scattering of sculptures would enhance the Pashley offer. No doubt these sculptures, which range “from abstract to engagingly figurative” also generate a bit of extra income, as most of the pieces on display are for sale. The works on show are not as imposing or spectacular as those at, say, the Leonardslee Gardens and Sculpture Park, but the best of them are good fun.
Left: “Dancing Dog” by Mary Cox; Centre: “Dancer” by Mary Cox”; Right: “il Marchese” by Philip Jackson.
Pashley Manor Gardens were definitely worth a visit. When we’re next in that part of the country I’d be pleased to call in again – perhaps earlier in the season, when a different range of flowers will be in bloom – to see how the Sellicks’ project is developing, and to spot some new sculptures. Hopefully the ghost of Anne Boleyn will still be in attendance.
I grew up in West London, within spitting distance of Heathrow Airport, and for 18 years the noise of aircraft taking off and landing was part of the soundtrack of my daily existence. In order to protect our sanity, we all trained ourselves to tune it out. In this way we could reduce the relentless roar of aircraft coming and going to mere muzak, simultaneously there and yet not there. But where Concorde was concerned, such mental gymnastics simply didn’t work. Concorde was SERIOUSLY LOUD.
Compare, if you will, the noise of a tabby cat miaowing and a lion roaring. You can experience only one of those sounds viscerally, as a physical sensation pulsing throughout your whole body. And it ain’t the tabby cat! It was just like that with Concorde, the undisputed roaring lion of the skies round my way, back in the day.
Concorde was, of course, the world’s first supersonic passenger-carrying aircraft, the product of a ground-breaking joint initiative between Great Britain and France. The name “Concorde” means “agreement,” and was an ironic reminder that the partners were in unfamiliar territory – over the centuries, the two nations had agreed on almost nothing, and had spent more time fighting than co-operating.
It all began in 1962 when the Brits and the French signed a treaty to share costs and risks in producing a supersonic passenger plane. Then the hard work started in earnest. Concorde made its maiden flight seven years later, but it was not until 1973 that the first transatlantic journey took place. The world’s first scheduled supersonic passenger services were launched three years later, in 1976.
Once development of Concorde was underway in the mid 1960s, some bright spark decided it would be a good idea to prepare the public for what might be in store for them. I distinctly remember, when I was ten or eleven years old, our teacher taking us out into the school playground one day so we could all experience our first sonic boom, courtesy of an air force jet the authorities brought in for that very purpose.
We all waited, hushed and expectant, for the miracle to happen. The appointed hour duly arrived, and so too did the RAF jet.
BOOM-BOOM went the soundwaves, echoing noisily around the neighbourhood.
“Oooh, aaah” squealed my schoolmates, frolicking excitedly around the playground.
“Enough of this rubbish, go back indoors and get on with some proper work” growled our teacher, trudging grumpily towards the classroom.
And, of course, it was rubbish. Concorde was never going to be breaking the sound barrier anywhere near us. It would be landing and taking off from an airport that was only a few minutes walk away from the school gates, and so would be many, many miles away before supersonic speeds could possibly be reached. It was therefore obvious to anyone with more than a couple of brain cells in working order that the sonic boom demo was totally pointless, but who cared, it got us out of lessons for a few minutes.
These memories of my own brief encounters with Concorde came flooding back last year, when Mrs P and I visited the Brooklands Museum of Motorsport and Aviation in Surrey. Amongst the museum’s collection is a Concorde, grounded of course, but perfect for an up close and personal inspection.
The plane on display still belongs to British Airways, but has been on loan to the museum since 2003. This particular aircraft never flew commercially, but was used in early testing and for certification. Later, from 1974-81, it was flown around the world to test new routes and to drum up sales to international airlines.
It was fascinating to finally get up close and personal with a Concorde. Its sleek, streamlined fuselage, the iconic delta-wing design and a nose that drooped during take-off and landing rendered the aircraft unmistakeable. And beautiful too. From outside you could gaze in wonder at a Concorde and think to yourself wow, if that’s the future of commercial air travel, bring it on NOW!
Cramped!
Inside however, as we discovered when we walked through the narrow cabin, things were rather different. With only around 100 seats – four per row, separated by a central aisle – and a low slung roof, it seems cramped, uncomfortable even. No amount of “free” champagne could disguise the fact that it feels like cattle class. But only the wealthiest of cattle ever got to fly in it.
Concorde’s advertised selling point was its unimaginably quick passage through the air, with a cruising speed that was over twice the speed of sound. A crossing from London or Paris to New York lasted approximately three and a half hours, less than half the time taken by subsonic aircraft. Famously, in summer 1985, Phil Collins was able to perform at Live Aid concerts in both London and Philadelphia on the same day by hopping onto a Concorde after his set at Wembley for a transatlantic flight to the US!
Cockpit confusion!
But the other attraction of Concorde was its exclusivity. Tickets were prohibitively expensive, meaning that you could only afford to take a scheduled flight on this iconic aircraft if you were stinking rich. To have flown on Concorde became a badge of honour, an indicator that you’d inherited or otherwise made a fortune.
Ultimately, however, the Concorde project was doomed. Although aesthetically pleasing and technologically ground-breaking, operating costs and serious environmental concerns were its undoing. Astonishingly, given its iconic reputation, only 20 Concordes were ever built, and just 14 of these flew commercially.
This photo shows the iconic “droop nose” on a plane landing at Farnborough in 1974. IMAGE CREDIT: Steve Fitzgerald (GFDL 1.2 or GFDL 1.2), via Wikimedia Commons
The final nail was driven into Concorde’s coffin on 24 July, 2000, when Air France Flight 4590 crashed shortly after take-off from Paris. All 109 people on board and four others on the ground were killed. As a result, commercial Concorde services were suspended everywhere until November 2001. Less than two years later the plane was officially retired, 41 years after the Anglo-French treaty was signed and 27 years after commercial operations had begun.
Visiting Concorde at the Brooklands Museum was a fascinating experience. It was also rather nostalgic, oddly so given that although I’ve seen – and heard – it from afar on countless occasions, I’ve never actually flown on this aircraft. Indeed I’m neither that rich nor so environmentally naïve as to have ever contemplated such a thing. And I’ve absolutely no regrets on that score.
I’d like to believe that all thought of commercial supersonic air traffic has been abandoned forever. However in doing research for this post I’ve have read that greener options are currently being explored, including hydrogen-powered planes that could offer the prospect of “near-zero emissions.”
If this is really true I have to ask, why are we bothering? In my humble opinion, commercial supersonic air travel is folly at best, criminal at worst. The world is in big trouble right now. Surely there are better uses of our time, wealth and ingenuity than seeking to shave a few hours off the length of a transatlantic flight, a flight that is probably unnecessary anyway in the modern, digitally-enabled age? Sometimes I despair!
Our “Boarding Passes” for the Concorde at Brooklands Museum!
Murals are springing up all over my home county of Derbyshire. A little while ago I wrote about a magnificent painting of a kingfisher that had suddenly appeared on the side of a house in our local town. And just a couple of weeks later we came across another unexpected mural, this one featuring a railway locomotive in full steam.
To be fair, the steam train mural has been there since 2021, but it’s in a part of the county we rarely visit. Driving through the village, Westhouses appears totally unremarkable, and my initial reaction was to question why anyone would choose to cover one wall of its abandoned social club with a painting of a long extinct mode of transport. All of which proves how little I knew about the history of that corner of Derbyshire!
It turns out that Westhouses owes its very existence to railways. The village is named after West House Farm, but there was little if any other habitation in the area until the middle of the nineteenth century when the Midland Railway company drove a line through it to serve numerous local collieries and ironstone pits. The company needed to put in place a range of support facilities, and so in the 1870s it set about the creation of a new village, including workers’ houses, a school and a church, as well as a big engine shed to stable and maintain its locomotives.
Once upon a time railways were the lifeblood of Westhouses, but not now. Both the engine shed and railway station closed decades ago, and it seems improbable that any local people are now employed in the railway industry. However, residents remain proud of their connection with that industry, and when organisers of a community arts project searched for topics to engage local interest it’s no surprise that a steam locomotive was amongst those chosen.
The mural was painted by two artists from Leicester-based spray art collective Graffwerk. It took them five days of spraying to finish the job, and local train enthusiasts – many of whom had family connections with the Stanier 8F steam locomotive that is pictured – were on hand to make sure they got all the details absolutely right!
Trawling through social media posts dating from immediately after the project was completed in 2021, it’s clear that local residents were blown away to have such a wonderful piece of art in their village. Murals that are well chosen and brilliantly executed clearly have enormous power to bring whole communities closer together.
They are also a reminder to casual visitors such as me that seemingly ordinary places may have hidden histories that are well worth celebrating. Before seeing that mural I would never have given Westhouses a second glance, but having stumbled across it I was curious to know how and why it came to be there. So, thanks to the mural – and then the internet! – I did some research, and discovered the extent of my earlier ignorance. It’s clear there’s much more to Westhouses than I would ever have guessed, thanks to its proud railway heritage.
My last post reflected on just a few of more than 400 memorials dotted around UK’s National Memorial Arboretum, memorials commemorating individual units of the armed forces, specific wartime incidents and sundry other causes and organisations. Today, I want to focus on two further memorials to be found at the Arboretum, particularly powerful pieces designed to make us all think hard about the nature and consequences of warfare.
Commemorating 306 British Army and Commonwealth servicemen executed during the First World War, “Shot at Dawn” is perhaps the most surprising of all the memorials. At first glance a sculpture in memory of men executed for – amongst other things – desertion and cowardice maybe sits uncomfortably alongside memorials to soldiers who died bravely while fighting for their country. But, of course, these days we know much more about the workings of the human mind than they did when senior officers were making life-and-death decisions at court martials over a century ago.
Based on our understanding today, there is good reason to believe that the behaviours leading to many of these executions were a result of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) or Combat Stress Reaction (CSR). If this is so, many of those shot at dawn were not bad men. Rather, they were guys who had been psychologically traumatised by the horrors of war.
The memorial statue portrays a young British soldier blindfolded and tied to a stake, hands bound behind his back, awaiting execution by firing squad. A small disc, hanging from a chain around his neck, marks the point at which his executioners have been ordered to aim. Arranged in a semi-circle behind the condemned man are stakes, each bearing the name of a man executed in this manner during the First World War.
Artist Andy DeComyn based his statue on a likeness of 17 year old Private Herbert Burden, who lied about his age to get into the army and was later executed for desertion. It is a poignant piece of work, a reminder that simple words like “coward” or “deserter” do not necessarily do justice to the realities of life – and death – on the battlefield.
As such, it also brings to mind Michael Morpurgo’s “Private Peaceful”, an insightful novel for young adults – later made into a stage play, concert and film – that featured at its heart a battlefield execution. In my view, Private Peaceful and Shot at Dawn should both be compulsory viewing for those who seek to portray warfare as a glorious or noble activity.
Poignant in a different way is “Every Which Way“, a memorial to the evacuation of children from cities to the relative safety of rural Britain during the Second World War. The memorial remembers the evacuation of millions of children separated from their families during the conflict. It also pays tribute to the adults who made this huge logistical operation a success, including train and coach drivers, teachers, nurses, billeting offices, and the foster parents who gave the evacuees temporary new homes.
The artist responsible for “Every Which Way” was Maurice Blik, who was commissioned by the British Evacuees Association (BEA). It is an outstanding, emotionally charged piece of work.
Here’s what Blik had to say about his sculpture when it was inaugurated in 2017:
The title of the memorial was inspired by one of the members of the BEA who on seeing my initial scale model of the sculpture, exclaimed ‘That’s it exactly – we were going every which way’…With the design I hope to convey some of the confusion and anxiety felt by the child evacuees. This is not a straight forward line of children about to set off on a journey; … items of clothing are back to front and luggage is split open to symbolise families being torn apart.”
Source: Maurice Blik, writing in his booklet about the memorial and quoted in the Volunteer London Blog
I leave you with this thought: Blik’s sculpture is a powerful, brilliantly executed reminder that innocent people, including children, inevitably get hurt in wars. We shouldn’t need reminding, but the daily reports of suffering, destruction and death in Ukraine and the Middle East suggest otherwise. Have we, as a species, learned nothing? In 1969, John Lennon urged us all to Give Peace a Chance, and today his words seem more relevant than ever.
Next Sunday, 12 November, is Remembrance Sunday, when the UK reflects on the sacrifices made by men and women who have died in the service of their country. Services and ceremonies of remembrance will take place at locations up and down the country, including the National Memorial Arboretum in the county of Staffordshire.
The Arboretum opened in 2001, and exists to ensure that –
“the unique contribution of those who have served and sacrificed is never forgotten
the baton of Remembrance is passed on through the generations
there is a year-round space to celebrate lives lived and commemorate lives lost.”
I am, at heart, a child of the sixties, brought up in the era of the peace movement to the sound of Edwin Star reminding us that “War can’t give life, it can only take it away,” and John Lennon pleading with us all to “Give peace a chance“. I accept that warfare might sometimes be necessary as a last resort, the lesser of two terrible evils, but any attempt to promote or glorify it is, and will always be, anathema to me.
I therefore visited the National Memorial Arboretum earlier this year with a degree of trepidation, fearing it would be little more than a shallow, macho glorification of armed conflict, a misguided homage to the notion that “might is right”. As it happens, I had nothing to fear: taken as a whole, the memorials are broader in scope, more sensitive and more thought provoking than I had imagined. Indeed, some have little or no direct link to the military services.
More than 25,000 trees have been planted on the site, which was reclaimed from old gravel workings and measures around 150 acres (60 hectares). It currently hosts around 400 memorials to individual units of the armed forces, to specific incidents and to sundry other causes and organisations. Memorials come in all shapes and sizes, and in various materials including steel and bronze, as well as glass and stone.
The Armed Forces Memorial
The centrepiece is the Armed Forces Memorial, an imposing Portland marble installation upon which are engraved the names of around 16,000 servicemen and women who have died in the line of duty or been killed by terrorists since 1945. Inspired by monuments of prehistoric Britain, a 43 metres diameter stone structure sits atop an earth mound 6 metres high. Depressingly, there is space on the walls for another 15,000 names to be added.
The Polar Bear Memorial
The Polar Bear Memorial was the first memorial erected at the site, and was dedicated in 1998, three years before the official opening of the Arboretum. It’s a tribute to the 49th West Riding Infantry Division, who adopted their distinctive polar bear cap badge after service in Norway and Iceland in World War 2. Around its base are the badges of the regiments in the Division, and the towns liberated or defended by them. Inside the bear is a capsule carrying details of those who died, together with personal mementoes. Versions of the Polar Bear statue have been erected at towns liberated by them in World War 2.
The Submariner’s MemorialThe memorial resembles a submarine’s conning tower
Another thought-provoking memorial is that to the crews of submarines. The Submariner’s Memorial was designed by sculptor Paul Day. Its representation of a conning tower, through which a sailor gazes up longingly towards the sky, eerily conveys the sense of confinement that submarine crews must have felt every day.
The Clapton Orient MemorialSoccer boots are the clue to Clapton Orient’s game!
Some memorials, including the Clapton Orient memorial, hint at a fascinating story. Why, the casual visitor might wonder, do a soccer ball and a pair of soccer boots flank an obelisk commemorating members of the 17th Battalion Middlesex Regiment? The inscription gives the answer, telling us that “Clapton Orient were the first football league club to enlist en masse to serve king and country during the Great War.”
The club’s players enlisted in December 1914, serving in what became known as the Footballers’ Battalion. The inscription goes on to tell us that “Many [of the footballers] sustained wounds, and three of the club’s players made the ultimate sacrifice during the Battle of the Somme.” The memorial is based on an original, paid for and unveiled by Orient fans in 2011 at Flers, in the heart of the Somme battlefield.
Memorial to the Royal Army Medical Corps
It is not just members of fighting units who are honoured at the National Memorial Arboretum. One of the most striking sculptural works on display is a bronze memorial commemorating the Royal Army Medical Corps (RAMC). Sculpted by Alan Beattie Herriot, it features a member of the RAMC carrying a wounded soldier over his shoulder. Since the foundation of the Corps in 1898, 29 medics have been awarded the Victoria Cross (VC), the highest and most prestigious decoration for military personnel in the British honours system.
Memorial recalling the Christmas Day truce, 1914
Another soccer-related memorial recalls the Christmas Day Truce in 2014, when British and German soldiers met in no man’s land to exchange gifts, take photographs and play impromptu games of football. For one day only these men decided to give peace a chance, and although hostilities resumed soon after, their action remains one of the most famous and inspiring encounters of the First World War. The memorial is based on a design by 10 year old Spencer Turner for the Football Association’s “Football Remembers” competition, and depicts a British and a German soldier shaking hands. Simple, but symbolic and very moving.
The Aguila Memorial to 21 Wrens lost at sea in 1941
It was not only men who gave their lives in the service of their country. The Aguila Memorial, carved from wood on a stone base, commemorates 21 members of the the Women’s Royal Naval Service (aka the WRNS / the Wrens) who were lost at sea in August 1941 when their ship the Aguila was torpedoed by a U-Boat. The Aguila was en route to Gibraltar where 12 of the Wrens were due to take up duties as cypher officers, and the other nine as wireless operators.
“Free Spirit”, in memory of more than 1,000,000 horses and mules used by the British Army during WW1
“Free Spirit” takes a very different look at the victims of warfare. Animals can be in the firing line too, and this bronze statue of a horse designed by Georgie Welch commemorates more than 1,000,000 horses and mules used by the British Army during the First World War. Most did not survive the ordeal.
Celebration of “the Bevin Boys”Celebration of the Women’s Land Army and Timber Corps
One of the notable features of the National Memorial Arboretum is that it recognises wars are fought and won on the home front, as well as on the battlefield. One memorial, for example, commemorates the Bevin Boys. These were young British men conscripted to work in coal mines between December 1943 and March 1948, to increase the rate of coal production, which had declined through the early years of the Second World War.
Another memorial marks the contribution of the Women’s Land Army and Timber Corps, and rightly so: over the course of the two World Wars over 240,000 “Land Girls” and “Lumber Jills” produced desperately needed food and timber for the war effort.
The National Memorial Arboretum is full of surprises, and gives the visitor lots to think about. Two of the most striking memorials commemorate soldiers who were executed on the battlefield during the First World War, and children evacuated from their city homes into the countryside to protect them from bombing during the Second World War. This post is already far too long, so I will write about these two very different, and very special, memorials next time.
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Musical postscript
Writing this post has inevitably led me to a period of sombre reflection. At such times I tend to find that music – particularly within the broad tradition of English folk music – is better able to capture the emotions engendered by the realities and consequences of armed conflict than mere words written on a page. With that in mind, I offer you links to two songs that mean a lot to me. I hope they speak to you too. Listen, and quietly weep.
“And the band played Waltzing Matilda” was penned by Eric Bogle, a Scottish-born Australian singer-songwriter. It describes the grim realities and consequences of war, and the short-sightedness of those who seek to glorify it. Here is Bogle singing his anti-war masterpiece:
As a noted apologist for the British Empire, Rudyard Kipling, the English poet, short story writer, journalist and novelist, is not the obvious composer of an anti-war song. Perhaps he didn’t regard “Soldier, soldier” as an anti-war song at all? I do, for it is a stark reminder not only of the brutal consequences of war for the combatants, but of the pain and suffering of those watching from afar as events unfold on the battlefield. Here Kipling’s words are sung by English folk singers Anni Fentiman and Brian Peters, to an arrangement by Peter Bellamy
Portuguese artist extraordinaire Joana Vasconcelos has been at it again. I’ve written previously about her wonderful sculptural pieces, so when we read about the 12m high, three-tiered Wedding Cake installation she’s created at Waddesdon Manor in the English county of Buckinghamshire we were determined to check it out. We weren’t disappointed.
Vasconcelos describes Wedding Cake as “a temple of love”. The art, design and architecture website Wallpaper puts it this way:
Part sculpture, and part architectural garden folly, Wedding Cake is an extraordinary, gigantic, fully immersive sculpture that fuses pâtisserie, design and architecture.
Wedding Cake is without doubt the Lisbon-based artist’s most ambitious work to date, baking in the oven of her imagination for more than five years. Clad in over 25,000 gleaming, icing-like ceramic tiles, the installation also boasts a vast array of ornaments in various forms, including mermaids, angels, candles and globes. Water spurts playfully from the mouths of dolphins, alongside ceramic cupids disporting themselves mischievously all around the circumference of this absurdly captivating creation.
The exterior is breathtakingly eye-catching, but there’s more. Stepping through intricate iron scrollwork doors, the visitor enters a colourful pavilion, a wedding chapel in which eight sky-blue columns bedecked in yellow stars support a domed ceiling designed to create the illusion of looking up at the sky. Its walls also feature sculptures of Saint Anthony, the patron saint of marriages and good luck, who was born in Lisbon.
Inside the pavilion, statues of St. James, patron saint of weddings and good luck, carrying a child in his arms
As if one floor were not enough, ornate spiral staircases lead up to the second and third “tiers” of the cake, which offer new perspectives on Wedding Cake and the woodland grove in which it sits.
Inside the pavilion, ground floorSpiral staircase leading from the 2nd to the 3rd tier
Here’s what Vasconcelos has to say about Wedding Cake –
“Many wedding cakes have pillars, columns, and tiers. In a way, my sculpture is about the relationship between these two worlds—pastry and architecture—that are not normally connected.”
Source: Quoted in the Vogue website, retrieved 24 October, 2023
Vasconcelos is clearly a creative eccentric. Fair to say, I’ve never seen anything quite like Wedding Cake before, nor do I expect to again. It’s definitely a one-off, a wacky, pastel-coloured masterpiece that is both preposterous and strangely compelling. Disappointingly, the reactions of fellow visitors were mixed. While some, like Mrs P and I, were blown away by the audacity of her creation, others weren’t convinced. “It’s too pink” said one woman, shaking her head vigorously and defying anyone to disagree with her.
Too pink? Duh! Can anything be too pink? I don’t think so. Just ask Barbie!.
Too pink? I don’t think so!
Meanwhile, another visitor was moaning that Wedding Cake wasn’t at all what she’d expected. “Didn’t you do a bit of research and look at some photos of it before you decided to come along?” I asked sweetly.
“Yes, of course” she replied, regarding me as if I’d just crawled out from under a stone.
“And doesn’t what’s in front of you look just like what you saw in those photos?” I continued, the picture of innocence.
“Yes, but it’s not what I expected.” Oh dear, sometimes I despair, I really do! One of the purposes of art is to stimulate the imagination and encourage conversation, but there are some conversations I’d simply rather not have.
But hey, everyone – however weird! – is entitled to an opinion. And my opinion is that Wedding Cake confirms Joana Vasconcelos to be an artist of rare ambition and talent. I look forward to seeing more of her work in the future.
Now I'm 64 
