Saturday, 1 October 2016

The Local Mitfords by Mary Hoffman

This dropped into my inbox last week and got me fired up about the Mitford Sisters all over again. It's the US release, by St. Martin's Press, of a book published in the UK by Head of Zeus last year, with a different title:

I can't remember when I first read The Pursuit of Love by Nancy Mitford; It must have been before the BBC TV adaptation by Deborah Moggach in 2001, with Alan Bates as Uncle Matthew, because I knew the novels well by then. (The television series combined The Pursuit of Love and Love in a Cold Climate and took the latter title.)

But, whenever it was, my interest in the Mitford family began then and is shared by my oldest daughter. But here's the odd thing: both I and my daughter are socialists and so much of the Mitford sisters' lives should be repugnant to us and yet the fascination persists. Two were fascists, one was at least at times, sympathetic to fascist causes, one was a staunch Conservative, one was apparently apolitical and one was a Communist.

And yet, Jessica (Decca), the Communist, although of a political persuasion much closer to mine than that of her sisters, is the one I find least sympathetic. I have read the autobiographies of Jessica, Diana and Deborah, biographies of Nancy and the wonderful Letters between Six Sisters edited by Charlotte Mosley, Diana's daughter-in-law. And now this latest from Laura Thompson, which looks at the entire family. (Do not believe Google, who tell you that Thompson is 111 and born in Hawaii, while attributing to her all the real author's books.)

When we moved out of London to West Oxfordshire, it took me a long time to discover Swinbrook, only a few miles away, and the Mitford connection. But now it is a favourite destination. Four of the sisters are buried in the churchyard of St. Mary's:

Nancy, Unity and Diana have headstones all in a row and Pamela is a bit further across.

Nancy, Unity and Diana's graves (the fourth is of Diana's grandson, Alexander

Pamela's grave
The one brother, Tom, the third child, who was also a fascist, died in the Second World War in Burma and his body was not repatriated but he has a memorial inside the church, to which his father donated its dark wooden pews.

So why did Swinbrook form the last resting place for four of the six sisters? (Jessica's ashes we scattered in the sea off her adopted country of America and Deborah is buried in Chatsworth).

Their father, David, the second Baron Redesdale, inherited Asthall Manor when his father died in 1916 and moved his family there in 1919. The youngest Mitford sister, Deborah, was born there in 1920. The seven years at Asthall were extremely influential on the older children and the fictional Alconleigh in Nancy's novels, is based on it. It had in the past belonged to Sir Edmund Fettiplace of the famous Fettiplace monument in St. Mary's, Swinbrook, where the effigies of the dead Fettiplaces are ranged vertically, looking as if they recline in bunk beds.

But in 1926, the family was moved to a house in Swinbrook designed by their father. Nancy in particular, then twenty-two, loathed it and called it Swinebrook. Deborah on the other hand adored it and in later life bought the pub in the village, called The Swan. (Swinbrook House, the family home, no longer exists).

The Swan is full of black and white photos of the sisters and the famous portraits by William Acton:


You can see an interview with "Debo" the late Dowager Duchess of Devonshire, in the pub here.

Are you clear about which sister was which? Just a quick reminder:

Nancy, the oldest (1904 - 1973), was the stylish, witty and acerbic writer. Two of her novels, The Pursuit of Love and Love in a Cold Climate, were bestsellers and she became the close friend of Evelyn Waugh. (Their letters were also edited by Charlotte Mosley) Nancy married Peter Rodd but it was not happy. She moved to France and had a long and and unsatisfactory affair with diplomat Gaston Palewski. She wrote serious biographies of  Voltaire, the Sun King and Frederick the Great, which were well received but for most readers she remains primarily a novelist of the Bright Young Things.

Pamela (1907 -1994), known to her sisters as "Woman," is sometimes thought of as the quiet or normal Mitford. John Betjeman proposed to her twice and was rejected. She married and divorced   the fascist sympathiser Derek Jackson and much preferred dogs to children. A countrywoman, with housewifely skills, she spent her later life with another woman, Giuditta Tommasi.

(Tom (1909 - 1945) )

Diana (1910 - 2001) was regarded as the great beauty in a very good-looking family. She married young to wealthy Bryan Guinness but left him in 1933 for married Oswald Mosley, the founder of the British Union of Fascists. After Mosley's wife died unexpectedly, he married Diana, in Germany in Goebbels' house, in the presence of Adolf Hitler. She had two sons by each marriage. Mosley was serial womaniser but Diana stayed loyal to him. She was imprisoned for three years in the war.

Unity Valkyrie (1914 - 1948), was conceived in the town of Swastika in Canada (honestly, you couldn't make this stuff up!). She lived up to her middle name by growing into a striking figure of nearly six feet tall and a devoted follower of Hitler. She was so distressed by the outbreak of war between the UK and Germany in 1939 that she shot herself in the head in Munich, using a pistol given her by the Führer. She did not succeed in killing herself but lived on as an invalid for another nine years, being nursed by her mother and sister Deborah, in spite of having developed an aggressive personality disorder.

Jessica (1917 - 1996) was the odd one out. She built up a "running away fund, " which she used for just that, eloping with her cousin Esmond Romilly (rumoured to be Winston Churchll's illegitimate love child!). They were both Communists and fled to do their bit in the Spanish Civil War. After that they emigrated to the USA where Jessica spent the rest of her life. Esmond was tragically killed in the Second World War and Jessica later married Robert Teuhaft. She wrote The American Way of Death, Kind and Usual Punishment etc. as well as Hons and Rebels, an account of her childhood much disputed by her sisters.

Deborah (1920 - 2014) married Andrew Cavendish, who became the Duke of Devonshire, and turned Chatsworth House into a star attraction stately home. She wrote several books, including the poignant Wait for Me.

The "girls" were all accustomed to raising chickens and Deborah used to sell the eggs from her hens to her own mother.

Deborah and, perhaps surprisingly, Diana come over so well in their autobiographical writing that it comes as a shock when you reach the love of blood sports in the one case and of Hitler and Mosley in the other.

Pamela and Unity were the only two sisters never to write books, though Pamela planned a cookery book that she never finished. The remaining four all wrote so well and entertainingly that you wonder if the other two would also have had the same gift.

There is also the allure of the closed world of an eccentric, talented and aristocratic family, with their secret languages and allusions.

Laura Thompson's book reflects all this and comes up with some aperçus of her own (a favourite word of hers). She believes that Nancy's's portrayal of the gay Cedric Hampton in Love in a Cold Climate paved the way for acceptance of homosexuality in the UK.  She convincingly portrays Nancy and Diana as the two opposing "queens" in the family's dynamic, with a see-saw of jealousy swinging up and down between them. And yet Diana drove daily from Versailles during the agonising four years it took Nancy to die of cancer, to visit her sister.

Jessica could forgive Unity for idolising Hitler but not Diana for introducing her to the Führer. Nancy and Jessica formed an unholy alliance in being mean about their mother.

All the sisters had a supreme self-confidence and a rigid tendency to stick with whatever cause - or man - they had espoused. They were obdurate in face of much tragedy - loss of children, infidelity of husbands, betrayal by family members - and had a core of steel.

They all passionately adored animals - dogs, horses, chickens, goats, sheep - and yet the dying Nancy expressed a wish for another day's hunting.

Paradox was perhaps their defining characteristic.

Deborah collecting eggs













Friday, 30 September 2016

September Competition

To win a copy of Snowdrift, short stories by Georgette Heyer, just answer the following question in the Comments below:

What is your favourite Georgette Heyer novel and why?

Then send your answer to maryhoffman@maryhoffman.co.uk so that I can contact you if you have won.

Closing date 7th October

We regret that our competitions are open only to UK Followers

Thursday, 29 September 2016

New Georgette Heyer stories!

We could almost say that our September guest is posthumous! The late Georgette Heyer (1902-1974) is very popular with many History Girls and our Followers but we are aware that she is sometimes considered a bit of a Marmite author.  So if you are not a fan, look away now. If you are we have a real treat for you.

Snowdrift has just been published, a collection of short stories, including three previously unpublished tales. These were found by our actual guest Jennifer Kloester, who has written an introduction. We asked Jennifer to tell us about her researches.

Jennifer Kloester, photo by Greg Noakes
Tell us about the re-discovery of the three new short stories.  What were your feelings on realising that they hadn’t been read since 1939?

It was an incredible research experience finding new Heyer short stories, most of which had not been seen since their publication in the 1920s and 1930s. I will never forget being in the Rare Books and Music Reading Room at the British Library and turning the page of Sovereign magazine and seeing Georgette Heyer's beneath a new short story title. I literally had to stop myself from jumping up and down with excitement. I spent weeks searching over three thousand individual magazines at the Newspaper Library at Colindale. Of the nine stories I eventually found several were contemporary romances but the four were historical. Two of those historical shorts: 'Runaway Match' and 'Incident on the Bath Road' have now been included in the new anthology, Snowdrift and Other Stories and the third one, 'Pursuit' I found in a delightful publication, The Queen's Book of the Red Cross. Every new story was like discovering gold. I love research and gain a tremendous sense of satisfaction from searching archives and finding new details about the past. Researching Georgette Heyer's life and writing had been hugely rewarding and I feel immensely privileged to have spent so many years (since 1999) pursuing the reclusive Miss Heyer.

How do you think that they add to her existing body of work?

These short stories were written in the 1930s - 1936 and 1939 to be exact - when Heyer had only written her first couple of Regency novels. In 'Runaway Match, 'Incident on the Bath Road' and 'Pursuit', Heyer readers will find hints of books to come. Heyer often used her short stories as starting points for her later novels and I think that's really interesting in terms of her development as a writer. Heyer has iconic status as a historical novelist and created the hugely popular Regency genre and these short stories are part of that early evolution. By considering them in their context I think they add a few more pieces to our growing understanding of an intensely private author.

Do you have a favourite?

I like them all but 'Incident on the Bath Road' is my favourite of this group. Heyer draws her characters so well and there are some lovely lines in it.

What do you think keeps people coming back to her books after all this time?

 She is the consummate storyteller and, as we see time and time again in books, movies and on television, a good story always sells. Heyer is also masterful in depicting character. Her characters are so memorable and not only her primary but her secondary characters are three-dimensional, flesh-and-blood creations. Her plots are brilliantly crafted and no one does imbroglio endings like Heyer. Best of all she makes you laugh out loud with her wonderful dialogue and memorable scenes. You only have to think of moments from her novels like Freddy and Nemesis or Claude and Polyphant or Lord Dolphington (Heyer fans will know what I mean) and you'll be smiling. It has often been said that Georgette Heyer is one of the great re-reads and I think that's absolutely true. She is the author you turn to when life is hard, or sickness prevails or you just want to escape. A.S. Byatt called Heyer's novels 'Honourable Escape' and I think that's a very apt description.


You've written two non-fiction books (a biog of GH and one about the regency world in which many of her books are set) and two novels. Has your view of GH's writing changed since you started writing/ writing novels?

Writing my own novels has made me appreciate Heyer's achievements even more. She wrote with such extraordinary facility - sometimes penning an entire book in a couple of months. She wrote Faro's Daughter in eight weeks, straight to the typewriter and single-spaced on account of the wartime paper shortage. I envy her the ease with which she devised her plots and created her characters though she always said the writing was hard! I have also gained a deeper understanding of her inner struggles - her yearning for recognition and for wanting to be told that her novels were good. She was so often self-deprecating about her work even though she loved writing books and deep down believed they were worthwhile. Recently, I've been re-reading her novels from the 1950s and have been struck anew by the brilliance of their structure. I don't think I'd ever fully appreciated the cleverness of her plots until I'd written my own novels. I'd love to write as well as Heyer.

Your favourite GH heroine?

Such a hard question because I love so many of her female characters. Hester Theale from Sprig Muslin always springs to mind because she is so well-drawn and has real depth. I adore Mary Challoner from Devil's Cub because she is Heyer's first anti-heroine and I adore the scene she's on the ship and tells Vidal she's about to throw up. Jenny Chawleigh from A Civil Contract is superbly written and she evokes great sympathy. Then there's Venetia who is undoubtedly one of Heyer's finest creations. But perhaps my top pick is Sarah Thane from The Talisman Ring because I just love her scenes with Sir Tristram and she's so feisty and cool-headed.


What’s next for you?

I'm about to finish writing my latest novel. This one's contemporary fiction but with a strong Regency element. I've had great fun writing it and I'm quite excited by the story. The Regency bits have been a joy to write - there's something about the period that I just love. I suspect that's because of my Jane Austen/Georgette Heyer addiction! The novel also has a supernatural theme which I've really enjoyed writing. I'm hoping it will be out next year. I'll keep you posted!



Thanks, Jennifer! Mary Challoner is my favourite heroine too.

You can win a copy of this gorgeously-produced book in our competition tomorrow and enter the world of Nonesuches and Nonpareils, Bucks and Corinthians with Roman profiles, impossibly complicated neckcloths and multi-caped riding cloaks.  Your destination will be Bath, London or Gretna Green and the ride is bound to be enjoyable.

(Many thanks to Charlotte Wightwick for her help with this guest post)


Wednesday, 28 September 2016

Making History ... by One Foot by Julie Summers

I write a great deal about life in the middle of the last century and about people who made history in a variety of different ways. Today I want to tell the story of a group of young men who made history nine years ago and who have joined the pantheon of greats in the small but exclusive field of Henley Royal Regatta rowing winners. Sunday 8 July 2007 and the market town of Henley-on-Thames is enjoying a warm afternoon. On the Buckinghamshire bank of the river the scene is one of colour, pageantry and tradition: blue-and-white striped boat tents marshalled neatly between the pink-and-cream Leander Club hard up against Henley Bridge, and the white marquees housing the grandstands and Stewards’ Enclosure on the downstream side. It is finals day of the regatta, the day when lives are changed for ever by the outcome of an individual race. At 3:50pm two crews of nine young men line up at the start, next to the lozenge-shaped island in the middle of the river crowned by an elegant temple designed by the eighteenth-century English architect, James Wyatt. The umpire is standing in a handsome launch, arms raised, holding a red flag vertically above his head waiting for the two coxes to indicate that their crews are all set. Are you ready? He sweeps the flag down sharply. Go! Sixteen blades dip into the water. They are off.
There is expectation and excitement all along the river bank – not least in the Stewards’ Enclosure where nervous parents fidget, check their watches, exchange anxious glances and wonder why the commentator has not mentioned the race yet. But patience. Then the deadpan announcement over the loudspeaker: The final of the Princess Elizabeth Challenge Cup is in progress between Brentwood College School on the Berkshire station and Shrewsbury School on the Bucks station. Brentwood College School are the Canadian National School Champions. No mention of Shrewsbury’s pedigree. Upwards of 100,000 people attend Henley Royal Regatta each July. It is an event caught in a bubble of history with echoes of a bygone era everywhere: fine hats, striped blazers, picnics in the car park come rain or shine, decorated launches bobbing on the white booms that line the course, Pimms jugs clinking with ice, champagne and oysters, a brass band playing military tunes, and all the while a titanic battle is being fought on the water. Brentwood had dispatched the favourites, Eton, in the semi-finals the day before and Shrewsbury had beaten Radley in a slower time.
At the end of the island, both crews rating 42, Brentwood College School lead Shrewsbury School by half a length. Forty strokes in from the start and the Canadians already have a half-length lead. Six minutes to go. The grandstand is full of Shrewsbury supporters. There is barely a free seat, the atmosphere tense. Elsewhere people are milling around the bars and chatting. Henley is, after all, a great social event. It marks the end of the summer season, after Ascot, and coincides with finals’ day at Wimbledon. At The Barrier, Brentwood College School maintained their lead of half a length over Shrewsbury School. Time to The Barrier, 1 minute 58 seconds. A buzz. One second faster than yesterday. The Barrier is one of two points where intermediate times are taken, times that later will be scrutinised, compared, delighted at or despaired over. The spectators downstream can see the action first. Crowding along the river bank they get close-up views of the two crews battling it out in the early stages of the race.
The next timing point is Fawley. Now there is a change: At Fawley, Brentwood College School’s lead over Shrewsbury School has been reduced to a quarter of a length. The grandstand is in spasm, spectators begin to move towards the river bank sensing a spectacle. Downstream the shouting has increased and the excitement is palpable. Can the home crew crack the Canadians? At The Three-Quarter Mile Signal Brentwood School led Shrewsbury School by 2 feet. The grandstand is on its feet, a roar is moving up the bank like a giant wave. Half the race gone. At the Mile Signal, Shrewsbury School had taken the lead. Wild elation but fear too. The Canadians were not about to give up and Shrewsbury supporters knew that. ‘We could see them now and it looked hell’, wrote housemaster Martin Humphreys to crew member Tom Hanmer’s parents. ‘Shrewsbury on the far side pounding away, looking a bit scrappy and tired, to be honest. Brentwood on the near side and neat and long. When they came past us Shrewsbury had a quarter of a length lead, but I could see the Canadians were eating into it with every stroke. This was grim.’ The two boats cross the line neck and neck. Then there is silence. The commentary ceases and the Finish Judge has to make his call. The wait seems interminable, time stands still. Then: The result of the Final of the Princess Elizabeth Challenge Cup was that Shr …. No need for the rest: the name of the winning crew is always announced first. The grandstand explodes in ecstasy … the verdict, one foot. More cheering. The narrowest, the shortest, the tiniest of winning margins imaginable, less than a sixtieth of the length of the boat.
For Brentwood College School a bitter blow. To be a member of a losing crew, however epic the race, there are no prizes. For the boys of the winning crew and their parents, unsurpassed joy, a matter of lifetime pride and for one man in particular this is a sweet victory. Eighty-three-year-old Michael Lapage watched his grandson, Patrick, help to win this great battle. Nearly seventy years earlier, on the same stretch of river, Michael had won silver for Great Britain in the 1948 Olympic Games. The legacy of a Henley win is a long one. It unites generations and brings tears to the eyes of the strongest of men.
An extraordinary footnote to this story is that Patrick Lapage stroked the Harvard University boat to victory five years later. The verdict: ONE FOOT. Now there is history for you...

Tuesday, 27 September 2016

Jellicoe and the U Boats by Janie Hampton


There has been much in the news this year about the 1916 naval Battle of Jutland and the role of Admiral Sir John Jellicoe.
Admiral Sir John Jellicoe
(1859-1953)
But has anybody mentioned another Jellicoe who was also employed by the British Royal Navy and active during the First World War? I doubt it, because the other Jellicoe was a sea-lion. He belonged to Captain Joseph Woodward from Ramsgate, Kent, whose family had one of the first touring sea-lion shows. The sea-lions were trained to juggle, balance balls on their noses and dive for chocolates.
During the First World War, German U-boats were sinking tons of British merchant shipping. Captain Woodward was sure that Jellicoe and his under-water colleagues could help. Sea-lions have excellent underwater vision and hearing; can swim 25 mph (40 kph); dive repeatedly to a depth of 1,000 feet - 300 metres; and are as intelligent as dogs. The British ‘Board of Invention and Research’ agreed it was worth a try. Trials were undertaken first in an outdoor swimming pool, and then in Lake Bala in Wales. Captain Woodward’s idea was that Jellicoe would track the sound of a U-boat engine -however deep it was in the ocean- and swim towards it with a float attached to a cord. The Navy would follow the floats, and know that a U-boat was underneath. The first trick was to encourage them to track U-boats, and not fish. All went well, until they were put to work in the actual sea off Southampton. Despite wearing muzzles, they ignored the Royal Navy submarine, and went straight for the fish. The sea-lions returned home but after yet more training, in 1917 the experiment was abandoned. However, it was agreed that important developments in 'hydrophone science' had been made. Jellicoe and his comrades were demobilized and returned to civilian life. But Jellicoe’s career was not over. Hailed as "the actual Admiralty U-boat hunting sea-lion", he continued to perform in theatres such as The Hippodrome in London.
The Other Jellicoe
I first learned about Jellicoe when I found a yellowing press-cutting among my late uncle’s papers. The  Birmingham Mail revealed that in January 1921 Jellicoe was performing in the Victory Circus at Bingley Hall, Birmingham. This was not far from where my grandfather Rosslyn Bruce (great nephew of the afore-blogged Felicia Skene) was a vicar. He wanted to raise money for the poor children of Birmingham, and he loved animals. He persuaded Captain Woodward that Jellicoe would bring great publicity to the Fund – and, no doubt, the circus too.
Birmingham Mail January 14, 1921.
 "Extra-ordinary scenes were witnessed in Birmingham today," reported the Birmingham Mail, "when the sea-lion ‘Jellicoe’ drove to the Mail offices on his motor cycle combination." The convoy included two motor cars "decorated with flags and red, white and blue ribbons...Jellicoe was apparently oblivious to the flattering reception received from the huge concourse" – estimated to be the largest crowd ever seen in Corporation Street. "He sounded his horn repeatedly when anyone threatened to get in the way. Jellicoe’s instinct, however, is so intense that he requires little help to avoid obstacles. Throughout the journey he never seemed like losing control of his machine." No mention was made of Mrs Woodward, hidden beneath his flippers. "Arriving at the office of the Birmingham Mail, Jellicoe dismounted and proceeded up the steps to the front door. Introductions having been effected, Jellicoe indicated a desire to proceed to the editorial department and was directed upstairs." Around the neck of "this amphibious messenger" was a cheque for £251 8s 8d, raised at a charity concert for the Christmas Children’s Fund. "Jellicoe shook hands, saluted and descending the stairs, made his way to the motor cycle which he at once mounted and drove away, sounding his horn furiously to the great delight of the crowd." In the faded newspaper photo, my uncle Merlin, then aged 11, can be seen sitting in the side car beside Jellicoe as it travelled down New Street.
A year later Merlin Bruce went to Dartmouth Royal Naval College from where he became commander of an early aircraft carrier and was later awarded an OBE for defusing bombs.
Merlin Bruce RN, circa 1930


Since the 1960s, the US Navy has been training California sea-lions to locate sea-mines and lost divers, and even attach leg-cuffs to suspected saboteurs who can then be hauled to the surface. Sea-lions can also film live videos of the ocean floor with cameras attached to specially-designed harnesses. So far, the US Navy has not admitted to training them to drive motorcycles, with or without sidecars.
On friendly terms with its commanding officer, a sea-lion on board a submarine, 'Illustrated London News', 1919


www.janiehampton.co.uk





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Monday, 26 September 2016

A vineyard in southern France, by Carol Drinkwater



It is that time of year again. Late September. The season of ‘mellow fruitfulness’. There are no mists here at this time of year in the south of France but there is a great deal of mature sunlight oozing its warm beams for long hour after long hour. I love this time of year and what has been extra special for me this year is that THE FORGOTTEN SUMMER was published last week in paperback.
To celebrate its publication, my husband and I visited one of our local Foire aux vins, a rendezvous for all lovers of good wine where a vast selection of French wines are on offer at slightly reduced prices.



THE FORGOTTEN SUMMER is set, predominantly, on a family-owned vineyard in the south of France. The book opens with the harvest, la vendange.

When I was a student, many of my colleagues would zip off to France or Italy about now and help with the grape-picking. The stories they returned with, along with their healthy sun-kissed cheeks, always made me a little wistful. I was one of those students who couldn’t really afford to travel, (which is possibly why I have been on the move ever since!) I had never visited a vineyard. I didn’t know anything of the back-breaking work, the heat in the fields, the sweet juice staining my fingers. All of these joyous experiences came to me later, and whilst writing on THE FORGOTTEN SUMMER I spent a great deal of time on several vineyards throughout all seasons to learn the entire wine-making process, but I particularly loved being out of doors in the fresh air at harvest-time. As well, I enjoyed the camaraderie that grows out of working with a small thrown-together team. It is all about picking by hand, just as we do with our olives. One of the main reasons for this is that discerning pickers will know to leave the poor fruits alone and not mix them in with top quality fruits.

The moment of when to pick is an ancient art and getting it right is vital to the quality of the wine to come. Most winemakers decide their moment dependent on the sugar and acid levels in the fruit. Weather, too, is an important factor. This becomes clear in THE FORGOTTEN SUMMER when an unpredicted hail storm arrives from nowhere and beats down on the newly-picked grapes, destroying entire baskets of the estate's most cherished variety.

The south of France with its abundance of rosé wines has been capturing the attention of wine connoisseurs the world over. Wine production here in the Midi has come of age, experts are claiming. It is true that until recently it has never been held with the regard given to Burgundy or Bordeaux productions but since Phoenician times it has been an active if not always top-notch business here.
                             The cave where the earliest known winery was located in southern Armenia

I read on Wikipedia that the oldest-known winery, -and judging by the remains excavated there it was a reasonably sophisticated affair - was found in Vayots Dzor, Armenia, and dates back to around 4100 BC. If this were the oldest winery it would date the industry at approximately 6,000 years old, which is at least 1,000 years younger than olive cultivation in the Middle East.

I wonder.

                                     Mosaic with Armenian writing depicting grapes and birds

Georgia was producing wine during the same period as the Armenians and possibly earlier. They discovered wine-making when they buried wild grape juice underground in shallow pits throughout the winter. When the juice was dug up it had fermented. The next step was to sink grape juice in clay vessels with sealed wooden lids and leave these kvevris sometimes for up to fifty years.
                                                         Ancient kvevris in Georgia
The kvevris resemble early amphorae which, from at least Phoenician times, were used to transport liquid produce such as wine or olive oil all around the Mediterranean. The Phoenicians played a vital role all along their maritime trading routes in disseminating both wine and olive knowledge.


                                           Roman amphorae used to transport olive oil or wine

The search for the origins of viticulture is as complex a journey as my own Olive Route expeditions. It is possibly why the history of wine-making fascinates me as much as the olive culture.


                                                       Egyptian wine jars 6th - 4th century BC

I can remember standing in the West Bank on a very sunny February morning planting olive saplings in groves where the old trees had been felled, and looking about me. Unrestricted views in every direction. Palestine. Ancient Palestine. Canaan, Phoenician fields. Israel. On each of these territories wine production has had an impact and that impact has been carried to ports all across the Mediterranean.


                                         An exquisite Greek wine-mixing vessel, from southern France 500 BC

Southern France, the original small port that was founded as Massilia, modern-day Marseille, would have seen the arrival of wine stock and olive trees somewhere around 600 BC. The Phoenicians first or possibly the Phocaean Greeks who came from the Asia Minor coast, from the port-city of Phocaea – today Foca in Turkey. Both peoples would have transported with them cultivation know-how as well as a floating nursery of sorts. The resident Gauls were choosy about what they accepted from these long-distance foreigners, but they did welcome wine. After, came the Romans who planted up vast swathes of the Languedoc, the Mediterranean coast, Provence with vines.

A couple of years ago I was invited to the Robert Mondavi Institute, University of California, Davis, to give a couple of lectures on my Olive Route experiences, embracing both the two travel books and the films. While there I came across a very excellent book, which I thoroughly recommend if the history of viticulture is of interest to you.

                                                    ANCIENT WINE, by Patrick E. McGovern

It is a vast and intoxicating subject, and one I would love to travel to discover further.

THE FORGOTTEN SUMMER, unlike THE OLIVE ROUTE and its sequel THE OLIVE TREE, is a novel. It is full of love, fine food and wines and intrigue. I hope that it is also imbued with my passion for southern France's agricultural past and the region's history.

I leave you with Dionysus, or Bacchus. Such a handsome god in whose company I would enjoy driving a glass of wine.















Sunday, 25 September 2016

Fanny Burney by Miranda Miller



    I’m so glad to have finally read some of the work of this extraordinary women. The daughter of the musicologist Dr Charles Burney, whose amanuensis she was, she daringly wrote an epistolary novel, Evelina, in her twenties. She published it anonymously, without her father’s knowledge, and when it became known that she was the author she became famous. Hester Thrale, David Garrick and Dr Johnson, (who infamously remarked that "Public practice of any art, and staring in men's faces, is very indelicate in a female"), were amongst her admirers. Like so many novels of the period, the plot hangs on illegitimacy, honour, chastity and now seems fairly conventional: Evelina’s virtue is rewarded as it turns out she is, after all, the legitimate daughter of a rich man and therefore deserves her Lord. At the time the novel was considered remarkable for its originality and wit. Evelina’s embarrassing grandmother, Madame Duval, is a satirical portrait of the stepmother Fanny and her sisters hated.






    Jane Austen read Fanny Burney’s novels and was influenced by her. Near the end of Cecilia, her second novel: “The whole of this unfortunate business," said Dr Lyster, "has been the result of pride and prejudice.” She wrote more novels and also plays, one of which, The Woman Hater, was first performed in 2007 at the Orange Tree theatre in Richmond. During her lifetime her father and other friends constantly feared that her work would cause offence or make her appear unladylike.

   Queen Charlotte offered her the post of "Keeper of the Robes", with a salary of £200 per annum. Fanny hoped that the improved social status and income might allow her greater freedom to write but, although she became fond of the queen and princesses, her role at court was exhausting and tedious and left her little time to write. After five years she asked her father, who was then the organist at Chelsea Hospital, to help to release from the post.

   Fanny’s own later adventures were, I found, more gripping and moving than her novels and her own love story was far less conventional than her heroines’. Her journals, written in a lively style punctuated by those eighteenth century dashes that are like bolts of energy, are very readable. In her late thirties she married a French refugee, Monsieur, later General, Alexandre d’Arblay, a Catholic. He was considered so unsuitable that her father refused to attend the wedding.










   D'Arblay was offered service with Buonaparte’s government in France, and in 1802 Fanny and her son Alexander followed him to Paris. She refers to them, endearingly, as My Alexanders. They expected to be in France for a year but due to the outbreak of war between France and England they had to stay for ten years and she desperately missed her family.
   She wrote a terrifying account of her mastectomy in 1811. She was conscious throughout as there were of course no anaesthetics then: “I began a scream that lasted unintermittingly during the whole time of the incision – & I almost marvel that it rings not in my Ears still? so excruciating was the agony.” Being squeamish, I must admit I could hardly bear to read this. Despite this ordeal she lived until the then ripe old age of 87.
   For me, the most fascinating part of her journals is her account (some of it written many years after the events) of the atmosphere before and after the Battle of Waterloo. Thackeray drew on these pages when he wrote Vanity Fair.







   Fanny describes, wonderfully, the confusion in Brussels, the heartbreaking sight of so many maimed and dying soldiers, the wild rumours and the general conviction that Napoleon was invincible. On the day of the battle, in central Brussels, she heard ” a Howl, violent, loud, affrighting and issuing from many voices. I ran to the window, & saw (the street) suddenly filling with a rushing populace, pouring in from all its avenues, & hurrying on, rapidly, & yet in a scrambling manner, as if unconscious in what direction; while Women with Children in their arms, or clinging to their cloathes, ran screaming out of doors...that the French were come!”
   I was riveted by her description of her journey to join her wounded husband, who had been fighting to defend Louis XV111 and lay, dangerously ill, in Trèves (now Trier) in Germany. Fanny, in her sixties, left Brussels, without a new passport and almost without money, as soon as she heard that Alexandre was wounded. Her intrepid journey by stage coach took five days and at each town she had to show her French passport and get it signed by an official.

   In Cologne she stayed with a French family and summed up the timeless suffering of ordinary people in a time of war: “Death, Misfortune and Opression had all laid their Iron hands: they had lost their Sons, while, forcibly, fighting for a Usurpation which they adhorred; they had lost their property by emigration; & they had been treated with equal hardness by the Revolutionists because they were suspected of lack of loyalty, & by the Royalists because their Children had served in the armies of the Revolutionist.”
   In Coblentz she feared missing the weekly diligence that left at 4 in the morning and desperately ran around in the middle of the night trying to wake up the Prussian official whose permission she needed to continue her journey. As always, name dropping worked wonders: “”I had no sooner pronounced this name, than my new associate, giving me gaily a nod, seized my passport, &, opening the door without waiting for leave, carried it to the Bedside....& again, in a few minutes, my benevolent new friend came to me with his triumphant success. I blest him!”

   Finally: “Oh Alexander! What a meeting of exquisite felicity! - to Both-”