A Donkey's Tail

   Leaving my job in education last year was a huge step but after a bit of bad luck health-wise, even my stubborn head had to agree it was time to give myself a break, a chance to recover. The first thing that hit me was the quiet. As any teacher will tell you, listening to twenty different conversations at once, and responding appropriately, quickly becomes second nature. And when you work with children with educational needs and challenging behaviour, those conversations tend to be more earnest, more animated, and demand more attention. And the children leave an imprint on your mind. I missed them. Feeling a little lost, I turned to my family for guidance. Their response was unanimous: “you’ve always wanted to be a writer -  we think it’s time”.
   Carina, our eldest, set me a challenge to write a two-page short story, with a theme of romance and betrayal. And so, the idea for Cobbled Streets & Teenage Dreams was born. Using the New Forest village of Brockenhurst as my location was an instinctive one; I always associate Brockenhurst with my children, and Carina was the first one to go to college there. Heidi, being the youngest, is currently still studying there. It’s a bit of a trek from our home in Dorset on a daily basis but well worth it, for many reasons; Brock is a beacon status college, rated ‘outstanding’ by Ofsted, and has such a wide range of courses. It makes me want to be a student again but I think I’d be spoilt for choice on what to study. Education aside, the journey (by bus and train) gives a taste of independence and is a confidence builder, and the abundance of up-close encounters with the famous New Forest ponies and donkeys is an added bonus!

Brock College

One of Brockenhurst's New Forest thatches

New Forest ponies often stop traffic to say Hello!

 
   Brockenhurst is an ancient village in the heart of the New Forest, in Hampshire; Bronze Age burial mounds dating back 4,000 years give an indication of early habitation. The parish church of St Nicholas was the only New Forest church to be mentioned in the Domesday Book of 1086. The entry also recorded four Saxon manors, one being named Broceste – the earlier form of Brockenhurst. William the Conqueror created the New Forest - ‘Nova Foresta’ -  seven years previously, in 1079, as a vast  hunting ground, stretching far beyond its modern day boundaries. Villages and settlements were cleared and records show that several churches were demolished to make way for the king’s hunting ground. Under forest law, all fences were forbidden, to give deer and boar free access to roam and thrive. However, this made it almost impossible for the remaining families to grow any crops that weren’t eaten by the wild stock but the strict law had to be adhered to. All animals and vegetation became property of the king and therefore off-limits to villagers; even berry-picking was forbidden. Punishments were severe; death for poaching deer, mutilation by blinding for shooting at or disturbing deer, and loss of hands for taking wood from the forest.

   Gradually, the law was relaxed and forest rights allowed cattle to graze and villagers to collect firewood, for personal use or to sell. The village continued to grow and by 1664, Forest Rights were made formal, some of which continue to this day. Ponies and cattle are free to graze all year round, and pigs are let out to graze for sixty days a year to clear the fallen acorns; toxic to equines but a wonderful treat for pigs. This continuous grazing has shaped the Forest over the years, and is vital for its preservation. Without it, the landscape would be completely different. There are over three  thousand New Forest ponies and around a hundred donkeys; all wild animals in the sense that they are free to roam but all are owned by Forest Commoners. Commoners are residents of the Forest who own properties with grazing rights, known as Rights of Common. There are around 800 such properties throughout the New Forest. A team of Verderers are employed to ensure the Forest Rights are upheld, and they in turn have Agisters working for them to oversee the animals. Verderers have been around since the Middle Ages when they worked for the King to enforce the laws, although much has changed since then. As well as the New Forest, Verderers can still be found working in the Forest of Dean and Epping Forest.
   The Commoners, Verderers and Agisters all work together to protect the welfare of the animals so vital to the Forest. Each year the equines are rounded up and receive a veterinary check and treatment such as worming. Any sick animals are temporarily removed from the Forest to the owners land for treatment and monitoring. Colts are taken from the packs to control breeding, and they are either returned at a later date or sold at the annual New Forest pony sale. Most of the ponies and donkeys wear reflective collars to help protect them on the roads but sadly, there are still too many fatalities each year despite the strict speed limits. When an animals is hit, it is the Agisters job to attend the incident and either take the injured animals for veterinary treatment or in the case of death, remove the body from the road. It is estimated that approximately a hundred ponies are killed each year on the road, and as they move in packs, there are sometimes multiple fatalities in one accident.
   Along with the ponies, donkeys, cattle and pigs, the New Forest is home to five types of deer: Fallow, Muntjac, Red, Roe and Sika. More shy than the inquisitive ponies, they tend to stay within the woods rather than hug the roadside. I always find sightings of the deer far more rewarding for that reason.

Ponies are an important part of  the village community

 
   Brockenhurst played a crucial role during the Great War, transforming some of the larger houses and hotels into hospitals to accommodate wounded soldiers shipped over from the Western Front. Many of the troops were from the British Empire, including India, Canada, Australia and New Zealand. The No.1 New Zealand Hospital opened in Brockenhurst in 1916, and by 1919 had treated 21,000 soldiers, 93 of which are buried in St. Nicholas’ churchyard. The Balmer Lawn Hotel, one of the hotels used as a hospital, also played a part in W.W.2 when it became a Divisional HQ; the  location of many meetings between General Eisenhower and General Montgomery as they planned the D-Day landings. Careys Manor Hotel became the HQ for The 50th 'Northumbrian' Infantry Division as they prepared to storm Gold Beach during the same operation. Brockenhurst and the surrounding New Forest played a vital part, providing hastily constructed airfields, experimental bombing ranges and space for tank training. It also became the temporary home to thousands of allied troops as they prepared to cross over to Europe.

Commonwealth War Graves at St Nicholas church, Brockenhurst

The information board in the churchyard

 
    Any tale of Brockenhurst wouldn’t be complete without a mention of the local ‘Tesco donkey’, so naturally I had to include him in my book. The first time I heard about him was ten years ago, when an excited Carina phoned me during one of her first lunch breaks at college.
“Mum, help! I’ve just walked down to the village with my friends and there’s a donkey, asleep, blocking the door at Tesco. What do I do?”
Surprised and amused, I suggested she wait until it moved. She phoned back a few minutes later.
“It’s okay, we just did what everybody else did and stepped over him. Apparently, he’s always in the doorway.”
   And from that day on, I had numerous texts, phone calls and picture messages regarding said donkey, from all four children. Anton snapped a photo of him casually strolling through the shop, his swishing tail brushing against the shelves (and Anton) as he headed for the stockroom at the back. And not for the first time. On Damon’s induction day, he texted, ‘so I’ve met the donkey’, like it was some kind of rite of passage. Not a word about his lessons or new fellow students – just the all-important donkey. By the time Heid started at Brock college, the novelty of ‘Tesco donkey’ had worn off a little for her but she still sends equine related messages whenever she sees something that tickles her: a pony waiting outside the bank for it to open, or a group of donkeys standing patiently by the bus stop. Or just a photo with the caption, ‘eating lunch with these guys’. The charm of Brockenhurst never wanes.

   When Heidi has a different free lesson from her friends, she tends to sit in the churchyard of St Saviour’s. It’s a perfect sun-trap and affords a picturesque view of the ford, known colloquially as the Watersplash, at the bottom end of Brookley Road. I’ve sat there myself on a few occasions, with my notebook in hand, creating the characters for my book.

The Watersplash

   Our first experience of St Saviour’s was a magical one. Carina had joined Brock college choir and rehearsals for their annual carol concert at the church started in earnest in September. I had long since become accustomed to hearing Christmas carols before the summer was officially over, as all four children loved being part of the school choirs and Christmas concerts were their favourite to practice for. Repeatedly. And loudly. As we slowly drove through Brockenhurst village one dark December evening, following Carina’s hastily scrawled directions to the church, it dawned on me how lax we had been at exploring further than the main street and the area immediately surrounding the college. The rest of the village was a mystery to us. Following the festive shop lights along Brookley Road, the ‘main street’, we came to a sudden stand-still. Three large, white ponies were gathered in the ford at the end of the road, taking their time to have a drink before moving to the side. The street lights were dim here and a ground mist swirled around them, creating an ethereal glow. Two horned cows emerged from behind a tree to join them, eyeing our car with an air of indifference before taking a drink. We were so engrossed in this splendid sight that it took a moment before we spotted the church behind the trees directly ahead. Amber lights cut through the mist to reveal a solid, grey, Gothic-style church, with soft lights shining out into the dark from its many leaded windows. More ponies crowded by the church gate, oblivious to us as we gingerly side-stepped around them. Inside the church, the smell of pine, fresh flowers and warm wax hit us before we could even take in the whole scene. Christmas decorations, floral displays, and highly polished brass instruments all glinted in the bright candle light; a sea of eager faces and excited chatter filled the church as families gathered together to celebrate the season. Christmas is always a magical season and our first experience of St. Saviour’s church and its festivities certainly didn’t disappoint. It’s a treasured memory – one of many.

St Saviour's Church, Brockenhurst

St Saviour's church interior

   Churches always have a pull for me. Everything about them: the comforting smell, sense of familiarity and feeling at peace, and the beautiful architecture. Grand or primitive, I love them all. One of my uncles went through a phase of brass rubbing and he would take me along to numerous churches on the outskirts of London, kitting me out with paper and crayons to do my own juvenile attempts at his hobby. It made me see churches in a different light and appreciate an otherwise overlooked side to them and it is something that has stuck over the years. However, going to mass as a child was never a fun experience. My brothers and I regarded it as a punishment, a burden that stole our Sunday freedom. For us, daily prayers at school was enough. I always felt like a naughty child waiting to be told off; the constant reminders from our disgruntled, purple-faced priest that all children were full of sin and that we need to prove ourselves to God, didn’t endear Sunday mass to us. Confession was a mid-week affair, and was equally dreaded. My best friend and I would pace round the playground at lunch time, arm in arm, trying desperately to think of sins to confess. We knew if we went into the box empty-handed, the priest wouldn’t believe us; how could we possibly have nothing to confess! But they had to be acceptable sins, nothing too terrible that would warrant a hefty penance. Obviously our parents wouldn’t ask about our confession but they did mentally gauge the severity of our sin based on the number of 'Our Fathers' and 'Hail Marys' we had to do. We had long since worked out our priest’s ‘scoring’ system; two 'Our Fathers' and two 'Hail Marys' seemed to be his standard penance, and was acceptable to our parents. I did manage to stack up a whopping six 'Hail Marys' once, and I still remember the look of disbelief on my father’s face as I nervously twiddled my rosary while quickly reciting my prayers. It did teach me a valuable lesson - always keep confession concise and to the point, and don’t ever repeat to the priest the swear words your brother shouted at you because you kicked him in the face when he tried to pull you down from the tree.

St Nicholas church

St Nicholas church today

Brookley Road 

Brookley Road today

The Watersplash

The Watersplash

The Watersplash today

   Falling in love with Brockenhurst was easy. It’s a lively, friendly village that hasn’t changed much over the years. Its history is clearly evident as is the pride that the locals have for their community. Sitting under a lofty oak tree in the cemetery, contemplating life and creating my story, I felt at peace; with my life and new career path. As I basked in the stillness of the sun-filled afternoon, twenty conversations filled my head. No longer children’s voices crowding my mind – they had been replaced by my new characters. Life in my bubble is good.

*****

   Brockenhurst and its two churches, St Saviour's and St Nicholas, feature in my novel 'Cobbled Streets & Teenage Dreams'. As does the 'Tesco donkey'.

Check out my website here

With thanks to Andrew Walmsley @ New Forest - Explorers Guide, for the use of the old images of St. Nicholas church, Brookley Road and the Watersplash.

Punk & Prejudice

 

    If somebody had told me I’d hit fifty and then start chasing childhood dreams, I would have laughed but that’s exactly what happened. I had very simplistic aspirations as a child: get married, have children, be a writer. I did it in that order and as it turns out, it’s worked really well for me.
   I grew up in the thick of a large, Irish family in North London – our names of Murphy and Cody give an indication of how large – and emulating my grandma’s family values became my main focus in life; she influenced me from such an early age. Marriage and motherhood suited me, and living on the Dorset coast sets a particular pace; life isn’t to be rushed, dreams will be realised … one day. And then a wake-up call happened, giving me a suitably sized kick up the backside. It hit me that while I am perfectly content to bob along at my own speed, time isn’t so laid-back. It hurtles along, carrying us to the finishing line at an alarming rate, with people like me blissfully unaware of it. Our children have grown up: two at college, one at Uni and the eldest living in London since she finished Uni there a few years ago. They’ve all moved on and yet, I’m still dreaming that one day, when I grow up, I’ll be a writer.
   I’m from a long line of story-tellers. Most of us, I’m sure, have had to sit through Sunday lunch listening to a grandfather or great-aunt ramble on about a time gone by, and how things were so different then, and we don’t know how lucky we are.

My Grandma & her siblings at my parents wedding

   As I have pieced together my family history over recent years, and found contact with cousins who share the same Cody ancestors, it occurs to me how alike we all are in our artistic bent. We all have a drive to share stories, through writing books, writing songs and music, acting, dance, painting, photography. Any medium we can find to share our passion. Each generation has produced this talent, going back through the ages.

We found evidence from the 1870s of our great, great, great aunt, Ellen Wood, performing at Covent Garden as 'The Great Azella', before setting sail for fame & fortune in America. She sang, danced and performed acrobatics on a tightrope, creating quite a name for herself; though not quite in the same league as our more famous showman cousin, William Frederick Cody, aka Buffalo Bill.

The flying harness worn by Ellen 'Azella' Wood

   As cousins offered their insights into our family history, replicating my own knowledge, it became apparent that those lengthy lunchtime stories held a weight of truth - not just embellished rumours as I had thought - and our ancestors had successfully preserved history, passing it down by word of mouth. And although the tales from Ireland were of unbelievable hardship, starvation, loss of family and being forced to leave their homeland in order to survive; and of our Yorkshire grandfathers, drovers by trade, facing the arduous, dangerous journeys to London with their livestock, there was always a sense of achievement, of triumph, of spirit. As it turns out, my great aunt was right: we really are lucky and we can’t possibly truly comprehend what it was like back then. We can only imagine. And keep the stories alive for the next generation.

   Although my father’s side of the family dominated my early childhood, my Swedish mother’s side played an important part too and memories of sun-soaked summer holidays by the lake, still crowd my mind. Each July we would embark on the journey across Europe, crammed into a hot car that smelt of melting vinyl and cigarette smoke, to spend the summer months with my grandparents. The road trip was a huge adventure for us - well, for my brothers and me at any rate, not so sure about our parents - and the well-travelled route across France, Belgium, The Netherlands, Germany, Denmark and finally, Sweden, filled us with mounting excitement. The promise of two months of freedom was almost too much to bear; endless swimming and rowing on the lake, eating strange food and salt sweets, and being utterly spoilt by doting aunts and uncles, was always heaven.

My grandparents house backed onto Lake Drevviken, south of Stockholm

   But growing up within the two cultures was also confusing; I could never quite decide on my identity. We moved to Sweden when I was nearing the end of primary school, then my brother and I moved back to England to live with one of my dad’s cousins, half way through secondary school. By then, childhood idyll was a thing of the past and teenage angst had taken over: identity crisis set in. In England, I was the Swede with the funny-sounding mother; we were the Catholic kids who got picked on (and frequently beaten up) by the C of E kids. In Sweden, I was the prim and proper English girl who was good for help with English homework. And then, back in England again, I was the Swedish girl with trendy drainpipe jeans, when everybody else was still wearing flares. I never quite fitted in. I decided early on, I could either give in to the angst and endure the torture or I could make myself happy. Find my escape, my happy place. My bubble.
   Yes, of course I rebelled, but on a small scale compared to some. It was the era of punk rock; I endured ulcers in my cheek from futile efforts to push a safety pin through it. I left it half hooked in for a couple of weeks until the pain became too much. Long enough to prove a point, I felt. I smoked and drank before legally allowed, which enabled me to fit in, to go with the crowd, but my salvation lay elsewhere. In music and books. I arrived in England with a state of the art radio, which became an extension of my left arm. The size of an A4 folder, I cradled it in the crook of my arm and fed my fingers through the handle. Why it didn’t occur to me to simply carry it by its handle, I shall never know. Much cooler to have a permanently bent arm, apparently. It gained me friends and kept me company 24/7. It never left my side and I slept with my ear pressed against it every night, drifting off to the sounds of Radio Luxembourg. School was much more lax in those days and we were allowed to discreetly crowd round my radio in morning registration, eagerly waiting for our favourite hits on Radio One, the DLT show. Obviously, I had to turn it off during lessons but it remained on the desk, amid my school books, pride of place.
   I stumbled across the village library one day, quite by chance, en route to a friend’s house. I’d been living in the village for a year and had no idea it even had a library!  Reading had always been my escape but the books I had brought over from Sweden had been read over and over, and outgrown, so I was keen to find something new. As I worked my way along the shelves, I immediately spotted a title I recognised: Jane Eyre, by Charlotte Brontë. My mother had had a copy by her bedside for years when I was younger. I’m not sure she ever completed it; she had been given a collection of classics by one of my many great aunts, in a bid to help her learn English. I know she appreciated the gesture but it probably wasn’t the best way to learn how the natives spoke in the 1960’s.
   Full of nostalgia, I borrowed the book and instantly fell in love; with the story, with the landscape and most importantly, to any romantically starved fifteen-year-old, with Mr Rochester. I went on to read the other Brontë books the library had and fell in love with Heathcliff, from Wuthering Heights. Working backwards on the shelves, I discovered Jane Austen and – as you probably guessed – fell in love with Mr Darcy. By now, the local lads didn’t stand a chance with me. How could they? Nobody compared to my new heroes.

I read Brontë and Austen on a loop, totally hooked. In an effort to remain cool, I always borrowed a couple of naff romances (which I usually read as well), claiming the classics were for an elderly neighbour. And so, at the weekends I would take my neighbour’s dog – a gorgeous Golden Retriever named Henry – for long walks along the top of Ironbridge Gorge, armed with my radio, my library book and my Players No 6 cigarettes. We would tramp through mud and bracken to sit under our favourite tree, where he would sprawl across my legs, keeping guard, while I lost myself to Mr Rochester. Or Heathcliff. Or Mr Darcy. And that is how I survived my teenage years, with my sanity intact. Relatively.