A real ship's log sells for £40,000

As I was looking for examples of Copperplate handwriting for my recent post about handwriting, I came across this beautiful, striking image of a ship’s log and this article: Bounty logbook sells for £40,000.

A naval logbook detailing the first glimpse of the Bounty mutineers on a remote Pacific island sold for £40,000 at auction.

(…)

The weighty, yellowing tome, painstakingly inscribed by midshipman J.B. Hoodthorp of the HMS Briton, also contains a watercolour sketch of Pitcairn Island.

Painstakingly inscribed. And illustrated too. Now tell me that log book is not a work of art as well as a piece of history. Is there such a thing as ‘painstakingly inscribed’ nowadays?

Hoodthorp, a junior officer, probably aged no more than 18, was responsible for compiling a daily account of the 44-gun ship's course and sailing conditions.

On Saturday September 17 1814, his curling script recorded: "Several canoes came onboard.

"Found the island inhabited by the descendants of Mr F Christian. Mutinous crew of the Bounty settled here AD 1788 (sic)."

(…)

Royal Navy warships spent 25 years scouring the ocean for any trace of the mutineers who set captain William Bligh adrift in an open boat after seizing control of HMS Bounty in 1789.

Led by Fletcher Christian they took refuge on Pitcairn Island, 1350 miles off the coast of Tahiti, and established a thriving community in 1790.

This is interesting enough, and then we read:

The HMS Briton, a fifth rate frigate commanded by Sir Thomas Stanley, was in the South Pacific to intercept an American frigate, the USS Essex, which had been attacking the British whaling fleet.

En route to Pitcairn the Briton also stopped in Peru and the Galapagos Islands.

Does that remind you of a Patrick O’Brian book and movie?

Courage - never give up

To listen to all my talk of the courage of the ancients one would think there were no examples worthy of note closer to hand. But of course there are. We baby boomers are but one or two generations away from the last world war when another seemingly invincible foe threatened to conquer the free world. Another Battle of Thermopylae took place only 70 years ago. A few men again stood against many. The defending heroes numbered about the same as that Greek advance guard long ago, but instead of spears and short swords they wielded Hurricanes and Spitfires.
Their battle would be called the Battle of Britain, but their story begins before that. Here is an excerpt of Churchill’s address to the House of Commons on 4 June 1940 following the evacuation of 335,000 allied troops from Dunkirk

A miracle of deliverance, achieved by valour, by perseverance, by perfect discipline, by faultless service, by resource, by skill, by unconquerable fidelity, is manifest to us all. The enemy was hurled back by the retreating British troops. He was so roughly handled that he did not hurry their departure seriously. The Royal Air Force engaged the main strength of the German Air Force, and inflicted upon them losses of at least four to one; and the Navy, using nearly 1,000 ships of all kinds, carried over 335,000 men, French and British, out of the jaws of death and shame, to their native land and to the tasks which lie immediately ahead. We must be very careful not to assign to this deliverance the attributes of a victory. Wars are not won by evacuations. But there was a victory inside this deliverance, which should be noted. It was gained by the Air Force….

This was a great trial of strength between the British and German Air Forces. Can you conceive a greater objective for the Germans in the air than to make evacuation from these beaches impossible, and to sink all these ships which were displayed, almost to the extent of thousands? Could there have been an objective of greater military importance and significance for the whole purpose of the war than this? They tried hard, and they were beaten back; they were frustrated in their task. We got the Army away; and they have paid fourfold for any losses which they have inflicted. Very large formations of German aeroplanes - and we know that they are a very brave race - have turned on several occasions from the attack of one quarter of their number of the Royal Air Force, and have dispersed in different directions….

When we consider how much greater would be our advantage in defending the air above this Island against an overseas attack, I must say that I find in these facts a sure basis upon which practical and reassuring thoughts may rest. I will pay my tribute to these young airmen. The great French Army was very largely, for the time being, cast back and disturbed by the onrush of a few thousands of armoured vehicles. May it not also be that the cause of civilization itself will be defended by the skill and devotion of a few thousand airmen?

*******

The greatest test of courage on earth is to bear defeat without losing heart. Robert G. Ingersoll

Courage is going from failure to failure without losing enthusiasm. Winston Churchill

Who hath not known ill fortune, never knew himself, or his own virtue. David Mallett

Everyone will be taxed according to his means. Johann Friedrich Von Schiller

Optimism is essential to achievement and it is also the foundation of courage and true progress. Nicholas Murray Butler

Optimism is the foundation of courage. Nicholas Murray Butler

Stand upright, speak thy thoughts, declare the truth thou hast, that all may share; be bold, proclaim it everywhere. They only live who dare. Voltaire

Courage, in the final analysis, is nothing but an affirmative answer to the shocks of existence. Kurt Goldstein

Where life is more terrible than death, it is the truest valour to dare to live. Sir Thomas Brown

Often the test of courage is not to die, but to live. Conte Vittorio Alfienri

Courage is generosity of the highest order, for the brave are prodigal of the most precious things. Charles Caleb Colton

The bravest are the tenderest. The loving are the daring. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Courage is grace under pressure. Ernest Hemingway

Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright exposure. Life is either a daring adventure, or nothing. Helen Keller

Courage is the price that life exacts for granting peace. Amelia Earhart

Freedom is not for the timid. Vijaya Lakshmi Pandit

Image by Molock67

Courage, remembered

With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.

Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres,
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years contemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam.

But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;

As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain;
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.

'For The Fallen', by Laurence Binyon

Image by daliscar

Chester Cathedral - through young eyes

While in Chester last month I visited Chester Cathedral. I have also visited the cathedrals in York, Lincoln and Durham on previous visits long before I began this blog. Chester ranks up there with the most notable, tracing its founding to just after the Norman Conquest almost a thousand years ago.

Whilst I was there it just so happened that a group of pre-schoolers were visiting the cathedral. About a hundred of them were sitting on the floor of the nave right in front of the organ.

There they were, a little bundle of young lives, some still clutching their favourite teddy bears, full of innocence and hope, the joy and treasure of the community. I was reminded of a quote of Carl Sandburg:

A baby is God’s opinion that the world should go on.

They were listening attentively to a guide who was explaining to them the functioning of the great organ, and as he explained the organ’s capabilities the organist would demonstrate them. The sounds ranged from something like the low tremor of an earthquake to the airy notes of a pipe whistle soaring into realms only dogs can hear.

It was quite touching to feel at the same time the weight of the ages in these old, holy stones and the fragility of the new life in these little children. It was also pleasing to see that they had been brought to this place at such an early age to be imbued with its power.

The Black Prince

As I crossed the street from Leeds Station my eye fell on a striking equestrian statue some distance on the left. I went over to have a look at it. Now I must have crossed that street a dozen times in all my trips to England but never once did I seem to notice this statue, an amazing lack of observation on my part that I cannot explain. It was a statue of the Black Prince, no less.

The Black Prince was the son of Edward III, the victor of the Battle of Crécy, where a small English army destroyed a large French one by the use of the medieval equivalent of the tactical nuclear weapon: the longbow.

The prince ‘won his spurs’ (became a knight) at the age of 16 at that battle. There is a passage in Froissart that tells us something about the way the prince won his spurs and the sang froid and hard love of Edward III.

In the morning, the day of the battle, certain Frenchmen and Germans perforce broke through the archers of the prince’s battalion, and came and fought with the men-of-arms hand to hand. Then the second battalion of the Englishmen came to succour the prince’s battalion, the which was time, for they had then much ado; and those with the prince sent a messenger to the king, who was on the little windmill hill.
Then the knight said to the king, “Sir, the Earl of Warwick and the Earl of Stafford, Sir Reginald Cobham, and other such as be about the prince your son, are fiercely fought withal, and are sore handled: wherefore they desire you that you and your battalion will come and aid them, for if the Frenchmen increase, as they doubt they will, your son and they shall have much ado.”
Then the king said, “Is my son dead, or hurt, or on the earth felled?”
“No, Sir,” said the knight, “but he is hardly matched; wherefore he hath need of your aid.”
“Well,” said the king, “return to him and to them that sent you hither, and say to them that they send no more to me, whatever adventure befalleth, as long as my son is alive; and also say to them, that they suffer him this day to win his spurs, for if God be pleased, I will that this day’s work be his, and the honour thereof, and to them that be about him.”
Then the knight returned again to them, and showed the king’s words, the which greatly encouraged them; and they repented in that they had sent to the king as they did.

Thus the Black Prince won his spurs that day and went on to defeat the French himself at the Battle at Poitiers, fulfilling all his father’s hopes for him.

And such was Edward III in a time when a good king could bring glory and prosperity to his people and a bad king utter ruin. Soon the powers of kings would be curtailed by parliament, which is in effect an insurance policy against the consequences of having a bad king. Looking at the economic mess we are in today, some might prefer taking their chances with a king.

The Black Prince is buried in Canterbury Cathedral and what seems to be (I have not been there) a magnificent gilded copper effigy rests above his tomb, portraying the prince as the epitome of the chivalric knight.

David Green (in his book The Black Prince) notes that the tomb undoubtedly retained an aura many years after the prince’s death, for Shakespeare/De Vere has the archbishop of Canterbury say to Henry V:

Look back into your mighty ancestors:
Go, my dread lord, to your great-grandsire’s tomb,
From whom you claim; invoke his warlike spirit,
And your great-uncle’s, Edward the Black Prince,
Who on the French ground play’d a tragedy,
Making defeat on the full power of France,
While his most mighty father on a hill
Stood smiling to behold his lion’s whelp
Forage in blood of French nobility.

Photo of tomb effigy from Wikimedia

Chester, home of the XX Valeria Victrix Legion for 200 years

When I visit England, my (half) brother Nigel and I usually visit an historic town. We have been to Lincoln and Durham before and this time we visited Chester, all old Roman towns. In England, a lot of towns are old Roman towns for that matter, but these are among the major ones, with York and London of course and Leicester I think.

Chester used to be the huge Roman legionary fortress and naval base of Deva, built on a sandstone ridge in a loop of the River Dee. It is not hard to see why they chose the site strategically as it is close to Wales, Northern England and the Midlands, full of those pesky local tribes. The XX Valeria Victrix Legion was based here for 200 years. 200 years! Think of it. No doubt those last Romans would look at a stone plaque of the beautifully-engraved names of the previous commanders of the fortress going back 2 centuries and think that there would always be a Roman fortress at Chester. Are we looking around at our 200 year-old industrial-technological society and thinking it will always be like this...?

We visited the old walls that completely encircle the city (no other city in Britain can claim as much), the old (14C and later) Tudor shopping arcades called ‘the Rows’, and the great cathedral, parts of which date back to Norman times (1066 and all that).

To be continued

England - the land of stone

I am always struck by the omnipresence of stone in England. Stone houses, stone walls, stone bridges, stone embankments: stone, stone everywhere. It is a land of stone. The people grow older and disappear but the stone remains. New people are born but the stone is the same.

When I was younger, I felt oppressed by the unchanging, never-ending, boring stone landscape. Today I allow it has its charm. Certainly there is much to be said for tradition and durable construction.

Photos: Town Hall, Chester and part of old wall surrounding the city

Whitby revisited

After family reunions, my first excursion was a trip to Whitby. I last went there 6 years ago (see my post A trip to the sea). Whitby is a beautiful old port and fishing village, and the site of a 7th century monastery. Captain Cook, the famous navigator and discoverer of Australia, served his apprenticeship here. The view of the sea here is not to be described: it fills 180 degrees of one’s vision and is strangely thrilling, liberating and rejuvenating.

I returned to the lighthouse on the pier and the little plaque that made such an impression on me those 6 years ago.

Nothing has changed on this pier. But there has been a lot of investment and renovation in the town. Now the beautifully restored little cobbled streets are lined with shops: jewellery, crafts, cafes and restaurants, and, how could I forget, pubs.

I climbed the 199 steps that lead up to the Norman church of St. Mary on the cliff top, adjacent to the monastery. The view of the sea and the town here can never be forgotten, if one only sees it once.

What news from the North?

Hello shipmates! Yes, I am still alive and have not forgotten you. How time flies. My vacation in England is almost over and I have not posted a word for you, my hardy shipmates. In my defence, access to the internet here comes courtesy of the Keighley Public Library in Yorkshire - not far from where my dad lives but not in the next room either. Also my mind has been preoccupied with family meetings and excursions and so on.

I flew from Montreal to Amsterdam where I changed planes to fly to Leeds-Bradford airport in England. As we approached the land of the Engles from the North Sea, all that was visible was a low cloud bank. Clear skies everywhere but over England! We descended to just above a sea of cloud as we made our approach to the airport. I was quite apprehensive of disappearing into this sea. The pilot seemed to be of the same opinion and we slowed and accelerated our way through holes in the clouds. It was breathtaking to see the patchwork quilt of the Yorkshire countryside suddenly very close below. Once through the cloud bank there remained some flat ‘islands’ of cloud that gave the impression that one was looking through clear water at the bottom of the ‘sea’ below them. We then dived below ‘sea level’ and landed. I was on my native soil again.

A trip to the sea

In 2003, I returned to England to visit my family. I had not seen my parents for a long time. I was also looking forward to visiting various historic sites, but especially I was looking forward to seeing the sea.
I had not seen the sea for a very long time. Not the water of a river, or even a big lake: I wanted to see The Sea, smell and taste the salt, see the waves, hear and feel the rollers crashing on the sand, pick shells on the beach, feel the breeze on my face. It was more than a desire. The more I thought about it, the more I needed to see the sea.
In the plane, looking at my Green Guide, my eye fell on Whitby, right on the coast of the North Sea. The North Sea: you can’t get more sea than that.
A few days later I was driving up a steep, curving road to the height of a hill on the northern side of Whitby that I thought would afford me a good view. I stepped out of the car and almost ran to the edge of the hill.
The vista opened, and I stood there transfixed.

Below, a small harbour protected by a mole, a headland opposite with an old monastery, the old fishing village huddled on both sides of the harbour and then, beyond, filling the horizon, the longed-for sea.
I don’t know how long I stood there, in a wondering daze, taking deep breaths of sea air.
I made my way down to harbour level. There was a pier, a big, old pier stretching out into the sea with a lighthouse in the middle.

I walked along the pier to a kind of round battlement made of immense blocks of stone with the lighthouse in the centre. It was a blustery September day and the sea was choppy. The waves came crashing against the battlements like the furious assaults of some unknown enemy, only to recede before trying again.

I looked up at the lighthouse. A metal wire, a lightning conductor perhaps, led from the summit to the pier. I saw a little, old sign next to it. I had to step closer to read what it said.

See also Whitby revisited and find more about England by clicking the England label.