Category Archives: History

Why I Love England and Can’t Wait to Return

I always have good intentions of posting almost daily while traveling, but I always end up rushing around seeing more things than I can record and think about. That comes later, when I have time to go through my pictures–not to mention the guidebooks that make my suitcase weigh a ton on the trip home. It’s time to sift through my memories of my last trip and begin planning another one.

I love the streams that meander through the English countryside. Estates fortunate enough to have a stream have ancient plantings and walkways, because generations have paused to listen to the rushing water. This stream is at Mottisfont.

A fence can become a work of art, when there’s a passionate gardener around. And England is full of passionate gardeners. This fence is at Uppark.

The British are thoughtful, and their memories are long. In this year of remembering those fallen in World War I, there are also memorials to the non-human victims. This wreath, found in the village of Arundel, honors the millions of innocent animals that suffered during the terrible war years. As in town and villages all over England, simple wooden crosses with poppies honor the local war dead. I thought it was nice to create a wreath of blue poppies to honor the animals.

The historical sights are making new efforts to attract visitors, and to explain their histories in engaging ways. At Blenheim Palace, there’s a series of rooms that dramatize important events in the palace’s history through the eyes of a lady’s maid. This (wax) woman was awakened in a bedroom where she wasn’t supposed to be, setting off a Marlborough family scandal that turned into a government crisis in days long past. I would rather read my history and see actual artifacts, but I appreciate the effort that goes into exhibits like this.

Antique shops are crammed with unusual and very British items, like this well-worn Art Deco chair.

And have I mentioned the flowers? These are at Avebury Manor. Well into the fall, the temperate climate of England keeps flowers blooming. Yes, I love England!

Join me next time for more explorations in the art and history of Europe and the British Isles!

Sir Winston’s Cat

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When I was planning my trip to England, I read about the new kitten that recently took up residence at Chartwell, the country home of Sir Winston Churchill. When Churchill’s family gave the property to the National Trust to become a museum in 1966, they specified that there must always be on the property a marmalade cat with a white bib and white boots. Sir Winston had owned such a cat for many years. The Chartwell cat must always be named “Jock,” after the family’s beloved pet. Jock V recently retired to Scotland, and the perfect Jock VI was located in a local animal shelter. I wrote about Sir WInston’s unhappy childhood and his determination to create a happy home for his own children in a previous post, “The Bulldog and the Marmalade Cat” at https://castlesandcoffeehouses.com/2014/09/12/the-bulldog-an…-marmalade-cat/ ‎

When I visited Chartwell yesterday, I searched for Jock in the Rose Garden, the woodland walkways, beside the pond with the black swans, and in the flower beds beside Sir Winston’s painting studio. I was leaving, disappointed, when who should spring right into my path?

Jock had his eye on something in the shrubbery.

He perched on a branch, watching the ground intently and switching his orange-and-white-striped tail.

Then he turned around and very briefly glanced at me, the tourist excitedly taking his picture. Jock certainly has some of Sir WInston’s charisma and supreme self-confidence. I also think some of Sir Winston’s political acumen has already rubbed off on Jock. He is a busy cat with countless demands on his time. But like any good politician, he took a moment to pose for me. He showed off the “target” design on his side that marks him as a classic tabby.

Sir Winston Churchill was a soldier, a statesman, a Nobel prize-winning writer, and a great orator who led his country to victory over seemingly insurmountable odds. His childhood was lonely and unhappy; his father actively disliked him and never missed an opportunity to tell him that he would never amount to anything. His beautiful mother rarely paid him any attention. Young Winston was ambitious and ruthless in getting what he wanted, but he was also far more compassionate than either of his parents. He was a loving family man with a soft spot for a marmalade cat. I feel that I know Sir Winston better than I did before.

Maybe Jock wanted to get closer? Maybe he fancied being scratched behind his ears? No such luck. Jock was needed elsewhere. The entire estate is his responsibility. Off he went at a gallop. No matter. He made my day!

Remembrance of Wars Past: A Sea of Poppies at the Tower of London

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“Blood Swept Lands and Seas of Red” is the title of an art installation taking place at the Tower of London from August to November of this year, the 100th anniversary of the outbreak of the First World War. The title comes from a poem written by an unknown soldier. People are invited to buy a ceramic poppy for the installation, up to a total of 888,246 poppies, one for every death in the British forces. The photo above is from The Guardian at http://www.theguardian.com/world/2014/sep/01/tower-of-londons-ww1-remembrance-installation-share-your-photos-and-videos. The designer of the installation is Tom Piper. Poppies are made by ceramic artist Paul Cummins.

The poppy above was photographed in the small military museum on the estate of Hever Castle, southwest of London.

The memories of World War I extend all over England this year, into the smallest villages in the country. Most towns have a memorial built to remember the local soldiers fallen in the
“Great War.” Sadly, within a few short decades new names had to be added from each town, with the outbreak of the Second World War.

Soldiers who fell in battle were buried in identically marked graves, regardless of their social or military rank.

Many grieving families put up special memorials to their loved ones close to home. This plaque, in Salisbury Cathedral, poignantly remembers a nineteen-year-old soldier, Edward Wyndham Tennant. the son of a lord. He must have entered the war as an officer. He died in the Battle of the Somme in 1916. On the plaque above his marble relief portrait, a fellow soldier describes the young man’s leadership: “When things were at their worst he would go up and down in the trenches cheering the men; when danger was greatest his smile was loveliest.”

Those who could not fight helped the war effort in other ways, in both great wars. All of the great British country houses I’ve visited on this trip have displays recalling their days as hospitals or military bases. Operating rooms were established in kitchens, and convalescent wards occupied Great Halls. Young aristocratic women rolled up their sleeves and cheerfully served as nurses.

This is a year for Britons to recognize the sacrifices of those who served their country in the Great Wars.

Farewell to My Favorite Duchess, Deborah Mitford Devonshire

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Deborah Devonshire, known as “Debo” to her large family, died today at the age of 94. She was the youngest of the famous (and notorious) Mitford sisters. Deborah was considered a little dim by her lively eccentric family, but she was really as bright as the best of them; she just bloomed a little later.

One sister had a longstanding affair with a leader of the French Resistance in World War II, and wrote brilliant comic novels about English aristocratic life. One sister married a Guinness, but soon left him for the leader of the British Fascists and spent the war years in prison with him. One sister became obsessed with Adolph Hitler and actually became his friend; she shot herself when England declared war on Germany and eventually died of her injuries. One sister eloped with a man off to fight in the Spanish Civil War, then left that husband for a Communist and spent the rest of her life in the United States as a Communist sympathizer and agitator. Another sister led a quiet country life. And then there was Deborah.

During World War II, she married the younger son of an aristocratic family. She expected a quiet country life, poor but happy. He unexpectedly became the Duke of Devonshire when his older brother, who had married Kathleen “Kick” Kennedy, was killed in combat in World War II. (Debo became a friend of President Kennedy; she attended his inauguration, which she playfully insisted on calling his “coronation.”) With the Dukedom came huge estates and grand country homes, nearly impossible to maintain. The world was changing, as dramatized in the TV series Downton Abbey.

For the Devonshires, the solution to keeping Chatsworth, one of the grandest and most historic stately homes in the country, was up to Deborah. She rose to the challenge. She spruced up the house and made it ready for a steady stream of paying tourists. She decided that tourists liked to eat and to buy things. Soon she had restaurants and elegant shops selling everything from keychains to custom furniture. She created a children’s farm so that city children could have hands-on experience of running a farm and seeing where the food in the grocery store came from. She created a farm shop with her own Chatsworth brands of every kind of food grown on the vast estate. Her shops were “local and organic” decades before those terms became trendy.

When the Duke died, Deborah became the Dowager Duchess. She graciously moved out of the grand house and into a smaller house in the village. There, to the end of her life, she wrote vastly entertaining memoirs and books about country life. She listened to Elvis records: she was a great fan. She raised her beloved chickens and still oversaw every aspect of the thriving Chatsworth businesses that she had created almost single-handed. May she rest in peace.

The photos above are from a story about Deborah’s life and death in the Daily Mail at http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2768095/BREAKING-NEWS-Last-Mitford-sisters-Dowager-Duchess-Devonshire-died-aged-94.html

Scotland’s Still In

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Braveheart

The people of Scotland voted yesterday, pretty resoundingly, to remain in the United Kingdom. Considering the turmoil and violence of the past, this was a very civilized historic event. British government leaders made impassioned appeals to the people of Scotland to reject independence, and promised significant changes if they did. Now it’s time to make good on those promises. I’m in England, watching British TV, and this is the big news story of the week.

It’s surprising to learn how important the 1995 movie, directed by and starring Mel Gibson, was to Scots in their drive for independence. The 13th century real-life William Wallace was probably a much darker and more complex man than he appears in the movie, but the stirring scenes of battle and eloquent speeches on freedom are still affecting Scots two decades after the Academy Award-winning movie. Leaders of the independence drive regularly referred to the movie as a source of Scottish pride.

British people seem to have a special fondness for Scots. In large cities, it is fairly common to encounter a bagpiper in kilt and full Scottish regalia, playing on a street corner. Today at Blenheim Palace I spotted a Scottish soldier in a display of hundreds and hundreds of accurate models, made by the British Model Soldier Society. The Society, founded in 1935, meets monthly in London. Its members do extensive historical research before approving any of the wonderfully detailed models (which are about 3-4 inches tall). The model above depicts a private in the Black Watch regiment in 1815.

Above is an even earlier Scottish soldier from 1684, the Royal Scots 1st of Foot. The union of England and Scotland has deep historical roots. I hope the Scots get the changes they were promised and the union continues with benefits to both sides.

The Braveheart image above is the theatrical release poster. The film is available from Amazon.

Winston Churchill: How the Bulldog Got His Scowl

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The iconic photograph of Winston Churchill, with his famous bulldog scowl, appeared on the cover of “Life Magazine” in 1945, toward the end of World War II. When newsman Edward R. Murrow saw it, he remarked, “Ah, there is the face which marshalled the English language and sent it to battle when we had little else.” The photo was taken by Yousuf Karsh in 1941.

All through the war, starting when England faced the enemy alone, Churchill roused and encouraged his people with his words. His most famous phrase was “I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears and sweat.” The words were first spoken at Churchill’s first cabinet meeting as Prime Minister on May 13, 1940. He repeated them in the House of Commons the same day, and soon his words of defiance and courage went out over the airwaves to every British home and workplace. The stirring words were, in part, “We have before us many, many months of struggle and of suffering. You ask, what is our policy? I can say: It is to wage war, by sea, land and air, with all our might and with all the strength that God can give us; to wage war against a monstrous tyranny…You ask, what is our aim? I can answer in one word: victory, victory at all costs, victory in spite of all terror, victory, however long and hard the road may be; for without victory, there is no survival.” The words, even on the page decades later, cause goosebumps. Victory looked very unlikely when the words were spoken.

How did Mr. Karsh, one of the greatest portrait photographers of all time, capture this iconic image? He was sent to photograph the great man on a visit to Canada in 1941, before Pearl Harbor and before the United States became fully committed to the fight. Churchill had just addressed the Canadian Parliament. He was weary. He told the photographer he had exactly two minutes. Then Churchill began chomping on a cigar. The photographer politely held out an ashtray. Churchill continued chomping. So Mr. Karsh walked up, begged Churchill’s pardon, and pulled the cigar out of the Prime Minister’s mouth. (Where did he get the nerve?) By the time the photographer got back to his camera, the bulldog scowl was there. And amazingly, Mr. Churchill softened. He allowed more photographs, but the one that had taken him by surprise became his most famous image.

The photo is from the article cited below.

http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/2013/03/06/winston-churchills-bulldog-scowl-yousuf-karshs-iconic-photograph_n_2818281.html

The Bulldog and the Marmalade Cat

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Photo from Daily Mail article cited below

When the family of Sir Winston Churchill left the family’s country estate, Chartwell, in the care of England’s National Trust organization in 1966, there was an important condition: there must always be a marmalade cat with a white bib and four white socks, and the cat’s name must always be Jock.

Jock V recently retired to the Scottish countryside when his person, a staff member at Chartwell, retired. Jock VI just took up residence.

I’ve been reading a biography of Winston Churchill, The Last Lion, by William Manchester. The man who stood up to Nazi tyranny when the situation seemed hopeless had a very unhappy childhood. His parents, Randolph Churchill and the American Jennie Jerome, were socially and politically prominent–and they had very little time for their son. They wrote him off as a dullard, not even fit for university. Instead he went into the military–a choice that later served him well. As a child of only seven years old, WInston was put on a train all by himself and sent off to an expensive but abusive boarding school where he was miserable. He only escaped two years later, when he had a chance to show his beloved childhood nanny the welts he carried from regular beatings. He rebelled against authority all through his childhood and young adulthood, even as he pursued his own political ambitions.

When Sir Winston had his own family, he wanted to create a happy home life. Jock the marmalade cat was part of that secure, loving home Sir Winston wanted to provide for his own family. I’m hoping to meet Jock VI when I travel to England soon. I’ll salute the man whose own struggles taught him to be both tough and tender.

http://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/chartwell/visitor-information/article-1355828124885/

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2578050/New-marmalade-kitten-installed-Sir-Winston-Churchills-country-estate-honour-dying-wish-wartime-prime-minister.html

Elisabeth Vigee-Lebrun: Painter and Survivor

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“Self-Portrait in a Straw Hat,” Elisabeth Vigee-LeBrun, 1782, Public Domain

Elisabeth Vigee LeBrun, in the self-portrait above, could be mistaken for a conventional 18th century woman, getting ready to pursue a conventional pastime like painting flowers. But underneath the modest smile lurked talent, ambition, grit and a fierce determination to survive and thrive. She lived through turbulent times when many others in her position lost their heads–literally. As a protege and friend of Marie Antoinette, Elisabeth adroitly escaped the horrors of the French Revolution, and even made the political turmoil work in her favor.

As a talented teenager, Elisabeth began painting portraits of society people, helped by her father, a fan painter, and later other teachers who recognized her talent. An important benefactor was Louise de Bourbon, wife of the Duke of Orleans. Early in Elisabeth’s career, everything in her studio was confiscated by the authorities–because she didn’t have a license to paint! (In modern times, we often think our world is over-regulated. But at least in most places, being a starving artist does not require a government license). She applied for membership in the Academie de Saint Luc, and was somehow admitted. It sounds to me like they didn’t realize they were dealing with a young girl. Maybe she just used her initials when she submitted paintings for approval.

“Marie Antoinette,” Elisabeth Vigee-LeBrun, 1783, Public Domain

Her marriage helped her career. At age 20, she married Jean-Baptist-Pierre LeBrun, a painter and art dealer. His grandfather had been the first Director of the French Academy under Louis XIV, the Sun King. Soon Elisabeth was painting Marie Antoinette and her family members–about 30 royal family portraits in all.

When the French Revolution broke out, Elisabeth decamped to safer surroundings. She worked for several years in Russia, Italy, and Austria. Eventually, she was allowed to return to France while Napoleon I was Emperor. She continued to paint well into old age, once causing a minor scandal by painting a self-portrait with her teeth showing. This was simply not done–probably for good reason, since most people had terrible teeth in those times. She died in 1842, at the ripe old age of 86. She left behind over 600 portraits, plus 200 landscapes and history paintings, which now appear in museums and private collections all over Europe and in the United States.

Join me next time for more explorations in the art and history of Europe!

“Clara’s War”

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In the cities and small towns of Europe, I’m always aware of a painful history, hidden among the streets and houses. The book “Clara’s War,” by Clara Kramer, recounts how 16 members of her extended family survived World War II by crouching in a four-foot-high crawl space under the home of a man who was a drunkard, serial adulterer, and notorious anti-Semite. Valentin Beck’s wife Julia had been their housekeeper before the war. Jews and Christians had lived in harmony in the idyllic little town of Zolkiew, Poland for over 300 years.

But Hitler changed all that. When the Nazis began murdering the 5,000 Jews of the town, Beck offered to shelter the extended family. He, his wife and their teenage daughter risked their own lives for over 18 months, bringing in food and water and hauling out buckets of waste. They entertained Nazis, police, and army personnel at raucous parties just above the heads of the family. For the final few months of the war, they were forced to allow a succession of Nazis to take over their own bedroom. During these times, the families below had to sit perfectly still, sometimes for days at a time, until the visitors left the house.

Ironically, the house had belonged to one of the families until they were forced to leave; the Becks asked for and received the house as their own. Mr. Beck started sheltering the family tentatively because his wife knew and loved them. He was quite a rebel, refusing to bow to the inhumanity around him. As the savagery in the world outside increased, Valentin Beck became more and more daring in his protection of the families. He came to love and respect them. He provided them with the items they needed for their own religious ceremonies, and invited them upstairs whenever he could.

Clara was a teenager at the time. Mr. Beck brought her books to read and a series of composition books to write in. She filled four of them with a harrowing account of tedium mixed with hairsbreadth escapes, using a single blue pencil the entire time. When the Russians moved closer and closer to the town, most of the ethnic Germans like the Becks fled. The Becks stayed at their own peril to shelter their visitors in the crawl space, until it was too late for them to escape. They were about to be shot as German spies. Clara, newly liberated, ventured into the Russian headquarters and got an officer to read the diary. That saved the lives of the Becks. A tree was planted in Israel in their honor.

In her eighties, Clara turned her journal into the book, with the help of a professional writer. The twists and turns of events make the book a page-turner. It would make a wonderful movie. There is savagery, but also extreme courage and tenderness. The book is a good companion to “The Diary of Anne Frank.” It gives a visceral feeling for what actually went on all over Europe.

At the end of the war, only 50 of the 5,000 Jews of Zolkiew were alive, all of them having been somehow sheltered as Clara’s family was. They all soon left; there was nothing left for them there. But to this day, the occupant of the house with the bunker below shows it to any visitors who ask.

A review of the book from the Daily Telegraph is at

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/books/non_fictionreviews/3673099/Facing-up-to-the-Fuhrer.html. The book is available from Amazon.

Join me next time for more explorations into the sometimes-joyful, sometimes-sorrowful, always-fascinating history of Europe.

A Kinder, Gentler Church: Strasbourg Cathedral

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Among the many wonders of Strasbourg Cathedral is the Tower of Angels. The breathtakingly beautiful column reaches from the cathedral floor all the way to the vaulted Gothic ceiling. It was sculpted between 1225 and 1230, early in the 400-year span of time it took to build the cathedral. The subject of the column is really the Last Judgment, but it has a startling twist on the usually-dire subject.

The four Evangelists appear on the lowest level, with angels above them, then the dead rising, then finally Christ. My criticism of the column as a teaching tool for the faithful is that it’s hard to see the pinnacle, the figure of Christ, and get the point. But helpful placards provide close-ups and explain, in several languages, what is going on.

The Christ figure at the top is not sitting in splendor on a grand throne. He is not giving anyone a thumbs-up or thumbs-down. Instead, this Christ bestows a gentle welcoming smile on everyone. This is a humble figure, a figure of loving understanding and compassion for the always-messy human condition.

I thought of the tower and its message this morning as I read the bold new statement by Pope Francis concerning the future of the Catholic Church. Full disclosure: I am not now and never have been a Catholic. I visit cathedrals and churches for their art, traditions and history. Wherever I’m living, I attend whatever Protestant church seems the most socially active, inclusive and forward-thinking. But like many non-Catholics, I’m impressed by the current Pope. (Actually, he had me as soon as he decided to wear regular shoes instead of red Papal slippers. Then when he chose to live among regular priests instead of in the much-fancier Papal Apartments, I decided he was worth a listen anytime).

In his latest statement, cited in the article below, the Pope said, “I prefer a Church which is bruised, hurting and dirty because it has been out on the streets.” He has consistently shaken things up by insisting that the church should boldly reach out into the world with love, compassion and creativity. His vision is that the church is a place of refuge for all, not a place of harsh judgment. This is not a new idea, of course. But it’s one that can certainly use a new champion.

In September, I found the French city of Strasbourg so lovely that I’m planning a side trip there, on my way home from Vienna in December. Strasbourg is just two miles across the border between Germany and France. I’ve scheduled a day and a night there. I’ll wander through the Christmas markets, which have been held at the base of the cathedral since medieval times. And I’ll spend time contemplating the season inside this most warm and welcoming of cathedrals.

Join me next time for more explorations into the art and history of Europe!