Sacred North - a review

Sacred North by Fr John Musther, with photographs by Phil Cope. Review by Alan Cleaver

Fr John Musther is known to many as the parish priest of the Orthodox parish in Keswick. But even those not in the Orthodox church may have seen Fr John wandering around town in his distinctive blue robe, the large Orthodox cross round his neck - and his delightful long white, whispy beard!
He is as gentle as he is tall and has introduced many to his faith through his writings. In his last book, Springs of Living Waters, Fr John guided us through the Cumbrian landscape to show us the many holy wells that still survive, centuries after they were sanctified by Saint Mungo, St Begha, St Catherine and others. 
To the Orthodox church, Saints are not distant, unreachable figures high up in heaven. They are friends who walked the same paths we walk today - and still have something to tell us.
In his new book, Sacred North, Fr John - accompanied by his wife Jenny and photographer Phil Cope - have travelled further afield to show us the holy sites throughout Cumbria and beyond.
The 300-page full colour tome includes Keswick's very own St Kentigern's Church and Derwentwater's St Herbert's Isle.
St Kentigern (also known as St Mungo meaning 'my dear one') was an itinerant bishop who wandered the north in the late sixth century and  it is said he preached from a clearing (or thwaite) at Crosfeld leading eventually to the church at Crosthwaite. The size of the church is evidence of the many pilgrims who have come here throughout the centuries.
St Herbert is less well known but lived on the Derwentwater island that now bears his name making him another of Keswick's very own saints.
The sumptuous photographs and detailed text invited the reader to once again explore these sites and perhaps even wander further with Fr John to Northumberland, the Western Isles, Shetland and some of the most remote places in Great Britain. Indeed, it is fair to say that Fr John and his team have almost literally travelled to the ends of the world. Here are islands so remote they can only be reached by chartering a boat - and only then if the weather permits a landing.
This is a remarkable undertaking but the result makes all the effort worthwhile. This is a coffee-table book - but you'll need a very sturdy coffee table as it weighs in at nearly 3lbs! It is Fr John's gift to those of us who wish to learn more about our nation's spiritual history but don't have his stamina for a pilgrimage to those distant lands. And it's a book you'll read while offering up a silent prayer of thanks to Fr John and his friends.

• Sacred North is £25 from bookshops

- Alan Cleaver

Wasdale to Eskdale corpse road

Finding Maggy

Maggy's Lonning, Loweswater

Finding Maggy

Maggy's Lonning at Loweswater has not quite lost its character despite it being a tarmacked road. It is a single track road (NY 13587 21016) that leads to the impossibly-small car park by Loweswater and I've always had a soft spot for it. Perhaps it's the loneliness in the north-western corner of the Lake District that gives it its appeal or perhaps it's the name. Who was Maggy and why was the lonning named after her? And there's also a packhorse bridge nearby called Maggy's Bridge (even OS mark it as such) so she appears to have been at one time a famous or well-loved person in the valley. I did once ask the farmer who Maggy was but he said no-one knew. Well, thanks to the astonishing work of the British Newspaper Archives, I've now found out something about her.

The British Newspaper Archives are slowly but surely scanning in 400 years of newspaper archives into digital format, making the easily accessible and, more importantly, searchable. I've used it many times and was randomly surfing one morning when a search for lonning came up with a note about Maggy's Lonning at Loweswater. It was in The Cumberland Pacquet for 1833:

VILLAGE FAME - A clever and worthy old lady, sister to the eldest of the three venerable men named in the preceding paragraph (ie John Mirehouse, of Miresike, who died aged 102) and who died at the good old age of 98 years, although never the owner of a foot of land has had the honour of having her name perpetuated in her native vale (Loweswater) in Maggy's Lonning (lane or road), Maggy's Bridge, Maggy's Gate, Maggy's House, Maggy's Garden and her 'flowers grown wild' and even the very birds in Maggy's Robin and various anecdotes of Maggy's sayings and doings. Poor Maggy! her garden no longer smiles, and her house now lies in ruins.

The preceding paragraph talked about the Mirehouse family which "furnishes such instances of longevity as are rarely to be met with". In particular it spoke of Maggy's brother, John Mirehouse, who died in 1807 at the age of 102. A further Google search revealed that The Literary Panorama (Published 1808) told how on his 100th birthday he "received a very numerous party of his neighbours ("all his juniors") seated in a new oak chair, and cloathed in a new coat, which, he pleasantly observed, might, with care taken, serve his life-time."

But what more of Maggy? The tantalising paragraph indicates she was indeed well loved and something of a village character but sadly not much more. Research in this age of Google can almost be too easy but a family tree on geni.com and references in Google Books revealed she had been born on St Valentine's Day 1714 in Loweswater and later married to become Margaret Longmire. She died in 93rd year (ie 1807) on Tuesday, July 14th  according to The Athanaeum Vol 2 (published 1807) at Thrushbank, Loweswater. But the Pacquet said she lived to be 98. Further research may resolve that mystery although the burial records kindly put online by the Lorton & Derwent Fells Local History Society does not include her.

So for now, we can at least revive the identity of Maggy as Maggy Longmire (nee Mirehouse) who was born on February 14th, 1714 and died in 1807 or 1813. And at least we still have her lonning - and bridge.

Beating the Bounds

SATURDAY, August 27 2016 will see the people of Caldbeck walk the boundaries of their parish – a tradition held every 21 years.

Why only every 21 years is anyone's guess. Such 'beatings of the bounds' are normally held annually although there are probably only a few dozen parishes in England that continue the tradition. And Wigton must be one of the last in Cumbria.

North of the border the tradition is more commonly continued as Common Riding or Riding the Marches and an echo of this can be found at Egremont each September when 'Riding the Boundary' sees horse riders process from the sports field to the town centre and back (ie not around the town's boundary!).

Such traditions were usually held at Rogationtide (so that's roughly just after the fifth Sunday after Easter) and had a very clear purpose. The people of the village would walk the boundary ensuring everyone knew precisely where it was and hopefully boundary disputes could be avoided. In some parishes the procession would literally go through someone's house and out a rear window if the house was unfortunate enough to lie across the boundary!

To help 'mark' the boundary specific stones or trees would be used but a more traditional way of ensuring young people remembered might be to give them the 'bumps' at important spots or even hold them upside down and (gently) bump their head on the ground. In 1871, a perambulation in Beckermet impressed the route on their youngsters by throwing pennies into the beck which formed the boundary and allowing them to scramble after the coins. At other spots songs were sung, sports were held or tobacco distributed. The Beckermet tradition died out at the turn of the 20th Century but was revived in 2003 as a charity fundraising venture by West Lakeland Rotary and Inner Wheel.

The only other revival of a boundary tradition that springs to mind is fell-runner Joss Naylor's beating of the Wasdale boundary in 2012 to mark the Queen's Jubilee. It's a route that stretched for 35 miles with an ascent of 11,000ft so it's probably safe to say it won't be repeated by others any time soon.
* Here is a report of the 2016 event.

* Details have not yet been released of the Caldbeck boundary walk on August 27 but will be announced on www.caldbeck.org.uk. Patterdale also holds an annual parish walk; this year it is on Saturday, July 2. See www.helvellyn.com/patterdale_boundary_walk.html

The thrush's anvil

The thrush on his anvil. Picture: Derek Parker

I DON'T want to go all Alfred Hitchcock on you but it seems birds have long had the ability to adapt twigs, stones and other objects into tools. A couple of years ago a video of rooks using tools did the rounds on social media. They were pictured dropping stones into a tube of water to release food and even bending a piece of wire to make a hook. They may not be ready to topple man from the top of the food chain but it's a surprising insight into creatures we may assume are, well, bird-brained. Around the world birds have been seen fishing (by dropping objects onto a river to attract fish) and using twigs to hook or tease out insects from tree bark but there are also English birds who are not shy to show off their engineering skills.

While wandering beyond Surprise View (which overlooks Derwentwater, near Keswick), I took a slight detour to look at a red squirrel feeding station. I'm not sure who operates this feeder and it's certainly not flagged up on any websites or tourist information leaflets but it's an easy spot to photograph those elusive red squirrels. However on this occasion I was there at the wrong time (squirrels go for a siesta between midday and 4pm). I was, however, able to watch the coal tits and great tits swooping on the feeder for scraps left over from the squirrels' morning feed and among them was the nuthatch. With its highly improbably black eye mask it looks like a reject from the new Batman v Superman movie. It's this distinctive black band which quickly differentiates it from that other tree-hugger, the treecreeper. The nuthatch is thankfully now a common sight in Cumbria so it's a surprise to many people to learn that it's only in the last 20 years the nuthatch has moved north to colonise our county. He's a welcome immigrant.

It should be no surprise to see the nuthatch keeping company with squirrels; they have much in common. Just like the squirrel, the nuthatch will 'bury' food – usually in tree crevices or under stones – to retrieve at a later date. But it's their engineering prowess I am reminded to note: given a particularly big nut or seed, the nuthatch will push it into a piece of bark using it as a vice to hold it steady while the bird pecks it into smaller bits.

But our most prolific workman is the thrush. And even if you're never fortunate enough to see this master craftsman at work you are likely to stumble across what is known as "the thrush's anvil". The thrush has discovered how to extract a snail from its protective shell by smashing the unfortunate mollusc against a stone (the anvil). You'll often hear the thrush at work before you see him and keep an eye out while walking for these stone anvils - they're easy to spot with the dozens of broken snail shells lying around it.

Web links

www.rspb.org.uk offers an overview of birds and their habits

www.thelandreader.com gives a glossary of the language of the landscape

Living on the edge of the world

Judith Wildwood outside her Braystones home

JUDITH Wildwood has a unique perspective on the world - which is not surprising as she lives on its edge.

She is one of a few dozen people who live on the beach at Braystones in West Cumbria  in wooden single-storey homes that started life over 150 years ago as huts for men working on the railway. Their location tucked into the side of the railway - but on the same side as the sea - makes them some of the most precarious homes in Britain. The tide will generally lash against small, fragile walls in front of the houses - and during a storm the wooden structures take the full blast.

"I am incredibly lucky to live here," says Judith - which on the calm, bright, sunny day I visited her is easy to appreciate. The blue and white home looks out on the Irish Sea, the Isle of Man and what must be jaw-dropping sunsets.

"The summers are absolutely breathtaking," Judith said but added: "In the winter though you cannot remember what the summer was like."

Some of the recent guests to Judith's home have been Barney, Clodagh, Frank, Henry and Imogen - all storms with a particularly vicious sting in the tale. And Judith has no doubt that these storms are getting worse as global warming takes hold. Warmer winters, stronger winds and higher tides are all taking their toll. On the day I visited Judith the 'beach road' - it is barely a track with a few stones in front of it - had just been put back thanks to a man with a digger.

"You can see how much has vanished in the last 50 years," said Judith who has watched bigger and higher tides claim more and more of the beach.

So how do you survive on the edge of the world? Some of the homes do have electricity -some of them having set up generators or turbines for that purpose. Lighting is usually by gas cannisters or paraffin. Heating is by an open fire or gas. There is a telephone and some even have access to the internet. For those who want it - though it's hard to see why when you have one of the planet's greatest views out of your lounge window - there is even a TV signal or you can erect a satellite dish. And yes, they do pay council tax - though it's hard to see they get a fair deal  for the facilites on offer. There is waste collection and the postman finds his or her way up the beach (a letter simply addressed to The Blue and White House on the beach at Braystones will find its way to Judith).  Tesco will even deliver food to your door (the nearest shop is in Egremont) but the van sometimes need a hand getting off the beach. But other firms promising "national delivery" are not usually adept enough to find their way across the railway crossing and onto the beach road. After six months Judith gave up waiting for the delivery van with a new bath to find this 'lost' part of Britain. It's a stark existence and in winter some of the residents will retreat inland but for those who make it through another winter it's a reason to celebrate and be thankful. While storm and flood  coverage by the press has concentrated on the likes of Carlisle, Cockermouth and Keswick the forgotten world of Braystones has largely been overlooked. Perhaps the reporters just couldn't find it.

There is a wonderful archive of stories and pictures about the huts at Braystones at www.pastpresented.ukart.com. It's not clear who has put this wonderful resource together but it's well worth a look.

Homes at Braystones in West Cumbria

Christmas Truce 1914: The Pte Heath letter

Out of the dozens of 1914 Christmas Truce letters transcribed from newspapers by volunteers of the Operation Plum Pudding project, this one stands out from all the rest. Partly, it's because Private Heath writes about the whole truce, from beginning to end. But also it's the beautiful - almost poetic - way it is written. It first appeared in the North Mail on January 8th, 1915 and was found and transcribed by Marian Robson. 

That Christmas Armistice
A Plum Pudding Policy Which Might Have Ended The War

Written in the trenches by Private Frederick W. Heath

THE night closed in early - the ghostly shadows that haunt the trenches came to keep us company as we stood to arms. Under a pale moon, one could just see the grave-like rise of ground which marked the German trenches two hundred yards away. Fires in the English lines had died down, and only the squelch of the sodden boots in the slushy mud, the whispered orders of the officers and the NCOs, and the moan of the wind broke the silence of the night. The soldiers' Christmas Eve had come at last, and it was hardly the time or place to feel grateful for it.

Memory in her shrine kept us in a trance of saddened silence. Back somewhere in England, the fires were burning in cosy rooms; in fancy I heard laughter and the thousand melodies of reunion on Christmas Eve. With overcoat thick with wet mud, hands cracked and sore with the frost, I leaned against the side of the trench, and, looking through my loophole, fixed weary eyes on the German trenches. Thoughts surged madly in my mind; but they had no sequence, no cohesion. Mostly they were of home as I had known it through the years that had brought me to this. I asked myself why I was in the trenches in misery at all, when I might have been in England warm and prosperous. That involuntary question was quickly answered. For is there not a multitude of houses in England, and has not someone to keep them intact? I thought of a shattered cottage in -- , and felt glad that I was in the trenches. That cottage was once somebody's home.

Still looking and dreaming, my eyes caught a flare in the darkness. A light in the enemy's trenches was so rare at that hour that I passed a message down the line. I had hardly spoken when light after light sprang up along the German front. Then quite near our dug-outs, so near as to make me start and clutch my rifle, I heard a voice. there was no mistaking that voice with its guttural ring. With ears strained, I listened, and then, all down our line of trenches there came to our ears a greeting unique in war: "English soldier, English soldier, a merry Christmas, a merry Christmas!"

Friendly invitation

Following that salute boomed the invitation from those harsh voices: "Come out, English soldier; come out here to us." For some little time we were cautious, and did not even answer. Officers, fearing treachery, ordered the men to be silent. But up and down our line one heard the men answering that Christmas greeting from the enemy. How could we resist wishing each other a Merry Christmas, even though we might be at each other's throats immediately afterwards? So we kept up a running conversation with the Germans, all the while our hands ready on our rifles. 

Blood and peace, enmity and fraternity - war's most amazing paradox. 

The night wore on to dawn - a night made easier by songs from the German trenches, the pipings of piccolos and from our broad lines laughter and Christmas carols. Not a shot was fired, except for down on our right, where the French artillery were at work.

Came the dawn, pencilling the sky with grey and pink. Under the early light we saw our foes moving recklessly about on top of their trenches. Here, indeed, was courage; no seeking the security of the shelter but a brazen invitation to us to shoot and kill with deadly certainty. But did we shoot? Not likely! We stood up ourselves and called benisons on the Germans. Then came the invitation to fall out of the trenches and meet half way.

Still cautious we hung back. Not so the others. They ran forward in little groups, with hands held up above their heads, asking us to do the same. Not for long could such an appeal be resisted - beside, was not the courage up to now all on one side? Jumping up onto the parapet, a few of us advanced to meet the on-coming Germans. Out went the hands and tightened in the grip of friendship. 

Christmas had made the bitterest foes friends.

The Gift of Gifts

Here was no desire to kill, but just the wish of a few simple soldiers (and no one is quite so simple as a soldier) that on Christmas Day, at any rate, the force of fire should cease. We gave each other cigarettes and exchanged all manner of things. We wrote our names and addresses on the field service postcards, and exchanged them for German ones. We cut the buttons off our coats and took in exchange the Imperial Arms of Germany. But the gift of gifts was Christmas pudding. The sight of it made the Germans' eyes grow wide with hungry wonder, and at the first bite of it they were our friends for ever. Given a sufficient quantity of Christmas puddings, every German in the trenches before ours would have surrendered.

And so we stayed together for a while and talked, even though all the time there was a strained feeling of suspicion which rather spoilt this Christmas armistice. We could not help remembering that we were enemies, even though we had shaken hands. We dare not advance too near their trenches lest we saw too much, nor could the Germans come beyond the barbed wire which lay before ours. After we had chatted, we turned back to our respective trenches for breakfast.

All through the day no shot was fired, and all we did was talk to each other and make confessions which, perhaps, were truer at that curious moment than in the normal times of war. How far this unofficial truce extended along the lines I do not know, but I do know that what I have written here applies to the -- on our side and the 158th German Brigade, composed of Westphalians.

As I finish this short and scrappy description of a strangely human event, we are pouring rapid fire into the German trenches, and they are returning the compliment just as fiercely. Screeching through the air above us are the shattering shells of rival batteries of artillery. So we are back once more to the ordeal of fire.

-----

NOTE TO OTHER PUBLISHERS: This work is out of copyright but if you do reprint it please credit the hard-working volunteer - Marian Robson - who found and transcribed it. A book of all newspaper letters about the truce - Not A Shot Was Fired -  is available from Lulu.

Pte Heath survived the war - just. He was badly injured by a shell in May 1918 and lost his left arm. Little is known about Heath’s life between the wars but he remained in the Territorials and, on 1 September 1939, was given an Emergency Commission in the Corps of Royal Engineers, serving throughout the Second World War and retiring by virtue of his age on 8 June 1949 with the honorary rank of Major. Major Frederick William Heath MC and Bar died in London on 30 June 1962.

Local newspapers and the internet - where did it all go wrong?

April 1995: The  South Bucks Star goes live on the internet. It was the dawn of an age that offered so much for local newspapers - but in the end has delivered very little of worth. Below - what a local newspaper front page typically looks like in 2017; this one from Norwich Evening News.

I REMEMBER the excitement of the internet arriving in our lives, way back in 1994. The biggest technological development since Johannes Gutenberg tripped over a wine press and said 'Oh, that gives me an idea'. The internet promised (and delivered) publishing instantly, in full colour, around the world, for just a few pence. It was to herald a new age in publishing. So where did it all go wrong?

I look at the clunky, cluttered and chaotic websites of almost every local paper on the web and I just get depressed.  I recall the vision of 20 years ago and then see what we ended up with. The dream was smart design, instant news, links to background stories and other websites, moving pictures, interactivity... But take a look at any local newspaper website today and I suspect you will share my disappointment. 

First, you must work out what on earth the website is all about. Almost none of them say 'We are a (local newspaper) website publishing news and information about Seahaven'. And if they do, they don't tell you where Seahaven is or even which country it is in. Then you must fight your way past the flashing in-your-face ads (only advertising, it seems, has taken up the opportunity of moving images) and chaotic design to find out what you need. Even in 1984, early web designers were telling editors good navigation was vital. Why did no one listen? And why aren't they listening now?

When you get to the story you want, the disappointment is palpable. The story (and all the others on the same page) was published a few minutes ago but it relates to an event that took place a week ago. What happened to 'instant news'? There is only one static picture but it's tiny. I want to click on it and order a print but I can't.

There are no hyperlinks in the story. Was Tim Berners-Lee's work all for nothing? I want to click on the name Truman Burbank and access a quick biography - but I can't. And I want to click on the venue for a map - but again I can't.  I can only comment on a handful of stories and I need to register to do it. I'm amazed at how many papers still don't hyperlink the reporter's byline with their email address. Surely, that's a basic first step for publishing news on the web? Even when a story is uploaded with a web address, few bother to hyperlink it.

"Oh we don't want to link to other websites," say the publishers. "We might lose our readers". Too late. This short-sighted suicidal strategy shows you just don't get it. And we readers are long gone.

It's clear local papers are still publishing papers the way they have always done. The fact it's on a website makes little difference. It's like being show the discovery of television and then just sitting in front of a TV camera slowly turning the pages of a newspaper. If you think I'm exaggerating, find out how many "e-newspapers" are just pdfs of the print edition.

And don't get me started on those online stories that end... "Read the full story in this week's Seahaven Times." Did no one tell you the internet is global? I can't buy the Seahaven Times in Cumbria. Give me a link to your digital edition at least.

The adverts are 10x2s which do little more than direct me to the advertiser's website. Dull, annoying and unimaginative. The only success story is the database-driven property, jobs and motors sections which allow you to specify the type of house, price, location etc. But if this is the advertising success story, where is editorial's shining example?

And as for easily navigating around the website, forget it. "Find me a bag of potatoes," said Bob James to editors as he threw their disorganised newspapers back at them. In 2014, I should be able to type 'bag of potatoes' in a box on the home page of any local paper website and be shown local sellers, a map of where they are and a one-click buy-now button. Visit your local paper website now and try the Bob James test. Try and find potatoes, what's on at the theatre tonight, how to place an advert, or a number of other items that should be easy to find.

I'm yet to come across a good local paper website (if you have found one, do let me know) but given the state of the nation, I doubt many of them will be around for much longer. Worse, I doubt many people will miss them.

• Alan Cleaver has spent a career in regional and national papers. With Rob Whittlesea, he published the South Bucks Star on the web in April 1994 - one of the first weekly papers in the UK to go on the web. He now lives in Cumbria.

Stepping back in time

Watery Lonning, Blindcrake, Cumbria

THE nice thing about researching Cumbrian lonnings (a dialect term for green lanes or footpaths) is that you keep coming across 'new' ones. My map lists all those I have found so far but please let me know of any I have missed out. (I know any 'footpath' is in essence a lonning but I'm only listing those that have been referred to or named as a 'lonning'). At the weekend I picked up a copy of "A History & Survey of Blindcrake, Isel and Redmain" by Horace E Winter. A wonderfully detailed survey of these villages near Cockermouth - and one printed so long ago (1987)  that it was done on a Gestetner printer. It made mention of Watery Lonning at Blindcrake (and Back Lonning) so on Sunday afternoon we headed out to find it. The lonning is delightful but certainly lives up to its name. You'll need boots or Wellingtons if you're going to go down this at the moment. Is this why Watery Lonnings (there are two or three) got their name? It seems to a be a deliberate run-off from the fields above it - probably saving the village from flooding. The village itself is rather nice but I have to admit it has been blighted by a plague of wooden outbuildings and garden sheds. The historic homes are perfectly set around an ancient village green but in almost every garden is some hideous 'office' or conservatory totally out of keeping with the rest of the property and village. Anyway, rant over and back to the lonning. 

It's a lane with a decent stone floor but is currently swimming in mud and water. It struck me as a very English lonning. It's full of bushes, shrubs, trees and remnants of stone walls. It's also crammed full with birds. There are sparrows, chaffinches, blue tits and so much more everywhere you look. Then, we heard what I thought at first was a tractor - a sort of metallic sound - from the adjacent fields. It turned out to be several hundred fieldfare (but I'm no ornithologist so they may have been thrushes!). The 'swarm' was astonishing to watch as it rose from the fields and took off over our heads into the trees. The fields themselves are some of the best examples of ridge and furrow strip fields - a rare remnant of the middle ages. The lonning itself is probably a third of a mile long and a joy to walk down. Stand still every now and again to observe the birds. The end did have a partial gate across it though I'm not sure why. Perhaps people had been driving cars down it as a 'cut through' or sheep had been wandering out of the lane. But as that last stretch looked particularly wet and muddy we stopped there anyway and turned back. The lonning leads to 'Back Lane' which is a narrow country lane taking you back to the A595. The other lonning in the village is Back Lonning which is beside Thorneycroft house at the south of the village. It seems to be a private driveway. This is one lonning I'll be returning to over and over again - just so peaceful (except for all the fieldfare!). If you want to visit Watery Lonning the grid references are NY147 347 to NY142 346.

Paramedics of yesteryear

THIS blog is mainly devoted to extolling the beauties of the Lake District but I had no other place to post up this wonderful account of ambulance men of old which, I'm sure you will agree, deserves wider circulation. It's an angry letter from a Whitehaven resident to the editor of the Whitehaven News ranting about the drunken stretcher carriers transporting fever victims from Mount Pleasant (the poorest part of town) to the local hospital. Not only were the men drunk but they attempted to put two women on the same stretcher to save themselves a trip! And on a previous occasion set their patient down on the street while they popped into the pub for another drink! Wonderful stuff. My grateful thanks to Anne Cook of The Beacon museum for passing this on to me.


Whitehaven News, September 15th 1870


DISGRACEFUL SCENE IN WHITEHAVEN


To the editor of the Whitehaven News


Sir,-As an interested townsman, I write to expose and protest against one of the most disgraceful and revolting scenes that it has been my misfortune to witness for many years; and I trust that such exposure will have the effect of arousing to immediate action all who may read it, and who may have any sympathy with the cause it advocates. I refer to the system of conveying to the infirmary the unfortunate victims of the fever epidemic, which is now assuming such alarming proportions in many parts of the town. Last Saturday evening, about half-past seven o'clock, while returning in company with two or three friends, from a visit to the wonderful ventilating fan at the top of Mount Pleasant, which may, perhaps not inaptly be termed the life-preserver of the Wellington Coal Pit,  I was perfectly horrified to behold a poor unfortunate female, who had been seized with the dangerous malady, and who was placed in the so-called sick bed, for the purpose of being taken to the hospital, committed to the care of two men who were so drunk as scarcely to be able to walk themselves, much less to bear the unhappy invalid carefully and safely to her destination. The consequence was the men went reeling and staggering from one side to the other as they descended the hill; and had it not been for the timely assistance rendered by two women who saw the perilous position of the helpless sufferer, she must inevitably have rudely fallen from their hands to the ground, or have been capsized and thrown out of the bed altogether. 


This is not all, however. To save themselves a journey, or to use the common adage, to "kill two birds with one stone," the men attempted to cram into the narrow portable bed another patient, who had been smitten with the disease; in doing which they dragged her into the open air, and after making several abortive, but shameful, efforts to squeeze her in beside her sister victim, relinquished their inhuman cruelty; and the girl, after having been thus exposed to the cold atmosphere for a considerable time, was conveyed back to her sick chamber, there to await the return of the besotted carriers.


Now, sir, I ask is not such an exhibition as the one I have described a disgrace to the authorities who permit it? However they may regard these remarks, the scene in question called forth a universal burst of indignation from the crowd who quickly collected together as they approached the principal thoroughfare, so that I am but expressing the feelings of all who witnessed the affair. I have been informed that the above is only one out of many similar sights. Only a few days ago, indeed, the men set their patient down on the street, while they coolly stepped into a public house close by for the purpose of regaling themselves once more with the "invigorating draught!"


Now, sir, with these facts before you, I ask, why allow men, in this drunken state to perform such important duties? Is it because the authorities cannot get anybody else? I think not. I am quite sure that the friends of the patients would a thousand times over prefer to take them to the hospital themselves, than give them in charge of men who are more like pitching them into the street than anything else. Or is it because the men need to be rendered stupid by intoxicating stimulants to avoid catching the contagion? Surely our medical advisers can administer some safer  and equally non-infecting prescription, or the query will arise, how do they themselves escape the various maladies with which they are brought in contact? Evidently these are the chief difficulties in the way, and both seem capable of easy solution; then, sir, for what other reason can such a state of things be tolerated in our midst? Can it be attributable to the fact that the subjects of the fever belong mainly to the poorest and lowest classes, and therefore unworthy of any better treatment? I would fain hope that such an imputation may be groundless, but it must certainly be obvious to every thoughtful and candid person that there is something seriously defective in this department of so useful an institution as the Whitehaven infirmary; and I feel assured that the attention of the governors is only required to be called to the matter to ensure an effectual remedy. 


- I am, &c., AN EYE WITNESS.

Old Flo is back

WHAT better way to spend your birthday than painting and decorating! But it was all in a good cause as I was helping the other volunteers at the Old Florence Mine, Egremont which is being converted into an arts centre. There are some exciting plans but I won't steal the thunder of the organisers. The mine used to extract iron ore so there was red dust absolutely everywhere - no matter how hard you tried to clean it up. I don't think I'm giving too much away to say that the new arts centre hopes to incorporate some aspect of the iron ore in its new plans.

In the evening, it was the preview evening of the Eskdale Art Fair which takes place all bank holiday weekend at St Bega's School, Eskdale Green. The quality of the work is stunning, with mostly local artists and many local views. The fair raises money for the school which has just 41 pupils. What a shame there aren't more events like this to show off the great talents of local artists.

Exploring Eskdale

ESKDALE is gearing up for the Eskdale Open Art event this weekend (Saturday, Sunday and Bank Holiday Monday). It takes place at St Bega's School and they're normally very good at marshalling cars into the car park. But can I suggest a more pleasant way of getting there is via The Ratty steam engine. Either park at Eskdale and take the train to Eskdale Green (it's then a short walk to the school), or park at Dalegarth near Boot and it's a short hop on the Ratty to Eskdale Green. You could even walk from Dalegarth, calling in at the Japanese Garden above Giggle Alley. While in Eskdale, there are plenty of other places to explore. Top of my list would be a trip to the Woodland tea rooms at Santon Bridge for tea and cake. Next door to it is the gift shop which is crammed full with super gift ideas and local arts & crafts. Further down the valley is the village of Boot and the wondrous Eskdale Mill. Miller Dave King will give you a guided tour for the sake of a few pence and you can then wander round the mill garden - perhaps even meeting Stanley the mill cat. There's so much to see and do in Eskdale, you'll never tire of this idyllic valley.

Bank Holiday bonanza

Herons wait for feeding time at Muncaster Castle

THERE'S plenty going on in and around the Lake District this weekend - here are just a couple to give you a taste of what's available.


If you're looking for family fun then you'll do no better than to head to Muncaster Castle and join in the fun as they chose their new Tom Fool. The castle is home to the original 'Tom Fool' - Tom Skelton - but each year a new jester is selected. The tournament begins on Saturday (May 28)  and continues until the final being on Wednesday, June 1. That means five days of tomfoolery! In addition to the magnificent castle there are the superb grounds, the World Owl Trust is based there and at 4pm each day is the feeding of the herons - a most weird sight! (see picture)


And just up the road from Muncaster, you'll find the Eskdale Open Art weekend taking place at the tiny St Bega's School at Eskdale Green. This is the school's major fund-raising event for the year and attracts some of the best art, photography and crafts in the region. Some of my work will also be there! Lesley and I will be launching our latest booklet, Strange Eskdale, detailing the folklore and ghost stories from the valley. We'll also have a few photographs on display. The exhibition is open all day Saturday, Sunday and Bank Holiday Monday. And there will also be tea and cakes available.

• Check out GoLakes for other Cumbria events including the start of the summer season at Keswick's Theatre by the Lake, 3D films at Rheged and the chance to meet real owls at The Ratty steam train (Ravenglass).

Countdown to Keswick Theatre summer season

I POPPED in to Keswick Theatre this morning and discovered what delights are in store for the summer season. This beautiful theatre set by Derwentwater raises the bar each year with its popular productions in the main house and more cutting shows in the studio. The curtain goes up on the summer shows on May 28 with Michael Frayn's farce Noises Off. This is certain to be a crowd pleaser for tourists and locals alike. The main action takes place behind the scenes at an am-dram performance and we get to see the - worryingly all-too familiar - problems, politics and scandals that happen behind the scenes.

In the main house from June 10 will be another big smash, Noel Coward's Hay Fever. This is English comedy at its most traditional and its best with the mistaken identities, mix-ups and other ingredients which allow Coward's wit to shine through.

For those who like their theatre a bit more edgy watch out for The Blue Room (from May 28) and Someone Who'll Watch Over Me (from August 5). Also watch out for the black comedy Dumb Show from June 17.

And if all that wasn't enough there's another treat with the world premiere of Keep Smiling Through - a wander down nostalgia avenue with Lisa Evans looking at life in Keswick during World War II.

You'll find full details of the summer season on the theatre website or pop in to the theatre and pick up a brochure.

But before the summer season starts, it is time once again for the Keswick Mountain Festival which starts today and runs until May 22. See their website for full details of events.

* Start the perfect evening with a meal in Keswick (or in the theatre) and then a walk down to the lake before settling down for a night's quality theatre.