Sexism Mold style.

At a lecture given to Flintshire Historical Society last Saturday Bill Pritchard made us aware of an interesting piece of sexism in Mold. However, it is not a modern piece of discrimination, rather an example of the secondary position held by women in the early part of the 20th century. It can be witnessed at Mold Town Hall - perhaps now unknown to many - which is a reasonably impressive building opposite the Post Office.

It was built in 1911 with funds donated by  local worthy and landowner named Peter Roberts of Bronfield Hall. To the left of the door is a memorial stone marking his generosity.

To the right of the door is another memorial stone. But this one merely commemorates 'the wife of the donor'. She doesn't even get her name mentioned.

Hardly exciting: Prisoner of War

During the first part of the Second World War some 90,000 British soldiers and civilians were taken prisoner by the German and Italian armies. In an attempt to calm the natural anxiety of  family members the government produced a pamphlet explaining what being a POW actually meant in practice. I have been given an original copy of the pamphlet and it makes interesting reading. It was published in January 1942 sometime before the horrors of detention camps became known. The style of the pamphlet is purposely reassuring. The first page has a map showing the location of prisoner of war camps across occupied Europe (not that relatives could just pop over the channel and visit their loved ones). Top of the list is Colditz. The pamphlet includes a number of black and white photographs showing healthy looking men at work, in one they overlooked by a Nazi guard as they peel potatoes. In another men are working in the fields of 'sunny Italy'. From the photographs the camps look more akin the Butlins holiday resorts these soldiers might have visited in the 1930s. Even cricket matches were played, although for some reason - not immediately obvious - the Germans banned the traditional leather cricket ball. Camp theatrical groups and concert parties are pictured; the pamphlets requests donations of games and books to help the men pass the long hours. The publication does suggest that prisoners will have an opportunity to educate themselves through wider reading than might normally be the case.

It is understandable that the government should wish to calm the fears that relatives were having about their loved ones held in prisoner of war camps. To us it seems like a blatant piece of propaganda, but those were desperate times. In 1942 the tide of war had not yet turned and for those prisoners held against their will there seemed to prospect of returning to their homes. Read carefully, the pamphlet does contain clues as to the real state of some held in these camps. It mentions the depression suffered by detainees, in addition it asks that members of the public contribute in any way they can to provide parcels to the prisoners of war. They were not allowed to address parcels individually, but the Red Cross listed items that would be of use in the camps, including books, games, sports gear, and food of all kinds. Tobacco and cigarettes were highly prized items for the red cross parcels. They were transported via Spain, across France. and hence to Germany and Italy. As the tide of war turned against Germany it became more difficult for the parcels to reach the prisoners and their lives became more difficult. The pamphlet does not concern itself with Japanese prisoners of war as the conflict in that part of the world was still in its infancy.

Mini North-West Passage Audax Ride

It is still only February and I have cycled more miles this year than I can recall having done before. In January I completed an imperial century by riding 100 miles to the south of Manchester; today I completed a metric century with a 100km ride to the north of the same city. The ride today was based in Rochdale and headed north through a series of once great mill towns, such as Todmorden and Nelson. For me though it was more a case of dark satanic hills as we pushed on through torrential rain  for the first two hours. At times it became unpleasant as the roads resembled rivers. However after 50km or so the rain stopped and the sun even came out for a while; the scenery looking towards the Trough of Bowland is certainly memorable. It was not a day to stop so our first break did not come until three and a half hours of riding in a small but delightful Lancashire village called Waddington. Part of the ride took us into the West Riding of Yorkshire. The return to Rochdale was uneventful, although the temperature had dipped significantly by the time we reached the end. The West Pennine Cycling Club did a great organising the event; at the end we all received an enormous plate of pie and peas.

The total distance covered was 120km in a little over seven hours. The average speed of less than 20km per hour may not seem impressive, but we had countless delays as we cycled through the many towns and villages. All in all, a great experience in a fascinating part of the world.

Fort for the Day (or Cardiff)

Fort for the day (or Caerdydd) is a very bad joke, which many will not get, and they should not worry one bit. Anyway, today I enjoyed a day in our capital city. It is a place worthy of our great little nation. There is loads to see in Cardiff. Not the least being the very excellent National Museum, inspired by Caerwys' own Herbert Lewis. In the natural history section they have an enormous basking shark hanging from the ceiling.

Don't look behind you right now!

Outside the city hall I spotted a war memorial plaque to an unusual troop of Welsh (spelt Welch in this case) soldiers. Here it is:

The cycling regiment saw action in the Great War - it was formed in Cardiff itself. However men on bikes were no match for German machine guns, and as far as I am aware no regiments ever went to war on bicycles again.

Earlier this week I spotted the memorial in Rowen to Huw T Edwards the leading socialist in North Wales in the mid-20th century. In Cardiff they have a full figure statue to the greatest 'red' of them all, Aneurin Bevan - as the inscription reads - founder of the National Health Service.

 And finally as our time in Cardiff drew to a close, I caught this image of passengers seemingly colliding on the station platform:

Huw T Edwards: 'prime minister of Wales'

Huw T Edwards once described as the unofficial prime minister of Wales.

Today I went in search of this impressive memorial to Huw T Edwards. 'Huw Tom' was a man of the 20th century. He was born into a quarrying family near Penmaenmawr, and also worked in the coal mines of South Wales. In the Great War he was severely injured. However 'Huw Tom' is chiefly remembered as a trade unionist and politician. I came across him earlier this year when my son was studying his papers in the National Library of Wales for an undergraduate dissertation. Although Huw T Edwards hails from the dramatic hills above Penmaenmawr he spent much of his life in Flintshire, serving for many years as a senior figure in the Transport and General Workers Union. He was also a key figure in the Labour Party; his role in the selection of Eirene White as the Labour candidate for the Flintshire constituency in 1945 is worth examining. His private letters seems indicate that he was unsure that Flintshire was ready for a female MP. 'Huw Tom' was a Welsh nationalist, and at times struggled with his 'Labour' politics - he did in fact leave the party to join Plaid Cymru, but after a few years returned to the fold. He was also president of the Welsh Language Society for a time. He was not, it has to be admitted, a typical Flintshire politician. Nevertheless he has strong ties with North East Wales and he deserves further study. His memorial in the centre of Rowen is as impressive and tough as the man himself.

Weight Watchers and chips

As you can see, I have received my very own personalised invitation to return to Weight Watchers. I used to go to Weight Watcher meetings a few years ago and went through the weekly humiliation of being publicly weighed. My confidence in the Weight Watchers meetings somewhat collapsed when following the pre-Christmas weigh-in the organiser sent out for chips. Actually the system used by Weight Watchers was more-or-less the one I have used to shed the 6 stones in six month, involving counting calories (or points) and having a strict daily limit. So it probably can work; but keeping it off is the challenge.

Without Weight Watchers I managed to lose 36.2 bags of sugar.

Politics and prayer

The High Court ruled today that a Devonshire town council acted unlawfully by holding prayers before meetings. This was condemned on Twitter by the Tory bruiser Eric Pickles: 'I believe the right to worship is a fundamental and hard fought British liberty'. When exactly did the Church of England have to fight to secure religious freedom? Tough one. In the USA there would be no such debate at the First Amendment prevents any religious activity in the name of the state, even so Presidents often invoke god to join them on their side.

The High Court surely got this one right. Nobody is prevented from worshipping - within reason - any god they like, or none for that matter. Freedom of conscience is pretty secure in this country. Why, therefore, would a democratically elected body start proceedings with prayers from one creed rather than another. In a democracy all the people are of equal worth, and believers and non-believers have the right to stand for election and feel comfortable in their particular forum. This does not mean that individual members of the council should not be influenced by their religious or secular beliefs, it just should not be a feature of the institution itself. It is equally disreputable that our national parliament starts each day with Christian prayers; ironically (and rather pleasingly), they are read each day by the Speaker, Mr John Bercow, a member of the Jewish religion.

Let us move on. Freedom of conscience, freedom of religion, of course, but church and state should be separate.

Charles Dickens @ 200

Despite a wealth of expert historical work on the mid-19th century nothing comes anywhere near the writing of Charles Dickens in shaping our view of the Victorian age. Only Shakespeare can match Dickens for exerting a literary influence on so many people. The commemorations to mark his rather humble birth in Portsmouth two hundred years ago today remind us of his genius. We all must have our favourite parts of Dickens' writing: mine include 'Christmas Carol', 'Hard Times' (and the famous Thomas Gradgrind speech loved by every History teacher: 'Now, what I want is, Facts. Teach these boys and girls nothing but Facts. Facts alone are wanted in life. Plant nothing else, and root out everything else.'), and Oliver Twist. In fact my favourite passage of all Dickens' work is the opening paragraph of so from Oliver Twist. It tells of a pregnant woman entering the dreaded workhouse and about to give birth to Oliver Twist himself. Nothing I have ever read better creates the horror of a situation that must have faced many poverty stricken people in the 19th century. This view of society shapes our view of poverty to the present day. I might be wrong (or overstating things), but Charles Dickens' view of poverty must have been a factor in bringing about the welfare state. Here is the unforgettable passage from the opening page of Oliver Twist:

Although I am not disposed to maintain that the being born in a workhouse, is in itself the most fortunate and enviable circumstance that can possibly befall a human being, I do mean to say that in this particular instance, it was the best thing for Oliver Twist that could by possibility have occurred. The fact is, that there was considerable difficulty in inducing Oliver to take upon himself the office of respiration,- a troublesome practice, but one which custom has rendered necessary to our easy existence; and for some time he lay gasping on a little flock mattress, rather unequally poised between this world and the next: the balance being decidedly in favour of the latter. Now, if, during this brief period, Oliver had been surrounded by careful grandmothers, anxious aunts, experienced nurses, and doctors of profound wisdom, he would most inevitably and indubitably have been killed in no time. There being nobody by, however, but a pauper old woman, who was rendered rather misty by an unwonted allowance of beer; and a parish surgeon who did such matters by contract; Oliver and Nature fought out the point between them. The result was, that, after a few struggles, Oliver breathed, sneezed, and proceeded to advertise to the inmates of the workhouse the fact of a new burden having been imposed upon the parish, by setting up as loud a cry as could reasonably have been expected from a male infant who had not been possessed of that very useful appendage, a voice, for a much longer space of time than three minutes and a quarter. As Oliver gave this first proof of the free and proper action of his lungs, the patchwork coverlet which was carelessly flung over the iron bedstead, rustled; the pale face of a young woman was raised feebly from the pillow; and a faint voice imperfectly articulated the words, "Let me see the child, and die." The surgeon had been sitting with his face turned towards the fire: giving the palms of his hands a warm and a rub alternately. As the young woman spoke, he rose, and advancing to the bed's head, said, with more kindness than might have been expected of him: "Oh, you must not talk about dying yet." "Lor bless her heart, no!" interposed the nurse, hastily depositing in her pocket a green glass bottle, the contents of which she had been tasting in a corner with evident satisfaction. "Lor bless her dear heart, when she has lived as long as I have, sir, and had thirteen children of her own, and all on 'em dead except two, and them in the wurkus with me, she'll know better than to take on in that way, bless her dear heart! Think what it is to be a mother, there's a dear young lamb, do." Apparently this consolatory perspective of a mother's prospects failed in producing its due effect. The patient shook her head, and stretched out her hand towards the child. The surgeon deposited it in her arms. She imprinted her cold white lips passionately on its forehead; passed her hands over her face; gazed wildly round; shuddered; fell back- and died. They chafed her breast, hands, and temples; but the blood had stopped for ever. They talked of hope and comfort. They had been strangers too long. "It's all over, Mrs. Thingummy!" said the surgeon at last. "Ah, poor dear, so it is!" said the nurse, picking up the cork of the green bottle, which had fallen out on the pillow, as she stooped to take up the child. "Poor dear!" "You needn't mind sending up to me, if the child cries, nurse," said the surgeon, putting on his gloves with great deliberation. "It's very likely it will be troublesome. Give it a little gruel if it is." He put on his hat, and, pausing by the bed-side on his way to the door, added, "She was a good-looking girl, too; where did she come from?" "She was brought here last night," replied the old woman, "by the overseer's order. She was found lying in the street. She had walked some distance, for her shoes were worn to pieces; but where she came from, or where she was going to, nobody knows." The surgeon leaned over the body, and raised the left hand. "The old story," he said, shaking his head: "no wedding ring, I see. Ah! Good night!" The medical gentleman walked away to dinner; and the nurse, having once more applied herself to the green bottle, sat down on a low chair before the fire, and proceeded to dress the infant. What an excellent example of the power of dress, young Oliver Twist was! Wrapped in the blanket which had hitherto formed his only covering, he might have been the child of a nobleman or a beggar; it would have been hard for the haughtiest stranger to have assigned him his proper station in society. But now that he was enveloped in the old calico robes which had grown yellow in the same service, he was badged and ticketed, and fell into his place at once- a parish child- the orphan of a workhouse- the humble, half-starved drudge- to be cuffed and buffeted through the world- despised by all, and pitied by none. Oliver cried lustily. If he could have known that he was an orphan, left to the tender mercies of churchwardens and overseers, perhaps he would have cried the louder.

The free market (not)

In the 19th century the dividing line in politics was between those that believed in free trade, and those that did not. Those defending protectionism tended to be doing so to preserve their privileged status in society, most notably the great aristocratic land owners. They did not want cheaper agricultural products flooding into this country. But these cheaper food stuffs would have directly benefited the working classes. On the whole it is the consumer that benefits from free trade and a free market. This can be seen in the market for mobile phones in which a range of companies compete thereby giving the consumer choice and keeping the price relatively low. However it does not work in other areas of the economy; perhaps in these sectors the free market should just be abandoned altogether. Take for instance the utility companies; competition here is nonsensical and benefits nobody other than highly paid executives. Yesterday I reflected about competition on the railways, which also seems to fail the consumer. Buying a railway ticket across different providers is possible but not straightforward. I went to Flint Railway Station to buy a ticket to Coventry as the on-line system was not working. The price quoted was £120 for two return tickets. I suppose many would have just paid up, but I decided to investigate whether this was the best price. Later using one of the on-line ticket providers I managed to buy a range of shorter journey tickets that cut the overall price to just £48 for the two return tickets. The point I am making, as with the utility market, is that it is far too complex to allow free market benefits to take place. The railways and utility companies are a natural monopoly and we should treat them as such.

The way it was then

I was looking through some digitised slide photographs and I came across this one. It shows my Mum and Aunt threatening to push me into our garden pond. As I recall it was a sizeable pond - it seemed the size of Wales - but probably was no more than a few metres squared in total. Anyway I doubt that many would have such an open pond in a modern garden due to heightened awareness of health and safety. The pond had a little arched bridge at one end - or so I seem to recall. It was a mysterious place to a little person in the 60s. I think my Dad must have been aware of the danger it presented as my later memories of this space are as a rose garden rather than a pond.

Flintshire and the Great War

At the Caerwys historical meeting on Thursday I was approached by an impressive gentleman with a rather large beard. He knew of my interest in the impact of the Great War on local communities and  gave me set of statistics that are worth sharing in this blog. He provided me with the numbers of men from each town and village in Flintshire that joined up, and the numbers that were killed. There is a dramatic variation in the impact on Flintshire communities. For example, 22 men from Gorsedd took part in active service, yet they all returned safely. Whereas in Flint 755 joined the forces, and 108 were killed. The proportion of those killed from Flint was 14.4% (the ratio to those that signed up). Even this was not the highest in Flintshire because in Sychdyn 40 men were enlisted, and 14 were killed (35%). In Queensferry, a large population centre, the proportion was 20.9% (based upon 134 enlisted and 28 killed).

It is hard to make sense of these figures. Why do some communities suffer so much more than others? There is no obvious answer, but there are some clues. The mining villages and working class areas to seem to have suffered more (although this is a generalisation). The highest proportion of deaths in Flintshire was in the Bettisfield area (36.4% dead) - a notable mining village at that time. It would take more research and study to fully answer this question.

Whatever the reason for the variation in casualties for communities across Flintshire, the statistics show that if you signed up, or were conscripted, into the armed forces during the Great War your chances of returning were roughly between one in three and one in five. It brings home the impact of this most dreadful of conflicts. When the call-up papers landed on the mat they were not exactly a death sentence, but they were pretty close. Especially if you came from certain areas of the county.

For my Caerwys readers it should be noted that 88 men were enlisted, and 16 were lost. A percentage of 18.2%. I wish I had known this figure when I was writing the history of the town.

This shows in graphical form the relationship between the numbers that enlisted and those that died. 

Once again, thank you to the bearded wonder that provided this wealth of information.

A school corridor and the feet of history

As I looked at this corridor yesterday evening for some reason it made me think about history. This corridor was built for the secondary modern child; in other words for those not bright enough to pass the 11+ examination. The first shoes to tramp these well-polished parquet tiles was in September 1939, in fact the week war against Hitler was declared. This corridor would have been the conduit for Mold children, along with many evacuees, initially from Liverpool, and later from London as the 'V' rockets caused chaos in the months before the war ended. Now the corridor carries the comprehensive feet of children that have not known the fear of bombs, and I am eternally grateful for that.

A corridor of history.

Caerwys in late winter

We are approaching my favourite time of year. As I walked the paths of Caerwys there was a slight sniff of spring (or was it Pippin the dog?). Yes the temperature was around freezing, so it is still very much winter, but the light is subtly different. I took these photographs between 4.40pm (see the church clock if you don't believe me) and 5.10pm.

The timeless view of St Michael's Church; the moon is up.

Looking south west from Caerwys towards Denbigh moors; the interlocking spurs of the Wheeler valley below.

Same direction, but the trees hide the view.

And finally, the view from the first tee on Caerwys golf course. Good shot.