Samhain In Ytene

Ytene was, before the Norman Conquest, a large area of what is now Southern Hampshire. It means 'of the Jutes', and describes land colonised by the early Anglo-Saxon tribe of that name; the Jutes were also active in Kent and the Isle of Wight, their territories being split by the South Saxons modern Sussex).

In 1079, William I turned the area into a Royal Forest for his hunting interests, particularly of deer. Chroniclers of the time describe the destruction of hamlets and farmsteads, the native people dispossessed of their homes to allow the new aristocracy a place for their sport. Had the King been blessed with hindsight, he would have perhaps not been so eager - two of his sons, Prince Richard and King William II, died in hunting accidents in the Forest, in 1081 and 1100 respectively.

Domesday Book provides the first record of the area's name, 'Nova Foresta', and its English translation endures as the New Forest. Now a popular National Park, it occupies a large swathe of South-west Hampshire and extends its reach into Wiltshire and Dorset. It is famous for its roaming cattle, its ponies, and its deer.

It is where I decided to spend Halloween, accompanied by my Eldest and his girlfriend, eschewing trick-or-treat for the ambience of a sylvan Samhain.

Minstead

This attractive hamlet was our first point of interest, a little west of the Lyndhurst road as we headed south from the motorway. The village car park lies just across the road from the small, triangular village green. Facing it, we see a tea shop on its left, a bench under a small tree in its centre and a pub on its right. A group of New Forest Ponies graze on the green, and my companions are delighted to make the acquaintance of the renowned equines so early in our visit.

Ponies of the New Forest

Between the green and the pub, a short track climbs up to the village church. It is the oldest structure in the village, having a nave and chancel that date to the 13th Century, although its baptismal font is even older than the building - dating to the 12th Century. The churchyard contains weathered, lichen-encrusted gravestones around the building's entrance, and a large expanse behind the church which contains burials up to the present day. Among these, under a prominent tree, stands a stone carved in the shape of a cross, marking the resting place of the ground's most prominent resident: Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, here with his second wife Jean, under the epitaph 'STEEL TRUE, BLADE STRAIGHT'.

Grave of the Conan Doyles. Behind is the grave of the poet Christopher Tower, whose name is attached to a poetry competition in Oxford, and a reference library in Lyndhurst.

A tobacco pipe, representing the author's most famous creation Sherlock Holmes, is a constant fixture on the grave.

Back down to the village green, as we head back to the car we pass the pub The Trusty Servant, which has a most unusual sign.

At the sign of The Trusty Servant

The figure is known as a hircocervus in Latin, a tragelaph in Greek and, in plain old English, a goat-stag. It was mentioned by Aristotle and Plato, and it can be found on a wall-painting by John Hoskins at Winchester College, where its features represent virtues promoted by the students:

'A trusty servant's picture would you see,

This figure well survey, who'ever you be,

The porker's snout not nice in diet shows;

The padlock shut, no secret he'll disclose;

Patient, to angry lords the ass gives ear;

Swiftness on errand, the stag's feet declare;

Laden his left hand, apt to labour saith;

The coat his neatness; the open hand his faith;

Girt with his sword, his shield upon his arm,

Himself and master he'll protect from harm.'

Lyndhurst

As we drive south into the village of Lyndhurst, the heart of the Forest, we pass a pub called the White Rabbit. There is a reason for this.

Lyndhurst is, to be honest, a traffic nightmare. It lies on a crossroads, a crux of the cardinal compass points, and the presence of the New Forest Visitor Centre ensures its bustle. Despite the traffic it is a pleasant place with interesting shops and some architecturally attractive buildings. After a brief visit to the Centre, we stroll west, round the back of Lyndhurst Church. It was built in brick by the Gothic Revival architect William White from 1858 to 1867, and he later designed the church in Langdon Hills, Essex, where my daughter was christened.

To the rear of the church lies another grave with literary connections, which explains why a local pub is called White Rabbit. The ashes buried in this plot are those of a woman who, in her youthful years, inspired a family friend to create and publish stories that are now famous the world over.

Literature Meets Mortality

We pass around the front of the church, walk down to the road, and after a few steps we enter a cafe-restaurant where we have our lunch. The restaurant is called Mad Hatter's, and is adorned with Wonderland paraphernalia and illustrations.


Burley

Our next stop, deep in the Forest NW of Lyndhurst, and no better place to visit on Halloween. This popular village is famous for witches, thanks to a woman called Sybil Leek.

Sybil Leek (1917-1982) was once described by the BBC as 'Britain's most famous witch'. After the 1951 repeal of the 1735 Witchcraft Act, the many books she wrote on witchcraft and occult subjects played a major part in the revival of Wicca in the country. An antique dealer with an IQ of 164, she lived in Burley and was a familiar sight in the village, with the eccentric habit of walking around with her pet jackdaw (and, presumably, her familiar) perched on her shoulder. The jackdaw's name was Mr. Hotfoot Jackson. In her younger years Sibyl was an acquaintance of both Aleister Crowley and HG Wells.

Sybil Leek and Mr Hotfoot Jackson

Burley became a popular destination thanks to Sybil's high profile, but eventually she tired of the attention and emigrated to the USA in the early '60s. Her legacy remains, in the plethora of occult shops in the village, and the Halloween events that the village holds to this day. The village frequently demonstrates the ancient laws of the Forest that prioritise its animals - ponies and cattle freely wander its streets, and a herd of red deer can often be seen in the grounds of the Burley Manor Hotel.

The visit to Burley proved productive for all three of us. I came away with a new bottle of mead, my son with a mounted fallow deer antler and his girlfriend with some New Forest fudge. We also enjoyed dinner at the Queen's Head pub, served by staff members dressed as zombies and ghouls

The Queen's Head has a couple of points of historic interest. It was built in 1685 as a blacksmith's shop, and later when it became an inn it was known as a haunt of smugglers. During a renovation, a secret cellar was discovered, containing pistols, coins and alcohol - relics of the building's smuggling past. More recently, in 1963, a gentleman named Craven Walker found himself mesmerised by the curious shadows being emitted by a light in the bar, and it inspired him to invent the lava lamp!

Picket's Post

Dusk approaches, and with the last of the light we decide to enjoy an atmospheric stroll across the Forest. We choose Picket Post, an area of the Forest two miles out of Burley, just south of the A31.
Leaving the car in one of the area's plethora of car parks, we strike into the heathland. Gorse and heather proliferates, occasionally punctuated by gnarled and twisted trees, and a half moon rises into the clear Autumnal sky.

 In the half-light, ponies shuffle through the furze and Horseshoe bats whirl and dance around us. Tawny owls hoot from unseen arbours.. The ambience of Samhain infuses and enthuses us as we walk a ragged circle, an hour's journey across rutted and leaf-kissed ground, feeling the closeness and the intimacy of the Forest -  even in areas of open emptiness. Dark has fallen by the time we return to the car, the headlights of passing cars cutting through the lightly-misted atmosphere and giving us a dance of dazzling beams. My son sees the silhouette of a deer, skittishly dashing across the road, unseen by me as I was inspecting a milestone. Refreshed and revitalised by our bracing exploration, we prepare ourselves for the final event of the evening.

Wilverley Plain

On the A35, a few miles west of Lyndhurst and south of Burley, two laybys sit opposite each other. The road is unlit, and the layby looms suddenly; I have to brake sharply and swerve in order not to miss it. We vacate the car, leaving it with a cluster of vehicles already parked, and join a loose group of about two dozen complete strangers.

We head south, along a track that was once the Burley-Lymington road in the days of horse and carriage, some members of the group holding lanterns to softly illuminate our path. This part of the Forest is called Wilverley Plain, and after a few minutes of walking we step from the path to the site of what was once a tree called the Naked Man.

Surrounded by fern, capped with ivy, sits the stump of a vanished oak. Legend tells dark stories of smugglers and highwaymen hanged from its branches, one victim apparently struck by lightning which tore off his clothes - hence the tree's name. The truth, perhaps, is a little more prosaic - the tree probably had two outstretched arms which resembled a naked man.

Our group forms a circle of protection, and seasoned wiccans and druids take position at the cardinal compass points. Each of the four directions receives its own blessing.

The North is a place of cold, and the earth is silent and dark.
Spirits of the earth, we welcome you, knowing you will envelope us in death.

The East is a land of new beginnings, the place where breath begins.
Spirit of air, we call upon you, knowing you will be with us as we depart life.

The South is a land of sunlight and fire, and your flames guide us through the cycles of life.
Spirits of fire, we welcome you, knowing you will transform us in death.

The West is a place of underground rivers, and the sea is a never-ending, rolling tide.
Spirits of water, we welcome you, knowing you will carry us through the ebbs and flows of our life.

A loaf of bread and a horn of wine passes around the circle, each of us tasting and imbibing before passing on to our clockwise neighbour.  It takes almost three circuits before the offerings are gone.

The Wheel of the Year turns once more, and we cycle into darkness.

Two members of the group, using a wooden phallus and a chalice, re-enact the marriage between the Morrigan and the Great Dagda, pouring the contents of the chalice onto the soil to represent the hope of rebirth after the coming Winter.

At the end of that darkness comes light. And when it arrives, we will celebrate once more.

We remember those we have lost, we bless those who need succour, and we close the Circle in harmony. The four elements suffuse us. The breath of the breeze, the dewy dampness of the grass, the mud beneath our feet, the muffled thud of distant fireworks from the direction of Christchurch. In an intimate cluster on the dark open mass of Wilverley Plain, the traditions of the Old Craft continue. Behind us as we depart, the Forest lives, breathes and watches... as it has done for close to a thousand years, as it will for a thousand more. The wheel turns, the cycle continues. As above, so below.

So must it be.

I see across the veil to the pathways of my future
The pathways laid out for me by my ancestors, who walk
Them with my gods.
These pathways I will walk in company with them,
When I have finished my work here, until that time
I will live my life with honour and courage
With them forever in my mind.

And The White Horse Looked On

Before the gods that made the gods

Had seen their sunrise pass,
The White Horse of the White Horse Vale
Was cut out of the grass.

...about three thousand years ago, according to radiocarbon dating, making it the oldest known hillfigure in the country. Its abstract, curving lines are typical of Celtic artwork, and it may be associated with the tribe that used the Uffington Castle hillfort close by. It rests high on the scarp, not easily seen in its entirety unless from the air or from the railway line that snakes through the Vale on its way to the West. It is the most famous of our chalky White Horses.

Assuming, of course, that it is a horse.

And here we are again, in this familiar place, Team Vulpine today consisting of my sons, daughter, and daughter's boyfriend - the latter on his first visit to the site. I seem to make my way to this hallowed spot every couple of years, and wandering this landscape of shadow and legend, it always feels like that first time two decades ago.

Polite National Trust signage asks visitors not to stand on the Horse, to lessen the dangers of erosion. On our bellies we writhe like earthworms, shuffling abdominally toward the stark ivory outline, reaching forth tentatively to touch an ear, caress a curve, lay featherlight fingers upon the tip of an ancient tail. Its single eye gazes impassively across the broad Vale, taking in the expanse of Oxfordshire, the Chilterns smouldering in the haze to the East, the Cotswolds rising on the Northern horizon, the doomed cooling towers of Didcot scarring part of the view like a pustule on the landscape. In a few weeks they will be gone, brought down in a flash of explosive, a rising cloud of dust and a rumble of destruction, and the Horse will once more keep watch over Arcadian purity.

(c) Emily McManus

Before the gods that made the gods
Had drunk at dawn their fill,
The White Horse of the White Horse Vale
Was hoary on the hill.

Bees and butterflies whirl above the figure, crows and kites ride the thermals. Below the Horse, in the sheep-speckled undulating slopes known as The Manger, a small hill sits squatly, looking like a miniature Silbury. Its crown gleams white, the feet of thousands having scoured it down to the chalk. This is Dragon Hill, according to local legend the spot where St George slew his serpentine foe. Unlikely, I muse, that our patron saint walked these hills. Or killed a flying, pyromaniacal, maiden-devouring dinosaur. Or existed. It is, however, fuel for the posited notion that the Horse, equine lines obscured by its abstraction, is actually a dragon.

Dragon Hill

On previous visits we have clambered down the slope to stand upon the Dragon Hill, but that is not the route we desire this afternoon. Above the Horse lies the hillfort Uffington Castle, a pre-Roman stronghold with an impressive ditch and rampart, and we will venture into its interior on our way to the timeworn trackway that crosses the peak of the Downs, the popular footpath known as the Ridgeway, linking the hills beyond Dunstable to the great stone circles of Avebury.

In the grass of the great enclosure that predates Jesus, is a curious attempt at Christianisation; someone has poured a cruciform shape onto a patch of short verdure, a cross formed of cremated remains. Someone must have loved this place a great deal to have their ashes deposited here. The shape will likely not last, blown by the winds of the high Downs and disturbed by the bumbling passage of sheep and tourists, and all that will remain is a human spirit, adding to the ghosts that haunt and protect the Horse.

We have arrived in the late afternoon and most visitors are wandering away from the site. The Ridgeway is quiet and warm, a dusty route along which we strike west.

Age beyond age on British land,
Aeons on aeons gone,
Was peace and war in western hills,
And the White Horse looked on.

Fields of ripening wheat surround us, the sun illuminates and heats our old green track, an owl twits unseen from a canopy of tall trees. If we walk and walk, we will pass the great Iron Age enclosure of Liddington Castle* and strike south to the mighty prehistoric landscape around Avebury... but we have no intention of going so far. Our destination, after a slog of about twenty-five minutes, is another monument of legend. It lies, slumbering in a glade, to the right of the track.

Wayland's Smithy Long Barrow is a Neolithic burial chamber of the group known as 'Cotswold-Severn', which also includes such popular sites such as West Kennet in Wiltshire and Belas Knap in Gloucestershire. They are trapezoidal in shape and represent a fairly localised form of prehistoric funerary architecture. Like its colossal sibling at West Kennet, the Smithy has chambers which have been vacated by their long-skeletal inhabitants and are now accessible to all. It is at its best on a Summer day such as this, the June trees bathing it in dappled light, abandoned by the public and, at this moment, belonging entirely to us. Its atmosphere, thoughtful and peceful, is amost tangible. Such stuff as legends are built on, and the legend of Wayland's Smithy is a doozy.

Youngest son explores a monument

Previous visitors have left votice offerings on the baked stones that protect the cool chambers, offerings of copper pennies. They too, know the legend of Wayland the Smith. He was an Anglo-Norse deity, and it was probably those settlers back in the Dark Ages that gave the monument its enduring name. The legend tells that a horse, if deposited at the Smithy with a small coin as payment (probably a groat, although clearly modern visitors have taken inflation into account), the horse would be mysteriously shod by the unseen god. Some of our great writers have included this legend in their works, Sir Walter Scott in Kenilworth and Rudyard Kipling in Puck Of Pook's Hill

.

The sun continues its descent, and we undertake the return stroll to White Horse Hill. The unseen owl continues to whistle down from the trees that line the track. Insects hum and bustle in the Summer breeze that accompanies us. A concealed pheasant barks out its raspy cough from a neighbouring field.

"There," my daughter helpfully gestures towards a shape trying to hide itself in the stubble. I gaze appraisingly at the prospective fowl.

"Hmm," I muse, "Looks more like a hare to me."

As the words leave my lips, the magnificent creature springs to life, tearing across the field away from us and as we stare admiringly at its sprinting form we finally notice the others, scattered across the field, at least half a dozen hares browsing the stubble. My daughter's boyfriend stares entranced; this is the first time he has seen one of these superb animals.

(c)Emily McManus

Our walk ends back at the car, and off we go. Leaving a land of legend and natural beauty behind us, we drive down into the Vale and strike east. Our tents await us near Watlington, England's smallest town, where we have camped below the Chilterns and in the shadow of another hillfigure, the pyramidal Watlington White Mark. We will sleep below the wheeling red kites and the starry Oxfordshire skies, and the sun will bid adieu as shadows fall across the Vale. And the White Horse, as always, will look on.

 For the White Horse knew England
When there was none to know;
He saw the first oar break or bend,
He saw heaven fall and the world end,

O God, how long ago.

                                  GK Chesterton, Ballad Of The White Horse (1911)

* Liddington Castle was discussed in more detail in my previous article, In The Footsteps Of Arthur: Badon Hill

Germinal, Madame Bovary, and Family

In this essay I would like to discuss Gustave Flaubert's approach to family life in Madame Bovary, in particular how he uses familial scenes to explore questions of identity. I would then like to move on to Emile Zola's depiction of bourgeois life in Germinal, and discuss how he creates symbolic contrasts between this class and the family lives of the working-class miners.

  Emma Bovary's search for personal identity arises from dissatisfaction at her humdrum provincial existence, an existence in which she is subordinated to a man whom she considers mediocre, a man who fulfils few of the romantic notions she has absorbed through childhood readings of authors such as Walter Scott. Her subordination is reflected by the very structure of the novel: the life of her husband Charles 'frames the story of his wife' as a possible 'gesture of enclosure and control' (Madame Bovary [Introduction], Wall, 1992); the novel does not reveal any insights into Emma's history and psychology until she is married and her disillusionment has begun.

  Before Emma's adulterous and ultimately suicidal quest for fulfilment begins, however, Flaubert presents a chapter - almost like a short story - which tells us of the Bovary household as Charles grows from baby to man. His father is presented as a drunken wastrel, his mother an overbearing neurotic, their marriage a sham which reverses, in gender terms, the future marriage of their son - 'she had loved him with a servility that had turned him against her all the more' (Flaubert, Madame Bovary, p.4). They pamper their son, cushioning his progress until he emerges as a mediocre but respectable doctor. His mother even arranges his first marriage, to a clinging hypochondriac. Flaubert tells this story with a rich vein of irony to highlight the hypocrisies and cliches of a bourgeois upbringing, his mother being described as 'accomplishing a plan', his passing medical exams described as 'a great day for his mother' (Flaubert, Madame Bovary, p.8). When the elder Bovarys turn on their daughter-in-law upon their discovering that her apparent wealth is a facade, the novel's English translator amusingly uses alliteration of the letter 'h' to portray their indignant huffing and puffing: 'hitching... up to that harridan, whose harness wasn't worth her hide' (Flaubert, Madame Bovary, p.15).

  Charles' second marriage, to Emma, is accomplished without interference from his parents, but this leads to a resentment against her, a prejudice which Emma reciprocates, although of course the linguistic facade of good relations is maintained: '...each woman uttering sweet words in a voice trembling with anger'. The elder Madame Bovary views her son's love for his wife as 'an encroachment on what was her property' (p.33). With this description, Flaubert emphasises the materialistic nature of the bourgeoisie, even in terms of their relationships with their children... and Charles' failure to take sides, to take responsibility for familial decisions, shows his continuing weakness and fuels his new wife's discontent.

  When Emma falls pregnant with her own child, she experiences mixed emotions. Projecting her romantic materialism onto the forthcoming event, she finds her wishes financially restricted and, consequently, her affection was 'perhaps... somewhat impaired'. She wishes the child to be a boy, seeing in this a way to redeem her own disappointments. Flaubert uses this wish to reveal Emma's feelings about her unrealised romantic ambitions, to show that the delivery of a son 'was like an anticipated revenge for the powerlessness of her past... a man, at least, is free... a woman is constantly thwarted' (p.70). When the child is born a girl, Emma 'turned aside and passed out' (p.70). While this is a natural enough consequence of the exertions of childbirth, Flaubert highlights the symbolic importance of the sentence by elevating it into a paragraph. Emma is rejecting the child, seeing once again the thwarting of her romantic expectations.

  Flaubert uses the baby to show the contradictions of petit bourgeois parenting; despite the fuss made over choosing a name, and the elaborate christening ceremony, we learn quite matter-of-factly that the child has been put out to a wet-nurse, a slovenly working-class woman who keeps a house where Emma is compelled to wipe her feet as she leaves.

  She is torn between maternal feelings for her child, and rejection of the same due to her frustration. Rejection on one occasion leads to the child receiving an injury, and this is followed by Emma tending to her like a dutiful mother, although Flaubert does not specify whether this later action is caused by guilt, concern or fear. As the baby lies sleeping after its trauma, Emma can only wonder at its ugliness. In this scene of different attitudes and changeable behaviour, the heroine herself is described with multiple titles\; variously Emma, Madame Bovary, the young woman... all contributing to her crisis of identity. The scene is followed by a description of the Homais children, offspring of the Bovarys' pharmacist neighbour, and of how '...these good parents took every sort of precaution' (p.93). Flaubert shows this as a contrast to Emma's carelessness yet also shows it ironically, as the Homais parents are protective to a ridiculous degree.

  At the end of Emma's life, as she lays dying, she believes herself free of her torments and asks to see her daughter, but the child sees her in her weakened state as a fairytale monster: 'Oh, what big eyes you have, Mummy!' (p.261). In her fear, she struggles and draws back from her parent. Emma, who has spent her life rejecting the stale predictability of her family and its petit bourgeois existence, is finally rejected herself.

  While Flaubert portrays the cliched banalities of bourgeois existence, Zola introduces bourgeois families in Germinal which contrast with each other as well as the working-class mining families. The Gregoires consist of two doting parents, their daughter, and a small retaiment of servants, a 'patriarchal regime, a cosy family affair, the small community lived in harmony' (Zola, Germinal, p.76). Their life seems idyllic, they live together in love and happiness, even the servants dote on the pampered but innocent daughter Cecile. We learn that the families fortune is derived from shares in the Montsou mine.

  Two key scenes in Germinal display the nature of the relationship between the Gregoires and the miners. The first details a visit to the Gregoires from La Maheude. The visit takes place shortly after the contrasting descriptions of the Gregoire and Maheu families' morning routines: while the former eat brioche in a house 'snug and warm, and not a sound... to disturb the silence' (p.78), the latter have to contend with 'nothing, not a crust, no leftovers, not a bone to gnaw' and 'coffee so weak it looked like dishwater' (p.87).

  It is Cecile Gregoire who is entrusted with the charity. The Gregoire philosophy on charity is described in free indirect speech, and they believe 'that their house is God's refuge for the needy' (p.92), although they donate food and clothes rather than money, which they fear will be squandered on drink. The Gregoires are sympathetic, but seem to look upon the condition of the miners as a kind of 'idealised' poverty, and shown in the expression 'Monsieur Gregoire looked dreamily at this pitiful woman and her children' (p.94). As they are sentimental about their daughter, they are sentimental about the workers, ignorant of the desperation of poverty, cradled 'in their contented slumbers'. Cecile's final gift to the young Maheu children is two pieces of brioche wrapped in newspaper. While this gift is made with goodwill and a genuine desire to be charitable, it is also ironic insofar that it echoes the famous Marie Antoinette remark, "Let them eat cake". The blindness of the aristocracy to the plight of the peasants led to the Revolution; the echoes of that history being played out in Cecile's innocent gift foreshadows the miners' strike and its bloody, fatal confrontations.

  The second scene occurs toward the end of the novel, and once again concerns the charitable deeds of the Gregoires. On this occasion they have left their comfortable home to visit the mining village, and Cecile is briefly and fatally left alone with old Bonnemort, whose very name carries connotations of death. Zola contrasts the two, displaying at the same time the differences between these two classes, the girl 'plump and fresh from her life of leisure and generations of comfortable luxury', the old man 'showing the deplorable ugliness of a race of worn-out beasts, destroyed... by a hundred years of toil and starvation' (p.490). Bonnemort's murder of the girl is symbolic, as the lives of her parents have also been destroyed, and the family line of the Gregoires has been ended; the bourgeoisie halted by the working-class.

  Two other middle-class families appear in the novel, the Deneulins and the Hennebeaus. Zola uses these families also to emphasise bourgeois contradictions. Deneulin, father of two daughters, 'is presented as a courageous and hard-working manager, who has lost out to forces larger than himself' (Walder, Realisms, p.397). He too is ultimately portrayed as a victim, a victim of capitalism as represented by the Company.

  The Hennebeaus are the most complex of the bourgeois families in Germinal. They consist of Monsieur Hennebeau, his wife and a nephew Negrel, who is expected to marry Cecile Gregoire. Madame Hennebeau has never attempted 'to understand this race of workers' (p.107); she takes bourgeois friends upon tours of the mining villages, and they seem to wilfully ignore the poverty they see. As one gentleman exclaims, "It's El Dorado! The promised land!" (p.106). Zola portrays wilful bourgeois ignorance here, but with a touch of irony: El Dorado and the Promised Land are aspirations rather than physical realities, and despite her 'talking up' of the miners' living conditions, Mme Hennebeau is quickly 'repelled by the stale odour of poverty' (p.107). She is also the character utilised by Zola to show hypocrisy in bourgeois moral standards, as she is conducting a secret and incestuous affair with her nephew Negrel while also trying to arrange his marriage to Cecile. Her husband, aware of this affair, keeps quiet but is sexually frustrated, and - despite his bourgeois comfort - envies the miners their sexual freedom. However, he too partakes of a calculating and hypocritical nature: although outwardly friendly to Deneulin, he is more than willing to see his friend lose his mine for the benefit of the Company, and he sees an advantage to Cecile's murder in the fact that it will be easier to keep his eye on his wife and Negrel.

  The mining families, represented by the Maheus, are portrayed in a bestial and desperate condition, their principal reason for having children being to increase their meagre income from the mines. When Catherine departs to live with Chaval, her mother's reason for complaint is the drop in income. The lives of the mining families are portrayed as a perpetual grind of poverty, labour and premature death which continues for generations: the implications of the cycle can be seen in the behaviour of the village children, acting as nascent families. When the young playmates Bebert and Lydie are killed when the soldiers open fire, Zola writes that Bebert 'embrace his little wife' as he dies.


Flaubert, Gustave Madame Bovary, ed: Geoffrey Wall, 1992, Penguin, London
Zola, Emile Germinal, trans: Collier, Peter, 1993, Oxford World's Classics, Oxford
Walder, Dennis, Germinal:Zola and the Political Novel in Da Sousa Correa, Delia (ed) The Nineteenth Century Novel: Realisms, 2000, Routledge, London

The Rise Of The Summer Sea

The leaden mass descends upon the trembling land,
The Summer Sea expands to pour its challenge.
See - Nature swelling forth to claim her own,
To sneer, to cheer, to snatch Her quivering throne.

The constant whisper, ever-rustling rain
Quietly state, 'Let's dance the dance again,
'You think you cannot be perverted,
'Overwhelmed, defeated, or subverted.
'You cannot halt the world from turning,
'And I shall not cease you from burning.'

The levels bloat, and people stare surprised,
Why should they? It is, we can surmise,
The Natural Order, that water should prevail
Across a once-dredged land, dammed and damned,
Why shock when Will should fail?
And where I live, I trudge through blackened fronds,
Slip past the sludge, to peer at swirling ponds.

Yet still, the deluge rises unabated
Not to rest 'til Gaia be full sated.
They wail and cry, oh why oh why,
And She calls back, with melodic sigh,
Why shouldn't I?

The leaden mass has shown the right of might,
Has shown us that we cannot win this fight,
And yet... we mock and jeer and crow
That we will win.
'Maybe tomorrow'.

The Hobbit: An Unexpected Fracas

The Eagle dipped low. Bilbo slid from its back and landed on the edge of the rocky precipice. He looked up as the majestic bird wheeled back into the sky, emitting its stereotypical cry before disappearing into the clouds. Several more eagles swooped, depositing their cargoes. Bilbo cowered, covering his head as dwarves rained around him.

His companions straightened up, dusting themselves down and inspecting their lofty surroundings. Gandalf adjusted his conical hat and muttered, 'Another day, another bloody mountainside.'

The party inspected the vista. Below them, the forbidding expanse of Mirkwood stretched toward the murky horizon. At the limit of their vision, Mount Erebor rose like a wonky phallic symbol.

Thorin Oakenshield stepped forward and cocked his head as a thrush flew drunkenly past, twittering meaninglessly as it made a beeline for the distant peak. 'The birds are returning to the mountain," he stated with satisfaction.

'Not all of them," Bilbo spat.

Thorin frowned. "What mean you?"

"Well, the eagles aren't heading that way, are they? Why did they dump us here? Why not take us all the way? We'll have to cross that whole bloody forest before reaching-"

Gandalf stretched a friendly arm across Bilbo's shoulders and led him away from the party of bearded and befuddled midgets. "You forget yourself, my hirsute-footed friend. We're trying to make a trilogy out of a short novel and a few appendices. If the eagles had taken us all the way, it would make for a rather short saga."

Bilbo shook his head. "I don't get it."

Gandalf nodded sagaciously. "I don't blame you. We're doing this whole thing arse about face. We made a popular trilogy in which you played a small part as a doddery schizophrenic jewellery hoarder, and now we're capitalising by making a whole new trilogy out of the leftovers. If we don't go through that wood, we won't be able to justify bringing back that wimp from the Pirates Of The Caribbean."

Bilbo stared at him.

Gandalf shrugged and continued. "There's a bit more to it. You know the ring you nicked from that stunted little Special Effect?"

Bilbo shifted uncomfortably. " I found it."

"Whatever. Well, that ring will have an important part to play in the future. So will the Necromancer, that shadowy figure what the Seventh Doctor warned us about."

Bilbo glanced askance at the flustered wizard. "Is Keira Knightley going to turn up at any stage?"

"No. And neither will Captain Jack Tonto."

"Dammit," Bilbo declared, mopping his brow, "Well, I suppose we'd better get a shift on."

Their progress toward their dwarf companions was suddenly arrested by the arrival of a high-pitched, melodious operatic voice, emitting random musical notes. A tall, willowy brunette appeared upon the scene, accompanied by a bunch of drooling cartoon animals.

"Who the f--k is this?" Bilbo shrieked.

The paleness of her skin denoted long-term heroin addiction. The slenderness of her proportions suggested severe bulimia issues. " I am the Princess Snow White, and I am seeking refuge from my murderous Godmother."

"And you conceal yourself by swanning around, singing at the top of your voice, surrounded by a bunch of bewitched cartoons?" Bilbo hollered, clutching his hair in disbelief.

"Well, she's not too bright. Talks to herself in the mirror. Oh-" Her delicate hands flew to her rosy lips, "Dwarves!"

Thorin and his companions glanced at each other, then at the newcomer.

"Oh," she gasped, "I just love hairy little men." She glanced around secretively. "I know a cottage where we can... you know... set up house." She winked conspiratorially. "Anyone want to come with me?"

The dwarves shot their stubby hands into the air and clamoured for attention.

She laughed with delight. "Then let's go! Except for you two." She pointed at Thorin and Gloin. "You're far too serious, and you're far too ugly."

The remaining party watched, in a kind of mental haze, as Snow White and the seven dwarves headed with alacrity into the sylvan haven of Mirkwood.

Gandalf frowned. "Don't remember this being in the script."

"Well, that's great. That's just great," Bilbo declared, "Trilogy my arse. I'm going back to being the butt of Sherlock's jokes." And he stomped away.

Gandalf, Thorin and Gloin glanced at each other.

"Well, now what?" Gandalf said.

"I guess we just wait here," Gloin replied," and hope there's a Time Bandits 2"

Rough Circles

West Penwith is the 'toe' of Cornwall, an area of outstanding natural beauty, of timeless ambience, of ancient history that lifts the heart and animates the soul. The landscape is an inspiring blend of pasture, moorland, heath, sharp rocky tors, meandering drystone walls and tiny villages, hewn from  granite and slate. The beating nucleus of Cornwall's ancient identity can be seen in the multitude of standing stones, old tumps, time-cracked quoits and wild earthworks. On warm days, sea air from the nearby coasts both north and south provide a refreshing relief from the humidity of the lush pastoral closeness. On wild days the wind and rain can scythe through your very bones, and the venerable landscape becomes a treacherous enemy. It is a land worthy of reverence and despair, wonder and fear, courage and care. Hyperbole, indeed, but West Penwith - as all who know and love it would agree - is such stuff as hyperbole is made for.

Land's End, a popular Penwith destination

  Armed with an OS map, one can spend a week wandering the footpaths and hoary tracks of Penwith, every differing view a masterpiece, every tor a challenge, every discovery a delight. A single blog post cannot do credit to this region, so I will attempt to do credit to one small walk, a stroll of about an hour and a half, a trek forming a rough circle.

Bosigran Cliff, West Penwith

It is a walk I discovered myself, and I returned a year later with the three offspring in tow. The year I cannot remember, but it was c.2007. The day was bright, sunny and warm (but not stiflingly so) and our journey began on a small, dusty carpark on the side of an unrated country road, the main highway between the villages of Madron and Morvah. On the other side of the road sits a lone, small building, the Men An Tol Studio, now a gallery and publisher of local literature. In the heart of an area that has inspired many artists and writers, it could not be more perfectly sited.

Men An Tol Studio, (c) Big Al Davis

Sadly, it is not the studio we have come to visit, which is just as well as it appears to be closed. We strike out in the other direction, along a farm track heading away from the car park. The ground is rutted and crumbling with the furrows churned by agricultural vehicles. On two occasions it is a quagmire, possibly caused by the presence of springs and underground water channels in the area. We step gingerly past the boggy bits and keep as much as possible to the dusty, sun-cracked parts. To our left we can see the crumbling hulks of abandoned farm buildings, left to the mercy of the seasons. These are not the last derelict structures we will encounter during this stroll. In the distance to our rear we can make out the slopes of Chun Castle, an ancient Cornish fortress that still contains walls constructed during the Iron Age, and in the distance ahead we can see the undulating, dramatic profile of the tor known as Carn Gulva.

Chun Castle

Carn Gulva

The first site we intend to visit is, thankfully, much closer than those two. It stands in a field, close to the right of the track, and is one of the most celebrated prehistoric sites in Cornwall. It is known locally as the Crick Stone, but more familiarly by the Cornish for 'the hole stone' - the Men An Tol. It has been interfered with at various points in its 3-4000 year history, as old antiquarian notes and sketches suggest, and no-one is sure of its purpose. Some believe it to be the remains of a burial chamber, a 'quoit', others - myself included - believe it to be the ruins of a stone circle of which the holed stone was probably the centre.

 

The site is rich in local folklore. The obvious symbolism of the shape of the stones lead many to think that the site is a Bronze Age fertility clinic. Other local rituals have also been connected with the enigmatic monument:

• Rickets/Scrofula: To protect children against these ailments, pass them naked through the holed stone three times, then draw them along the grass three times in an easterly direction. For the sake of the kids, I hope this ritual was reserved for warm days.
•  Rheumatism/Ague: Adults afflicted with these should crawl through the hole nine times against the sun. This would probably be quite a chore if you were afflicted with rheumatism. Or obesity.
• Prophecy: According to nineteenth-century folklorist Robert Hunt: If two brass pins are carefully laid across each other on the top edge of the stone, any question put to the rock will be answered by the pins acquiring, through some unknown agency, a peculiar motion. 

Men An Tol is not a large monument, but it is a unique one, and on a warm Summer day you would be lucky to have it yourself for more than a few minutes. I had long enough to conduct a brief experiment, and am happy to report that I can fit through it.

(c)celtic-cornwall.com

Back to the track, and we only have a few paces to go before the next site on our walk. In a field on the left, a single standing stone holds itself proudly erect. Stones such as these are not unusual in West Penwith, but this is more exciting than most, because it bears an inscription dating back to the Dark Ages, some 1500 years ago. The stone itself may date back to the Bronze Age and has simply been used as a grave marker.

Men Scryfa

It is six feet high, and part of the inscription has now sunk below the ground. It reads: RIALOBRANI CVNOVALI FILI, meaning 'Royal Raven, son of Famous Leader/Glorious Prince'. This shows how, in the culture of the time, names and titles were more or less interchangeable (as has been noticed by scholars who believe the name Arthur to be a title meaning 'Bear'.


According to local legend, the Glorious Prince held sway at Lescudjack near Penzance. An invader attacked and seized the fort and the Prince's lands. This may have had something to do with the important tin trade in the area at the time, and the re-fortification of nearby Chun Castle seems to have been contemporary with this affair. The Royal Raven attempted to win back his father's lands in battle, but was killed and buried by the stone. The fact that the stone was left to stand as a memorial suggests that the fallen Prince managed to gain victory despite his sacrifice.

Four Parish Stone

A little further along from Men Scryfa, the track splits in several directions. One leads to the rocky prominence of Carn Gulva, the others head right up the hill toward a distant engine house, relic of an abandoned tin mine. At this junction can be found a recumbent stone with a small cross incised at the end. This cross represents the junction of four parishes: Madron, Morvah, Zennor and Gulval.

Of the two tracks leading toward the mine, we take the higher option. We stroll past gorse and heather, and skirt an overgrown round barrow, a Bronze Age burial mound, which still has fallen kerbstones which once enclosed it at ground level. Beofore our ascent allows us to reach the mine, there is another monument to encounter; one which had been suffering from vegetative encroachment but, happily, has been cleared to provide us with a better view. It is the Nine Maidens Stone Circle, 72 feet in diameter. The antiquarian William Borlase noted in the 18th century that 13 of its original 20+ stones were standing - today that has been reduced to 7, and some of them lean precariously. They stand to an average height of 4ft and represent just one of the many wonderful, lonely and atmospheric stone circles that dot the Penwith landscape.

Nine Maidens

We put the Circle behind us as we continue to ascend the path. The landscape around us starts to change, some areas deeply pitted and fenced off, as we walk through an area pocked by the deep pits and gorges of old mining works. To our left the vista opens, affording us a glorious view of St Michael's Mount, and even further, to the rocky scarp of Carn Brea. We reach the peak of the path, the ruins of the Greenburrow engine house, the steadfast and atmospheric remnants of what is known as the Ding-Dong Mine.

Ding Dong Mine (c) Nick Macneill

From this elevated spot we can look back at our route, the Circles at Nine Maidens and Men An Tol hidden by scrub but the surrounding tors and peaks thrusting from the earth in their granite glory. Looking ahead, toward the Madron-Morvah road, we can see the defiant outline of the Lanyon Quoit, one of Cornwall's finest and most famous Neolithic monuments, which we had visited shortly before embarking upon this trek.

Lanyon Quoit, Ding Dong Mine behind (c) Hayley Greet

The path winds downward, across a stile, the gorsde closing in. Well hidden in this heathland, to the left of the path, is a small and perfect Neolithic burial chamber called the Bosiliack Barrow. It is a fine example of a prehistoric chambered tomb and, protected almost jealously by the surrounding undergrowth, is very difficult to find. For the hardy, however, it is well worth tracking down.

Bosiliack Barrow (c)Hansjoerg Lipp

The path now winds randomly toward the road. At one point we have to leap across a ditch, a field boundary, the water trickling sweetly and melodiously, as though to camouflage the treachery of the quagmire it has built around itself. The gorse sways and the heather bristles; it is with yearning hearts that we leave behind this beautiful, challenging landscape to step back out onto the rude tarmac of the road, and commence the short stroll back to the car.

Not a mighty hike, but a short, picturesque and historic stroll. Just a fragment of West Penwith was covered by our ambling, yet it encapsulated all that is glorious about this magical, mystical corner of our diverse and mystical island home. A rough circle, with other rough circles to bear witness to along the way. Many have stepped along this route. None, I'll wager, have forgotten it.

All of the above pics were lifted from the interweb, and I have credited these talented photographers where I have been able to identify them. I can only thank them for falling under West Penwith's spell as heavily as I did.

Fine Things To Be Seen

'...For there are good things yet to hear and fine things to be seen,
Before we go to Paradise by way of Kensal Green'
                                                                                GK Chesterton, The Rolling English Road

The Anglican Chapel

An Open Day at a 72-acre cemetery? Seems an unattractive prospect for a daytrip... unless you harbour an interest in Victoriana, a fondness for Gothic sculpture, and the burial ground in question just happens to be one of the most celebrated in the world. There is even a free photography exhibition. Maybe a trip to Kensal Green Cemetery could be fascinating after all (unless, of course, you have a one-way ticket).

Angel at Kensal Green © E&K

  The General Cemetery of All Souls, Kensal Green, was created in 1833, using the famous Pere Lachaise in Paris as its inspiration. The 'General Cemetery Company' was created in order to run it... and indeed they run it today, making Kensal Green the only one of the 'Magnificent Seven' cemeteries surrounding London to be maintained by its original owners.

  The need for cemeteries arose due to the overcrowded and unsanitary conditions of the churchyards in the City (which are mentioned in some detail here). Kensal Green was the first to arrive, the other six being West Norwood (1837) Highgate (1839), Abney Park (1840), Nunhead (1840), Brompton (1840) and Tower Hamlets (1841). Many others have opened since, including the City Of London Cemetery at Manor Park, which is one of the largest in the world. The City churchyards were finally closed in the 1850's, and those that have not been cleared and had big office buildings planted on them have become pleasant gardens.

Tomb with caryatids © E&K

 The centrepiece of the cemetery is the classical Anglican Chapel, recently restored with the help of English Heritage and now a Grade I listed building. Two other structures at Kensal Green are listed Grade II: the Dissenters Chapel and the North Colonnade. All three of these structures have catacombs running beneath them.

Dissenters Chapel

  The catacombs beneath the Anglican Chapel follow the footprint of the Chapel and its colonnades, and have room for 4000 coffins, although 3000 have been filled. Like the rest of the Cemetery, they are still being used for internments today. They are currently under restoration. The catacombs beneath the North Colonnade are sealed. On the Open Day that we attended, the catacombs beneath the Dissenters Chapel were open for the first time, providing a home for a Photography exhibition.

The Grade II listed North Colonnade at Kensal Green, overpowered by a block of flats. Nice one, town planners.

The reality of mortality. It is uncomfortable to be confronted with it, but you can scarcely avoid it here. I turned up with my photographer daughter, her boyfriend, and the promise of another friend joining us later. All roads in Kensal Green lead to the Anglican Chapel, and we naturally gravitated to the stalls, the exhibitions, and the leaflets embellished with convenient maps, before striking out to explore the grounds.

  We headed for the Dissenters Chapel. It sits at the eastern end of the cemetery, reflecting a Victorian division that has, thankfully, pretty much disappeared today. The catacombs below the Chapel are hosting an exhibition of images by the Guardian photographer Sean Smith, and his work is not easy to behold. Dead bodies laying in the street in a warzone, ragged prostitutes, junkies shooting up... all within a space defined by our being surrounded by curtained vaults. The atmosphere is claustrophobic, to say the least.

Impressive tomb ©  E&K

I pull back a heavy curtain to show my companions the true purpose of the catacombs. Behind me lie coffins, Victorian-era Dissenters, wrapped in polythene to protect them from damp.Their names glare at us, scribbled down on cards and attached to their caskets. This touch makes it personal.  We have a male name, a female name, an 'unidentified adult', and then my daughter shrinks back, alarmed by something she has noticed. A fourth coffin, atop the other three. This box is about three feet long.

I try to explain the reality of infant mortality in Victorian times. It has been said that if you could survive all those childhood illnesses, then you had a good chance of living a relatively long life. The stumbling block was, of course, those childhood illnesses. Chicken Pox, Smallpox, Whooping Cough etc. This is why the Victorians had such large families. They simply didn't expect half of them to survive.

Anglican Chapel catacombs. The coffins in the Dissenter Chapel are 'sleeved' in polythene.

Explanations are not enough. The stark reality of the Catacombs, the coffin of a child, the blunt confrontation with the fact that History is not just costumes and archaic phrases. Time to leave the brooding vaults, to leave Mr Smith's photographs in their admittedly appropriate surroundings. Time to explore, with slightly troubled minds, what Kensal Green can show us not just about our past, but about our mortal futures.

  As an avid bookworm, my chief interest in Kensal Green is its literary connections, and we explore the ground to find the places of repose for those famous for their writings - and their relatives. Not far to the east of the Anglican Chapel can be found the tomb, half-hidden in the undergrowth, of Byron's wife Anne Isabella Millbanke (his half-sister/mistress Augusta Leigh is in the Anglican catacombs). Their quiet repose belies the scandals that often blighted their lives. One of the poet's closest friends, the politician John Cam Hobhouse, also lies in the cemetery, as does Lady Charlotte Bacon, the 'Ianthe' to whom he dedicated his epic poem Harold Childe's Pilgrimage. Around this area can be found the novelist William Thackerey, the playwright Harold Pinter and the poet Thomas Hood. To the west of the Chapel can be found Anthony Trollope and one of my favourite Victorian authors, Wilkie Collins of The Moonstone and The Woman In White.

An old photo of Collins' grave. Today, the iron railings have disappeared.

  Collins' grave has a few weathered pages from a book placed upon it. I pick up a page and try to recognise the words, but they are in German - a language of which I have little knowledge. We walk north of the grave, to an area where the grass is growing wild, covering many of the crumbling stones. Something catches my eye; a small white mausoleum, standing stark and lonely between minor monuments in this neglected part of the cemetery.

  It catches my eye for three reasons: it stands alone, not clustered with other, more opulent mausolea near the Anglican Chapel. It is anonymous, no inscriptions visible on its exterior. And, unlike the other mausolea which have doors or bricked-up substitutes, this one lacks a door at all. A black rectangle where the door should be seems to beckon us.

  My daughter, possibly still unnerved by the experience of the catacombs, has no wish to explore the mystery. Her boyfriend and I hold no such qualms. We pick our way to the structure, taking care not to stumble on hidden graves, and keeping an eye out for adders.

The Somerset Mausoleum

  Gingerly, we step into the mausoleum. Of its door there is no sign. The floor has litter, but not in any great quantity. A memorial medallion on the rear wall commemorates a woman. A shadow to its left attests to the presence of a now-vanished companion medallion. A slab is in the middle of the floor, inscribed with names and dates: Edward Adolphus Seymour and his second wife Margaret, who died in 1855 and 1880 respectively. We have found a descendant of the famous Tudor courtiers. We have found the 11th Duke of Somerset and his Duchess.

  Somerset seems to have been an erudite man. As well as being a Knight of the Garter, he was also a Fellow of the Royal Society, the Society of Antiquaries, and the President of the Linnean Society, the Royal Institution and the Royal Literary Fund. Unusually for a large landlord, he supported the repeal of the Corn Laws.

Edward Adolphus Seymour (c) NPG

  We emerge into the daylight, and I wonder why the Duke chose to have his mausoleum in such an isolated spot, away from the impressive funerary architecture that characterises the 'fashionable' areas. Many noblemen are buried at Kensal Green, yet this one seems to have made an effort not to be buried alongside them, and failed to even place the family name on his tomb. For a descendant of  Edward VI's Lord Protector, this seems curiously modest. The building is Grade II listed, and on English Heritage's 'At Risk' register, due to erosion at foundation level and the encroaching undergrowth.


 We meet up with my friend and explore the neighbouring Roman Catholic cemetery, which contains the entertainer Danny La Rue among others. In the centre, a white headstone shines like a beacon, marking the resting place of Mary Seacole, after whom a ward in my local hospital is named, and making this the second time I have tracked the grave of a Crimean War nurse. Then it's back for a final stroll around the hallowed bowers of the main cemetery.

©E&K

Squirrels ply their athleticism across horse chestnut trees. Wildflowers jostle with the fading blooms of scattered wreaths. Foxes have made their lairs in the nooks and caverns of the cemetery, but they remain concealed for our visit. The tombs of princes, dukes and princesses cluster boldly around the Anglican Chapel. The little daughter of Winston Churchill rests under a whispering tree, not far from the mother of Oscar Wilde and the stationer W H Smith. The names of artists such as William Powell Frith fade on their headstones, even as the colours they daubed continue to burn bright on their canvases. Mary Hogarth, sister-in-law of Dickens, lies close to the cemetery's outer wall, in a spot once baptised with the great author's tears. The carvings on the tomb of William Mulready RA form a gallery of images he painted in his lifetime. Graven angels reach heavenward, neglected mausolea crumble under the onslaught of bramble and time. We depart, heading for the gaudy lights and endless rumble of the West End and a Covent Garden dinner... a stark contrast to the rustling necropolis we leave behind, the slumbering city of the dead left to the scurrying of nocturnal mammals and the peace of night. Peace, for its residents both famous and forgotten, stretching into eternity.

Nature taking over... ©E&K

Many fine things... ©E&K