My Evening, November 5

As I leave the front door and begin to wind my way down into the town, I keep a sharp eye out around me.  All around are sprays of small lights in the sky, which appear and fade over a few seconds, punctuated by an occasional bright flash that lights the suburban landscape.  The air, merely overcast and threatening drizzle at sunset,  is now thick with smoke and the stink of gunpowder, and the sounds of explosions form an almost constant background.  The brightest flashes are followed by near-deafening cracks a second or so later, which invariably startle and cause me to glance sharply in their direction.  Gradually it settles down; there is a persistent crackle that sounds like small-arms fire around a mile in front of me, away to the north on the far side of the river valley, while down to my left and behind me, to the south-west, there is an irregular, less frequent, deeper thump of heavier shells.  To the south-east things are mostly quiet, though there is the odd whistle of a rocket being launched.  To the north-west, in the direction of the city centre, the low cloud reflects a bright orange glow, which seems to get brighter as the smoke thickens.

I walk quickly, as the night air is cold, and take a dark route, the better to see rather than be seen.  Walking along a length of road, I am passed by a rattly, battered ex-army jeep, but the streets are unusually empty tonight.

As I begin to descend into the heart of the town, there is a sudden erruption of sharp cracks that freezes me stock still.  At first it seems that it can only be yards away, but as I recover from the shock I realise that it must be several blocks away at least, if not near the edge of the town, and I continue on my way.  We have had some forewarning of this; for the past week there has been the occasional explosion heard after dark, but nothing has prepared us for the scale of tonight, when things have started in earnest.

Sound familiar?  It won't, not to Australians.  What God-forsaken war zone have I landed in?  Afghanistan?  Iraq?  No; nor is this a flight of fancy.  This is suburban South-West England, near Bristol, and the French have not invaded (nor anyone else, for that matter).  But tonight is bonfire night, or Guy Fawkes night, and the quantity of fireworks expended within sight of my house is deeply impressive.

For anyone who does not know the history, Guy Fawkes night celebrates the foiling of a Catholic plot to blow up the Protestant-majority parliament in the 17th century.  A fellow called Guy Fawkes was discovered in the cellars of the Palace of Westminster, trying to look casual as he said, "What pile of gunpowder?  Oh oh, oh, this pile of gunpowder!  No, dunno nuffin' about it."  Over the intervening centuries, the date has morphed from Let's celebrate our freedom from tyrrany etc etc to It is every Englishman's right to buy as much light explosive as he can carry and set it off on (or at least within a week of) November 5.

The display, as I have said, has been impressive.  We have impressive displays of fireworks in Australia, but they are always highly organized, orchestrated, expensive affairs that are planned, designed and generally over within ten minutes.  There is nothing organized or designed about this display.  Every man, his dog and his dog's tapeworm has been out and bought a selection of fireworks, ranging from a small display suitable for a five-minute garden entertainment for £3, up to a large set of display fireworks for around £50, and is setting them off as fast as his cider-addled state will allow.  There are, of course, a fair number who just can't wait for the night and have been setting them off for the last week, but tonight they are everywhere.

In Australia, of course, setting fireworks off willy-nilly is generally frowned on, as they tend to produce rather more wide-spread displays (ie fires) than the operator intended.  For most of my childhood, purchasing fireworks required an expensive commercial operator's license, and it is only in the last few years that individuals have been able to buy them.  Even then, you need a permit which specifies a particular time and place where you may set them off, and the penalties for breaching the conditions are stiff.

Not so in England; every supermarket sells fireworks, and everyone buys them.  The only restrictions are that you have to be over 18 and can only buy them at certain hours.

We have contributed in our small way, setting off a few small pyrotechnics in our back yard, ostensibly for Elizabeth's entertainment but actually for mine.  Elizabeth, for the most part, watched with a slightly puzzled frown, until one made some sharp cracks, and she got a bit upset.  We have some left for tomorrow night, so we can acclimatise her slowly.

Ee-i-ee-i-o!

This is the view of the valley that Tom walks past twice a day and I walk past whenever I go to the High Street. Lovely, huh? Of course, this photo was taken on a sunny summer's day, so to get an idea of what it's like now, take away the sun, add mud and reduce the temperature by 15C. Anyway, I digress. The real reason for this post is to submit a complaint about a song: Old MacDonald had a farm. I'm sick of singing it! Unfortunately, it is our daughter's favourite song and it is requested several times a day. Eliza sings along and suggests an animal for the farm. Initially, Old MacDonald had a farm solely consisting of pigs but he has branched out recently and now has a substantial duck farm. He also has the occasional sheep or cow (hence the photo.) I know babies love repetition but I think I need to change songs before I go ga-ga.

Warwick Castle pt 2

Having read Kylie's post about Warwick Castle, you will now be fully conversant with the wars of the roses and my dislike of high, old buildings. So, take your skun ferret and lower it slowly into the boiling pitch until... sorry, don't know where that came from.

Warwick Castle is really touristy. The building is very impressive, and they've gone to some lengths to try to educate people about some medieval things. But the result is that the whole thing feels a bit cheapened, and they neglect some of their best stuff.

As Kylie has outlined, the castle started as a fairly significant fortification in the history of Norman England. By the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, the English were a bit less worried about the hordes of marauding vikings / saxons / poor people / traitors / distant relatives who might try to come and burn your castle down, and a bit less confident about using castles against them if they did come. So the Earls of Warwick turned the castle into a fairly comfortable Victorian gentleman's house, which also happened to have a big wall around it.

The contrast is quite bizarre. Outside: Medieval castle. Inside: Comfortable house, with oak-panneled rooms, fine furniture etc. Odd.

The inside is set up to try to show you what a weekend party at the house might have looked like in the late nineteenth or early twentieth century. Winston Churchill figures, as he was apparently a regular guest, as were the dukes of Devonshire and Marlborough and the Prince of Wales. On the whole, they were a fairly immoral lot.

Outside, medieval rules. There were quite good displays of falconing, and, of course, the firing of the grand trebuchet. This was a singular disappointment. Here you have a weapon capable of flinging some quite interesting things, like furniture, pianos or small cars, some considerable distance, and what do they do with it? They fling a 15kg rock. Alright, they doused it in pitch and set it on fire first, but it was still a small rock.

Back inside, I was quite disappointed that they didn't make more of their collections. They actually have some quite good artwork, including a number of van Dyke studio portraits, one or two by van Dyke himself, several by Sir Joshua Reynolds and more by his studio, and one quite unique painting of Henrietta Maria which was first painted by van Dyke's studio as a half-height portrait and then extended to its full height by Sir Joshua. They make nothing of them. I only found out about them because I recognized a van Dyke and asked one of the staff about it. He turned out to be extremely knowledgable on the subject, and very helpful and happy to talk for a long time. But if you didn't ask, you would know nothing about it. The one upside is that, because they make nothing of them, you can walk right up to the paintings. You could easily damage or destroy them if you chose to. In other stately homes, the paintings are kept roped off and you can't get near them. At Warwick, you can study them very close up.

They also have a quite extraordinary collection of weaponry, ranging from Norman times through to the 18th century. Again, they make nothing of it. It's like someone found it all in a crate and said, "What'll we do with all this old junk?" "I dunno, just hang some one the walls where it might look nice. Spread it around a bit, you know?" The crowning piece is, of course, the trebuchet, and they make a great deal of that, but on everything else they are silent.

The best thing about Warwick castle was getting in free. We were lined up behind a coach party. The driver came down distributing tickets, and when he got to the end of the line he asked us, "Have you paid?" We said no, and he said, "Well, here, have these tickets, they're spare." Beauty.

Verdict: A good family day out, but could be better.

Oh, and several people have asked what is a Motte and what is a Bailey. A motte is a kind of pile of dirt, useful to be on if you are trying to hurl rocks at someone else's head, or if you want to see a long way, and a bailey is a wall that you put around the motte, to keep people from trying to put a sword in your head (or assorted other disfiguring operations).

Airports

Airports are always odd places. No-one is ever themselves in an airport. The majority of people are families or retired couples on holiday; they are either bubbly and excited or tired and frayed, depending on which end of the holiday they are at. Some sit around drinking coffee until you can see the tension in them. Others take to stronger drink, and either talk randomly and loudly to the people near them or fall asleep. Even the people who work there look like they put on a full body mask early in the morning and then take it off again at the end of the day to go home. Personally, I like to get there early, sit and read until the last possible moment to board, then be first off the airplane, through the airport and out as fast as possible, to be the first to the taxi queue. This requires some careful planning to make sure your hand luggage is as portable as possible.

But Glasgow airport is easily the oddest I have seen yet. The building is, on the whole, long and thin, with gate lounges scattered along it on both levels. They have taken some care to make sure that people departing take a different route between the gate and the front door to those arriving. The result of this is that, to get from the gate to the door, you have to wind your way along, up and down, around, under and over and it is very easy to get lost.

The contrast between the two routes is quite amazing. When departing, you walk along shiny, tiled walkways, where everything is glass and stainless steel. You walk through various glitzy shops and cafes. The staff are all smartly dressed. When arriving, you walk on aged carpet. The fittings are bare, functional, even slightly shabby. This impression was not improved by the concrete cutter operating in a bit of the building that was screened off. The staff wear old-looking yellow reflective security vests.

The security operation here is immense. It was, of course, the scene of a slightly bizarre terrorist attack which somehow only managed to injure the terrorists when someone drove a car through the front window and set fire to it a couple of years ago. Somehow the risk of people driving through the windows has led to an enormous upgrade in body scanners which will, erm, I dunno, scare the cars off. Some sort of fire alarm went off just as I arrived, which prevented people from leaving the baggage reclaim room; this made for a very crowded and uncomfortable twenty minutes.

I was in Glasgow for the day for work. It meant an early start and an even later finish. Bristol to Glasgow for a day trip is a bit like Adelaide to Melbourne; doable, but long. I didn't look out the car window almost the whole way from airport to office and back, so I can't tell you much about it.

Warwick Castle: the Wars of the Roses and a tour of the ramparts

This is Kylie writing, just to clarify any confusion over authorship. :-)

This is Warwick Castle on a rare sunny day. Warwick Castle is in the town of Warwick, in the county of Warwickshire (Shakespeare's county, according to the sign posts). It sits on a cliff right next to a bend in the River Avon. It is big. It is old. It is a major tourist attraction.

The photo below is the initial view of the castle keep as you walk up the winding drive. From left to right: Caesar's tower, barbican and gatehouse, and Guy's tower. There are a couple of smaller towers (Clarence and Bear) to the right, but we don't appear to have any photos of them: in the one photo that is in the right direction, they are obscured by a tree. This part of the keep dates from the 14th century. There was originally another keep in the same location that dated from the time of Henry II (1154-89).


There is still an even older ruin of an earlier castle. Somewhere on the mound is the ruins of the wooden motte-and-bailey castle established by William the Conqueror in 1068. It sits on a hill called Ethelfleda's mound. Ethelfleda was the daughter of Alfred the Great, and legend has it that it was she who instigated the construction of an even earlier Anglo-Saxon fortification there to defend Mercia from the Danes. The mound was landscaped in the 17th century.


I feel as though I need to get my head around the history of the place so, at the risk of boring you to tears, here is a summarised history from what I can glean from the fount of all knowledge and of many more wild inaccuracies:

Anglo-Saxon times: an Anglo-Saxon burh is constructed on a mound to protect Mercia from the Danes; no traces remain visible
1068: William the Conqueror establishes a motte-and-bailey castle on mound, appoints Henry de Beaumont to act as constable.
1088: Henry de Beaumont made first Earl of Warwick.
1153: wife of 2nd Earl is tricked into thinking her husband is dead; hands castle over to Henry of Anjou (who becomes Henry II a year later); 2nd Earl dies on hearing the news.
1154-89: Reign of Henry II. Builds keep and, at some point gives the castle back to Earls of Warwick because they had been loyal to his mother, Matilda.
1242: 6th Earl of Warwick dies without issue, title passes to sister, who also ends up dying without issue (in 1253). Title passes to cousin, William Maudit (8th Earl).
1260: Stone replaces wood in the castle's construction.
1267: Death of 8th Earl, title inherited by nephew, William de Beauchamp. Title remains in de Beauchamp family for 7 generations (180 years); most of the additions to the keep made in this time, the money for these coming from the spoils of various battles.
1449: Once Anne de Beauchamp, 15th Countess of Warwick (the men are Earls, the women are Countesses) died at age 5, things became bloody (and complicated!) The title was inherited by her Aunt's husband, Richard Neville (also known as "Warwick the Kingmaker"), a cousin of Edward IV. Richard Neville had two daughters, Isabel and Anne, and they married two younger brothers of King Edward IV. He was also responsible for making Edward IV king in the first place whilst Henry VI and his wife, Margaret of Anjou, were busy campaigning in the north.

Now, as far as I can work out, there are three sides in this phase of the Wars of the Roses: Henry VI (Lancaster), Edward IV (York), and Warwick the Kingmaker, who at first supported Edward, then became jealous when Edward married Elizabeth Woodville (due to a combination of embarrassment and receding influence) and so supported himself, and then, when that didn't work, decided that Henry VI wasn't so bad after all. His son-in-law (married to Isabel), George Plantagenet (Duke of Clarence) seems just as confused in his allegience: he supported Edward IV at first, then became jealous of his brother being King when he wasn't and so supported Warwick, then realised that Warwick wasn't going to make him king either and so supported Henry VI, and then when Henry VI was murdered, decided that being the King's brother wasn't so bad after all. France and Burgundy also rate a mention as places to flee to or to fight against. France was on Henry VI's side; Burgundy was on the side of Edward IV.

Continuing with the timeline...

1469: Richard Neville (Warwick the Kingmaker) rebels against King Edward IV and imprisons him at Warwick Castle; George Plantagenet assists. The aim is to get Edward declared illegitimate so George will become king. Edward IV receives aid from younger brother Richard and many other nobles. Richard arrives at Warwick castle with a large army and liberates Edward IV.
1470: Richard Neville and George Plantagenet flee to France. An alliance is formed with Henry VI. Richard Neville's daughter Anne marries Henry VI's son, Edward; George Plantagenet is named next in line to the throne after Edward. Richard Neville invades England; Edward IV and brother Richard flee to Burgundy. Henry VI restored to the throne of England
1471: Richard Neville plans to invade Burgundy and, instead, Burgundy assists Edward IV to invade England. Richard Neville is killed in the Battle of Barnet fighting against King Edward VI (but on the side of Henry VI); his title is inherited by George Plantagenet. Henry VI's son, Edward, is killed at the battle of Tewkesbury, Henry VI is murdered shortly thereafter.
1478: George Plantagenet is executed for treason; his son, Edward, is only 2 years old when he inherits so The Crown takes custody of the lands. Edward is cared for by his aunt, Anne Neville who, by this time, has married Richard Plantagenet (Edward IV's brother).
1483: Edward IV dies. Richard acts as regent for Edward IV's son, Edward. Richard imprisons both Edward and his brother Richard (this is all rather confusing with them all using the same names) in the Tower of London and becomes Richard III.
1484: Richard III's son dies, and Edward earl of Warwick is named his heir... for as long as his Aunt is alive (a matter of months) and then he is also imprisoned in the Tower of London.
1485: Richard III is killed at the battle of Bosworth. Henry VII takes the throne. The earl of Warwick is left imprisoned and is eventually beheaded for treason in 1499. No more Earls of Warwick for the time being.

Let's take a break from history.

One of the things that you can do at Warwick Castle is climb the ramparts. You start the climb by climbing up to the Clarence and Bear towers, then climb all the way up to the top of Guy's tower (39 metres), down and then along to the gatehouse, and then finally up Caesar's tower. Climbing up Guy's tower was hard work! The winding staircase was steep and narrow; Tom couldn't see where to put his feet because he had Eliza in a baby carrier. We have no idea how the woman in front of him managed the climb - she was wearing 4-inch stilettos. Actually, I still have no idea how she managed to walk in them for the entire day - ouch! Anyway, so when we'd finally go to the top, I was prepared to take my time and enjoy myself. Here I am enjoying the view.


And here is the view from the other side. Nice, huh? The building on the right is part of the actual living quarters.

I ended up taking most of the photos because, it turned out, I was the only one enjoying the view. This is where Tom stayed.


Why (I hear you ask)? Is he afraid of heights? No, not exactly. The engineer in him is... concerned that the structure might fall down, particularly the bits with overhang. Here's another photo of Guy's tower.


See how it overhangs at the top? See the person looking out? That's where I was standing earlier. There are even little grates where you can look down and see the ground. It's really cool! (I would have taken a photo but I didn't think it would focus properly.) However, apparently, even though the tower has been around since 1395, it might fall down, or the top part might fall off or... something. It's not worth risking life and limb by standing too close to the tower wall.

Anyway, we eventually climbed down Guy's tower and continued along the ramparts. I'll leave you with a couple more photos: Tom and Eliza in the gatehouse looking back to Guy's tower; and the view from Caesar's tower of the River Avon and the giant trebuchet.

Authorship: part 2

I'd just like to clarify any confusion over the authorship of the post titled 'Authorship'. That post was not written by Tom as claimed.

Authorship

I'd just like to clarify any confusion over authorship of the last post. I started the post, but the bulk of it was written by Tom... as you may have gathered. This post is somewhat shorter and contains less random photographs.