The gory tale of a Small Blue Plaque..

 Having been a resident of N-o-T for lo, these umptyteen years, I have walked the streets of neighbouring Somewhere-on-Thames on many occasions. Now, walking its streets isn’t always easy, as they’re frequently cluttered up with tourists, or the spectators who congregate for the regular Royal Weddings, State Visits, Horse Shows and various other events which the neighbours keep organising.  It is wise to keep your wits about you and your eyes open, lest you be mown down by a flotilla of Japanese visitors on a whirlwind European tour, or even by Sarko’s mother and ma-in-law on a shopping spree (some years on, I’m still amazed that he got away with that one: I mean, wangling a State Visit is pretty normal, but getting the invitation extended to both mamans is a bit of a nerve, IMO. I think probably the DoE put a word in, on the grounds that he fancied Carla).

Anyway, it dawned on me some months back that I really have not Paid Attention.  Far from keeping my eyes open, I seem to have been walking around with them shut. Shut, that is, to some of the more interesting sights and signs that were displayed right in front of them.  

 On one of our regular strolls into Somewhere-on-Thames, my eye was drawn to a Blue Plaque on a wall in a quite out-of-the way corner, not far from the railway station.  It hides a tale of some mystery, quite a lot of religious prejudice and fervour, and a stitch-up that makes the McCarthy era seem like the epitome of free speech and fair trials….

Here is the plaque:

The "burnt at the stake" part rather grabbed my attention and I began scouring the internet in an effort to learn more about these poor men.

Because it’s a long story and because it would be wrong of me to endeavour to summarise it in a few words here, I give you a link to the fascinating story behind it.

http://www.thamesweb.co.uk/windsor/windsorhistory/winmartyr.html 

It is by far one of the most interesting bits of our local history that I’ve discovered, and I’m surprised that it’s taken me so very long to even notice the plaque and learn of the existence of the Windsor Martyrs.

Nowhere-IN-Thames….or « Should we build an ark ? »

It happens every time. No sooner has the Government-of-the-day or the water-authority-of-the-week declared that we’re in the grip of a drought, than we start to have downpours of biblical proportions. April showers? No, we’re sitting under something akin to a monsoon, with rain bouncing off everything, and it seems set to continue for the moment.  And this, only a couple of weeks after we were placed under drought measures here. 

TH was in boy scout mode when the impending drought measures were announced, and went straight out to buy a water-butt. Whilst applauding his initiative, I was a little disappointed to see that it was quite small. To be frank, it’s the sort of size that makes it a waste of time. There’s probably enough in it to water the garden a couple of times, and that’s it. However, it was duly installed, and, when I accidentally bumped into it the other day, water sloshed out of the top. This either proves my point, or means that we should definitely start to build an ark, as it’s only been in-situ for about three weeks..

Don’t misunderstand me, I know we need rain, that the water tables are alarmingly low and that we may yet all have to suffer further unless water supplies begin to creep back to normal. However, I am slightly selfishly concerned that Nowhere-on-Thames could, at any time, become Nowhere-IN Thames if the rains do not abate.

 Stranded people in N-o-T having their meals delivered by boat in 1947! Image from Thamesweb

Although the last time N-o-T actually flooded was in the 1940’s (and the local pub has photographs adorning the walls, showing slightly damp locals rowing boats around what, in drier times, is the village green) we’ve had a number of recent close shaves. A few years ago, the Thames rose far enough to sneak under a tunnel beneath the road up at the local golf club, and make its way back along the railway lines for some considerable distance. Apart from giving a rather dramatic display of sparks each time a train attempted to make its way past, this had the effect of placing us and our humble abode in the middle of an island in the Thames…It also spurred TH into amassing an impressive collection of sandbags, “just in case”, and me into moving all my scuba-diving equipment into one of the upstairs rooms.

 The local level crossing  in 2003..

Since then, flood defences have been built higher up the river. Which sounds good, until you understand that it’s not we, the inhabitants of Nowhere on Thames, who are being defended, but the posher, richer people (I might namedrop here, but Michael Parkinson and Rolf Harris aren’t exactly “A” list..) who live upriver in their Thames-side mansions.  Now, if there’s a flood alert, we’re not just getting our own extra water, we’re getting Rolf’s and Parky’s as well! On several occasions, the river has risen alarmingly, and TH has rushed around checking that his sandbags are still functional. Don’t imagine that I’m exaggerating the potential impact, or indeed the volume of water involved. It must be a lot: HM the Q  up the road has just finished having a huge Archimedes Screw installed in the nearby lock so she and the DoE can harness the might of the river to provide their weekend retreat with off-grid electricity!

Unless the current downpours start to ease, I am beginning to think that not applying for any Olympic tickets may have been a smart move. The rowing competitions may well be coming from our back garden..

Swings and roundabouts!

Just back from a week in Nowhere-in-France.  It’s received wisdom that everywhere in France has its own microclimate. At least, that’s what just about any Brit living in France will tell you. It’s like a sort of competition. It just takes one person to say “ooh, we’re eating on the terrace in 28 degrees and it’s only February 3^rd!” and suddenly they’re all at it…”It’s 40 degrees here, we’re all in swimwear and the rest of Europe is snowbound, but of course, we have our own microclimate…” Well, last week we came out quite well in the competitive microclimate contest, with almost none of the predicted rainfall. Good for us, but not for the general wellbeing of the surrounding countryside.  It IS amazing, though, that you could drive 100 metres in any direction away from our house and find that suddenly it was raining – or conversely, that it was raining chez nous but sunny in the next hamlet.

Anyway, it wasn’t just the weather that was up and down. So was fortune. I had my first French car accident. A woman in one of those Toyota 4 x 4’s that looks like a total eclipse on wheels executed an overtaking manoeuvre on an empty road, and managed to practically sever my wing mirror from the car. I had to give chase for a good few Km at speeds I normally only travel on motorways, all the while flashing my lights at her, before she finally pulled over. Ironically, the place she chose to come to a stop was right outside the cemetery. Considering I was the one whose car got damaged, she was almost apoplectic with rage, accusing me of just about everything from deliberately swerving into her..(er…hello?) to not pulling over to give her room (on an empty road where I was already on the correct side of the road and she could have got TWO of her total-eclipses-on-wheels past me without scratching the paintwork: if she’d really tried), finally tailing off into accusing me of making her late for work!  By the following day, when we had a rematch to sort out the insurance claim, she’d had a personality transplant, and agreed to pay for the damage to my car without claiming on the insurance. Good call. 

Over the Easter weekend, we took a little drive up the road to the coast. It was a bit windy, but otherwise a glorious day, and we took a route which allowed us to bypass some of the local sights which always make me smile: the roundabouts.  I don’t know why, or how it started, but France seems to excel at creating fantastic, interesting, clever traffic roundabouts. Given my experience above, and the general quality of some of the driving, I’m not sure I should be applauding this inventiveness: it can only serve to distract drivers from what they should be doing.  However, I do love the roundabouts around our coastal resorts, and it’s fun to tell people that they should “Carry straight on at the massive boy pulling the little boat”, or “take the second exit at the big paper boats” or “go past the giant fir cones and bricks”.

Have a look: 

Enter the Cavalry..

Following my last post, I thought I should let you know what happened.  The cavalry (and there were THREE of them) came, and spent SIX hours fiddling about with my broadband connection. They used two ladders, lots of wire, many gadgets and gizmos and not one single cup of tea (although I did offer!). 

At the end of their stay, and just before I started wondering if I should start cooking dinner for five and make up the spare room, they pronounced things “fixed”. They’d replaced just about all the wiring to the house, tested everything to within an inch of its life, and offered to pop back the following week to check that we were happy. Result.

Well…not quite. They’d only been gone a short while when TH entered the room, clutching his laptop and wearing a hangdog expression. “Is it working for you?” he asked. “Yes” I replied. It was evident from his general demeanour that it wasn’t working for him.

The rest of the evening was spent doing tandem speedtests with two, and then three laptops, and watching the internet speed fluctuate wildly from megafast to zilch and back again. I did explain to TH that it had been mentioned that the age of his laptop could possibly affect the speed, but he wasn’t having that.  His laptop still works, and by golly, he’ll keep it until it explodes.

Enter Karl-with-a-K. Janice (cf my previous blog entry) had gone on holiday for a week. Dealing with me does that to people… Karl was her cheerful substitute, and phoned me on Saturday to find out if all was well. I confessed that it wasn’t. Karl got me into the bedroom (in a manner of speaking: it’s where the modem lives) and had me linking first my laptop, then TH’s to the modem, and testing the speeds on each. We finally came to the conclusion that it was the wireless connections that were the main problem and that TH’s computer had the wrong type of wireless card. Karl recommended the purchase of an n-range wireless dongle. If I sound as though I have a clue what I’m talking about, then let me tell you, I haven’t. I only know that you can buy these mysterious gadgets on the interweb for a fiver or so, and they are the answer to your prayers. Or at least, they’re the answer to your prayers if those prayers involve a fervent request to whatever higher being might be listening, begging them to stop your other half from speaking of nothing other than internet speeds every time they start a conversation with you.

A few days later, the Man from the Cavalry called by. He was very concerned for our internet welfare, and offered (“We shouldn’t, really, but you’ve been so nice and we want you to be happy”) if necessary, to pop back and move the whole internet gubbins downstairs. I told him we were waiting for the Magic Dongle. He still remained chatting for the best part of half an hour…

Then, oh frabjous day, the dongle arrived! Of course, TH couldn’t activate it, so it was left to me. That’s yet another hour of my life I won’t see again.

The bottom line, if you’re still reading, is that all seems to be well, at last. Or, at least, TH hasn’t mentioned the internet speed for a whole 4 days. He even muttered something about reinstating the Direct Debit…