Dr Foster went to Gloucester - Melinda Hammond talks Mud, Meanderings & Inspiration

Anyone remember this?

Doctor Foster went to Gloucester

In a shower of rain;
He stepped in a puddle,
Right up to his middle,
And never went there again.

I used to recite this well known rhyme to my children and thought nothing of it, except that it was plain silly, puddles were never that deep.  Now, however I am not so sure…..

Walking my dog around the Yorkshire hills this winter I have noticed a change in some of the bridleways, which has given me more food for thought about how people travelled in the past.  This is a picture of what is locally known as Stony Lane.  It used to be like this for most of its length, and as you can see from the close-up, there are lots of small stones packed together to make a good surface.

 Local historians tell me this bridleway forms part of an ancient trackway stretching across the country and possibly providing a route between religious houses from Europe to Ireland.  It formed part of the old packhorse trails that used to crisscross the country and when the mills were built in the valleys during the Industrial Revolution, many of the workers lived on the hills and the quickest way to work was straight down, cutting across the old tracks.  There is still evidence of this around, if you look closely. This opening in the stone wall now has a modern wooden stile, but you can see the way the stone is worn away from the hundreds of boots or clogs that made the daily journey to and from the mills.

Just for interest I have added a picture of the stile on the south side of the lane (a stone one, built in a more modern wall). The fenceposts in the picture below show the line of the track that leads the quarter of a mile or so to the valley bottom. Nice to walk on a sunny morning, but imagine having to toil back up in the winter, after a hard day's work.

So back to Doctor Foster. Part of Stony Lane now is just mud. Packed hard, it is fine in dry weather, but very slippery and uneven when wet. Where the stones have gone I have no idea, but if they are buried, they are a long way down. This next picture shows it on a relatively dry day, and you can see the darker patches where the mud is still wet. 

It is thick and gloopy and can come up at least over your ankles if you stand on the dark patch to the left of the picture. However, if you put your foot in the patch on the right, it would keep on going, as a friend recently discovered, up to the knee!  The last time I pushed my stick into that patch I stopped at 18" (45cms) but I hadn't reached stone, and  with the continuing rains it might go deeper still. The picture below shows it in more detail.

I am sure someone knows the reason why there are these deep pockets of muddy gloop – possibly a different type of soil, maybe the constant pounding of feet, I don't know. What I do know is that in the past when hard-packed stones were the only form of road surface, this type of problem must have occurred all the time. Local landowners were responsible for maintaining their section of the highway, some better than others, and in periods of bad weather the road surface could be washed away just as it has in the next picture. A couple of seasons without repair and a highway could easily become almost impassible by a carriage. Unfortunately these photos cannot do justice to just how uneven and rutted this is.

As another little aside, I am told that there used to be a small ale house beside the lane here, where the track widens.  The farmer who now owns the field has found stones from an old building there, so at least the weary travellers could find some refreshment during their journey.

Until the end of the 18^th century travelling by coach must have been a slow and uncomfortable business, bouncing along on badly made roads and possibly even breaking a wheel in a deep rut.  And as for Doctor Foster, I can well imagine that if the muddy tracks around here are anything to go by, it is quite possible that he stood in a puddle up to his thighs, at least.

I have used carriage accidents and bad roads in many of my books in the past, and in the latest story I have just written a scene in a lane very much like Stony Lane for an encounter between my main characters. Complete with mud!

Happy reading

Melinda Hammond / Sarah Mallory

The Map Book

My grandfather was a builder. In the 1930’s, he was helping demolish an old house in the middle of Leicester. The house contained a library, and they piled up all the books and put them out for rubbish collection. My grandparents had a family of nine children and lived in a tiny house, so they didn’t have much room to keep things, but my mother held on to one of the books.

Screaming yet? Yes, I know. The story makes me shudder. My grandfather saved a few books he thought were interesting, and one of them was one my mother still treasures. We call it the Map Book, yes, with capital letters. The cover has fallen off, and the pages for Leicestershire are more worn than any of the others. The book is a mess, and we keep it in a portfolio these days.

I scanned it. Yes, I did. But I badly wanted a copy for research, so that was my only option. A few years ago I shared it with some authors, and I like to think that it’s helped in research.

The book is a comprehensive map of England and Wales, with each county having a separate section. One of the prints is labelled 1815, but the actual book was produced in 1819. The title page says it’s for coachmen and it would have been hugely useful

One of the appendices in the book lists routes through England and Wales, with the names of all the coaching inns and the places where respectable travellers can stay. It has each stage of the journey, so that when I want to plot a journey for my characters, I can follow one of these, and have them stay at the actual inns. Since I write books set in the 1750’s, I have to double check, but once I have the route, that’s relatively easy. For instance, turnpike roads made travel faster and more comfortable, so I’d check that the road existed in “my” era, and when it became a turnpike. And the inns that were there in 1819 might not have been there in 1754. They usually were, but not all inns were venerable institutions!

The separate sections for each county gives the county town, what it’s like, when market day is, and the other principal towns, as well as the large houses of note.

I’ve read it from fallen cover to fallen cover, and I can lose myself in this book. Apparently there were many other books like this, and they were produced regularly, some of them annually. Coachmen on the large coaches would have them as part of their kit, and interested travellers could plot routes and have them in their libraries, like the unknown person who owned the library in Leicester.

I thought you might like to look at a couple of plates, so I’ve picked the rather more battered Leicester ones.

Lynne Connolly
http://lynneconnolly.com

Travelling in Regency England

I was thinking about Lynne's post yesterday and about the elements that might go into telling a Regency romance. I find illustrations very inspiring and I thought you might like this one by the illustrator of Jane Austen's books, Hugh Thomson.

Travelling in Regency England was just as hazardous as it is today. Apart from the possibilities of carriages overturning, if you were to travel for any distance you had to consider where you might stay on route. Not all coaching inns had the same level of comfort; bad food and uncomfortable beds, perhaps riddled with lice, were some of the hazards you might have to encounter.

Sharing a carriage could be equally troublesome for a lot of people, especially if they did not enjoy the close proximity of their fellow travellers. I love this poem by Swift.

Roused from sound sleep-thrice called-at length I rise,
Yawning, stretch out my arm, half close my eyes,
By steps and lanthorn enter the machine,
And take my place-how cordially-between
Two aged matrons of excessive bulk,
To mend the matter, too, of meaner folk;
While in like mood, jammed in on t'other side,
A bullying captain and a fair one ride,
Foolish as fair, and in whose lap a boy-
Our plague eternal, but her only joy.
At last, the glorious number is complete,
Steps in my landlord for that bodkin seat;
When soon, by every hillock, rut and stone,
Into each other's face by turns we're thrown.
This grandam scolds, that coughs, the captain swears,
The fair one screams and has a thousand fears,
While our plump landlord, trained in other lore,
Slumbers at ease nor yet ashamed to snore...
Sweet company! Next time, I do protest, sir,
I'd walk to Dublin ere I'd ride to Chester.

Jane Odiwe