Friday, March 20, 2026
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Peter Martin

By
MV
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Peter Martin was in a unique position when it came to writing a biography of Samuel Johnson, the man that many people see as one of the greatest influences on English literature. Peter has not only already written a biography of James Boswell – Johnson’s best known biographer – but he has also written a biography of Edmond Malone, intimate friend and moral, as well as practical supporter of Boswell, and great champion of Samuel Johnson.

In July Peter will speak at the Beaminster Festival about Johnson’s enduring popularity in the year celebrating the 300th anniversary of Johnson’s birth.

Reading his book, one is immediately struck by what a gargantuan task writing a biography of Samuel Johnson must have been. A veritable cultural icon, Johnson, the son of a Lichfield bookseller, was born in 1709 and despite a difficult childhood – he was scarred from scrofula, suffered a loss of hearing and was blind in one eye – went on to become one of the most quoted literary figures of his time. As well as editing and writing for periodicals and compiling the first modern English dictionary, Samuel Johnson wrote poetry, sermons, prayers, essays, literary biographies, even a play and a novel. However his own writing was in many ways overshadowed by the second of the many biographies written about him; Scotsman William Boswell’s Life of Samuel Johnson, which included many detailed conversations between writer and subject and served to critically enhance Johnson’s reputation.

Having written books on both Boswell and Malone, Peter Martin felt he just had to close the circle by writing a biography about Johnson. He said “Having gone down that biographical line, I decided after Boswell that the next logical step was a biography of Johnson, which would for me be a personal fulfilment and a satisfying sequel. I had become even more fascinated by Johnson, this embodiment of Englishness who was larger than life in his own day, and has remained so since.”

Although larger than any book he had written before, there were other reasons for Peter to view the project with more than a little trepidation. “It was also daunting because Johnson is an English cultural icon who many people feel they own in a personal and emotional way” he said. “There are also Johnson scholars all over the world who I knew were going to read the book very carefully. I had to take into account most all the scholarship on Johnson in the last fifty years. In addition, I did a lot of work with primary sources in several libraries like the Bodleian, the British Library, the Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library at Yale University, the John Rylands Library at Manchester University, Harvard University, and many others.”

His first task was to read almost everything Johnson had ever written – no mean feat in itself. Following that, he had to read the work of critics and historians. Although, due to severe personal interruptions, the project took nearly five years, the writing of the book took about eighteen months.

Having spent a lifetime steeped in Johnson’s world Peter Martin has been able to balance opinion from a wide range of sources. His biography is not only an engaging and very accessible portrait of a brilliant yet troubled man, it also manages to illuminate the humane character, exploring the melancholy that Johnson suffered. Peter said of Johnson, “He did have a very strong melancholic problem. From fairly early on he had a lot of physical problems and was always on the edge financially. He was always a very troubled man. His prayers, meditation and diaries all revealed that consistently.”

However throughout his research he was also struck by what he calls Johnson’s “rollicking sense of humour” and his physicality. He recalls how, amused at something about a coat that Oliver Goldsmith wore to an evening gathering, Johnson’s laughter could be heard ‘echoing through the London streets’ as he consumed every last morsel from the joke. As well as his humour his enjoyment of sporting pursuits struck the writer. “I recall a story” Peter said “of an occasion when Johnson was walking in a Devon Manor House and challenged some ladies to roll down the hill with him. He then challenged them to a running race, proudly proclaiming afterwards ‘I beat three of them, [so] what if they were women!’”

Johnson’s physical presence is evidenced in a statue of him by John Bacon that stands in St Paul’s Cathedral. Clad in a Roman style, his muscular frame holds a scroll and his strength is portrayed in a very idealised form. It depicts a classical colossus. It is said that Johnson was reading the classics when he was nine years old.

Although nowadays Johnson is rarely taught outside of university, Peter Martin hopes his new biography and future plans will help bring a new audience to his work and his life. He has just edited a new edition of Johnson’s essays that Harvard University Press is bringing out in September, which will make him available in an edition intended for the general reader. He said “I have always taught Johnson at university – I am a recently retired Professor of English – and loved him, but I have come away from this biography with a more profound understanding of the man and his use to the world today. I have always thought I would choose an edition of his complete essays to take with me to a deserted island if I had to choose one book apart from the Bible and Shakespeare. Johnson’s moral essays are powerful reflections on human nature, our weaknesses and strengths, and why we are the way we are. They are as current and ‘relevant’ today as they have ever been. And I repeat, ‘powerful’. Speaking of Shakespeare, his Preface to his edition of Shakespeare is as penetrating analysis of Shakespeare’s understanding of human nature as I have ever read.”

There is little doubt that Peter Martin has the greatest respect for Samuel Johnson. How Johnson would view the work of his biographers is another matter. On hearing that Boswell was working on his ‘life’ Johnson is said to have replied ‘If I really thought he was, I would take his!’ Peter thinks that, in general, apart from what he calls a discreet piece about the great man’s sex life, Johnson would have approved of his work. However Johnson may well have tired of the interest in his life. On one occasion he is said to have complained to Boswell, “Sir, you have but two subjects, yourself and me and I’m tired of both!”

Derek Stevens 06/09

By
MV
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With the invasion under way there was undoubtedly a feeling of excited interest in the classroom. Headmaster ‘Charlie’ Freeman had fixed a Daily Telegraph map of the invasion area to the wall and gradually small flagged pins showing Stars and Stripes, the Union Jack and the Canadian Maple Leaf inched inland. As British troops approached Caen however there was a stall in the movement of the Union Flag.

American casualties were being flown back to hospitals at St Leonards, north of Bournemouth, Blandford, where a special road had been built between Tarrant Rushton airfield and Blandford Camp. Merryfield airfield near IIminster was receiving wounded to be ambulanced to Musgrove hospital in Taunton, to Sherborne, and to Axminster where Mrs Wall, serving as a stenographer for the US Army  at the time, remembers hearing some of the American medical staff remark “The Limeys are stuck at Caen!”

Caen did prove a tough nut to crack and the historic town had to be blasted and bombed to ground level with 4,000 tons of bombs before the British flags started to move forward again on that map on the classroom wall. The newsreels at the cinema were full of it all of course, and my desire to become a fighter pilot was increased as the camera took us on  strikes  against enemy fuel dumps and  supply trains on the French railway system. RAF Hawker Typhoons, their wings and fuselage  striped with  black and white invasion markings, would dive down from the heavens unleashing batteries of rockets which would hurtle towards their targets with great fizz. All thrilling stuff, but my young mind never considered the fate of the unfortunate French engine crew and the train guard.

An intriguing contribution to the success of the invasion was made by a band of native Americans. Attached to a US Army Signals company sixteen Comanches were employed, no, not as smoke signallers as some joker might suggest, but as ‘code talkers’, their job being to transmit and receive messages in their own unwritten language. Indian ‘code talkers’ had been used in the First World War with great success and were also being used at the time in the Pacific where the US Marine Corps were using a war party of Navajos in their war against the Japanese.

It is not too hard to imagine the danger the man wearing the red cross on his helmet had to face when he heard the frantic cry “Medic… hey medic!”. As one said “There are few things worse than being a rifleman in the infantry, but being a medic is one of them. When the shelling and shooting is heavy  the regular GIs can press themselves deep into their holes and don’t need to go out on a mission of mercy”.

It was one of those medics, an army surgeon of the 16th Infantry Regiment who was to leave his new bride a widow in her home of Lyme Regis. They had married just prior to the invasion. She lived a widow until her death in 2005. Captain Apanasewicz had been hit and badly wounded himself but insisted on crawling to other wounded soldiers around him on Omaha Beach, injecting them with morphine. He was evacuated back to England but died shortly after. He was posthumously awarded the Silver Star and is buried in the American Cemetery in Cambridge.

But the most sombre task was for those of the Graves Registration Unit. After sorting out the quick from the dead it was their job to ensure the identity and the internment of the bodies, German as well as American, all remains handled with equal reverence. Airborne troops alone had lost over 1,000 troops, a loss as brutally high as those on Omaha Beach but harder to recover as they were scattered over a wide area of Normandy in crashed and burnt out gliders, hanging from trees or drowned in flooded marshes. Many were shrouded in their own parachute silk. German POWs were put to work digging graves whilst the French handled and moved the bodies and maintained the burial sites.

Technical Sergeant Hagual of the Graves Registration Unit made this observation, “If every civilian in the world could smell this stink, then maybe we wouldn’t have any more wars”. By the end of the invasion 31,744 Americans would be buried in Normandy.

With echoes of what had happened to communities in Britain during the First World War when whole swathes of a town’s young population were reported to have died in the trenches, similar calamitous news was received by the Virginian town of Bedford, a small town of 3,200 souls. Early on Sunday, July 16, 1944, Elizabeth Teass, a teletype operator for Western Union, switched on her machine in her office behind the cosmetic counter in the local drugstore. Her heart sank as she started to read the incoming message from the main office at Roanoke. “We have casualties’”, the message started, “The Secretary of War desires me to express his deep regret”. She had seen these words before, telegrams announcing the death of a local boy had been arriving, on average, at the rate of one a week.

She waited for the message to end but it did not. Line after line it clicked on. It was clear something terrible had happened. Little wonder that mail sent to serving soldiers overseas had been returned to sender with no official explanation. Elizabeth called the Sheriff, local doctors, the local taxi service and the undertaker to deliver telegrams to family after family. Of the 35 of the town’s soldier sons involved in the invasion of Normandy, 22 had died in combat. These were soldiers of the US Army’s 116th Infantry Regiment who had spent their last months training in Devon, a countryside not dissimilar to that they had left in their homeland of Virginia.

Twin brothers, Ray and Roy Stevens, both sailed to the D-Day beaches but in different assault craft. Roy’s craft hit an underwater obstacle and sank at sea, leaving him floundering among the waves. Shedding his heavy equipment he managed to get to the beach. Four days later, in search of his brother, Roy came across a cemetery and the first grave he found had Ray’s dog tag attached to it.

As a salute to all those courageous men who fought mightily on those Normandy beaches 65 years ago it is pertinent to recall the sentiments of Sgt. John Ellery of “The Big Red On” who recalled “The first night in France I spent in a ditch wrapped in a damp poncho and thoroughly exhausted. It had been the greatest experience of my life. I had made it off the beach and reached the high ground. I was king of the hill and I felt ten feet tall. My contribution to the heroic tradition of the United States Army might not have been greatly significant but at least, for a time, I had walked in the company of very brave men”.

French Beans

By
Marshwood
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Whatever time of year you go to a restaurant, there seem to be French beans on the plate somewhere. To me they taste best fresh from the plant, full of natural sugars and minerals.

French beans like it warm and moist, the soil really has to be at full summer heat for them to flourish. Planting in late May or early June is best, as they grow away strongly and shrug off the slugs. Planting earlier than this so often ends in disappointment.

A first decision is whether to plant dwarf beans or climbing ones.  Dwarf varieties are easy to grow and need slightly less moisture. Their bean pods get soiled and are prone to slug attack, whereas climbing varieties are much easier to pick, and are a pleasing spectacle in the garden. They need an 8 foot bamboo frame to climb and take slightly longer to bean up. We put up our bamboo wigwams in March, so that it looks like something is happening in the garden. And put a bucketful of compost in the centre, to both mulch and feed the beans.

All French beans tend to have a huge first flowering and crop for about six weeks, after which there is a lull and only a small further fruiting.  So if you want a continuous supply of beans you should, as with runner beans, make a second sowing in early July, perhaps after a crop of lettuce. Follow your first crop in mid to late August with oriental winter salad or garlic.

Keeping the soil moist at flowering time will help the flowers set seed, as will correct spacing. A lush quantity of organic matter also helps. Dwarf beans should be spaced 15 to 18” apart, I grow my climbing beans up 3 foot diameter wigwams and space them 15” apart. If you plant closer than this you will, as with broad and runner beans, get masses of leaf but less actual beans.

Picking beans regularly also prolongs cropping. It’s very easy to miss some, so growing yellow beans can help you find them. Sonesta is a good yellow dwarf, and Neckargold a good climber. Or Purple Teepee is a good dwarf, and Blsuhilde a good climbing purple variety with purple flowers, and also easier to spot on the plant.

An interesting climbing variety is Borlotto Lingua di Fuoco, variously mis-spelt in the catalogues. It has very sweet tasting flat pods, even when picked large.  If left on the plant, they ripen to a beautiful striped yellow and red pod. The beans are delicious fresh in salads, or can be dried as haricots. This makes it a good second crop, as any missed bean can be left on the plant to ripen into late autumn.

And how do you get to have a bubble bath?  Eat lots of beans for supper.

(For those readers who read my January article on rock dust, and its huge benefits to both human and plant health when scattered on the soil, Brimsmore Garden Centre 01935 411000. now stock it.  For more info. see www.seercentre.org.uk.)

“Trouble in’t Mill”

By
MV
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This was a humorous phrase on the radio some years ago in affluent times, probably relating to the cotton and wool mills in the north of England. It may have resulted from the depression of  the 1920s and 30s, but they were troubled times everywhere. As the present is, for some, unfortunately.

I now realise that times must have been hard for my parents in the 1930s, which now explains to me why an early Christmas present was a wooden railway engine, lovingly made by my father in his shed from off cuts. I was just old enough to have seen pictures of engines, in bright colours, red, blue, yellow, etc., but I was upset as mine was finished in brown varnish, showing the wood grain. I suppose this varnish was all Dad could find in his shed. Mother and Father both rode bicycles and Dad fitted a small saddle and foot rests on his crossbar, so that I could ride with them, whereas present day youngsters ride behind in trailers! The only trip I can remember is once on a winters day, when Father had to ‘sign on the dole’ at the Labour Exchange in the nearby town, as there was no work available in the building trade in bad weather. A proud man, this would have distressed him and perhaps holding me by the hand gave him some comfort. I hope so.

Recently I have been reading the history of the engineering company where I trained, in better times, but of then it said ‘In the works … things were at a very low ebb, with a considerable proportion of the workforce laid off’. Then in 1934 a large contract was signed to supply the Polish State Railways and ‘staff salaries, which had been cut by 10% were restored to their former levels’. The contract ended with the war, but I remember it still being talked of when I joined the company after the war. I also remember a later occasion of poor business, when the Christmas bonus, which had become the post war norm, was not paid. The company then about 4,000 strong, was the largest employer in that country town and the local Chamber of Trade members wrung their hands for the effect on the local shopkeepers. Trouble in’t mill indeed, (or was it ‘at mill’?).

The word ‘mill’ came into our language well before cotton mills and engineering factories, first of all with corn or flour (grist) mills, grinding grain. Originally these were wind powered, or as locally, water mills. Within, or on the outskirts of each local town, we may find several mills, within easy reach of their market and raw materials and where there is a good flow of water. We know of  these local mills, firstly from the Domesday Book of 1086, for example, the Beaminster area had Buckham and Langdon mills and a third, according to Marie Eedle, perhaps at Parnham, but surprisingly none are mentioned at Bridport, although there are others a short distance away. Loders and Netherbury each had two and Abbotsbury, Askerswell and Allington each had one in Domesday. Later in Beaminster, at the top of Fleet Street, a mill is recorded in 1806, by which time multiple uses were recorded of grist and fulling. Others were opposite the Manor House, later a saw mill, a flax mill at Whatley and a paper mill near Prout Bridge. The growth of flax production in the 1800s required more mills and Netherbury had Bingham’s Wooth  (first recorded in 1325), Clenham and Slape, Yondover, Mill House and Drury Lane.  Others were at Mosterton and two at Stoke Abbott in Domesday and one at Melplash. West Milton was recorded in 1401. Bradpole had a mill listed in 1291, possibly later a tucking mill. At Bridport, Killings Mill was first mentioned in 1225, later known as Cook’s and then Folly Mill by 1880. Bridport West Mill appears in the Court records of 1560, Bothenhampton, later called South Mill in 1799, and two North Mills at the same date. East Mill appears not to be mentioned until the 1830s, although it was possibly referred to as St John’s in 1660. Wm. Hounsell had a twine mill in 1881and the Brewery is also listed as a watermill. Port Mill was a bolling mill in the 1840s.  Some of these Bridport mills were also listed as owned by The Lord of Stourton in 1479, John Salmon in 1530 and one known as Storkysmill.

Powerstock had a mill and Pymore had one in 1318, increased to two in 1799. Symondsbury had two flour mills in 1393. Mangerton was mentioned in 1835 as a bolling mill, but was probably an earlier corn mill.

At Burton Bradstock, Burton flour mill is first mentioned in 1799, followed by Grove Mill (flax) in 1803. Chideock was first listed in 1557 and Lyme Regis had two mills at the time of Edward I and its Town Mill in 1340.

Some of this information is from research carried out by the late Civic Society of Bridport. Bolling, tucking and fulling are all flax or cloth making terms.

Quite a catalogue! But there may be others, hidden in the Vale?

Bridport History Society are visiting a mill just outside the Bridport area at Clapton on Tuesday 9th June at 2.30pm. Numbers are limited, prebooking is essential, to avoid “trouble at mill” !

Cecil Amor, Chairman, Bridport History Society, tel : 01308 – 456876

Up Front 06/09

By
Marshwood
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There was a stark contrast between two BBC television offerings the other night. BBC One presented the latest instalment of The Apprentice, whilst BBC Two aired a documentary about poetry. In Why Poetry Matters, presenter Griff Rhys Jones bounded into view reciting Wordsworth. After trampling a few daffodils he said ‘Hello, sky, hello trees, hello birds, hello Spring and hello daffodils’. He talked of the beauty of life and cited poetry as one of the most powerful and enduring forms of art in the world today. The Apprentice, on the other hand, opened with the buzz and excitement of city life. It highlighted the career options of fifteen of ‘Britain’s brightest business prospects’. The star of that show opened with the lines ‘Pressure – that’s what business is all about. Pressure – are you tough enough to put up with it?’ Lives today are packed with appointments, possessions and materialistic goals. We live in a profit driven, consumerist culture, where money, image, status and personal achievement are seen as the values to aim for. Whilst I know the need for increased consumerism to drive economic growth is a concept for people who understand far, far more than me, and I love science and technological advancement – today I will make one important life-changing decision. After I finish this piece I am going to slow down and bring my version of a frenetic life to a gentle walking speed. I may even read a little poetry. At least that is, until tomorrow, when we start on the next issue.

Time of the Moth

By
MV
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It may be a beautiful time of year, but these longer hours of daylight herald the arrival of the dreaded annual chore of sorting out old stuff and recycling or rejecting it. This includes going through crates of junk in the garage or unpacking my old nameless sweaters and shirts (all now rather too small) in various drawers. Like many other weekend things I do not wish to do, I try to put it off. I will hurriedly invent other projects around the house that need doing – really essential tasks like designing a solar powered lighting system for the garden, adjusting the carburettor on the lawn mower or building a new radio controlled bird table. These are all fun and positive “Boys’ Jobs” which can often involve considerable research. This means a visit to B&Q (one of the best Boys’ Jobs) and walking down the aisles without actually buying anything and dreaming of other projects that could be started in the future. This will usually take all morning, by which time of course it will be too late to start on sorting out the boring old boxes in the attic.

But no, this year there’s no getting out of it. My wife has even hidden the car keys so I can’t escape to a DIY research centre. I therefore take a deep breath and launch into re-arranging some of my old clothes. It won’t take long. I need only take my 1980s T-shirts and woollies out of the chest of drawers, look at them for a bit, fold them up and then put them back again. As an added bonus, since fashion and style have gone full circle over the last 25 years, some of my chic cool shirts may be all the rage once again (if I can fit into them).

But hold on a moment… what’s all this? There’s a hole in my favourite ‘Take Six’ black and white stripy sweater! And another 2 holes on the back of it… in fact the back seems to be largely missing. And my wonderful Cecil Gee flared blue suit has holes all down the side. Aaaagh! Oh no… surely not my Roxy Music Hammersmith Odeon sweat shirt too? It used to be a priceless antique fashion statement (personally signed in Magic Marker pen by Bryan Ferry) but is now more like a wholly gashed string vest. And my old Gap shirts are aptly named – there are more gaps than substance.

In a rising panic, I open the next drawer and a pale cloud of small feathery insects takes to the air. It’s a dreaded Moth Attack! Not just a limited skirmish but a complete invasion. The carpet, the curtains and even (‘though this may be something of a blessing), my old woolly bobble hat – all breaking apart and riddled with more holes than gruyere cheese. This is now all out War… Death to All Moths!

The problem with moths is a bit like Aunt Sarah’s cats… once you let them into your house, they get everywhere. Moths may be small in size but by Heavens they’re destructive! Never in the field of human storage has so much damage been inflicted on so many items by such small things. Moths are creepy, crawly, silent and secretive – you would never suspect they’re there until it’s much too late.

So at least I now get a chance to visit the hardware store on the weekend. I return with bottles of anti-moth stuff, cans of moth spray, cedar wood balls plus traditional white mothballs and Health and Safety pamphlets on pest control and winged infestation. These booklets tell me to fumigate myself, my wife, the neighbours, the dog, our rooms and probably the whole house for a week (maybe they mean ‘Hole House’?).

We also have to put our clothes in plastic bags and place them in the freezer for 24 hours since moths don’t survive at minus 10 degrees (true). Perhaps this also works with Aunt Sarah’s cats?

After 10 days of trips to friends with large freezers (most embarrassing) plus the entire house smelling like a pharmaceutical factory, I hope we may have cracked it. For three days I am cautiously optimistic as I gingerly open other cupboards and shake out duvet covers looking for the tell-tale signs of moth attack. Are they all now dead? Then, on the fourth day, disaster! There are new outbreaks behind the spare room bed and – horror of horrors – actually inside the airing cupboard.

That’s really it. I must admit the war is now probably lost. My shirts fall off my shoulders as I sit here, and holes are appearing on this very page as I type. We shall have to call in professional pest control and move house, but the moths are probably ahead of us. I gather they may have already reached Charmoth and Weymoth. We’ve heard nothing from Bournemoth for some weeks now. And Beaminster isn’t safe anymore as they’re rumoured to have arrived in Mothterton. Help… We moth leave before it’s too late…

June in the Garden 2009

By
Marshwood
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The great thing about writing these articles at the last minute is that it gives me the chance to be a little bit topical. I was at the ‘RHS Chelsea Flower Show’ yesterday and, apart from a surreal moment when I introduced myself to Will Young, the highlight was, as always, the nursery exhibits in the marquee.

You can keep your show gardens as they are merely expensive stage sets full of plants assembled like blooms in a humongous bouquet; great for a week on the mantelpiece but totally unsuited to surviving outside of their giant ‘vase’. They are fantastic feats of horticultural skulduggery, with a large dollop of  landscaping bravado, but the real gardener needs to head into the intense tent to get a satisfying fix of his, or her, chosen chlorophyll imbued drug.

These nursery exhibits afford you the chance to see plants from specialist growers drawn from the entire United Kingdom and beyond. Not every plant you covet will be suitable for your garden but, by talking to the exhibitors, you’ll be able to get the real lowdown on how to treat whichever specimen has tickled your fancy.

I liked the look of Melittis melissophylum on ‘Hardy’s Cottage Garden Plants’ but its need for woodland conditions would make it tricky for me to keep at home, until my nascent wood-fuel coppice has grown up a bit more.

It may be expensive to go to ‘Chelsea’ but if you make the most of your trip, by filling up with priceless gardening knowledge, then it begins to look like a cheap date. To get to see so many nurseries, by any other means, would require travelling the length and breadth of the UK, taking years to complete.

Television may be the new “opiate of the masses”, getting more poisonous by the day, but, even in the safe hands of Mr T, it’s no substitute for a direct horticultural shot in the arm.

Getting back to June, “at last” I hear you cry, you should by now have hardened off all your doubtfully tender plants, bedding and the like, and planted them out. Any spare plants can be used to fill gaps in the border which, otherwise, will fill with weeds instead. Tender specimens grown in pots, I’ve got a few old pelargoniums which have been going for more than ten years, need to be placed in the most favourable, warm and sunny, situations to give them the maximum chance of recovering from their winter confinement.

I tend to take cuttings from these tender things now, as they often need a bit of cutting back when first placed out, and again later in the summer when they root more easily due to having had a dose of sun (fingers crossed). Pelargoniums, salvias and fuchsias, amongst others, are so keen to root that I tend to end up with more than enough plants to keep me going and also to give away to visitors.

Pots and containers need to take priority when it comes to watering. If they are in a discreet area then investing in one of those ‘pod’ automatic watering systems makes a lot of sense, especially if you are very busy or tend to go away a lot over the summer. Don’t forget about feeding too; any soluble fertiliser should do the job but it’s cheaper to buy it in powder form, mixing it up as you need it, than to buy ‘ready made’ versions. Regular feeding over the growing season, following the instructions on your chosen brand, leads to sturdier plants which are better able to deal with drought stress and attacks by pests or diseases.

If there was one unifying feature in the gardens on show at ‘Chelsea’ it would be the inclusion of a water feature. In one notable exhibit the front garden consisted almost entirely of water traversed by stepping stones to the front door. The water also lapped around: artfully arranged boulders; a model sailing boat and containers of stripy Equisetum (‘Mare’s Tail’). The most often heard comment about this particular front garden design was; “I wouldn’t like to negotiate that after a night out in the pub”!

Having said that, water is great in gardens, at least those which don’t house unsupervised children, and June is a good time to do maintenance tasks. It’s warm enough to make the task more bearable and yet earlyenough in the season that you can sort things out before they get out of hand.

Manually removing blanket weed, by twiddling it around a stick, can control it in a small pond; submerged barley straw bales are usually recommended for larger ones. A net is often the only way to scoop off duckweed and this will have to be repeated as often as you can. Remember; the larger the volume of water the more stable its temperature, and chemical composition, which will help to prevent sudden ‘blooms’ of algae or ‘sheets’ of duckweed.

Ooh! Is that the time? I think I may have to continue with ponds next month as I’ve not even mentioned ‘WCMMs’ and, as regular readers will know, they are a particular favourite of mine! Toodle-pip.

Eleanor Gallia

By
Marshwood
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Robin Mills went to Nether Cerne in the Cerne Valley, Dorset, to meet medical herbalist Eleanor Gallia. This is her story.

“It was the River Cerne which drew my father to Nether Cerne when he first came to Dorset. I was conceived and christened here, with water from the river filling the 11th Century font.

Going back a generation, my father’s father was a high court judge in Vienna. His family were Austrian and surprisingly artistic: one cousin, Hermione Gallia, had been painted by Gustav Klimt, another, Bettina Vernon, was one of the first “barefoot dancers” to modernise dance. My grandmother’s family were Jewish, and in 1939 when Hitler moved into Vienna my father, Godfrey or Gottfried, was evacuated. My grandfather was interned on the Isle of Man, but eventually the whole family was reunited on a farm in Oxfordshire where Grandpa took work keeping pigs. In 1955 Dad came to Sherborne, where he taught languages. During that time he met my mother, Sylvia Walker, and discovered the joy of fishing the River Cerne. Mum was born at Racedown near Marshwood, a granddaughter of Lady Pinney. At the time she lived at Compton Valence with Granny (Mary) Walker, and still now continues to breed Granny’s line of “East Compton” Springer spaniels. Dad brought one of the first German wire-haired pointers into the UK in the 50s, and my two splendid dogs are descended from this original line. My parents married in 1970, and came to Nether Cerne, Dad immediately creating the lakes, and planting 50 acres of woodland.

My parents’ love of the land has greatly influenced my brother Edward and me. Their understanding of its flora and fauna has been inspirational, and the path to becoming a herbalist has felt very natural. From an early age I would haul plants back from the lake and hedgerows, until Mum said I was only to pick a plant if I knew its name. Thus my love for plants deepened, moving from an instinctive fascination to more of a learning journey. That the plants had names, stories, and uses too, just made them more interesting. Dad used to keep sheep, and I loved lambing time: I looked after the orphan lambs and the sickly ewes, cases that many farmers might call time-wasters. I’d use natural remedies on them, and learned to listen and to watch. They taught me too, with their appetite for ivy to cleanse the placenta after birth, and the way they responded to plants.

I went to school at Hanford, where I climbed trees, rode horses and did handstands; and Sherborne, where, reading Chaucer’s Knight’s Tale, from The Canterbury Tales, I first met the mediaeval humours. Chaucer illustrates how we are connected to our environment. The four humours – black bile, yellow bile, phlegm and blood, relate to the four elements – earth, fire, water and air, and also the four seasons. Our health depends on the balance between them. Herbs, having both a physiological effect on the body and a seasonal aspect to their growth and harvest, help maintain this balance. The part used is also important, whether fleshy fruit, woody root, fiery seed or watery stem. This view of medicine, as used by the 15th and 16th century herbalists, Culpepper and Gerard, can still be seen particularly in Ayurvedic medicine, and many traditional practices amongst indigenous cultures.

Before going to university to study literature I spent a year in South America. I hitchhiked up through Argentina into Brazil where I visited Mum’s brother in Brasilia and trained as an English teacher. This work took me south to Curitiba and en route I met Binka Le Breton, a writer and forest campaigner, on a bus on her way to the Amazon. Binka comes originally from Dorset, and at the time harboured a dream of transforming her Atlantic Forest farm, “Iracambi”, into a conservation centre. I also discovered capoeira, an Afro-Brazilian martial art / dance, and it completely enchanted me.

In fact it was difficult to leave capoeira and the forest for University. However, reading literature I became fascinated by the deeper meanings hidden within the text in mediaeval fables, and studying them provided insight into the concept of holistic medicine, and the importance of looking beyond the symptoms to the cause of any illness. My interest in healing was growing, being further fuelled by the discovery of “Napiers Herbal Dispensary”, founded in 1860 by Duncan Napier, a baker who was allergic to flour. His time spent in the hills around Edinburgh searching for cures prompted him to establish this widely respected herbal clinic. So in 1996, the summer I graduated from University, I started an apprenticeship with Napiers. Dee Atkinson had taken over from a long succession of Napiers’ sons and she sponsored me to study at the Sussex College of Phytotherapy, at the time the only UK college for herbal medicine.

After seven winters in Edinburgh, I was keen to get out of the city. I wanted to work with fresh plants rather than dried materials, and was hungry for the connection with the environment and the seasons. Through the National Institute of Medical Herbalists (NIMH) I found work in New Zealand, initially with herbalist Phil Rasmussen who specialised in Maori “bush” medicine. Travelling by horse and by hitching, I WWOOFed my way down through New Zealand (Willingly Working On Organic Farms), growing, harvesting and preparing herbs, and gaining clinic hours in herbal practice. Maori medicine is inspiring, for the physical and spiritual are seen as one, both in the human and plant kingdoms. 11 years on, I’m once again working on an NIMH project with Phil, this time researching the role of herbal medicine in mental health, for The Prince’s Foundation of Integrated Medicine.

Back in Scotland, I worked for Jacqui Hazzard, specialising in herbal treatment for women, on the banks of the river Tay. By then capoeira was becoming popular, and our Edinburgh group “HipHoda” won Millennium funding to take capoeira to the Scottish highlands and islands, teaching and performing in schools and village halls. Now, that was lots of fun, and the tour was set to continue to Brazil. At the same time Binka called: Iracambi had been awarded the support of the Smithsonian Institute, to “research the sustainable development of the forest’s natural resources”. Would I come out and set up the medicinal plant project? So back I danced to the forest, where I was given a hut, and a horse, and the advice to always remove the bridle before crossing a river in flood. My work was with the local healers and hill farmers, revitalising traditional medicines, and reinforcing their concept of value for the forest at a time when there was huge pressure to clear it to grow coffee. Somehow we needed to make the conservation of the forest more attractive than its destruction.

Back home I qualified in 2001, and set up the herbal practice here at Nether Cerne, establishing the clinic and herb garden, and leading herb walks through the summer. One of the first things I did when I joined the NIMH was to start raising awareness for the sustainable sourcing of medicinal plants. I lobbied herbalists, conservation bodies and certifiers: how could we ever hope to improve environmental practices in the forest, if we were not prepared to support the farmers to protect the wild? I soon became actively involved in the international medicinal plant conservation scene, representing herbalists and harvesters in meetings in China, Bosnia and Germany and lecturing in Vienna, and the Isle of Vilm. Recently this work has culminated in the launch of the “FairWild” standard for the fair-trading and sustainable wild collection of medicinal plants. All the herbs used in Nether Cerne clinic are sourced sustainably, either from our garden here or wild harvested, or through traders who support FairWild.

Thinking global, acting local, we host fiestas here at Nether Cerne, fundraising for Iracambi and our parish church, but it’s not just about raising money. It’s about reminding people how we really are connected to our environment, that we need to look after it and ourselves. In the forest or on the farm, we need to save the plants that save lives.”

Derek Stevens 05/09

By
MV
-

After delivering assault troops onto the beaches of Normandy surviving landing craft returned to embarkation ports to pick up reserves and equipment. It was on one of these returned vessels  a war correspondent  witnessed the loading up of one of the complete hospital outfits bound for the forward areas of the invasion. Officially described as an evacuation hospital the personnel included nearly forty US Army nurses. The hospital was so complete that it could be operating within an hour of its arrival at its destination. These young women were all given officer status, the Surgeon General of the US Army having ordered so to give them authority over male orderlies who might refuse to take orders from women nurses. They were also given equal pay and allowances.

The nurses wore battle dress over lightweight smocks impregnated against gas, each carried a 20lb pack, together with kitbags and gas masks. All were experienced nurses from general hospitals across America. “We are complete down  to the last safety pin,” said one and removing her helmet wiped her sweaty brow saying “But, phew, I shall be pretty glad to get some of this outfit off.” The reporter glanced into her respirator bag and noticed that in addition to her gas mask there was a fountain pen, cigarrettes, matches, candy, a mirror, a powder compact and a lipstick. In her spare hand she carred her K-ration pack. She was all ready to go to war.

Those nurses would soon be tending casualties from the invasion beaches and preparing them for return to the UK where 94,108 beds in American hospitals in southern England were awaiting them. By 1945 there would be 17,345  nurses serving in the European Theatre of Operations.

As the evacuation hospital cast off another returning vessel moored up  to the empty berth. It was carrying the latest batch  of prisoners from the other side, tired unshaven, dirty and dejected. Among them were Russians, Poles and Czechs dragooned into the Wehrmacht during Hitler’s  victorious blitzkrieg into eastern Europe. Many were clearly relieved, some were boys in their mid -teens. I was told of one Russian lad of no more than 13.

There was, however, a number of  German paratroopers who rather stood out among the rest. Some of them had been in service on the Russian front.

I had the oppotunity to board this vessel. Hundreds of empty tins were ample evidence of the feverish way these men had eaten their supplied rations on the way over. The skipper told me that he had allowed the prisoners up on deck as they crossed from the invasion beaches allowing them to see the vast armada of allied shipping which lay offshore. They were visibly amazed he told me, and their amazement was compounded as we approached England and passed  a mighty convoy outward bound. There was hardly a man among them who did not look as though he had had enough of this war.

Another newspaper reported that a train load of German POWs had stopped for a few minutes at a station in a South of England town. One onlooker on the platform addressed a German looking through the window, “Well Jerry, what do you think of England?” he asked. Another German thrust his head out of the window and answered  in broken English. “Three years ago,” he said, “Herr Hitler promised we come to England”. He shrugged and placed both fists together as if they were handcuffed. “Vell” he added with a smile “Ve haf come!”

Who said the Germans have no sense of humour?

During previous months to D-Day I was puzzled by passing American cars, not in olive drab but in civilian black. The passengers inside wore dark navy style  uniforms. I now assume that they were personnel of the US Coast Guard Rescue Flotilla passing along between their bases at Poole, Weymouth, Brixham and Falmouth. They had been dubbed  the Matchbox Fleet because of the wooden construction of their small cutters. US Coastguards were also employed as boatswains on many of the invasion landing craft. Their efforts in the Channel that day in which they lost 15 crewmen, and in the days that followed until the establishment of the bridgehead on the Normandy shore, earned them another sobriquet, The St Bernards of Normandy, for they were to rescue over 1,500 allied soldiers sailors and airmen  in their cutters.

Mystery writer Agatha Christie’s Georgian holiday home on the banks of the river Dart near Brixham was requisitoned at this time for the US Coastguard. It has recently been restored at the cost of £5.4m and opened to the public by the National Trust. When it was handed back to the author by the American coastguards they offered to paint out a frieze in the library depicting scenes of their activity in the invasions of North Africa, Sicily and Normandy. She insisted it be left as a historic memento of their stay.

The RAF Air Sea Rescue launches based at Lyme Regis, removing the canvas covering the white invasion recognition star painted on the foredeck, took up station off Portland Bill. They were to rescue the crew of a  RAF Warwick Bomber and, later in the day, the crew and soldier compliment of a British Horsa glider floating off the French coast having not quite made it. The rescue launch crew had to puncture the sides of the glider to sink it out of harms way. All the survivors were returned to the Cobb at Lyme.  A few days later they had a crash call to the south of Lyme Bay where they picked up the American crew of a downed B17 Flying Fortress. Returning to Lyme Regis the airmen were transported to the US Navy airbase at Dunkeswell from where they were flown back to their home base.

Meanwhile Lyme’s very own minesweeper, HMS Lyme Regis, together with sister ship HMS Bridport, were being employed in the clearing of enemy mines off  Gold, Juno and Sword Beaches where British and Canadian invasion forces were successfully landing. Among these troops were those of the Dorset and the Devonshire Regiments, among them men from homes in the towns and villages of East Devon, South Somerset and West Dorset. They were to successfully fight their way to become the liberators of the coastal city of Le Havre, one unit having to ‘requisition’ a taxi and a fire engine to help them along the way –  but that’s a story to come.

Digital Switch

By
MV
-

You’ve already been warned about the digital TV switchover and how it will affect us all. The amount of publicity has grown along with sometimes contrasting advice as to what to do. We have also witnessed increasingly desperate appearances on and off screen of the annoying tin can robot Digit Al as it alerts us to the impending doom of switchover (see picture). It has even been seen in metal fleshed person stumbling down various high streets. But now, thank goodness, it will vanish from our screens (probably along with any TV pictures) as the whole switchover thing is all happening in this merry month of May – May 6th and May 20th to be precise. After May 20th, there will no doubt be a puff of virtual smoke and we will possibly cease to exist. That’s unless you live in parts of Devon because you already disappeared last April and so you won’t be reading this. Isn’t that exciting! And also slightly confusing, so here are some lateral answers to your many questions:

What is Stockland Hill?

It’s a very tall (over 850 feet high) transmitter mast near Honiton – one of the tallest man-made structures in the UK (actually, this is true!). It has pretty red lights running up to the top which can be seen for miles and miles at night. Most TVs in the Marshwood Vale area are tuned to it whether they realise it or not, which is why it’s a Very Important Thing when it stops broadcasting analogue signals in May. If you watch TV through a satellite or broadband connection, Stockland Hill is completely irrelevant to you. And if you never watch any TV, then this entire article is a waste of time and you should immediately move forward to page 34 and read Wendy Lee’s article about coriander which you will find much more useful.

Which way should my aerial be pointing?

Basically, like this. No, not that way, this way… and slightly to the right. Up a bit… nudge it to the left… OK, yes, that’s it. This may be the same way direction as it was pointing beforehand. Or not. If in doubt, look at other TV aerials in your street. Yours should be pointing in roughly the same direction.

Do I need a new aerial?

Yes, if your answer to the previous question was ‘downwards’. Otherwise it’s probably not necessary. However, rather like quoted solutions to the global financial crisis, nobody really knows. Sorry to be difficult but it all depends on where you live, how high you are above sea level and whether it’s a Friday or it’s raining. The only reliable way to tell may be to wait till after May 20th and see if you’ve got anything left on the screen.

How do I know if I’ve been digitally switched?

Look in the mirror. If you can see two of yourself, then you’re either already digitally enhanced or you’ve been knocking back too much cooking sherry. Another way to tell is by reading the lines of text in this magazine. If they all look OK on the printed page, then great – you have been successfully switched. But if all you get is a hissing noise and the letters zxcvbnm qwerty asdfghjk, then beware. You may also need to visit an optician.

Will I need to buy a new TV?

This all depends on how old your current TV is and to whom you’re talking. Basically, it’s not necessary – all you need is a set top converter box. But if your TV is more than 20 years old and smells of burning plastic when you turn it on, the answer is probably ‘yes’. If you’re asking a TV or electronics retailer, then the answer will definitely be a ‘yes’.

How many TV channels will I be able to receive?

There are more answers to this question than there are available TV channels. If you’re watching Freeview, then it’s somewhere between 18 and 80 channels depending upon where you live and the number of crows flying between you and your local transmitter. Sky, Virgin and satellite viewers can get well over 100 or even 200 channels which is about ten times more than human beings can safely watch without having their brains removed. The real question is not how many channels you can receive, but how many channels you might want to watch. In addition to some good extra stuff like Film 4, ITV 2 and 3 and more BBC channels than you ever thought possible, you’ll also pick up lots of channels for shopping, dating, gambling, games and dodgy telephone phone-ins. If this onrush of dubious digital choice is too much to digest, try sticking your head in a pillow or throwing your TV off the pier at West Bay.

Will I continue to be able to watch Big Brother?

Hopefully not, though this is strictly a personal opinion and has nothing to do with the switchover.

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'I have loved Dorset from the first moment that I arrived. I was 25 and had never been abroad before. Each new sight and...

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