Sunday, 25 January 2009
Which First Barack - The Good News Or The Bad
On Tuesday Barack Obama was sworn in as the first black president of America. He was the 44th President. According to the Jakata Globe, Indonesian numerologist Udin, has predicted good fortune for Mr Obama. In Mandarin the words for four and death are the same. Four in China is like 13 in western countries, many Chinese buildings will not have a fourth floor or any other storey featuring a number four. Despite this Udin predicts good fortune for Barack Obama as there are two fours in 44th and four plus four equals eight and eight is regarded as a lucky number. Furthermore, 2009 is the Year of the Ox and Barack Obama was born in 1961 which was also the Year of the Ox. People born under the Ox are hard-working and stubborn according to Chinese tradition. Another interesting statistic, Barack Obama spent four years as a child in Indonesia. Udin, a feng shui master for 20 years, claims it will be a lucky year for the President as he is 47 years old, adding, between 47 and 49 is a good time to do something great. Thank goodness for that!
Blankney POW's (Prisoners Of War)
I would like to thank reader David Butler for his recent e-mails. I have known David and his wife Janet since we were teenagers. The e-mails contained some fascinating images of the village of Scopwick, including the Royal Oak pub, School Lane and Empire Day celebrations. There are also postcards sent by Janet's grandmother Polly. All the images date around the turn of the previous century, in other words around 1900. David's father, Joe, was Estate Manager for the Blankney Estates and had several German POW's working for him. David relates how one particular prisoner called Karl became a great friend of his family, eventually returning to Germany in 1947. One of the images is a Christmas card sent by Karl to the Butler family, I think around 1962. One of David's recollections was very interesting to me, as a small boy he was given a wooden toy made by the prisoners. It was a brightly painted push-along ladybird that flapped it's wings. I also had one of these toys except mine was a butterfly and I remember not only did it flap its wings but it made a hell of a clatter at the same time. POW's are very much a part of Blankney history and I would like to return to this subject at some time in the future. If any readers knew, or still know, any POW's or have any stories or information concerning POW's please e-mail me at garlant@btinternet.com . I would love to hear from you.
Return To Blankney - Part 3
In Return to Blankney Part 3, Reginald Williams discusses Blankney Post Office, fruit pies and the sunken gardens.
Return to Blankney by Reginald Williams
So died Blankney Hall. Now nature has taken over. In the crannies of the walls, in between the paving stones and along the footings of the walls tufts of grasses and flowers had rooted themselves. The magnolia tree still blossomed on the front of the building and a carved figure over the main doorway looked out rather wistfully from the desolation within. Before occupation by the RAF, glittering social occasions would have echoed to the same rafters that now lay charred and sodden in the grass and flower-beds where they had fallen or been thrown on the night of the fire. There was something uncanny and strangely disturbing about these charred reminders of the past: of my own past.
I discovered that the Blankney Estate was being administered by agents who had an office up a lane near the crossroads. The two clerks there were interested to hear my first hand story about the events on the night of the fire. They gave me permission to wander round the site and take photographs. But before returning to the ruins, I called at the village post-office which also served as a general store. Hundreds of small items fastened to cards hung round the walls: tinctures for one thing, pills for another, ointments for this and mixtures for that. Cakes chocolates and cooked meats met in an ill-assorted display on the counter, while the more bulky items such as buckets, clothes-lines, fire lighters, cases of minerals and paraffin oil were gathered into convenient heaps on the floor. A dark, middle aged woman wearing an old slouch hat waited to attend me. I wanted two things: information about the Hall and a fruit pie. (Why a fruit pie you will learn later). She recalled how many people were engaged on the Estate during the First World War, and spoke of some of the famous people who had stayed at the Hall, such as King Edward V11 then Prince of Wales.
On the ground floor back at the Hall there was a bay window on the east side of a large room where we worked when on duty. It was possible to look through the window over the sunken garden and lawns, past the pool to the fields beyond. I retraced my steps through the sunken garden and found that the two sculptured children were still disporting themselves in the pool although the grass now almost obscured them.
The building we used during the war as a NAAFI was an old barn-like place covered with lichen situated at the opposite end of the drive. The windows had been broken, and I was able to look inside and see the old serving hatch where we bought tea, coffee, cakes and (if available) chocolate. One regular item on sale was a well-known make of fruit pie: we must have consumed thousands, but at a price less than half what I paid at the village post-office. So back again in my old eating haunt I enjoyed my fruit pie while leaning on the window-sill of the now deserted former NAAFI.
Don't miss Part 4, the final episode, of this fascinating story in the Journal tomorrow.
Return to Blankney by Reginald Williams
So died Blankney Hall. Now nature has taken over. In the crannies of the walls, in between the paving stones and along the footings of the walls tufts of grasses and flowers had rooted themselves. The magnolia tree still blossomed on the front of the building and a carved figure over the main doorway looked out rather wistfully from the desolation within. Before occupation by the RAF, glittering social occasions would have echoed to the same rafters that now lay charred and sodden in the grass and flower-beds where they had fallen or been thrown on the night of the fire. There was something uncanny and strangely disturbing about these charred reminders of the past: of my own past.
I discovered that the Blankney Estate was being administered by agents who had an office up a lane near the crossroads. The two clerks there were interested to hear my first hand story about the events on the night of the fire. They gave me permission to wander round the site and take photographs. But before returning to the ruins, I called at the village post-office which also served as a general store. Hundreds of small items fastened to cards hung round the walls: tinctures for one thing, pills for another, ointments for this and mixtures for that. Cakes chocolates and cooked meats met in an ill-assorted display on the counter, while the more bulky items such as buckets, clothes-lines, fire lighters, cases of minerals and paraffin oil were gathered into convenient heaps on the floor. A dark, middle aged woman wearing an old slouch hat waited to attend me. I wanted two things: information about the Hall and a fruit pie. (Why a fruit pie you will learn later). She recalled how many people were engaged on the Estate during the First World War, and spoke of some of the famous people who had stayed at the Hall, such as King Edward V11 then Prince of Wales.
On the ground floor back at the Hall there was a bay window on the east side of a large room where we worked when on duty. It was possible to look through the window over the sunken garden and lawns, past the pool to the fields beyond. I retraced my steps through the sunken garden and found that the two sculptured children were still disporting themselves in the pool although the grass now almost obscured them.
The building we used during the war as a NAAFI was an old barn-like place covered with lichen situated at the opposite end of the drive. The windows had been broken, and I was able to look inside and see the old serving hatch where we bought tea, coffee, cakes and (if available) chocolate. One regular item on sale was a well-known make of fruit pie: we must have consumed thousands, but at a price less than half what I paid at the village post-office. So back again in my old eating haunt I enjoyed my fruit pie while leaning on the window-sill of the now deserted former NAAFI.
Don't miss Part 4, the final episode, of this fascinating story in the Journal tomorrow.
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