St.Peter-on-the-Wall-Chapel

In a blog on my other site, I mentioned Saint Cedd as he sat beneath a great oak tree, and I shall perhaps write about this saint later, but on Tuesday we visited the Saxon chapel of St.Peter on the Wall, founded by Cedd in AD 654 ,the chapel still standing in a bleak location by the sea.
Firstly you must imagine the scene, the flat Essex landscape merging with the great estuary, and then the drive through the village of Bradwell on Sea to the position of the chapel on its promonotory facing the grey expanse of the sea.
Park the car in the grassy car park, walk along the straight long track between brown ploughed fields to the building sitting on its grassy knoll; you are one of many pilgrims to have walked this way, this may be somewhere to visit as a tourist but never forget that pilgrims came with a great deal more in their hearts.
The building is not beautiful, uncompromising it has stood for 1400 years. Grey in the sunlight, it is made up of reused roman stone and tiles, refurbishing tiles and bricks complete the top half.
It is built on top of roman gateway, foundations to a fort, the old Fosse running parallel to the entrance of the chapel, the Roman fort of Othona it is thought, one of The Forts of the Saxon Shore.
Touch the rough texture of the worked stone at the corner, look down at the half hidden buttresses in the grass layered with the red of Roman roof tiles, turn the ring on the great oak door pushing its heavy weight till the interior unfolds before your eyes. The austere simplicity of rough grey stone and flint walls dimly lit by the light from the windows. Benches in front of the modern altar to sit quietly on and take in the atmosphere.
Now let the mind travel along its walls, here are the arched domes of the waggon doors when it was used sometime in the medieval period as a barn. There is another arch facing you, now blocked in, that would have led to the basilica type apse at the East end. Focus on the great colourful cross high on the wall, for this chapel is still used twice a day by a local 'Othona' christian community. then note in the right hand corner, a long vertical stone with a candle on top, at the base is a large rounded stone, with flowers grouped around it. A puzzling enigma, is there a touch of paganism here?
One more thing to note here is the modern altar, a square rectangular slab of stone on three pillars, and here we come to the Celtic heart of this chapel, for it is these three modern stones that represent Saint Cedd's other communities..
The left stone is a gift from Holy Island, Lindisfarne, it was here that Saint Cedd was trained by Saint Aidan.
The centre stone is a gift from the Island of Iona, the Celtic mission in Britain started here; it was here that St.Colombus founded a monastery where missionary monks were trained.
The right stone is a gift from Lastingham, Cedd left Bradwell to build a monastery at Lastingham in the Yorkshire Moors, and it was here he died of the plague in AD.664

The bank of the promontory folds down into a boggy sea marsh, a nature reserve, filled with wild plants, a pleasing palette of greys and browns, shot through with the red of plant stems. A lone birdwatching hide stands almost birdshaped itself on its long poles, gaunt and lonely looking out to sea.
Going back to the car and settling into its warmth from the chill Essex winds, picnicking on hot tea and rolls a great flutter of wings and young starlings fell around us settling to drink from a puddle. Soon two more waves of these birds landed, harassed, ever so slightly by a blackbird, a thin flutter of nervous excitement running through the flock as they percieved danger, each a perfect image of his companion.

Information taken from; A booklet by H.Malcolm Carter - The Fort of Othona and the Chapel of St.Peter-On-The-Wall....

http://thelmawilcox.blogspot.com/2008/10/tree-of-life-in-chelmsford-cathedral.html

http://thelmawilcox.blogspot.com/2008/10/travelling.html

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/St._Cedd

Journeys

Sunday; Strong winds and rain, the weekend has already unfolded itself into storm and greyness. Train journeys, a London packed with the hustle and bustle of people, each time I have wandered through the concourse of Liverpool Street, I have seen someone with a dog and thought about my Moss travelling through this maelstrom of people. Stand on a tube and look at the faces of those around, each has a story to tell, millions of people moving through a network of trains, linking back to their familar lives through mobiles. Here is a young girl, pale and scruffily dressed, three large crumpled carrier bags, is she moving from one place to another? There are the older people with their doggy bags (the ones you pull behind you) going for a weekend visit.
All races are represented in London, a hotch-potch of people that you only become aware of as you travel through the bleak landscape of the tube.
This is the capital of our country, for those who live in other parts of this fair land, and especially down in the West, we get angry that so much money gets spent on this city. It seems dirty, grey full of cars and a great confusing mass of people that disorientates you, it's fast moving, the blank stares and coldness reaches into the depths of your soul and sends a shudder through it.
Train journeys through the countryside are gentle affairs, the long haul up to Yorkshire to see my grandchildren, travels through the different aspects, so that here we find the flat plains of the Midlands, the rolling medieval rig and plough still captured in the fields. Sluggish brown rivers, almost overflowing in winter, will carry the flotsam of our modern age; a scatter of plastic, foam that has washed down from a factory, the trailing willows catching in their branches wisps of things. Gritstone brown stone houses through Derby, the Yorkshire moors still a dull brown unless the gorse or the heather lend their bright colours to the scene.
The tumbling down of the moors to the sea, as the bus winds down through steep lanes, sheep scattered amongst the grey stones of the moor, grass eaten to a velvet smoothness. And then the sea itself, blue or gray depending on the weather, the sharp lines of the cliffs, Whitby Abbey standing like some great guarding sentinel on top of the cliff, and then the homeliness of Whitby, old houses clustered round the harbour, the smell of fish and chips and holidaymakers crowding the narrow streets.
There is one more train journey from the past; this is the Orient Express on which myself and my daughter would travel to Switzerland on for Xmas and summer holidays to my in-laws house. I cannot remember much of the beginning of the journey only that when we reached France it would be dark and you would go to sleep on an uncomfortable couchette, the train waking you in the night as it shunted around a station, Paris I think it was. But it was the early morning as light broke and you crossed the border between France and Switzerland that stays in the memory - the morning sun on the mountains.
The journey back started at midnight catching the train at Vevey as it came into the station for a couple of minutes; a great monster, fond farewells, lifting the luggage onto the train. One disastrous Christmas with a wheelie case chock full of xmas presents, the whole lot was stolen, probably by a cleaner who came on in the middle of the night, nothing to be done the train rolled on the presents were lost.
Switzerland is the land of little trains, chugging up into the mountains, winding over narrow bridges and tumbling water. A family friend lived in a small Swiss house in Blonay by the train track that came up from Vevey, her garden down the driveway was full of flowers, tall sunflowers, and her house the traditional wooden one, plain, simple and white. She had been a dancer in her day and photos on the wall showed her in the heyday of youth.
Leni was my mother-in-law's best friend, though they would often have little arguments, she would come over to Sunday lunch, out under the loggia, a family gathering of friends and family. Arguing gently, Con my father-in-law, sometimes throwing his napkin over his head and explode with the words S.I.D., S.I.D, which meant 'sometimes I despair,' it normally produced laughter and the argument would be stopped. At these gatherings and tea in the afternoon, tricks would be played on the guests by Con and Marc, my daughter's cousin. Plastic dog poo, was one, false mustard and plastic cakes much to the fury of Lotta, who could not tolerate such games at the table. One trick fell foul of its target, the vicar from the church at Territet, manipulation of the cake plate had managed to make him pick up the plastic cake, and he plunged his teeth in as we all watched expectantly. The result was a very cross vicar who almost broke his teeth and did'nt see the funny side of it as the children howled.

Dewponds

Neolithic Dew-ponds and Cattleways by Arthur and George Hubbard 1905

The following photographs are taken from the above book, apart from the one glaring mistake they made i.e. Neolithic dewponds with which they entitled their piece then went on to describe Iron age hillforts, the book should not be read except for information..... but the photos show that the landscape was very different in those days with more trackways defined on the sides of the hillforts. And as I love old books and way out theories, this particular book is a great treasure....

This last sketch plan of Oare Hill and Martinsell Hill is interesting, take no notice of the wolf/sentry platforms, though they added a nice little piece about wolves, but for the dew-pond marked. It seems that a dewpond marked as a Saxon boundary on Milk Hill was noted in 825 see this link... http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dew_pond

Most existing dew ponds date from the 19th or early 20th centuries, although a few may be 18th century. The only apparent ancient one is Oxenmere on Milk Hill on the downs to the north of the Vale of Pewsey. A Saxon charter of 825 refers to this pond as marking the boundary of Alton Priors, which it still does. It is possible that a pond has been here since that date but only if it has been cleaned out and its lining renewed every 100 to 200 years for Ralph Whitlock estimated that the life of a dew pond is 100 to 150 years.

Quotation from the Hubbard book;

The month which we now call January our Saxon ancestors called wolf-monat, to wit, wolf-moneth, because people are wont always in that month to be in more danger to be devoured of wolves, than in any else season of the year; for that, through the extremity of cold and snow, these ravenous creatures could not find of other beasts sufficient to feed upon. Richard Verstegan, Restitution of Decayed Intelligence in Antiquities 1673

So the moral being don't go wandering down that old Saxon trackway beneath Martinsell Hill in January for you never know there might be a wolf or two lurking......

SU 07303 69348 grid reference for Beckahampton dew pond?

Alphamstone Church

A return visit to this church reveals yet one more undiscovered stone. There are large stones set against the hedge, tidied away, they are thought to be part of a stone circle. The wooden towered church of St Barnabas set on a knoll overlooking the Stour Valley, lies in the heart of the Essex countryside surrounded by a small group of houses. Perhaps one should describe it as a modest unassuming building, except for the extraordinary facts of the stones in the graveyard, and the two just outside the church. But go inside the church, and against the west wall tucked neatly underneath the pews are two stones protruding through the wall. And here I will quote from the little church leaflet on these two stones;....

'The base of of the West wall is part of the original Norman church. Here, on either side of the original tower arch can be seen two large sarsen stones built into the base of the wall. This suggests that these stones had some religious significance, for the early Norman builders liked to incorporate pieces of early pagan worship into there buildings where possible.

Photos credits; Littlestone



Outside on the south wall, there is an old (16thC) porch, not used, it looks old and inviting but note the bricks that underpin the walling, two small badly worn faces decorate the entrance to the doorway.


Today you enter the church through the north porch (15th century), which is in fact earlier than the south porch. On entering the church you are at first struck by the cold and damp, the little kneeling pads are all embroidered with flowers and birds. The font is Norman plain arcading, and there are three tracied wood roods/screens facing you on the south side replacing the old Norman wall. These were in fact purchased from another church in the early 1960's.

I come to another digression here, and one that has a faintly unsettling effect on my secular rationale. On looking at the open bible on the lectern, I was greeted by a disturbing passage from the old testament, suffice it to say it was from Ezekiel, and the words whores and harlots figured quite frequently. THIS in the 21st century, was it given as a sermon, or is it a morality lesson left for innocent visitors to view - can the church still be seen to go along with the mad ravings of some local prophet who obviously had a hang up about women. As a female this was pure sexist, misogynist male terrorism and left a nasty taste in the mouth.

South Side

Stour Valley

North porch

Filled in doorway

Norman 'plain arcading' font

History of church; Like many churches Alphamstone has a long history, the little leaflet on the church says about 4000 b.c. . Bronze age man settling on a spur overlooking the Stour Valley. In about 2000 b.c they built a burial mound near the site of the existing church, and three incinerary urns were discovered at the beginning of the 20th century.

Of course the sarsen stones may be related to this burial mound, a stone chamber being formed in the centre. But on examining the stones this seems unlikely, they are large and rounded. According to the information in the leaflet, there are several boulders in the gardens surrounding the church, and that the builders would have had to go along way to find these boulders, which gives rise to the fact that they are actually stones from a circle. The village was probably inhabited for the next 2000 years with traces of first century A.D. Belgic Roman pottery, and it is conjectured that the churchyard fence may follow the line of the ancient Roman buildings, there is a sandpit not far from the church with evidence of a tile kiln dating from this period.

Two stones in front of the church

Stone near east buttress

Stones in hedgerow

Interesting marks

Hidden stones


There are fascinating articles by Thorgrim on the Megalithic Portal site about the sacred stones of Essex, follow the links for more information.
http://www.megalithic.co.uk/article.php?sid=2146411030

http://www.megalithic.co.uk/article.php?sid=10813

More churches

Avebury Church

I have an obsession with country churches, it is there peaceful presence in a quiet countryside that triggers this response. Too often in this western secular world we rant against religion, but these small country churches the last vestiges of a dying religion please me greatly.

Fyfield Church, said to be by a Roman road

Fyfield Church porch

The font

Their grassy grave yards with leaning headstones bear the minimum of words as to birth and death, or if you are wealthy, written with a flourish of words witnessing the greatness of god or man; it tells us of our brief stay on this earth numbers so neatly carved. Nature folds round the stone foundations of these old buildings, sunk deep into the earth, surrounded by the dead bones of the past.

Yet there is still life when it comes to the major festivals of the year, Christmas, Easter and Harvest Festival, people are drawn to the church to celebrate, unwittingly, or maybe in memory of a pagan past, to once more garland the church and remember. So it was so when visiting several churches round Avebury on the Autumn Solstice, women in East Kennet, arranging flowers in the small church, talking amongst themselves, two children with a spaniel waiting outside the church, the greyness of the interior lit up by the colour of the flowers. Outside the sun shone on the small pond that is attached to the church with the great sarsen stone half hidden by vegetation; ducks sitting on a very small green, someone sat on a chair working outside their cottage in the sun, a peaceful idyllic life.

The sarsen beside the pond at East Kennet Church

East Kennet church banner - EKLB and Avebury stones



The old East Kennet church


In the other churches, West Overton, Fyfield and Winterbourne Monkton, women were cleaning the churches, arranging flowers, and by the altars you could spy tins of food, the autumn harvest come home to roost in a modern convenient form.
West Overton church has a cottage bordering its edge, whilst to the east another cottage sits beneath its benevolent gaze, a steep drop of about 15 feet to a patio beneath, this I noticed because Moss bounding around had to put his brakes on sharply or he would have tumbled over to the garden below.
Perhaps I should mention one more church, the one at Avebury, sitting on the bench surrounded by the small village of old houses with the Manor peeping over a stone wall, the sense of time past is keenly felt. People pass by ambling slowly in the warmth of the sun, the church door invites you in, Moss is territorial about this bit of land, he has so often been here before and he barks at people he doesnt like - children mostly.
Churches have of course been 'restored' William Morris in the 19th century was anti-restoration of course and formed a society for the protection of churches. But if you read Pevenser most churches have been restored 'beribboned and adorned' by such people as Butterfield they lose the classic simpleness of the old plain churches.

And of course one can't write about country church yards without recalling to mind Thomas Gray's poem, which does tend to send me off into fits of giggles, the moping owl especially, and perhaps he should take his place under David Inshaw's paintings of Silbury hill with Owl on my other blog. A few verses, the rest is far too long!

"ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD"

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,

The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,

And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,

And all the air a solemn stillness holds,

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight

And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower

The moping owl does to the moon complain

Of such as, wandering near her secret bower

Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,

Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

the rest can be found here;.. http://www.blupete.com/Literature/Poetry/Elegy.htm

Some church history......

http://www.upperkennetnews.co.uk/churchHistories/churchesOfTheUpperKennet.htm

Theories and Silbury Hill

Whlst watching the furore around the latest theory of Stonehenge, an old blog I had written came to mind, this was of course theories about Silbury. I quite like the way they spark controversy, contempt and scorn on one side, gallant tenacious belief on the other.

http://northstoke.blogspot.com/2007/07/alternative-theories-for-silbury-hill.html

http://northstoke.blogspot.com/2007/12/thumbing-through-my-flickr-account.html

http://northstoke.blogspot.com/2007/12/blog-post.html

Notes on 17th emigration to America

William Penn acquired the vast tract of land in America called Pennysylvania, through the debt of King Charles of £16,000 to his grandfather. Britain was in a religious turmoil at the time, with dissenters being persecuted, but slowly the climate changed and rather than outlaw such people as the Quakers the king thought it more prudent to allow them to move out of the country. That is probably why we see Oliver Cope and his family leaving Britain for the promised new land.

William Penn writes of the benefits of Pennsilvania promising that "the place lies 600 miles nearer the sun than England" or "whatever I could truly write as to the soil air and water, this shall satisfie me, that by the blessing of God and the honesty and industry of man it may be good and fruitful land"

And there is one interesting promotional letter to John Aubrey, written 1683, which said;

The Aier, heat and Cold Resemble the heart of France; the soyle good, the springs many and delightfull, the fruits roots corne and flesh as good I have comonly eaten in Europe. I may so of most of them better. Strawberry's ripe in the woods in Aprill, and in the last month, Peas, bean, cherrys and mulberry are here. Much black walnutt, Chestnutts, Cyprus or white cedar and mulberry are here. The sorts of fish in these parts are excellent and numerous. Sturgeon leap day and night that we can hear them a bow shot from the Rivers in out bed"

Though Aubrey was poor at this time after having lost all his estates, he does'nt seem to have made the journey, probably he was not up to the life of a gentleman farmer and preferred the country houses of his friends. His writing was prodigious and it would have been interesting to see what he would have made of the New Country.

In 1680 we see the migration from Bristol as to be estimated at about 700, and by 1718, the date of Penn's death, the population of Pennsylvania had rised to 30,000.

Penn wanted tradesman and craftsman to emigrate, so that he welcomed the carpenters, shoemakers and tailors like Cope to take the voyage. There was also speculation by London purchasers, this time lawyers, physicians and merchants who bought land but did not go across the Atlantic themselves.

Of the the first 589 purchasers, 55 were from Cheshire and the second highest 53 from Wiltshire. Although London of course had a higher proportion, but many of these would have been speculators and would never have left the country.

ref; William Penn - Mary K. Geiter

East Kennet longbarrow

Click on photos for large picture

No facts and figures for this large barrow, sitting so quietly in the landscape hidden by trees. It is probably as magnificent as West Kennet longbarrow, but has yet escaped the trowel and brutality of archaeology which would delve into its innards to discover yet more secrets.

Silbury and West Kennet longbarrow viewed from the path
The sun is bright overhead, bales lay round the great golden fields of stubble, and in the distance a farm machine lies idle. Walking up the path, the dog loping ahead, leaving the crowded atmosphere of Avebury behind, the only person we meet is riding a white horse.



One of the great treats in walking this part of the Wiltshire Downs, apart from the great sloping fields is the fact that you can look back towards Silbury outlined against a blue sky, because the mound is in a dip she seems to be facing West Kennet longbarrow entrance, the two brought together by present time, yet apart in past time.
Turning into the field you can look down on the hamlet of East Kennet its church spire snuggly surrounded by houses and cottages, a great fringe of trees protecting them.



The barrow itself is enormous when you get close covered in a mass of wild vegetation and great trees, both dead and alive, it is strangely a living force in the landscape, a marriage that makes England what it is, the neat hedgerows and fields defining a 5000 year old tomb buried in nature's exuberance. Both live and dead nettles greet you in the green growth stinging sandalled feet, a tree lies fallen, a silvered skeleton of branches echoing the bones beneath.
The barrow faces down towards the village and church, but of course also towards the little river Kennet. Stand at its side, Silbury and West Kennet barrow in the distance, is this territorial spacing, land divided, or a tribal divide, we will never know but both barrows face towards the Ridgeway asserting their dominance in the landscape. Also there is a neat trick that EK plays on you, walking up you think that it is on a slope but walk its great length and it seems to be on the straight. A couple of sarsens can be seen protruding, the badger has helped here, evidence of badger holes, scraping out the chalk so that it lies like white litter amongst the green grass.



There is evidence of badger all round, scraps of fur where they have been fighting, should we remove them? my answer is no, their damage is no greater, and indeed far less, then any excavation would produce. And if like its sister barrow at West Kennet, East Kennet was exposed to full glory there would be thousands of visitors spoiling its peace and harmony, its secrets are best left to the future.




What about the trees you may ask, they must surely damage the stones beneath, my answer has always been how many trees do you think have grown, died and rotted on this barrow over 5000 years, true, the present trees are probably planted deliberately for cover of wild birds but if you look at the plate of their roots you will see how shallow they are, a dying tree rots above the ground as well as below.


East Kennet

In winter the great long shape of the longbarrow will be revealed and perhaps that is the best time to visit it to appreciate its height and size.
West Kennet was 'closed' down by a later different religion, its ancestor worship no longer valid in a world that had tasted the excitement of bronze and gold, life was taking a different path from worship of the earth and its fertility, but these great longbarrows with their facade of stones and neat stalled chambers remind us of other cultures that once lived in this land, and no I can't verify that East Kennet will have a facade or stalls but surely it must have echoed its sister barrow in elegance.

Stanton Drew

The lion stone

This weekend visiting sites two stand out in my memory, East Kennet Longbarrow and Stanton Drew stone circles, both seen on beautiful sunny days, so rare this summer.
But it is with Stanton Drew that I first start out. Two years ago I photographed all the stones in the Great Circle, marvelling at their extraordinary size, colour, I gave some names to them at the time.
What can you say about this third 'cinderalla'of stone circles in the West country, Jodie Lewis in her book "The Neolithic of Northern Somerset" will give you facts and figures, Gordon Strong in his little book: Stanton Drew and its Ancient Stone Circles" will give you nibbles of fascinating information.
So for instance here we have an explanation of the name Stanton Drew;

" it was a fact that during the Middle Ages the land surrounding the stone circles was owned by the Drogo family, a Norman name which evolved into the Anglo-Celtic word for magician, sorcerer or druid 'Dru, Dryu', or more commonly today Drew. Hence ..Stanton Drew or Stone Town of the Drew Family" Gordon Strong.

Be that as it may the little pub in the village that houses the Cove, and quite a few chickens - the speckldly ones as well - is also called the Druid Arms.
He also gives the etymology of cove "derived from Old English 'cofa', an alcove (ancient German for hollow place). The Cove sits somewhat uneasily encased by the wire fence of the pub garden, with the church centrally place between it and the stone circles as drawn by Stukeley.


The Great circle is impressive, though many of the stones lie fallen, there colour and texture is remarkable so different from the Avebury Stones, whilst there wandering amongst them, we came across a dowser, Paul Daws was his name and had a long and interesting chat with him, he had apparently found some hidden circles up by Castlerigg. Only one person in seven can dowse so he informed me, obviously I'm one of the other six which is a shame


Three stones in the smaller circle


A lovely jumble of stones down by the two (hardly there) avenues down to the river

Many of the stones at Stanton Drew were broken up, burnt or buried in Medieval times, but it is believed the strong folklore tradition of the 'Wedding Stones' story probably helped save the rest. It was a multi-phase site, the earliest being the timber circle of nine concentric rings, or maybe of the henge, though the bank is not visible, and therefore a ditch and bank might not have been there, but it is suggested by Jodie Lewis, that the ditch might have been filled in between the wood and stone stage, as Aubrey says "it is a ploughed land and so easily worn out"

Lewis goes on to outline the case between 'closed' and 'open sites' an archaeological construct which sees the closed nature of timber circles and henges against the open nature of stone circles, this theory was somewhat exploded in the latest idea on Stonehenge where a 20 foot palisade was thought to be erected around the stones, though it seems a further revision may see the huge post holes as tree throws.

Composition of stone; the fluours and transparent crystallisation... shine eminently and reflect the sunbeams with great lustre" Stukeley

The stones are made of several different rock types; and it is interesting to note Lloyd Morgan (1887) list

The Great Circle; Silicious breccia, dolomitic breccia, oolitic limestone, coarser sandstone.

The north-east circle; Silicious breccia

The south-west circle; sandstone, silicious breccia, dolomitic breccia.

Hautville Quoit; Fine grained cherty sandstone

Tynings stones; oolitic limestone

The Cove; dolomitic breccia.

Many of the stones are striking because of the mixed appearance, they are conglomerates, with brightly coloured ragged surfaces - very dramatic - shot through with iron colouring, almost giving the appearance of blood, the quartz and dark coal conglomerate fissured deeply.

Some stones also have strong anthromorphic shapes, whilst others are solidly square, yet the instinctive response to them is that some stones represent something , either gods or ancestors, to the people who put them them up. They probably came from within few miles of the site.

Mary Stoke Cope

There is really not much information about Mary Cope (1852-1888) and her poem about Awbury, her parents were Thomas Pim Cope (1823-1900) , and her mother Elizabeth Waln Stokes (1823-1902). Her brother Alban, seems to have been commited to an asylum between 1890-1891 and later on to the Hartford Retreat after Mary's death.

Mary's father seems to have made a religious trip to Europe and England in 1890, and there is correspondence from this trip asking after Alban.

http://www.haverford.edu/library/special/aids/tpcope/#boxd

Her grandparents - Thomas Pim Cope (1768-1854) Mary Drinker (1766-1825 - are interesting, her grandfather became one of the wealthiest mechants in Philadelphi, he was a politician, strong Quaker and philanthropist. Mary and Thomas were married in 1792, she also came from a Quaker family, and from the following letter, it can be seen that she loved him very much. Perhaps her way with words inspired her granddaughter Mary Cope to write poems, and it is sad that there is no correspondence or other poems in the various collections that comprise the Cope extensive collection of correspondence at Haverford College.

A Dream of Love

Judge not my beloved Friend, from my silence, that thou art absent from my thoughts—waking & sleeping, I commune with my far distant Love; and copious are the effusions I mentally pour into his unconscious ear. Last night he appeared to me in a vision, like a sudden apparition; he kiss’d me many times with great fervency but still greater haste; he did not even tarry to sit down; and was gone again on some unxplain’d momentous business swifter than a meteor in a summer sky.

Letter to Thomas Cope from Mary Cope 15 March 1808 LANCASTER COUNTY HISTORICAL SOCIETY ARCHIVES, DOCUMENT COLLECTION

Last Night at the Proms

Silent Noon -Dante Gabriel Rossetti

Your hands lie open in the long fresh grass,-
The finger-points look through, like rosy blooms:
Your eyes smile peace. The pasture gleams and glooms
'Neath billowing skies that scatter and amass.
All round our nest far, as the eye can pass
Are golden kingcup fields with silver edge
Where the cow-parsley skirts the hawthorn-hedge
'Tis visible silence, still as the hour-glass.
Deep in the sun searched groves, a dragon-fly
Hangs, like a blue thread loosened from the sky:-
So this winged hour is dropt to us from above.
Oh! clasp we to our hearts, for deathless dower
This close-companioned inarticulate hour
When twofold silence was the song of love.

Each year there is this wonderful feast of pure nostalgia, an unashamed nationalistic pride of British songs and music that will bring tears to the eyes. Even as I type there is a merry Irish jig playing from Belfast, joyously the musicans throw the beat into the room.
This is the time that the four small countries of Gt.Britain give us back our traditional music, and bring back memories of not only our own history but of our inheritance as a sparky in yer face curmudgeonly, volatile mixed race that we are.
So what are the highlights? Bryn Terfei for one in his deep Welsh voice sings traditional songs, and I remember those days at school when we rehearsed and sang these songs. Auld Lang Syne brings back a memory of crawling through a chimney piece in the attics of our old Victorian house, aged about 8 and finding in the dusty room behind it a book of poetry by Robbie Burns.
For ages I would sit and try to decipher this unknown language puzzled by its nearness to the English language but never quite understanding it.
What else, Anna Meredith marvellous new piece of music - sheer brilliance - can't even describe it but its force and energy ringing out, echoed in the response of the audience.
That is of course also part of it, audience participation, exuberantly shouting, clapping, singing and crackers going off, silence when it is needed - joy in music and words that soars above the pettiness of our lives, and reminds us that our spiritual needs for beauty, poetry and art are still the most inspiring things humans can offer to nature.

Jerusalem - William Blake

And did those feet in ancient time

Walk upon England's mountains green?

And was the holy Lamb of God

On England's pleasant pastures seen?

And did the Countenance Divine

Shine forth upon our clouded hills?

And was Jerusalem builded here

Among these dark Satanic mills?

Bring me my bow of burning gold:

Bring me my arrows of desire:

Bring me my spear: O clouds unfold!

Bring me my chariot of fire.

I will not cease from mental fight,

Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand

Till we have built Jerusalem

In England's green and pleasant land.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b00dl94q

notes

Tracking through genealogical records is time consuming and can be very boring, odd facts though stand out from the page, and I find my mind concentrating on Oliver Cope's mother, Elizabeth.

"As has been seen, the evidence proves that Oliver Cope, the immigrant was son of john Cope of Chisledon, Wiltshire, yeoman, who made his Will in 1649 and of Elizabeth Cope, a widow living in Avebury, Wiltshire in 1681. "

A slight statement, but the fact is Oliver's father died in 1649, and his mother must have died in 1681 the year before Oliver emigrated, she seems to have died in Chisledon, a village three miles from Swindon. There is also a mention of a Maude Truslow, obviously taking her name from the village of Trusloe in 1636. There are earthwork remains of a medieval village here at Trusloe, perhaps it has always been a small hamlet.
Slowly a picture begins to unfold of this time period, a restless, unsettled century, in which England experienced a Civil War, and perhaps more important a radical change in religion.
The Quakers, maybe be seen as an offset of the Puritans, the early beginnings of Quakerism were difficult they were persecuted by law and ordinary people alike. Yet they persevered, setting up meeting houses, schools, apprenticeships and businesses. They prospered because they were a close network, a community with family and friends ties that helped in business deals, though of course this 'making money' went slightly against the grain of their religion.
So that when we see Oliver Cope as a tailor, it could well be that he was apprenticed through this system, that he was never seen as a Quaker by Gilbert Cope, could well be down to the fact of this persecution that surrounded the religious faction in its early phase in England and the need to be quiet about religious affliations.
Oliver had bought land of William Penn a prominent Quaker, and Penn travelled to America in 1682 on the ship Welcome, and it would seem very likely that Oliver and his family travelled shortly after his mother's death, maybe not on the same boat but in the small fleet that seem to have left at this time. This long boat trips were no easy undertaking, a third of the passengers died of typhoid fever on the voyage on the Welcome, cramped up in narrow cabins, disease would have been rife.
Oliver died in 1697 probably aged 50 years, which gives him 15 years in which to establish a home in Pennsylvania with his wife and four children.

Note; Oliver's father died round 1649, Oliver was born in 1647, meaning that his mother was widowed all through Oliver's childhood, there would have been poverty in the household, yet he managed to train for a trade, giving credence to the fact that it was probably a Quaker training...

http://documents.kennet.gov.uk/Tourism/avebury/tourchapel/index.html

Black and White

The many gabled manor house,

With winking casement sheen,

Seem in the summer light to drowse

And dream of what has been

Writing about Oliver Cope, my mind has always been on Avebury and its history in the 17th century, when Cope dwelt in the village with his family. Would the stones have been hidden by trees, would the inner circle of the henge been covered with a patchwork of small gardens, picket fencing to keep a few sheep in. Aubrey would have visited in the first half of the century, Stukeley later, we have Stukeley's drawings depicting fallen stones; how would Oliver's three children played about these stones. How would they have been viewed? these pagan relicts from the past.

We have the emergence of Quakerism all through this century, a simplifying of the Anglican religion of the time causing unrest and dissent. What makes people go against the accepted 'norm' the so called Puritans. History is a vast web of human thinking and imagination, we can trace some of the pathways by that which is left, but this new movement of Quakerism did it inspire Oliver to buy land in the new Eden of America, unspoilt, untrammelled by religious thought, new churches to be built, new philosophies to be worked out, the hard back breaking work to till the soil and live in a simple manner. No, Oliver our tailor from Avebury, seems an unlikely man to breakout of the mould of tradition, that he did showed courage, and one thing that seems so poignant is his last will as he left his horses and land to his wife and family in this far off land at Naamede Creek, away from the Wiltshire countryside.

Oliver Cope's last will; 1697

I, Oliver Cope, now of y countie of New Castle, being weak in body ie but of sound and disposing mind and memory, praised be y lorde for it make and ordain this last will................

Item; I give and bequeath that what horses and mares my daughters have, shall be and remaine their own.

I give and bequeth unto my daughter Ruth, three wether sheep, and one ewe and lamb

To my son William, one ewe and lamb, and as for my stock of cattle, I will that

my wife shall one half of them, and y other half of y cattle chall be equallie

divided between my foure children.

I give to my son William £17

I give to my daughter Ruth, £3.10s.

I give and bequeath to my son John, y old bay mare and her two colts

I give more to my other son William, all my other horses and mares

I give and bequeath y one-half of all remaining part of my estate, both real and

personal, between my foure children - my two sons to have a double share of it

I give one horse to my wfe. The other half of my estate, I give and bequeath

unto my wife during her widowhood. When I make my full and sole and if my wife happen to marry that then part shall be equallie divided between my foure children........

In the year of our lord 1697 - Oliver Cope

Also signed by Rebecca Cope