Ludlow Ledger (Issue #2)

Ludlow’s roost returns Paul the vinyl man St Leonard’s fallen tombstones Pint of Guinness with Douglas A gallon of facts about local beer

Sandpits’ shoe-string pigeon loft Liz’s allotment Local youth speak out

ISSUE 2 – JULY/AUGUST 2014 – FREE

“...something about spying a lingering shape on the north facing tower steps soon convinces me

that my horse-like nerves have not waned”MORE than anything, the thing I aspired to be, when I was 11 going on 12, was a ghost hunter – eagerly hanging in wait for something headless, or horse-drawn.

You would fi nd me around the local churches, honing my skills – armed with little more than a Polaroid camera, a common household thermometer, a tub of talc and a general uneasiness that would indeed impress a horse.

Aside from conjuring up ever-more elaborate reasons for going out only when dark, nothing out of the ordinary ever happened, but this did little to dampen my enthusiasm as

I forever wandered about local bell towers, asking if anybody was there. There wasn’t.

Jump ahead thirty years – and I now live a stone’s throw from a walled-up monk, a dead dog walker, and two wafting ladies; which got me thinking....

I’m no better equipped – aside from being able to stay out late without asking mum or dad, and having to climb out of the bedroom window if they said no – so I fi nd myself breaking a three-decade old sabbatical as a ghost hunter without an EVP recorder, EMF meter, motion sensor, or even a thermal camera.

But I did have a willing cameraman, and a wish to wonder once again. “Is there anybody there?”

Ludlow castle is home to the town’s most told ghost story, so it seemed pretty obvious to start my most adventurous ghost hunt since puberty in search of the beautiful Marion de Bruer – who, it is said, orchestrated the escape of Sir Arnold de Lys – a castle prisoner at the time. De Lys returned some time later, to romance said lady secretly and with him he brought Walter de Lacy and an army of 100 soldiers.

Continued on page 18 >

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Editor’s notes, hello again

Cheers, Jon [email protected] 244060

WE boldly asked for constructive criticism in issue 1, and indeed we got it. From phone calls and text, emails and social alerts, to postcards and letters – we received feedback from every conceivable angle – mostly praising the focus upon real Ludlow, and tributes to our issue 1 icon, Graeme Kidd. I was personally fortunate enough to receive a hand-delivered copy of issue 1 in which a reader had circling our miss-types, errors in spelling, and general mismanagement of the English language. Thankfully the red corrections were few and far between, but enough to wish for a higher bar – and so, with great pleasure and perhaps peculiar pertinence, we’re able to announce a new member of the team – our sub-editor, Sally Newman-Kidd.

With this second (hopefully less rusty) issue of Ludlow Ledger we’ve continued with features and interviews from within Ludlow: just off Corve Street for both our profile

piece on Paul Bradshaw of local record-shop Mod Lang (p8-10); and our walk around St Leonard’s burial plots (p11); a terrace-end home on Sandpits Avenue, to spend time with Ozzie and his shoe-string pigeon loft. And, just like his racing flock, we too have stretched our wings just a little – with a day-trip to Acton Scott, 20 minutes down the road from Ludlow (p13).

We’ve aimed for the same balance of entertainment and information, whilst highlighting a few issues here and there, such as the threatened loss of the elephant slide (p6) and our town’s breeding swifts (p16-17). But there are some faint differences this time around – hopefully, without boring you too much, we’re going to brag about 4,500 of our 9,000 issue 1 print run, all finding homes in the first week alone. The Church Inn (one of our 31 outlets) circulated over 1,000 copies, only superceeded by Ludlow Food Centre’s 1,200. Thanks also to Stanton from Castle

Bookshop, Louise from the Fish House, LA Jewellery’s Lisa-Anne, and Fred from Chinese Garden, for collectively circulating 1,000 copies; next to Leintwardine’s Sun Inn and Fiddlers Elbow – and Brampton Bryan’s Aardark Books – for their out-of-town push of Ludlow Ledger. With only 500 remaining before the close of the first month we made the decision to alter our print run, and to throw our distribution net a little wider.

I’m also genuinely chuffed to bits that so many came forward to help write, plan and photograph this issue: you can read about them all on page 19. It just goes to show that you can truly create a proper local paper, with local content, with local support, readers and advertisers; long may it continue. Thank you.

ContentsPUB CHAT 4

Spending time with Douglas at the Charlton Arms

SHOP FRONT 4The day we photographed a pike and a duckbill platypus

LOCAL ICON 5Admiral James Vashon: a Ludlow man over-shadowed by Nelson

WHAT’S BEEN GOING ON 6-7Possible new petrol station, new pizza and a threatened elephant

PROFILE 8-10Paul Bradshaw: the record man at the helm of Ludlow’s Mod Lang

HISTORY 11Battling the brambles to uncover St Leonard’s gravestones

GARDENING 12Liz’s Ludlow allotment low-down

TRAVEL 13When was the last time you visited Acton Scott? A doorstep treasure

PAVEMENT STATEMENTS 15Quite literally the talk of the town

FINDING LUDLOW 16-17“...screaming around with a number of other birds, you can see why

they were called ‘Devil’s Birds’”

COVER STORY... CONTINUED 18Ludlow is one of the most haunted towns in the UK. True or false?

SPORT 20Sandpits’ shoestring pigeon loft and Ozzie’s 50mph birds

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1211

Front cover image} courtesy of Richard Stanton | Editor’s notes image} courtesy of Gavin Weston | Print} Newspaper Club, London

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bits of gunpowder and God-knows-what fl oating in the air. So I go in to mend a fridge. So security says: give us your matches; give us this, give us that; give us your torch; everything. So I go in now and I stripped the motor off, and put it down. And it said on the sheet: serial number and model, and so I put my hand in my pocket and brought out a match. I put it on the motor to strike it and then I remembered where I was. I didn’t stop shaking for two hours. If I’d have struck that match it would have been such a hole that Kidwelly would have ended up in Ireland.

After the First World War my great uncle’s father bought him a horse and cart to sell coal. And because the women didn’t have enough money he used to give the coal away. He used to give the kids a ride on his horse and cart, and when he thought the horse was tired he’d take it out the traps and carry it home: he’d get under it, lift it off its feet, and walk it back.

He was strong. He used to work on the ships, painting, and nobody would work on the planks with him, because he’d dance on the planks. If you were on the plank, in the dock you’d go. He used to go swimming between the two piers winter and summer every morning, and my uncle had to go down and hold his clothes. A tramcar hit him

one day. The tramcar came up the road and turned, and there was a pawnbrokers there, with the double doors, and the tram hit him – and he took both doors off their hinges. He got up, shook himself and walked home. He was a big bloke. And he was hard. He was as gentle as anything. Nobody would take him on. But he was a gentleman.

My mum was a medium. She could read people like a book. She used to read their fortune in the teacup, or read the palm on your hand. She told a lot of people a lot of things they didn’t want to know.

I don’t know nothing about football. I don’t know nothing about cricket. I don’t know nothing about rugby. When I was at school I got picked for a football team. Some idiot kicked the ball up there, and they all ran up there. Some idiot up there kicked the ball back down, and they all run down here. I just stood in one spot. They never picked me again.

SURROUNDED by a rolling dachshund and a bounding hare (all by Lucy Kinsella), this lovely, limited-edition bronze of a platypus charmed us off Mill Street and into the gallery of Rowles Fine Art. At six inches tall it is signed and numbered by the artist: priced at £850.

tAXIDERMY of course doesn’t fl oat everyone’s boat, but how can you refuse this charming pike bust – which caught our attention (as did the large glass-cased duck) both in the window of 55 MILL STREET? The dark wood shield is a bit rough and ready, with period cobwebs adorning the predatory fi sh’s head, but a fi ne talking piece nonetheless; a fun object of wall decoration indeed and all yours for £121.

BLACK BOUGH has a great heritage, when it comes to vintage wristwatches, with their Market Street cabinet currently home to an Omega Seamaster Memomatic Alarm – a delight that was launched in 1969; featuring a massive 40mm stainless steel case, and a highly complex Omega calibre 980 movement. A gem of a timepiece for £1,460.

Shopfront

The interview with Douglas featured in edition #3 of Doghouse – the British pub magazine, which is produced by the team behind Ludlow Ledger. You can buy all fi ve volumes from LA Jewellery, Parkway Mews, or order online:www.doghousemagazine.co.uk

friendly with Russia, so we had to experiment with that, so if we argued with Russia we could fi ght them in their own country.

I enjoyed myself throwing grenades. Pull the pin out, release the trigger, have a look to see where it lands, as you might have to go and pick it up if he doesn’t go off: and get down behind the blast wall. Lovely job, until one of the boys was a cricketer. So all the boys thought, can’t wait to see his throw. If he could throw a hard cork ball, a grenade wouldn’t be anything to him. He threw it alright: it went straight up in the air and came down at his feet. It wasn’t funny at the time.

I worked in an aeroplane hangar one day, but there was no aircraft in there. There was dynamite, gunpowder, everything – the width of the room to height of this ceiling. And you’d go in there, and there was a skylight and you’d see all

WHEn I left school, my father took me down to a horse stables... and they interviewed me to be a jockey. But I didn’t get that job. Then I had an interview to be a woman’s hairdresser. I didn’t get that chance. So I ended up doing refrigeration.

I used to go to minus 20, without a coat on, and work there. I used to take small arms for the government down to minus 40; anti-aircraft guns down to minus 100. The anti-aircraft gun was bolted to the fl oor, right, and the roof used to slide open and then fi re the gun out to sea in Swansea, down Gower.... fi re so many rounds then shut the roof, bring the temperature up, and go in and examine the gun. Because what beat the Germans in the war, was the winter in Russia – where the German guns seized up. So, after the war, then they weren’t very

Douglas of the Charlton Arms

interviewed by } Jon Saxon | image } Richard Stanton

Guinness or two with Charlton Arms’ Douglas

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In 1802 England’s hero, Admiral Horatio Nelson, visited Ludlow to be awarded the freedom of the town. Addressing a cheering crowd from the windows of the Angel Inn, Nelson, with typical generosity, sang the praises of Ludlow’s own best-known naval offi cer, Captain James Vashon: “whom I am happy to call my friend, who I feel convinced, from my own knowledge of his character and long acquaintance with him, only wants the opportunity to prove himself equally deserving of the approbation of his fellow-townsmen and the gratitude of his country.”

Behind Nelson’s words lay a story of bravery and frustrated hope and ambition.

James Vashon, born in Ludlow on 9th August 1742, was the son of a clergyman, James Volant Vashon, Vicar of Eye in Shropshire and lecturer of Ludlow’s St Laurence’s Church. As the name suggests, the family was of French-Hugenot descent. Young James longed for a naval career and so in August 1755, aged 13, he was entered into the establishment of HMS Revenge, whose captain, John Cornewell, was a member of a local gentry family. Vashon’s fi rst experience of action came in 1756, when Revenge was present at the Battle of Minorca, a disappointing affair which led to the trial and execution of the British commander, Admiral Byng.

Captain Cornewell returned to England as a witness at Byng’s trial, and Vashon transferred to the Lancaster, heading for the war across the Atlantic; here Vashon had a much more exciting time. In 1758 he was at the capture of the great French fortress of Louisbourg, in Canada, and then served in the West Indies, where the French possessions and trade offered many opportunities for a young naval offi cer.

Vashon soon had an opportunity to show his mettle when, with a party of seamen, he joined Captain Uvedale aboard the 28-gun frigate Boreas, which was cruising in search of French ships.

One night Boreas encountered a much larger French ship and they exchanged fi re until morning when the Frenchman, who proved to be the 32-gun frigate Sirene, surrendered. Soon afterwards, on the coast of Cuba, another of the enemy, this time a privateer of 12 guns with a crew of 90 men, was sighted. The French vessel fl ed into shallow water where Boreas was unable to follow. She lowered her boats and sent them in after the enemy. Vashon was in command of a pinnace which came under fi re as it approached and sank just as it came alongside the Frenchman.

Ludlow legend remembered

text } John Barratt | painting } George Watson

Admiral Vashon: Ludlow’s NelsonWith four feet of water in her

hold, Vashon faced a desperate situation. Differences forgotten, the French prisoners helped man the pumps, and the Lion eventually limped safely into port.

Once again Vashon was commended for his success, and this time the Admiralty promoted him to Commander and gave him his fi rst ship, the little 14-gun brig Alert. A ship of this size was not expected to join in fl eet actions, where it would have fallen easy victim to enemy battleships. Instead Vashon was employed mainly in scouting expeditions and in escorting convoys.

It was a dull time for Vashon. Merchant ship captains in convoys were not usually appreciative and, although he captured and burnt a Spanish ship, he received little acknowledgement. Vashon was apparently not on good terms with his immediate superior, Admiral Sir Peter Parker, who packed him off to England with despatches. It did, however, give Vashon the opportunity to marry Jane Bethell in 1779. They had a son, but Jane died suddenly in 1786, and James subsequently married Sarah Rainer, sister of a fellow offi cer.

However, when Vashon, still in Alert, returned to the West Indies in 1782, he was under the immediate command of the charismatic Sir George Rodney. Vashon was soon engaged in a spying mission – he was sent to the French naval base at Martinique, ostensibly to discuss prisoner exchange with the French commander Admiral de Grasse, but in fact to obtain information about the enemy. De Grasse was certainly well aware of this aspect of Vashon’s mission, but they seem to have got along famously.

As de Grasse anticipated, the two men were soon to meet in very different circumstances at the decisive English victory at the Battle of the Saints. Vashon witnessed the battle from aboard Rodney’s fl agship, and afterwards was sent in Alert to take in tow a dismasted, captured, French battleship. Whilst doing so he rescued 80 British and French survivors from another French ship, which had exploded.

Vashon was at last made a Post Captain, Rodney saying that he “would promote none but Vashon that day”, but again fortune did not favour Vashon; he took a few more small prizes, but then in 1783 the war ended and ahead lay a decade spent partly ashore and partly in

Undeterred, Vashon and those of his crew who had survived, swam round to the other side of the enemy and joined in the boarding action, which ended in the capture and burning of the privateer.

Back aboard his usual posting on HMS Cambridge, Vashon was present at the bombardment of Havanna where his commander, Captain Goosetry, was killed. This proved a serious blow to Vashon’s hopes of advancement – Goosetry had recommended his protégée’s promotion to lieutenant after the capture of the privateer, but Admiral Holmes had replied dubiously: “I would do so, but he looks such a boy”. He promised to think the matter over, but died before reaching a decision; Vashon was not promoted for another 12 years.

In 1763, the end of the war dimmed his chances even further and he spent the next few years in various uneventful postings, and a period of unemployment ashore – promotion still eluded him.

The outbreak of the American Revolutionary War in 1774 offered new prospects and Vashon was quickly promoted to First Lieutenant in a rapidly expanding navy. He was posted aboard HMS Maidstone under the capable Captain Gardner, who quickly grew to value Vashon.

Operating off Rhode Island, Maidstone’s squadron cut a swathe through American shipping in the area, and in March 1778, whilst in harbour, Maidstone received a signal that an American frigate was attempting to evade the British blockade. She went in pursuit, and the American ship ran itself ashore under the protection of troops and artillery. It could only be reached by boats and Vashon headed the attack. The offi cial report explained:

“Lieutenant Vashon proceeded in the pinnace… and although the enemy made a spirited resistance, and kept up a heavy fi re of musketry, he got alongside, broke through the cabin window, and succeeded in setting her on fi re. This service was performed without the loss of a man, though every man in the boat was struck by a ball, and six of them were severely wounded.” Vashon’s exploit earned him “the highest admiration.”

Soon afterwards the Maidstone was involved in a fi erce single-ship action in heavy seas with the French 40-gun ship Lion, a merchant ship carrying a cargo of 1300 barrels of tobacco. The French ship surrendered, heavily damaged, and Lieutenant Vashon, with 24 men, was put in charge of the prize and the 100 Frenchmen who were still aboard, and who couldn’t be transferred to the Maidstone because of the mountainous seas.

routine commands. However, one of his offi cers during this time was the explorer George Vancouver, who later named Vashon Island, off the coast of Washington, USA, after his old Commander.

In 1793 war began with the new French Republic. James Vashon was at last given command of a ship of the line, but missed out on the large naval actions, spending months in the English Channel, blockading the port of Brest. In 1794, in a mark of favour, he was given command of the Pompee, a captured French battleship, with the task of testing its qualities, but three years later a series of naval mutinies broke out – and Vashon’s crew were involved in the largest at Spithead. They may not have had any particular animosity towards Vashon himself but, after the mutiny was suppressed, four of his men were sentenced to death and two hanged from the yardarm.

The experience seems to have been quite devastating for Vashon and, pleading ill health, he retired from the sea until 1801. In 1803 he was promoted, at last, to Rear Admiral and put in charge of organising the convoy system in the

North Sea. This was mainly a desk-bound command, based at Leith in Scotland, where Vashon spent the next four and a half years until he retired in 1808. He was generally appreciated, and the merchants of Leith gave him a farewell banquet and two pieces of plate, but it’s hard to avoid the feeling that Vashon retired to his house in Broad Street, Ludlow a rather disappointed man. It was, a contemporary wrote, “a continual source of regret” to him that he had gone through the last great war with France, which brought glory and honours to so many of his fellow offi cers, without seeing a single shot fi red in anger.

During his retirement James Vashon was a leading fi gure of Ludlow society, a churchwarden and regarded with such respect and awe that one young lady, introduced to the old gentleman, was so overcome that she fell off her seat.

Admiral James Vashon died in 1827 and is buried in St Laurence’s church. His fi nal home at 54 Broad Street is marked with one of Ludlow’s blue plaques, a fi tting testimony to one of Ludlow’s notables.

Images on p4} Omega watch, courtesy of Alex Barter; remaining, courtesy of Richard Stanton

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– LOCAL ICON –

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It was at another address in the same area that I was approached by a resident who, by the time I’d completed the doors of the cul-de-sac, had had time to read the cover-story sentence: ‘I remember a friend exiting Sandpits estate safely in a Ford Fiesta – only to be overtaken down Sidney Road by two kids on a sofa.’ He remembered the sofa (brown as it happens), which sat up on the corner for anyone wishing to give it a go; he even named the three individuals that were most likely to steer this settee. “There was a red car bonnet up there too”, he added. “When it snowed, they’d

WE honestly can’t start digging into the immediate past – that of the months since issue 1 of Ludlow Ledger – without starting with the 9,000 copies that landed as a shrink-wrapped, nine-stacked-high wooden pallet1 on the back of an 18-ton lorry. With the help of Ludlow Blues Folk event-organiser Stuart Lea and Andy Boddington, bundles of Ludlow’s new paper made their way into shops, community spaces, retirement homes and residential letterboxes. And I only got chased by two dogs – both at the same address.

get on it, nine up, and fl y down that hill. I kid you not; I was overtaken down that same road – in the height of summer – by a kid on skis.”

Surprising too was the turnout for this year’s Spring Festival2 which, despite the rubbish weather, saw a bumper crop of visitors – with quite a chunk of the beer selling out before Saturday had properly got going. Thankfully there was beer on tap elsewhere in town, including the Parkway Blues Folk event – hosting local boys Grey Wolf, a bunch of buskers, and a fl ow of Ludlow Brewery’s Gold.

One thing that shouldn’t come as a surprise to Ludlowers, is that more food establishments have cropped up in town. Amongst them, the retired covers of The Mail Room, at No7 Corve Street, have been given a new lease of life under the wing of one-time head chef for Bringewood – James Moss. The Old Post Offi ce space is back open for business as Bistro Seven – with a website that promotes venison faggots, bubble and squeak and an Inka Char oven.

Hot on their tail (in terms of the

numbers game), is another new four walls of food – Pizza Ten3, a venue that serves pizza at number 2 Quality Square, in the old home of the Courtyard Cafe. Neighboured by The Wine Bar, with a direct view of St Laurence’s church, it offers ten pizzas and ten wines, and is the brainchild of Julian Barratt.

Open from 12noon to 2:30pm for lunch and 6pm to 9:30pm for dinner – Wednesday to Sunday – it accommodates 60 odd covers thanks to a sympathetic shuffl e of walls, along with the previous apartment being brought into the fold as a mezzanine dining area (accessed by a mix of exposed wooden fl oorboards, and industrial hand rails).

Being able to butchers at the chefs at play, with the white-tiled splash back, shiny stainless-steel servery, and the dangle of sieves, pots, pans, whisks, jugs and graters, makes for a pleasing experience. If the food and service meet the same level of detail, showcased in the fl oorplan’s presentation, perhaps food in this ‘food town’ can, fi nally, start living up to its claim.

So when does ten become none?

When Shropshire Council have their say about Ludlow’s play areas for young children. Just like its African cousin, the Friars Close elephant4 – painted bright blue, with its equally bright yellow ears – could be cruelly retired, due to supportive woodwork and steps rotting away.

It’s been overheard that up to £3,000 for repairs had been estimated by Shropshire Council – who are responsible for most of Ludlow’s play areas – to get this magnifi cent mammal back on its feet. Clearly these councillors haven’t taken the time recently to measure up the mediocre square footage of plywood required at either Homecare or Travis Perkins. And what does a large pot of baby-blue paint and a smaller one of yellow cost?

We’d be seriously shocked if the Council doesn’t stump up the cash for the re-decoration of this Friars Close beast. But there again, the Council aren’t entirely shy of ignoring anything of genuine value to young folk. And it’s not just the bold elephant, with its aluminium trunk for a slide, that’s close to death – the play area on Normandie Close is threatened with closure,

Since issue 1 of Ludlow Ledger

text } Jon Saxon

Town’s threatened elephant and outdoor toilets

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– PAST, PRESENT, FUTURE –


with many more play areas set to have their equipment uprooted and sent to a scrap stack or land-fill. A rocking elephant recently fell foul to this playground cull, which could be rolled out across Ludlow in its entirety, if we don’t blow a few trumpets. After all, just like elephants, children don’t forget – nor should we.

Councillor Andy Boddington, commented: “We need friends for our play areas and our elephants. If each play area had a friend’s group, they could help keep areas clean and keep them in good order in collaboration with Shropshire Council or the Town Council. A friends group would also demonstrate how much our communities care about their local play area.”

Another threatened plot is the former Burway Abattoir5 site (currently home to Brian Mear’s brickyard, adjacent to Tollgate Cottage, at the meeting of Bromfield Road and Coronation Avenue, and next to the Marches veterinary practice) which is earmarked in a planning submission by the Mead House Pension Scheme of Isle of Syke.

The plan is to demolish existing buildings and erect a proposed 24-hour, flood-lit petrol filling station and convenience store, constructed out of Woodkirk stone and grey powder-coated aluminium windows.

Even though this means I’d have less pavement to tread to grab my essentials (I live only a few doors down), it does mean I’m more likely to get tumbled down on my way there; for one reason or another motorists seem to ignore the rules of the pedestrian crossing. It’s just a matter of time before someone faces a bumper and bonnet here, with an increase in traffic (and 24 hours of it) so best of luck to all, particularly school children, who step on to that pelican crossing. And what about the nearby River Corve, which floods here, more often than not? Water and spilt petrol just don’t work – surely this application shouldn’t either?

Whilst we are in the land of planning: the brewery owners of the Grade II listed Rose and Crown6, Joule’s, are proposing a big do-over, in which they’ll throw out the false beams (no bad thing) studded ceiling too, along with the current

bar – which will be reinvented in what is currently the dining area. The lovely 1930s fireplace will meet a sledgehammer, and within an older fireplace – which they hope to find – will slot a boring old log burner. The way in to the inn will be diverted too, with the door to the left being permanently locked; and the new entrance being what was the old off-sales hatch area. The plans also suggest that the outdoor toilets will be turned into a dining area – with covered access. It’ll be an interesting transformation, which I do hope has been thought through carefully – as once things (such as the outdoor loos) are gone, they are gone for good.

Local opinion is divided, as you’d expect – though not everyone shares my love for the lavatories. It’s an old site after all – but we must remember that the building as we now know it and see it has largely been swept along with so many cut and shuts over its long lifetime that it’s impossible to know exactly what we’re up in arms trying to preserve and protect (little perhaps of what many perceive to be 13th century, and more likely later 20th century). But, butchered or not, it’s the Rose

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Images on p6-7} 1 and 4 – author, 2 and 3 – Ashleigh Cadet, 5 – Andy Boddington, 6 – Joule’s Brewery, 7 – David Green

It always wasA town of two halves.

Fat lawyers in the centre,The workers

Digging the Sandpitsonly coming in

For hiring fairs in May.

In Tower StreetDavid walks by

With pom-pom hat and Tesco bag,

Smiling and greeting allAs long lost friendsNot seen for years,Ignoring the jeers

Of pelmet-skirted girlsAnd hooded lads.

Past Galdeford Gate,Invisible today,

But still an unseen barKeeping out the Them,

and in the Us.

Few harassed mums with pramsAnd trailing kids

Pass Bodenham’s now.Trade Secrets’

Gone.Charity shops.

Upmarket boutiqueswith marked-up prices

Are no substitute.So the poor of LudlowHelp the poor of Africa

No more.

But come May FairThe town becomes

One,As gangs of lads

And families with pramsBreach the walls,Answering the call

Of wild rides, candy floss and sausage stalls.

Listed buildingsShiver as rides a hundred feet tall

Whirl them to dizzy heights.Flashing lights

Turn Georgian panesTo bright stained glass.

Incomers shut their shuttersAnd head for France,

but some stay onto join this sudden dance

Of intermingling town.Just once a year.

Then back behind blind gatesThey disappear.

Mayfair

author } Marilyn Gaunt

“Incomers shut their shutters. And head for

France, but some stay on to join this

sudden dance”

– POETRY –

We’ll soon be introducing a letters page. Something to say?

[email protected]

& Crown that locals know and love – so should it really undergo even more invasive surgery? That said, page 33 of the Heritage Impact Assessment – relating to this planning application – reads: “Most changes are internal, where much of the heritage damage to the property has already happened.” Many say it won’t happen. I reckon it will....

And from the soon-to-be-lost to the soon-to-be found, in the shape of the new exciting and varied Mortimer Forest Heritage Project7. Spearheaded by Ludlow’s Julia Walling, who – with a bit of Heritage lottery funding – has rallied together a team of key experts, to help local people survey and monitor the wildlife at Mortimer Forest; to learn about woodland ecology, natural and social history, geology and archaeology. It’s a fantastic and fascinating project that anyone can get involved in – whether you’re a know it all, or a complete novice. Get in touch with Julia to see how you can get stuck in: [email protected] and 01584 874636.

6

8

text } Jon Saxon | images } Richard Stanton

had a discothèque called the Moulin Rouge, which I remember was painted accordingly. It also had a jukebox. And, as my parents had no interest in music whatsoever, the company that owned the jukebox would send me four records a week in the mail, which I would refresh every week. And then, consequently, I started selling those in the off sales – with a box of singles under the counter and a sign: records for sale, and I used the money to buy records. I quite liked it. And still do.”

This passion carried Paul, initially, to Brighton, as Manager for Virgin, then a call from a friend: “I’m opening up a shop in Berkeley, Califonia – would you like to come work for me?’ He called me on a Monday. I fl ew to California on the Friday. Came back on the following Monday and quit my job. There wasn’t much to think about really.”

Eventually Paul started selling records himself, through mail order, from home – exporting promo 12s back to the UK, and importing picture sleeve 7s in to the US; before fi nally opening up the fi rst Mod Lang store, in Berkeley. “A lot of the dealers tended to be fi xated on the biggies: Beach Boys, Beatles, Rolling Stones, The Who, Led Zeppelin, and I found this complete untapped market of young people who wanted, for example, every Siouxsie And The Banshees picture-sleeve single. We’d go to LA every month to do a record fair, where people would literally stand three-deep in front of our table, before we opened, to get to the section of whatever band they collected. A lot of fun.”

And it still is, after all these years – whether a 9-year old in Boots blowing up over a Beatles record, aged 14 watching The Who at Birmingham Hippodrome, or just shy of 60 sat in his Ludlow shop wondering who will walk through the door, or what record he’ll next be exposed to. “I never get tired of it. There’s always new stuff to listen to. There’s always old stuff to re-discover. In fact I bought a collection of Blues records last year, which was fabulous, because I didn’t know 75 percent of the artists. It’s like being given 20 movies, made by your favourite fi lm director, that you didn’t know existed.”

We’re on the same page here – matching our love for vinyl, sleeve for sleeve – even though it’s a bit hit and miss on whether or not we understand what one is saying to the other, genre-wise. Our musical menus weave in and out of signal – running parallel as we discuss Marvin Gaye’s What’s Going On and Joni Mitchell’s Court and Spark, “ ... a record that you could just live with for the rest of your

I COnSIDERED myself quite passionate about music, until I met the ‘vinyl man’. I have a generous collection of records – collated over the years and started right here in Ludlow by spending my 7th birthday money at Woolworths. However, just as I was about to buy The Magic of Boney M, my mum suggested alternatives; I could: a) buy said LP, or b) buy essentially the same, but performed by Hits Machine Unlimited for half the price and spend the difference on something else. I did just that.

Paul Bradshaw, who runs Ludlow’s Mod Lang record shop, faced a similar situation with his own mother, when he was 9. “I wanted The Beatles Twist and Shout, but she wouldn’t buy it for me, because it was an EP. Brian Poole and the Tremeloes had the same song out, as a single, and so my mum says: we’ll get you the Brian Poole and the Tremeloes’ version. I remember having a complete melt down in Boots. And my mum did that classic thing of just walking away while I expressed my frustration.”

These days Paul has exactly what he wants, and I imagined he would have an equal to my collection merely in misplaced vinyl (perhaps fallen down the back of the sofa, or taking up a place meant for meat, milk, and cheese). Then I met Paul properly and found there’s no disarray, nothing down the back of the sofa and no records in the fridge. He may not know how many records he owns, but he knows where they all are. He’s a fusspot too (brooding over both his at-work and at-home records), so I was surprised to learn that earlier that week he’d actually sold a record from this personal collection; “...it’s something I normally wouldn’t do. I think it’s because I’m 60 this year – I’m being a bit more fl exible. Basically, the guy said he was only missing two Wizz Jones records, and I had one in my collection, and I haven’t played it in at least 15 years – so I sold it.”

It’s a lifetime away from his teenage years, rife with frustrations, always wanting to buy more than he had the money for. “I’d be agonising for hours over which one I should get. That’s probably why I ended up having a record shop, so I can buy absolutely everything.”

Clawing through his beard, he’s back at 9 years old in his parent’s pub, The Forest: “We used to have beat groups play there, in the mid Sixties. I remember standing in the hallway, listening to bands play. I guess I just connected to music through listening to loud music through a door. And then the pub

For the record and a few CDs

Mod Lang

– PROFILE –


9

life,” says Paul. But the connection soon weakens, as I mention the likes of Blade, Mike Baker The Bike Maker, and whether he’s ever stumbled across a copy of Altern 8’s Car Park bootleg?

Relative harmony resumes when I mention Hendrix, though back on shaky ground once it’s suggested that I own every album he’d ever released – including a quarter-inch thick label-less live bootleg: Paul quietly gets up, and wafts over to the sixth rack of vinyl from the doorway, two album boxes back, and (like an all-knowing arcade grabber) successfully pinches two inches worth of pristine vinyl – all Jimi Hendrix – none of which I own.

If we were both our 7 and 9-year old selves we’d have fallen out by now. But I’m 41, and the envy and pride of those early years has given over to awe and ambition.

I’m impressed at the pricing too. Yes there are some big numbers tagged to some of Mod Lang’s records, but I seem to be forever stuck on the sensible shelf – noticing the life-changing Court and Spark carries a £6.99 sticker. I’ve paid an awful lot more, for an awful lot less, I can tell you that much.

“We all like to sell £100 records; but I like the idea that somebody can come in and buy, maybe, a Beatles’ album, that’s not in mint condition – for £6 – and go home, and it’s this whole new exciting world for them.” Paul continues: “New vinyl costs £15-£20, so £7 for a record from the 1960s that could possibly change your life, is a bargain really. It’s more important for someone to fi nd a record that they care about, and be able to afford it.”

Of course music is very much accessible these days, and very much affordable – if not valueless – when you consider as little as 50p on iTunes can secure you a digital single; that troops of artists literally give their life’s work away for nothing on Bandcamp; whilst others’ entire catalogues are pirated at will, with no fi nancial gain.

“A friend of mine came out with a great sound bite about this, which I’ve stolen and used a lot over the years: ‘There is nothing sexy about a digital bit-stream.’ When people say, ‘oh, I’ve got 8,000 tracks on my phone in MP3 quality; oh, and I’m really into music’ – it’s like someone saying, ‘oh, I’m a real movie buff, and I like to watch movies on one of those little screens on the back of your seat, on a plane.’ It’s the whole package with records: the sleeve; the artwork; the thought that went into it – and it requires time – it requires your attention.”

And how fortunate we are, here in Ludlow, to have such a well-curated, fussed-over, and welcoming environment as Mod Lang – deserving of our time and attention – to keep us long-termers topped up, to educate those in limbo, and to enlighten new faces. And all this without ever needing to move a heavy box of dusty records to get to the stack you want ... and anyone who has shopped at Kidderminster’s Mister Tees will know what I’m talking about; there you have to walk over a carpet of records slid from their sleeves – scratched, scuffed – and still yours for £10. Here, at Mod Lang, Paul has thought it all through

thoroughly. And for those who want the true digging experience, there’s still the obligatory back room where you can sift through shelves of unlisted, yet-to-be-priced records, for hours on end.

Paul is so defi nite about what he’s achieved here, at Woodyard Studio (sandwiched between Corve Street and the library car park) – a clear vision, from the clean simple record racks, to his chosen sound system which, as we talk, lets out a bit more Marvin. Not only defi nite, but philosophical: “Modern life is pretty pressured for most people, so you’ve got to think that most people come here to have a break from that stuff. You want them to have a good experience. It is very easy for someone to have a bad experience in a shop, restaurant, or pub, and then they leave and sadly, and unfortunately, in these times, people tend to remember the bad things: the bad meal, or the bad service, or that they went into a shop and nobody said hello to them – so maybe they go away and they don’t buy records, but they go home and say to their friends: ‘we had a lovely time in Ludlow, and by the way; there’s this guy there that’s got this interesting record shop’ ...”

So why Ludlow? “My oldest school friend moved here in the late Eighties. Over the years I’d come back to England, to visit my mum and run around the Country buying up records for two weeks, and at the end of my trip I’d come to Ludlow to see my friend Greg for a couple of days. I thought it was such an amazing place, which became really special for me. So when I fi nally left California, this was obviously where I headed.”

And the name Mod Lang? Well, for those of you who don’t yet know, may I suggest you pop into the shop and ask the man yourself – if not for the answer, if not for the records, if not for the framed Fairport Convention poster, if not for the shelf of music books, then maybe just for the experience. Turning off the well-trodden incline of Corve Street, down an alley, and up a fl ight of steps, you enter through an old wooden door to a beautifully lit space and fi nd Paul, normally fi ling records into their correct places (whether by genre, price, or artist).

As I pick out a few records for myself, I catch Paul packaging up a Springsteen picture-sleeve for a lady in Italy. I also spot a customer cherishing something she’d clearly once owned, whilst another relaxes in a chair, happy to be in the company of vinyl, listening to the closing track off What’s Going On.

Paul catalogues my purchases and I ask a fi nal question – what has he been buying for himself? “Lately, I have been buying a lot of Cajun records. It just sounds so refreshing. Of course it’s all sung in French, so I don’t know what they are singing, but the vibe of it, and the intensity, is just great.”

In terms of intensity: I walk home, with Gary Toms Empire, the Commodores, and Mandrill, under my arm, occasionally admiring the artwork and trying to read sleeve notes – all in anticipation of their fi rst play. In all honestly, I reckon they’d earned their £28.00 well before we’d reached the garden gate.

10

Mod Lang Woodyard Studio, The Woodyard (just off Corve Street), Ludlow, SY8 2PX 07925 419465 | www.modlanguk.com | [email protected]


Images on page 11} courtesy of the editor

St Leonard’s burial groundLIKE so many local residents I too have shuddered at the state of St Leonard’s; not only for its passing from a place of worship to a place for photocopying, fl yers and wedding invites, but for the neglected state of its supposed sacred ground – home to 2655 burial plots; the fi rst of which were set out in 1824. Here you’ll fi nd fi ve tombs belonging to Ludlow soldiers who served in WW1: 21-year-old Leading Seaman Henry T Hill; 36-year-old Serjeant Reginald John Jackson; 45-year-old Private William H Millichamp; 33-year-old Serjeant Edward Sheldon; and 37-year-old Corporal Stanley Jukes Tillett. Left fallow since June 1986, the Corve Street churchyard appears to have turned its back on its dead, and in doing so allowed in a fl urry of incompetent dog owners, a network of rabbits and badgers, and a place for teenage veneration under the grand gloom of the Irish Yew. My usual ‘scoff-as-I-pass-by’ approach, rallies that it needs a bit of love from those who trade from within the building, and a jolly good strim. But I’ve learnt that a jolly good strim is, in fact, the last thing that this place needs – the burial land is designated as a key nature reserve, home to a variety of unique plants, as well as the animals, birds and insects who shelter in its trees, shrubs, and ground cover. It may err on the side of disrespectful – with a lush meadow of nettles across most of the three-acre plot, headstone subsidence, excavated vaults, disturbed by badgers (and curious folk) and swathed in vivacious vines, defensive thorned canes and a dusting of rabbit droppings. But, in a brighter light, it stands as a landscape of ideal worship – the den of animals and rampant growth helping to return every bit of crumbling stone, (with inscriptions rubbed smooth) to the ground below, rich with coffi n wood and life’s bones.

11

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12


thing, given that the only place for an amorous liaison is in the shed that doubles up as a toilet.

The politics can be fi erce down here too. And funny. Bees can’t be kept because they count as livestock. You can’t plant a tree or build a shed in case it blocks someone else’s light. It’s an organic site, except that it isn’t – that’s aspirational; but woe betide anyone putting down slug pellets. And people can be really passionate about lawnmowers – who knew?

I’ve also learned that having an allotment means you have to make lots of decisions – what vegetables or fruit or even fl owers you will grow, what plot rotation is, and (my favourite sounding one) the ‘no-dig’ concept. Being a novice, all of these are exciting and more than a bit baffl ing.

So in order to immerse myself in the world of allotmenteering (and to pick the brains of those more experienced), I’ve joined the committee. Yes, I really have. I’m offi cially the secretary and am expecting to be sacked imminently for not sending the last lot of minutes around, owing to being on holiday. Being the secretary means that I have to take notes at the meetings, type them up and send them out. That’s pretty much it – and I’m about as good at that as I am at growing broad beans, which

Nature as it’ll be in Julytext edited from } www.open.edu | image } Bill Welch

A perfect time for spotting the butterfl y, but what else happens in July?

ALLOTMEnT sites look lovely don’t they? Yeah, right. The Good Life has a lot to answer for. With waiting lists for both allotment sites in Ludlow, I was lucky to snaffl e a half plot within a year of putting my name down. And for all those feeling envious: every week, every month, every season – there’s something to do. And everyone tackles their plot differently. From netting and sowing to ingenious ways to keep the birds off, the world of the allotment site is a confusing place for a newbie like me.

It’s also a battleground. Not just against the rats, rabbits, moles, slugs, snails, grass and the aptly-named creeping buttercup – no, the battleground also exists in the seven sins simmering away at the allotment site. There’s envy (eyeing up your neighbour’s more attractive plot), greed (when the man in the beige trousers – you know who you are – nicks all the communal manure) and pride too (because some of the plots are nothing short of works of art). I proudly fl y the fl ag for sloth on occasions and there are signs of wrath when people’s beloved tools mysteriously disappear. In fact, the allotment sometimes feels like a veritable lesson in the biblical sins.

Except for lust – which is a good

are supposed to be a beginner’s bean. They’re not. I fi nd pretty much anything edible easier to grow than broad beans. On the plus side, two things that I am absolutely brilliant at growing are rhubarb and raspberries. This may well be because they are the two things I inherited on my plot. Oh and apparently you need to cut off the triffi d-like rhubarb fl ower otherwise your actual crop will be rubbish – so thank you to the kind folk who beheaded mine whilst I was away.

One other thing that I’ve learnt is that I have a completely unexpected level of success at growing plants from seed. I currently have a tiny plastic greenhouse bursting at the seams with tomato, courgette and pumpkin plants. Too many for me to use, I’m debating whether to abandon them on strangers’ doorsteps in a Moses basket. The ones I’m keeping are going to the allotment, although it remains to be seen whether they can survive the onslaught of the ravenous rabbits.

Still, I sincerely hope that, by the time you read this, my little plot of land will be bulging with bumper crops of home-sown yellow courgettes, peas, green beans and raspberries, that my munchkin blackcurrant bushes will have grown at least an inch and that my broad beans might have actually produced something edible this year.

Despite all the hard graft, the bemusement, the steep learning curve and the constant around-the-clock fi ghting against pesky hungry nature, when I’m down at my plot with the sun beating on me, the buzzards kew-ing in the sky and my hands (not to mention the rest of me) covered in mud, I feel the happiest I’ve ever been. This allotmenteering mullarkey, it’s addictive you know.

The incompetent Allotmenteer

text } Liz Hyder | image } Richard Stanton

Stealing manure, and six other gardening sins

month: a visit to a lake or pond will reveal brown and southern hawkers, and common darters, as well as the slender azure and common blue damselfl ies.

Did you know? For wading birds the summer is already over, as adult birds start to arrive back from breeding areas as far away as Siberia and Canada. Their youngsters will arrive in August or September.

Habitat of the month: Listen out for sedge and reed warblers as well as moorhen and coot who will have their chicks in tow. Dragonfl ies are seen searching for their prey.

Photo opportunity: Dragonfl ies. These magnifi cent insects are more sluggish and easily photographed if the weather is a bit cool. Early in the day is best, before they warm up. If you are not an early riser try using a telephoto lens to get close up shots.

WHAT to look for? High summer is here, meaning that hedgerows and roadside verges that haven’t yet been mown, are bright with marjoram, knapweed, fi eld scabious and thistles. These fl owers attract a range of butterfl ies such as meadow brown, marbled white and gatekeeper; see if you can spot the stripy cinnabar moth caterpillar feeding on ragwort. No prizes for guessing where you might fi nd the caterpillar of the privet hawkmoth, and the huge snake-mimicking caterpillars of the elephant hawk moth as they lurk among the leaves of willowherb and garden fuchsias.

Take a trip to the coast, and you may well fi nd colonies of little terns rearing chicks, and young ringed plovers crouching for camoufl age amid the shingle.

Dragonfl ies are at their best this

– NATURE –

– GARDENING –

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13

was behind the pigsty and we had laxatives on Fridays.’)

The farmyard itself was built in the 1770s as a ‘model farm’ – so it faces south, for warmth and light, and has air slits in the shippons for the cattle, for healthy ventilation. The hay is stored above the cowsheds, to minimise labour as it can be forked directly down into the mangers and hayracks, whilst being less attractive to rodents than if it were at ground level. There are even purpose-built ‘pigeonholes’ in the side of the shed for the hay to be forked in from the top of wagons after haymaking (no bales in the 18th century). A dovecot (which would once have provided valuable extra meat) is incorporated into the gable end. The goose house is situated right by the farm gate, refl ecting the use of geese as guards.

The cobbled yard is one of the great beauties of the farm, and contains a grand midden in the centre. If you look, you’ll see that there are neat cobbled gutters to lead away any run-off from the midden. These trickle to a culvert, which carries this rich liquid away to the Victorian walled garden, where vegetables and fruit were grown. Busy Silver Dorking hens rootle for worms in the midden, and the magnifi cent cockerel can be found crowing from the top.

The ‘model farm’ was intended as an inspiration to local farmers. The yard includes two enormously tall and wide doorways, constructed in the south-facing side. These great doorways, which act like two spacious tunnels through the line of the buildings, enabled much more effi cient practices for storing and threshing the sheaves of grain, as large waggons and, later, threshing machines, could be brought in under shelter. There are examples of hand-fl ails and, later, mechanised threshing machines which were driven by a belt and a horse that walked in circles in the horse gin, still there in the farmyard. It takes no particular imagination to see that even the best of these machines

required considerable human labour, along with a real choice of ways to lose a fi nger, or a hand.

The farmhouse itself is tucked into a warm corner of the yard and, in its small kitchen, your nose may well lead you to fi nd an aproned cook baking delectable small Welsh cakes on the griddle. The range is black-leaded, and fl ames leap from its heart. Homemade lemonade stands in earthenware jugs on a scrubbed table.

The needs of the animals at Acton Scott come fi rst, of course, so that if you visit the farm you are pretty likely to fi nd yourself helping with the bottle-feeding of lambs or calves. You can handle a duckling. You can talk to the shires: they really like it. I’ve met several local families who’ve availed themselves of the (splendid value) season ticket, and turn up nearly every week just to see how much the piglets have grown or hug a big, gentle horse’s leg.

One of the most interesting things to do at Acton Scott is to talk to the people who work at the farm, taking in their, now, rare skills and hearing strange, local, unpredictable stories (like the one which started: ‘Tha bist in lumber if that meets an elephant, when tha’s deliverin’ the bread wi’ a pony and trap…’ – it turned out that this was a story from the 1920s, when circus animals came by train, and then walked to local destinations. The pony had not liked meeting the elephant at all).

I will be ‘Poet in Residence’ at Acton Scott until July 19th, when there will be a special celebration to mark the end of the project: ‘Poem for the Farm’. This will be a free public event, offering the chance to hear poetry written on the farm, and for the farm, since Easter this year – so contributors to ‘The Poetry Fence’ and the project blog will have the chance to read their work to an audience. For more on this project visitactonscottfarmpoet.wordpress.com. To fi nd out about the farm: http://is.gd/OyyXf3

the core of a working farm, which demonstrates how work was done in the Shropshire countryside during the Victorian period. Famously, the farm featured on television in the Victorian Farm series, and others.

As a working poet, I’ve had the most wonderful opportunity to get to know Acton Scott Farm, thanks to an Arts Council Grant enabling me to work there for three months as ‘Poet in Residence’. I’m based in a red shepherd’s hut, from which I talk to visitors of every age and background, read poems with them, and encourage them to write down their responses to the Farm in poetry. I’ve worked with tiny children minutes after they’ve had the chance to sit on a shire horse, and with older people who reminisced about the rural outside loos of their own childhoods (one poem ended: ‘... the toilet

IF you follow the rivers (and the A49) a few miles north of Ludlow, then turn uphill, you stumble on a farmyard whose warm, red bricks were made from clay dug out of the next fi eld and fi red in an on-site kiln. You may fi nd you’re watching a slightly plump donkey ‘scuffl ing’ the strawberry beds; his neat hooves fi tting tidily into the furrows – the implement he pulls behind, neatly removing the strawberry runners.

Acton Scott Historic Working Farm is part of the Acton Estate, on which the Acton family has lived for no less than 900 years. The Actons preserved the character and ways of life here, eventually passing the old farm and its home acres over to Shropshire County Council to run as a living museum. Ever since, the old stableyard has provided

Getting in on the act, at Acton Scott

text } Jean Atkin | image } Acton Scott

Working animals, Welsh cakes, and a poet

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Sunday July 20th, 6pm Wetherill & Lamb – 8pm

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14


LUDLOW’S Festival of Small Gardens all started in 2012, when Angela Siminson was asked to run a Small Garden Event to fund raise for Ludlow Assembly Rooms – fi nding 17 gardeners who were willing to open their gardens in the old part of the town, and attracting over 500 visitors.

The following year, talking to Tim Gaudin of Broad Bean (regarding his Sandpits Avenue garden) Angela realised that there must be many gardens all over Ludlow, whose owners had never been involved in an open garden event.

For the 2013 event, there was a small working group of six dedicated volunteers and 27 gardens open, including those on Sandpits. Angela realised that some of the gardeners found it diffi cult to raise extra funds to buy plants, so she asked for divisions of plants from established gardens – which were then potted on. Four hundred plants were made available for a Free Plant Day, held at Rockspring Community Centre, and all of the plants were taken in two hours, with some residents offering divisions from their own plants.

During the 2013 event three free minibuses took visitors to the available gardens – with street entertainers amusing the queues and light lunches, with wine and beer, teas and freshly-baked pizzas available at the Rockspring Community Centre.

Ludlow Jazz Quartet, Ludlow Concert Band and Bang On, a seven-strong, samba band, played to the visitors, while they relaxed with refreshments, perusing the 12 stalls – selling all manner of things, from shrubs to scarves. Charities were encouraged to sell their wares and to promote their organisations.

In total, over £7,000 was raised in sponsorship with over 1,200 visitors enjoying both days.

The small working party have since become an independent Community Interest Company, with eight volunteer directors. This year’s event has been supported by Awards for All – a lottery-grants programme that funds small, community-based projects across the UK – as well as the generosity of local businesses, organisations and private individuals.----------------------------------Sponsorship angelasiminson@hotmail.co.uk----------------------------------TicketsAvailable from Assembly Rooms, Bodenham’s, Carvell’s Art of Tea, Broad Bean, and Myriad Organics----------------------------------Further info festivalofsmallgardens.co.uk

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Ludlow festival of small gardensSaturday July 26th and Sunday 27th, 2014

22 gardens will be open to the public in Mill Street, Corve Street, Steventon and Sandpits

– EVENTS –

Images on page 14} courtesy of Michael Martin

15

Above (standing fourth from right, front row) – “People probably think we are getting into trouble or something. We

are a good bunch and we want them to know that. I want to save, ideally £10–15k, and go to Oz or New Zealand as that’s where its all happening, not here in Ludlow – there’s

nothing here for us. It’s ok for old people. You got nice food, nice pubs, nice views. It’s a retirement town not a town for

people like us, our age; there just isn’t anything to do.” Colin

Top left – “If people got to know us, they would see that we all work or study. When I tell people what I want to be

they are surprised: I’m doing BTEC in Forensic Science and BTEC in Business. They think, when they look at us, that we are just dossers. My mum thinks I should go into politics but

I tell you; I’d scrap everything. There wouldn’t be a benefit system – you would work or starve. That’s it. No dossing

about. I think I’m too opinionated to go into politics.” Danni

Bottom left – “I have dreams and inspirations, like free running. I travel to Birmingham every week because they do

free running sessions there, with other people at Birmingham University. We don’t have anything like that around here.

There’s nothing in a 40-mile radius of Ludlow that has the facilities I need. It costs me like fifty quid a week.” Adam

Pavement statement

interviews and images} Ashleigh Cadet

Conversations from Ludlow’s kerbs

“If you like pubs and good writing, as much as I do, then you’ll probably like Doghouse

magazine as much as I do.”

www.doghousemagazine.co.uk– the British pub magazine –

Event listings--------------------------------

SOCIALLudlow 21 : Green Festival DrinksSitting Room, 3 Upper Galdeford (above Thai Box), Ludlow, SY8 1QD www.greenfestival.co.ukCome along for a social drink, find out what Ludlow 21’ers are up to, and watch free screening of an environmental film (reconnecting kids with nature). All welcomeThurs, 21st August 7.30pm --------------------------------

FESTIVALLudlow Green Festival: organised by Ludlow 21Market Square & Linney Park, Ludlowwww.greenfestival.co.ukFood, music, walks, bike ride, treasure trail and green crafted goods – and lots of children’s activities. Evening music with Rhythm Thieves & Jessie Prentice at Ludlow Brewery: £6.00www.wegottickets.comSun, 24th August10am – 11pm--------------------------------

MUSICLunchtime concertSt Laurence’s Church, Ludlow, 01544 260551www.bisyoc.comFree concert performed by the international team of BISYOC tutors: a one-off opportunity to hear some of the best musicians in their fields. No pre-booking requiredFri, 1st August, 1pm --------------------------------BISYOC Symphony Orchestra and Choir ConcertSt Laurence’s Church, Ludlow, 01544 260551www.wegottickets.com85 instrumentalists and 60 local singers commemorate WW1. Proceeds shared with Ludlow Hospital League of Friends: £12.50; from Nock Deighton, Ludlow Sat, 2nd August, 7.30pm

Charlie ConnellyDiane’s step-by-step workshop provides everything you need, for you to take home your very

own masterpiece

Create a beautiful oil or acrylic painting, like the one illustrated, in 4 hours. £35.00

Painting my way

Tel: 01584 872013 Mobile: 07800 902488

[email protected]

there is with blackbirds and blue tits. In a good year the young will fl edge around the middle of July but, if this is delayed, the parents may abandon the young; meaning that their long journey has been for nothing.

With their long scythe-shaped wings – perfect for high-speed fl ight – swifts are designed for a life in the air. Eating, drinking, sleeping and even mating on the wing, these birds only land when raising young in the nest. However, this means that they are not very agile at low speeds which can explain why, in bad weather, you may fi nd a swift on the ground, when it didn’t quite make it into its nest. Birds on the ground are not good news – they have very short legs that are adapted to clinging to a vertical wall. They can take off from the ground, but not easily. So, if you fi nd a grounded swift, take it to a high place and hold it until it is ready to fl y away – please do not throw it.

Swallows, house and sand martins are other visitors to Ludlow in the summer – these do land and can be seen sitting on telephone wires, but you will never see a swift on one. Swifts that are not breeding also come here each summer looking for a nest site for future years during the day and roosting high in the sky at night. They are also seen in the screaming parties that screech around and, it is said, this is how the young birds fi nd themselves a nest site for the following year.

The Teme and the Corve provide good feeding grounds for the birds, as there are a lot of insects above the water. Swifts eat a range of fl ying insects and airborne spiders, and will also take bees and hoverfl ies as they are able to choose the ones that do not have stings. Although they have a small bill they have a huge gape that allows them to sweep up a vast number of insects as they fl y. They are very useful to us in keeping the number of insects down, as they will collect up to 1,000 insects in each food ball.

Ludlow and many other market towns across Shropshire still have reasonable populations of swifts, but their numbers have declined quite dramatically in recent years – over 30 percent since 1997; they are now amber listed. New housing estates with regular brickwork, plastic eaves, fascias and guttering, as well as tubes full of mastic to seal any slight hole, are useless to swifts, bats, and also to martins and swallows whose mud nests cannot grip to these materials. Old stone buildings with lime mortar offer good nesting sites for swifts, as do some of the old chapels, factories and church buildings.But slowly and steadily these sites are disappearing as work is done

THE start of May, as is always the case in Ludlow, brought people on to the street to see the May Fair arrive – watching the large trucks squeeze their way through the narrow gap between Bodenhams and the Buttercross. But tradition has it that this is also the moment that the swifts arrive back to the town for the summer. Ever hopeful that the birds will have had an easy and fast trip back from Africa, members of the Ludlow Swift Group can be seen peering into the sky on fi ne evenings, trying to spot the fi rst bird to return.

Swifts are very faithful to their nest sites and those that are seen in the skies here truly can be thought of as Ludlow’s swifts – staying with us for a mere 12 weeks... just enough time to meet up with their mate, breed and raise their chicks before starting the 6,000-mile journey back to Africa at the start of August. It will take about 70 days to get there – although they can fl y 400 miles they do have days when they just feed.

Swifts have been around for around 50 million years and it is thought that they originally nested in holes in trees and in caves but, once humans appeared and started building houses and towers, swifts started nesting in these. For around 2,000 years swifts have shared our homes with us, building nests anywhere in the roof where there is a gap small enough to allow access. This may be under eaves or behind fl ashings, or just in a small hole in the wall – making you unaware that your house has been chosen by these enigmatic birds, as they fl y in at breakneck speed – seemingly disappearing without trace. Add to this the fact that these birds are almost entirely black and that they enter their nest sites at dusk, often after screaming around with a number of other birds, you can see why they were called ‘Devil Birds’.

They build a fl imsy nest of materials caught on the wing, and then lay two or three eggs, which are incubated by both parents. The eggs hatch after about 19 days and then, depending on the weather, it is a further 42 days before the young fl edge. The life of a chick is interesting as, after its fi rst few weeks when it feeds voraciously, it starts to prepare itself for life on the wing by, essentially, doing press-ups in the nest so that its wings are strong enough when it takes to the air. Once it leaves the nest it has no association with its siblings or parents and will not return to the nest until it is ready to breed. That maiden fl ight is a crucial time for the bird: there is no going back in or any more meals from the parents, as

Ludlow’s life on the wing

text } Peta Sams | image } Richard Stanton

Living with this town’s temporary residents

on buildings, with no thought given to residents other than humans. Modern building methods and materials are known to be a signifi cant factor in the loss of swift populations – but it does not have to be like this.

There are many people across the country who have worked with and for swifts for many years and know how nest sites can be accommodated when renovations and repairs are carried out. Maintaining or creating natural nest sites in roof spaces is the ideal, but there is a wide range of boxes and bricks that fi t either internally or externally. These can be put up in suitable locations either to preserve existing colonies or perhaps even provide new nest sites for young birds looking to breed. Scaffolding is a also real threat to swifts, as they need a clear fl ight path into and from their nests – relying on the lift from the air as they drop from the nest sites. It should be sited with care when renovating properties during the breeding season.

Realising that summer would

Once again, the May Fair squeezed itself into the narrow streets of Ludlow. The ‘no-fi sh

16

– FINDING LUDLOW –


prize’ policy remained, following a single complaint criticising the tradition, back in 2010

17

Image across pages 16 and 17} Richard Stanton

The refreshing stats of brewing

text } Gary Walters

Ludlow Brewing Co. serves up the numbers

On average, we produce 15,000 to 20,000 pints a week. We can make 28,800 per week, and have done so on a few occassions. We also own 1,100 barrels.

In order of popularity our best selling beer is Gold, then Best, and then the other three – Boiling Well, Black Knight and Stairway – are pretty even. We will be doing a special beer very soon; a very pale, fairly hoppy, low-gravity beer.

I’m not into quirky beers at all – some people will put elderflowers through the beer or they’ll add different herbs: I’m not overly fussed about them at all. If I could have put my name to someone else’s beer it would be Darkstar’s Hop Head – I’m quite partial to that.

The highlight is the fermenting process – I love seeing the yeast working away, (probably on the second day), it’s got a very enticing look about it.

Cleaning out the mash tun is easily the most mundane aspect; shovelling over half a ton of really hot, spent mush is not much fun, but good for weight loss.

Typically, for every pint of beer we brew we use close to five pints of water. A big percentage of that is associated with cleaning and wash-down. We are forever cleaning and tidying up the place. It takes up over 50 percent of our time, but it’s an important task.

It’s about 80 years since the old Ludlow and Craven Arms Brewery ceased in Ludlow (which was next to the shed where we used to brew). The Brewery used to run alongside the River Corve, where Coronation

Avenue is; they essentially knocked it down to build the road.

When we started in the old, smaller brewery, I was juggling tennis coaching, carpentry and doing the brewing. I started home brewing by making my own bit of kit at home – I was only getting 44 pints of Gold and it was still taking all day.

The current brewery cost roughly £250,000 to get it up and running, and an equal amount to get the building organised. Aside from the 85 tons of grain needed to brew each year, one of the biggest expenses is on the delivery side – diesel. Also, it never ceases to amaze us how much goes to the tax man from a business like this. We calculated that around 50 percent of our turnover goes in taxes, in one way or another – VAT, beer duty, National Insurance, PAYE.

Brewing is a beautifully natural process – as a country I really don’t think it’s appreciated enough, we don’t shout about the fact that beer is just water, malt, hops and yeast. And all 85 tons of the spent grain, as well as the spent hops and yeast, go to a local cow and pig farmer four miles out of Ludlow – a fabulous form of recycling really, because there is much goodness left in the grain; and the animals love it.

Also, our beer is local – on a regular basis, the furthest it travels is 50 miles (although one barrel once went to a bar in Holland, and two lads smuggled some bottles to Australia), so, environmentally, you can’t get any better than drinking a pint of our beer in Ludlow.

What’s your Ludlow

story?We would really love

to hear your story: What was it like growing up in Ludlow? How did you end up here? What do

you feel needs addressing urgently in this town?

If you would like to submit an article, then

please do email:

[email protected]

not be the same without parties of swifts screaming overhead, while out and about in the town during the daytime or evening, Ludlow Swift Group was formed. The group was set up in 2011 as part of Ludlow 21, with initial aims of getting an idea of bird numbers using the town to breed and of identifying the types of locations that they favour. Raising awareness with residents, visitors, builders, roofers and scaffolders is important, and for the last two years we have held ‘Welcoming the Swifts’ events both at the ‘Local to Ludlow Market’ and at the Charlton Arms, at the end of May.

Swift Watch evenings are also held: the next event being July 24th, when we will meet at the Buttercross at 8:45pm to look at the swifts in the town centre. At these we can advise people on how to retain swifts when carrying out work on their houses and also take the opportunity of installing boxes in suitable locations. That said we have yet to see a swift in any of our boxes, but it can take time before the young birds spot an empty nest

site and start to use it. Recording nest site information is important and contributes to the County’s record of its biodiversity.

The RSPB are working hard to understand more about swifts and Belfast is set to become the first UK Swift City, engaging many residents in a project to record and protect these birds. Exeter City Council has a policy to include swift nest sites in both residential and commercial new build, and many other local authorities are also looking at how to protect swifts and other species as part of their obligations towards biodiversity. So Ludlow Swift Group is not a lone voice.

If you want to make sure that swifts continue to scream around Ludlow each summer then please do think of joining us – to help progress our work. And remember that we are here to offer advice and answer any questions you might have. We can be contacted at [email protected] or 01584 876818 or 01584 875031.

– FACTS & FIGURES –

ground-level (preferably in shooting distance of a bar stool) than down the Wheatsheaf’s freezing-cold cellar, watching lines of Marstons fl ow up through 3/8-inch pipes, to the creak of the beer engines directly above.

Relieved to be back at the bar, we order a couple of pints and ask Sue about the hauntings. She looks rather blank at the suggestion that a ghost pinches bums: “...not heard that one before.” And the taps being turned off: “not in my time ...but there is defi nitely something in the bar area. Sometimes it feels very strange in here. And rooms two and four are really peculiar. Room 4 is very cold, and the kettle turns itself on in Room 2 and boils itself dry. It happened again just the other day.”

We wave farewell and trudge back up the hill to the oldest timber-framed building in Ludlow – the Bull Hotel. The earliest aspects of this pub have been dated to 1199, with hints of its bull-baiting past within the pub’s square courtyard. Another echo of this pub’s past was unearthed by builders in the mid-1970s during ‘restoration’ work – where they located a secret room above a fi replace, and a well with around 11 steps leading towards the churchyard. Loud haunting footsteps have since been heard, all about this building, with invisible hands tapping people on their arms.

I fi nd this one a bit hard to qualify, as within half a pint’s worth I’ve been ‘tapped’ on the arm no less than three times, but all accounted for. The fi rst by someone asking me where I’m from, another to advise me, kindly, that I’ve dropped 5p, and thirdly, photographer Richard wants to know if I want another pint.

Our work is some way off from being done, so I duly decline and walk out of a door on one side of Corve Street and into the Jacobean, half-timbered framework of Ludlow’s most photographed building opposite; The Feathers. This hotel has blossomed as a haunt for many ghost hunts and séances, with two bedrooms rumoured to be ravaged by supernatural doings. I opt for the infamous room 211 – which has witnessed its fair share of weird activity; the most common seems to be a damning harassment of female guests that dare to stay the night. The deeply jealous spirit that haunts this room is presumed to be female, and has subjected many women to unsettling events – going so far as to drag one lady clean out of her bed by her hair. The ghost of

the room also soaks guests while they sleep. Happily gentlemen staying in this room encounter, at the very worst, a gentle stroking of the face.

I feel I’ve bagged the right bed for the night – Richard had to make do with room 232 (a modern room, linked by the 1950s extension) with an apparition that has been seen by staff and guests. Not a touchy-feely lady, his wife will be pleased to learn, but a Victorian man who walks his dog across the room, through the wall into room 233, then vanishes.

Another familiar spirit is a man seen in the Writing Room. It is here that we fi nd ourselves, late in the evening, surrounded by dark-timbered furniture, sloping angles, exposed beams and creaky fl oorboards. A perfect place to expect something to appear when we least expected it.

Whether ghosts, as we seem to know them, simply exist or not is slightly irrelevant when you’re sat amidst such age and history. I certainly don’t want to court any sightings this late in the day – it is getting to that stage where I could easily convince myself of seeing just about anything.

So out comes the Scrabble board, to help lighten the mood. But, as is usually the case, it’s fun when there’s more than you and your imagination to keep you company. Goofi ng galore keeps us entertained until a 2am bedtime, when we retire to our respective rooms, slightly unsure about it all.

Strangely enough, Richard gets a call to head home around 2.15am, which sees him decamp from his hunt duties. I too have to leave around about the same time. Richard, later, claimed his car alarm was upsetting his neighbours, whilst I was worried about the cooker being left on. In truth we’d wound one another up throughout that game of Scrabble, and realised we’d never manage a moment’s rest. And at our age, one needs a good night’s sleep.

Joking aside it was a curious evening, which I’d like to repeat – perhaps with less talc and defi nitely less beer – and perhaps more science, structure and, quite possibly, all the equipment that I failed to bring along the fi rst time. So, if anyone is genuinely interested in stumping up a few quid for some proper ghost hunting gear I say let’s give it a proper go.

So while Arnold and Marion were secretly engaged in her chamber, the soldiers climbed the rope left hung down over the battlements and slaughtered the garrison. Realising she had been betrayed, Marion killed Arnold with his own sword, before jumping from the window of the Pendore Tower on to the rocky outcrop below. These days she remains within the walls of the tower, where her misty fi gure is said to be seen creeping slowly half way up the stairway.

I’ve not seen this for myself, though the dark and drizzly night that Richard and I choose to walk the streets in search of Ludlow’s showpiece spectre, couldn’t have been better dressed for the occasion. The solemn weather, illuminating the late-hour, keeps us on edge; going to show that no matter how hard we try to rationalise these revived told tales of doom and distress, we are still left with uncertainty – especially as we’d drunk well earlier on and were now found craning our necks up towards the ruined tower that once clung close to the 100 soldiers, and where Marion met her end.

I’m not usually shy of the dark, but something about the possibility of spying a lingering shape on the north facing tower steps soon convinces me that my horse-like nerves have not waned.

I learnt later that this tale is largely considered by anyone with a steady head on their shoulders, to be a re-jig of a theatrical play that once entertained folks within the castle grounds – long after the supposed Marion debacle. Further more, there is no evidence of a Marion ever taking up residence here.

So it’s a ‘no ghost’ vote, we both agree, as we leave the narrow rocky outcrop, whilst still looking up at the grand castle walls and gingerly keeping a wishful eye out for a falling woman.

We wander back into town to meet yet another lady of the castle and this one not at all made up – the former Queen of England, Catherine of Aragon, who has been associated with the much-seen ghost of St Laurence’s church. Curious footsteps in the near-by rectory have been heard, and many witnesses describe the ghost as an elderly woman wearing a heavy dress (possibly a dressing gown), walking from the rectory through the graveyard, before vanishing on reaching the church doorway. Summer evenings seem to be her favoured time to appear, which gives us very little hope of seeing her as it is rather late when we take to a park bench, facing the church. We soon blame poor visibility for the apparent absence of Catherine, though Richard’s suggestion that she could easily be sat next to us on the bench, speeds up the unclipping of our test thermometer from the iron railing behind us, and sees us trot sharpishly to The Globe of Market Street.

Though now a Thai restaurant, The Globe was once (up until 2004) a dark and dingy back-street boozer. It was here, back in 1553, that soldier Edward Dobson died in a pub brawl. It is said that he can be seen haunting the old bar area,

hovering over the exact spot where he fell to his death. As I’m feeling a bit peckish I convince Richard to join me in some crispy wonton – one eye on the starter plate, another on the bar area – but nothing.

As we wait for the bill we realise that we can’t really scratch this one off our list as a no show: we may have been scanning in the wrong direction; the bar here was clearly brought out of a box long after the 16th century, so it could have been plonked anywhere within the bar area and the whole space has been now opened up. No, we conclude, this will have to remain a ‘maybe manifestation’.

We march on to The Blue Boar, a public house slightly unnerving with or without its long rollcall of suspected spectres. Mysterious happenings are part and parcel of the daily experience here – they say it’s not at all unusual to be met at the door by George, rumoured to be a 17th-century cavalier, who walks the length of the pub downstairs tugging at people’s sleeves. It is he whom they blame for turning off the cellar taps.

I am granted permission to take both my temperamental thermometer and my photographer friend into the belly of this beast, so down we go, sitting on an empty barrel apiece carefully observing – but not for long. Richard is rather frightened of being locked down in the cellar until the following morning, though I doubt any wise licensee would leave two grown men, unguarded, in such close proximity to that much beer. He also points out that a cellar temperature of 14-degrees is not best suited to his troublesome back and I’ve also noticed that he’s been looking everywhere but at the taps wedged in the front of the beer barrels. The creaking of the fl oorboards above adds to Richard’s anxiety and leads to an awkward pacing.

In a very short while we are trudging back up the cellar steps to bar level, to an expectant crowd. We shrug our shoulders, shake our heads, and slowly climb upstairs to the fi rst fl oor, where there is sometimes an expressionless lady. Richard is more used to such things, so merrily takes the lead into the corridor that is said to be paced by a teacher, believed to be from the late 1830s. Of all the places we’ve scouted so far this evening, this feels the most likely, but all we see is a laundry basket.

Very little is known about this lady, not even why she is imagined as a school teacher or when she was last seen, but this night we’re rather pushed for time so we add this to our ‘possible pile’ and go up a few more steps to another level, and an odd room, which turns cold in the summer, and is occupied by an elderly man. Many have seen him sitting upon a stool sobbing whilst smoking a clay-pipe. It is said that his young, unmarried, pregnant daughter committed suicide in this very room, sometime in the 18th century – she too has been spotted.

At this point I get the feeling that we’ve somehow waved aside the science of the hunt; we’ve barely been checking temperature readings, taking pictures, or even asking if anybody is there. Perhaps my heart’s not in it after all those years away from the game. Or,

maybe, the possibility of actually witnessing something rather weird is starting to worry us both. We conclude that The Blue Boar is a good a place as any to experience something or other – especially if you spend a night in that chilly room, or take to treading the fi rst fl oor corridor in the hope of meeting that ghostly teacher.

With two further pubs to investigate before bedtime, we trundle down Mill Street, and turn left, tracing the wall to the Broad Gate and The Wheatsheaf. Here the spirit is said to pinch women’s bottoms. We’re quite a few pints deep now and Richard is soon introducing himself to a couple of ladies resting in the fi rst bay. I fear we’ll be out of favour with the bar staff but, surprisingly, we are still welcome in their cellar, where I once read their ghost is responsible for turning off the beer taps. I also read that, just prior to the tampering, footsteps can be heard running rapidly from left to right. It has never manifested itself and a medium once attempted to uncover the truth but was faced with riddles rather than a name. Popular belief is that the ghost is that of an offi cer from the castle, who enters the inn through the secret passageway.

We’re guided down by landlady Sue, who advises us to watch our heads, only to bang my head on the brick entrance that leads us into the far room. Dusted in a thick layer of time, with a bundle of empties, there is little in the way of beer service going on in here; and the last thing I ever expect to see is a blocked off passageway (back-fi lled some time ago). We’re faced with a sunken, dirt-fl oored vault, with worn steps leading up to a wall. I had half believed the haunting side of things, but thought it unlikely that such a passageway remained. But here it is, though it could as easily be a wine vault that once crept under the road and neighbouring house, as an infamous passageway.

Of course, you may wonder why on earth a route would exist from a fortifi ed castle to any inn – which, in this case, claims to take you to the castle’s ‘dry moat’ ice house. I once read, somewhere, that soldiers snuck out of the castle to carouse beyond the town walls. Considering The Wheatsheaf, at one time (dates unknown) was known as a whore house – a secret passageway leading from a strong hold to this particular pub makes a bit more sense.

The current inn was completed in 1668 after the Civil War saw its 16th-century version, and every other building from the river to Broad Gate, raised to the ground. A pub of greater age is said to have lived on this same plot – possibly when it was the whore house.

If ever there was a place to sit and wait for something spooky to materialise, then it is here – facing the vaulted space. For this very reason, we make weak excuses and walk back through a door and navigate the narrow, domed corridor. Washed in white, the old walls lead us to another room – more modern than the tunnel room – with its sophisticated cooling system and self-tilt beer stillage. It didn’t grab us as ghostly, just chilly. With time ticking by, we both agree that we we’re better suited to hauntings that happen at

– COVER STORY –< continued from the front page

18


page 4 PEPPY – the polar-bear mascot and icon of Fox’s

Glacier Mints – was introduced to the brand’s packaging in 1922; a taxidermist was commissioned to shoot and

stuff a real polar bear to help promote their mints at football matches. Peppy now lives at Leicester’s New

Walk Museum and Art Gallery.

page 8PAUL MAWHINNEY’S RECORD COLLECtION is believed to be the largest in the world – with about

one million albums, and one-and-a-half million singles. When ill health caused Mawhinney, of Pittsburgh,

Pennsylvania, to retire his ‘archive’ in 2009, he went looking for someone willing to purchase and preserve the collection. The Library of Congress made an offer in 2002 but the sale fell through, citing budget cuts.

Ironically, in 2011, a deal was finalised with Taiwanese engineer and businessman, Leo Yao – who bought

the entire collection to serve as an audio museum in Taiwan. Leo was one of the main engineers involved

in inventing the MP3 ... a creation Mawhinney believes was the tool that destroyed music history.

page 11St LEONARD’S GRAVEYARD is, strictly speaking, an extension of the St Laurence’s churchyard up the road – well, actually, it’s five extensions, the first of which was consecrated in about 1853. This means that the graves

have nothing to do with the nearby chapel. Built in 1860, as a result of a court-case ruling from the House of Lords, the chapel replaced a previous one that had

been demolished in 1811 without proper consent.

page 12GARDENING can be the death of you, as proven when

officers in California responded to an emergency call about a man wielding a gun in a garden, back in 2010. They shot dead 35-year-old Douglas Zerby, who was

simply watering his flowers.

page 20HOMING PIGEONS served extensively throughout

WW1. One such pigeon, named Cher Ami, saved the lives of many French soldiers by carrying a message

across enemy lines in the heat of battle. Cher Ami was shot in the chest and the leg, losing most of the leg to which the message was attached – but continued the 25-minute flight, avoiding shrapnel and poison gas to get the message home. Cher Ami was awarded the French ‘Croix de Guerre’ medal for heroic service.

This issuein facts

Dinham Café Ludlow – oil on canvas, by David Fowles: Rowles Fine Art, Mill Street – £1,700

subscriptions: ludlowledger.com/subscribe

Image page 18} courtesy of Gavin Weston | Ludlow painting (p19) captured by Richard Stanton, with kind permission of Glenn Rowles

Say hello to issue 2’s contributors...Photographer RICHARD STANTON got rained on, on top of Whitcliffe (May Fair p16-17) then banged his head on the cramped Wheatsheaf pub cellar ceiling (cover). You can learn more about Richard’s other work by visiting: stantonphotographic.com

This issue MIA DAVIS spent time in a Ludlow pigeon loft (p20), away from her copywriting – specialising in optimised web content, press releases, leaflets, brochure copy, speeches and slogans. Available on 01584 877624 or via [email protected]

MICHAEL MARTIN had a challenging time trying to get Ozzie and his racing pigeons to stand still, and an equally testing day trying to get five Ludlow gardeners to stand still (p14). Check out michaelmartin.co.uk or call 01584 778109

This issue we welcome ASHLEIGH CADET who spent her time in a beer tent and a kitchen (for p6-7), and a car park (for p15). Ashleigh is on the look out for new food photography challenges, to help local businesses create long-lasting identities. You can learn more by visiting acadet.co.uk

Ludlow Poet, writer and educator, JEAN ATKIN, is your guide to Acton Scott, for this issue’s travel piece (p13). Jean’s first collection, Not Lost Since Last Time, is published by Oversteps Books. She also works regularly with young writers’ groups and as a poet with elderly people. Contact: jeanatkin.com

Hello to page 12’s LIZ HYDER, whose Twitter blurb says it all: Media git. Book, theatre & puppet addict. Loves wildlife, science and logic. Writer type. Experimental cook & optimistic grower of veg. Where’s Wally’s sister. Proof is here: lizhyder.co.uk

JOHN BARRETT is, quite literally, steeped in history – a fully paid up member of every Ludlow historical group – and responsible for page 5’s Vashon piece.

Ever up for a bit of subbing, SALLY NEWMAN-KIDD found time in her busy schedule (work, church choir, family stuff) to sub this issue’s 17,327 words. We’re told she sacrificed the housework – it’s not the first time. You can find her at [email protected]

Cheques payable to Son of SaxonPostal orders Ludlow Ledger, Hillkroft, Bromfield Road, Ludlow, SY8 1DWOrder online Ludlowledger.com/shop

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WHEn I fi rst arrive at Ozzie’s, I encounter a Union Jack fl ag and a ‘Beware of the Dog – He Does Bite’ sign on a tall wooden gate. Before I’m devoured by a small friendly terrier with a waggy tail, the equally affable Ozzie appears, and I’m led into a patch of garden dedicated to man and pigeon.

At the end of a straggle of grass, ‘Shoestring Lofts’ (Ozzie’s own term for the hand-built loft, housing his prize pigeons) stretches the length of the back fence and is guarded by a large, plastic heron on the roof. It’s not a shed, most defi nitely not says Ozzie and, peering through the metal grill, breathing in the powerful smell of disinfectant, I can see why that matters. Because it’s to Shoestring Lofts that Ozzie’s birds happily return to time after time, from as near as Hereford or as far away as France. As Ozzie says, “I’ve never left England or been on a boat or a plane. But my pigeons? They’ve been everywhere.” Which

their location to base if they were crashing? These truly remarkable facts about pigeons are testament to the enormous trust placed in these birds. And, as they fl ap and coo around the lofts, it seems incredible that we don’t all keep them.

On the day I visit, Ozzie is waiting for seven of his pigeons to arrive back from France. They’ve been sent from Ludlow on a transporter, along with pigeons from Liverpool and Manchester, to be released in Falaise, Normandy. As the pigeon can fl y at around 50mph, they’ll take roughly fi ve and a half hours to arrive back, depending on wind direction. There’s an electronic clock stationed at the entrance to the loft and, once they’re in, Ozzie clocks their numbered rubber tag to show the time. But what is their motivation to return? “For the cocks, it’s the hens,” says Ozzie. And for the hens? Ozzie gives a guffaw. “Not much different there,” he says, “you work it out.”

Pigeon biology aside, I know that I would worry about my pigeons making such a treacherous journey, but Ozzie is philosophical.

neatly explains the marvel of pigeon racing. Here we are, very much Sandpits bound, yet these unremarkable looking birds have covered thousands of miles to wing their way back to Ludlow. Even watching Kes didn’t prepare me for this. All at once, I’m deeply impressed by the wonder, love and dedication involved in the sport – and it’s a fascinating story.

Mention pigeon racing to most people, (and yes, forgive me, I am after all from the South) and they’ll think either of a Northern social deprivation, or a Python skit, featuring pipes and fl at caps. Yet homing pigeons have actually played a vital role in our history, as Ozzie is keen to point out. Did I know, for example, that pigeons won more medals for bravery during the war than horses? Or that a US army pigeon called GI Joe was given the Dickin medal for gallantry, after sending a message that prevented a blue-on-blue, air raid catastrophe in the Italian village of Calvi Vecchia? Or, even, that spitfi re pilots would take pigeons with them to message back

“Sometimes they don’t make it,” he explains, leaning back in his chair, “but that’s because if they drop over France, they’ll end up in the pot. My mate says he never heard a bird sing in France. They’ll eat anything over there.” So as much as he loves his birds, I get the feeling that you can’t be too sentimental about pigeon racing, especially where the French are concerned. Happily though, in order to keep track of them, Ozzie can ring up the Liberation Line who will tell him exactly the time the pigeons are released, so he’ll know when to expect them. And when George turns up, who used to have pigeons but now doesn’t, Ozzie goes off to check that they have indeed been freed. Sadly, the news is not good – the Liberation Line inform him that the pigeons he’s expecting in haven’t gone up, which tells us that the weather must be bad in France. Even as Ozzie’s Shoestring Lofts barometer is pointing at ‘fair,’ it would seem that the European nature of this sport leaves no room for complacency.

So is Ozzie alone in his passion

for pigeons? Having been handed down over the generations, the number of pigeon racers is much less in Sandpits than it was, now totalling six at his reckoning. But it keeps him on his toes, and he always knows who’s ahead when he sees them fl y over his garden. Ozzie’s own children aren’t interested, though the grandkids are so he isn’t worried. “It may die out,” he ponders, “but I think it will survive.”

Just before I leave, Ozzie shows me his other loft. Around twenty pigeons sit in their little boxes, blinking at the intrusion to their home. Ozzie has named them all, and Jazz (after his granddaughter), Scrumblefoot and Cruella De Ville are amongst their number. So when he points at a white one and declares he’s calling it Mia, I’m very touched indeed. It’s a wonderful thing to think of these birds wheeling through this estate back from France, but it’s not only fi ne feathers that make fi ne birds. It’s home.

next IssueSoapbox racingSculpting glass

WW1 fi ghter plane– September / October –

Lofty heights of pigeon racingtext } Mia Davis | image } Michael Martin

Sandpits’ well-travelled homing pigeons

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Ludlow Ledger (Issue #2)