The coach in the Wye - from Kilvert's Diary

I have just been looking for an extract from Kilvert's Diary to share with you, and have come across this page, which tells of the coach which was wrecked in the flood at Bredwardine:

Monday 28 November 1870

A plaintive mew outside the door.  I open the door and tabby Toby comes trotting in with his funny little note of affection.

Walked up the Cwm and found old James Jones stonebreaking.  he told me how he was once travelling from Hereford to Hay by coach when the coach was wrecked in a flood by Bredwardine Bridge because the coachman would not take the bearing reins of the horses off.  The bearing reins kept the horses' noses down under water, they plunged and reared and got the coach off the road and swimming like a boat, and an old lady inside screaming horribly.  "Don't keep such a noise, Ma'am," said old Jones, throwing himself off the roof into a hedge-row against which the coach was swept by the fierce current.  "We won't leave you before we get you out somehow."  He was followed by most of the passengers on the roof, though one very tall man fell into the water on his face all along like a log, and waded through the flood out on to the Bredwardine side.  One outside passenger was a miller of the neighbourhood who had a boat on the river.  This was sent for and the old lady pacified and pulled into it through the coach window.  The coachman was prayed and entreated to loose the bearing reins, but refused to do it.  Two horses were drowned, one wheeler went down under the pole.  The other, a leader, broke loose and plunged and pawed and reared at the bridge out of the flood until he was exhausted, and then fell over backwards into the stream and was rolled away by the current.


Life was hard for the people in the countryside.  Here is is back in Chippenham, on an outing whilst staying with his parents:

Friday March Eve 1873

I went to Hardenhuish House.  Between St Paul's Church and the Lodge an old man stood by the way-side begging.  He was quite blind, and beside him stood a pretty little girl, his grand-daughter, with curling chestnut hair and beautiful rogueish merry eyes.  She had gathered some primroses and stuck them in her brown straw hat.  And when I came up the child pretended to be shy, got behind her grandfather and seemed to be looking along the bank for more flowers.  I stopped and spoke to the old man.  "I am fourscore," he said.  "For sixty years I worked at the blast furnaces and the fire was too strong for my eyes.  I came out here to stand and try if I could gather a few coppers as it is market day."

Thursday September Eve 1871

I went up to Lower Cwmgwanon to see the old madwoman Mrs Watkins.  Her son was out in the harvest field carrying oats, and I had to wait till he came in to go upstairs with me.  While I waited in the kitchen the low deep voice upstairs began calling, "Murder!"  John Lloyd! John Lloyd! Murder!"

The madwoman's son, a burly tall good-humoured man with ah pleasant face, came to the garden gate and thought I would not do any good by seeing his mother.  So I went away.  But when I had got half way down the meadow Cwmside on my way to the Burnt House, he shouted to me to come back and asked me to go up and see her.  He led the way up the broad oak staircase into a fetid room darkened.  The window was blocked up with stools and chairs to prevent the poor mad creature from throwing herself out.  She had broken all the window glass and all the crockery.  There was nothing in the room but her bed and a chair.  She lay with the blanket over her head.  When her son turned the blanket down I was almost frightened.  It was a mad skeleton with such a wild scared animal's face as I never saw before.  Her dark hair was tossed weird and unkempt, and she stared at me like a wile beast.  But she began directly to talk rationally though her mind wandered at moments.  I tried to bring some serious thoughts back to her mind. "Whom do you pray to when you say your prayers?"  "Mr Venables." (The Vicar).  It was the dim lingering idea of someone in authority.  I repeated the Lord's Prayer and the old familiar words seemed to come back to her by degrees till she could say it alone.  When I went away she besought me earnestly to come again.  "You'll promise to come again now.  You'll promise," she said eagerly.

A potted biography about Kilvert and his time at Bredwardine

His full name was Robert Francis Kilvert, although he was always known by his middle name or Frank (as my dad was, his middle name being the same). and he was born in 1840, so a contemporary of Thomas Hardy, amongst others.  He was a Wiltshire man, being born in Chippenham, son of the Redv. Robert Kilvert, who was rector of Langley Burrell.  He finished his education at Oxford, after which he followed his father into the church and was his curate at Langley Burrell in 1863/64, before heading for the parish of Clyro, just a mile from Hay-on-Wye, in Herefordshire, heart of the Welsh Marches area, spending 7 happy years there.

His diaries began in 1870 (those that remain anyway as they have fallen foul of his wife and an elderly niece down the years) and are a fascinating social history of that period.  Amongst his Clyro parishioners  was the old soldier who had served at Waterloo who told some wonderfully lurid details of his wartime experiences.

In 1876/77 he was Vicar of St Harmon in Radnorshire - which is some three miles from Rhayader in mid-Wales.  He ended his career at beautiful Bredwardine, where we were on Sunday, although his stay there was all too short, being from 1877 until his premature death of peritonitis in September 1879, just three weeks after his marriage.

Those are the bare bones, and don't sound very interesting without the padding of his writing, and his personality which allowed him to be at ease with all stratas of society.  He was equally at home in the drawing rooms of the local gentry, and the kitchen of his humblest parishioner.  He walked many many miles to seek them out, and in fact was a prodigious walker.

Extract from his diary, where he writes of looking out across this very churchyard:

"The southern side of the churchyard was crowded with a multitude of tombstones.  They stood thick together, some taller, some shorter, some looking over the shoulders of others, and as they stood up all looking one way and facing the morning sun, they looked like a crowd of men, and it seemed as if the Morning of the Resurrenction had come and the sleepers had arisen from their graves and were standing upon their feet, silent and solemn, all looking towards the East to meet the Rising of the Sun."

We drove across the splendid 6 arch brick bridge (built in 1879) which links Brobury and Bredwardine across the River Wye.  Kilvert wrote of a dreadful flood there in November 1878, in which "the Hereford coach was wrecked near the bridge because the coachman would not take the bearing reins off the horses and their heads were held under water."  (Bearing reins were a dreadful "fashion accessory" deemed necessary at that time - you may remember that Anna Sewell wrote scathingly of them in "Black Beauty" - and went from the bit up through a keeper near the browband and back to the backband of the harness, holding the horses heads up "proudly".  Of course, with their heads tied in this way they could not move them down or have movement to get their heads away from the floods.

More of that flood:

"So far the greatest flood of this century.  Before breakfast I went down to the bridge to see how the Jenkins family were.  Soon after I passed last night the river came down with a sudden rush and wave and filled the road full of water and they had to escape to the trap, carrying their children on their backs, wading through water knee deep and leaving 3 feet of water in the house, the house also being surrounded by water and the water running in at front and back.  Mr Stokes kindly rode down from Old Court to see if they were safe, the water was then up to his horse's girths.  Many people were flooded out of their houses at Letton and Staunton and spent the nightr on Bredwardine bridge watching the flood.  A number of cattle and colts were seen to pass under the bridge in the moonlight and it was feared that they would be drowned.  Some women saw a bullock swept under the bridge at noon today.  Mr W Clarke told me that the Whitney iron railway bridge was carried away last night by the flood and 2 miles of line seriously damaged.  No trains can run for 3 months, during which time the gap will be filled by coaches."

On New Year's Day 1879, Kilvert stayed up to see the old year old and the new one in.  He recorded:

"I was up last night to see the old year out and the new year in.  The Church bells rang at intervals last night and all today.  At 6 I went to Crafta Webb to begin my cottage lectures there.  It was raining fast when I started, but when I got as far as the Common, I noticed that the ground was white.  At first I thought it was moonlight.  Then I saw it was snow.  At Crafta Webb the snowstorm was blinding ans stifling, and I passed by Preece's cottage where I was going to hold the lecture without seeing it in the thickness of the driving snow.  Before the lecture I went in to see old John Williams.  On opening the door I was confronted by the motionless silent figure of a person veiled and wearing a comical cap which I presently discovered to be a dead pig hanging up by its snout.  John Williams deplored by being out on such a night and said it was not fit for me.  There were not many people at the service but the usual faithful few.  When i came back the storm was worse and so thick and driving that I was glad I was between hedges and not out on the open hill."

He was certainly tough and dedicated to his parishioners.  If you would like some more extracts, shout out.

An interlude in Bredwardine

It was a Malvern Day yesterday.  Not the Fleamarket this time, but the Antiques Market, with a few outdoor stalls, and apparently in the cattle sheds they had an auto-jumble, but that's not our thing and we didn't bother wandering over there.  We met up with our friends C & P and spent a lovely morning with them, bought a few things, and then on the way home, decided to stop off in Bredwardine, which is between Hereford and the turning off for Clyro and Hay-on-Wye.

Standing by the lytch gate, this was the view north-westwards, across the ploughed fields and browning Hazel catkins.  It was far prettier than my photo allows it.

There was an apple orchard (cider apples) just beside the church, and looking across it to the steeply rising hillsides, dotted with houses, I was reminded of the view from the edge of Florence, this time last year.

Another view across the valley, to the left of the one above.

I loved this orchard - old trees which were smothered with Mistletoe.  I can't wait for blossom-time to come round so I can take some heartlifting photos of the blooms.

The massive font is carved from one enormous piece of stone.  It dates from the 12th C, and is very simple in form.  The Herefordshire school of Romanesque Sculpture had no sway here.  If you are interested by that term, check out Kilpeck Church, Herefordshire, which is a magnificent example. The link is well worth checking out.  However, it does have one motif in common with Kilpeck (and other churches) which I missed -  the Shiela-na-Gig over a blocked doorway, so will have to go back and photograph that next time.

The beautiful stained glass windows behind the Altar.  Whilst some of the stonework in the fabric of the external building is Norman, at its heart lies the remains of a Saxon church .

Above, the tomb of the Knight Walter Baskerville which lies to the right of the Altar.

To the left of the Altar lies Sir Roger Vaughan, who died defending Henry V at Agincourt in 1415.  Sadly, he was later defaced - doubtless in the time of the Civil War.

The Rev. Francis Kilvert was the Vicar here back in 1877 - 1879, when he died aged just 38, some three weeks after marrying, from what was generally considered to be Peritonitis.  More about him later but here is a quick insight.

I'll add a couple more photos in the morning.

Marginal land

I had to drop a friend's birthday present off to her daughter this morning (this is my very poorly friend A, who lives about an hour from me).  On the way back, I came home the "old way" across the mynydd to Brechfa via Llidiadnenog.  Much of the land up here is marginal - some areas more marginal than others - for agricultural purposes, and keeping livestock.  Sheep are about the only ones to cope.

In the distance, better farmland, which has presumably been drained and improved with nitrates, lime etc.  Capable of supporting cattle.

Marshier land in this view.  The slightly warmer beige of the valley bottom is pretty boggy, hence the tussocky grass growing there.  Plenty of alder and willow trees help to suck up some of the moisture.  Pine trees planted on the upland for a cash crop.

A little further on, looking across slightly more fertile land, especially in the distance.  This land supports larger and more farmsteads than the uplands, needless to say.

Further on again, to the topmost of the uplands, and you can see the sour sort of grazing available to these sheep.  (Welsh Mountain sheep - see their tan tail-bottoms and a little tan on the back of the neck on the top one. )  Tough as old boots, these are (and pretty well as tasty . . .)

Settlements are sparse, and many of them support only horses now - good riding area, but poor quality grazing which gets extremely poached in the winter months.

This house has always looked desperate and down-at-heel, and when we first moved here, I think was a hippy-house.  It looks deserted here, but when I drove past is obviously still lived in.

Part of the Forestry Commission plantings.

There are small clusters of houses which just about register as a hamlet.

Finally, driving down our valley.  I was trying to show how steep it was (there is a lovely footpath coming down it - you can juyst see a slight line of it middle-top, sloping left and down.

Looking Westwards at the same spot.  Colour from the golden Hazel tassels in front, but the ash trees behind won't be green much before the end of May.

My thanks to everyone who wrote kind words about Banshee's passing.  I still well up with tears if I think of her.  Night-night Bindy-Ban . . .

R.I.P. Banshee

Sadly, we had to have wee Banshee p.t.s. today.  She had been with us 14 years, and for the last year or so had failing eyesight (cataracts and possibly high blood pressure).

It seems so long ago when I was driving up our beautiful valley and what I thought was a baby polecat ran across the lane in front of me.  I stopped the car, to find a tiny stripey kitten regarding me from the grass verge.  She was totally unafraid, and when I picked her up, spent the rest of the journey climbing all over me, through the steering wheel, round my neck, and across the dashboard. You can imagine the expression on my childrens' faces when I walked in the room and said "Look what I've found" and deposited tiny Banshee on Gabby's lap.  She was so small she fitted in the palm of your hand and obviously hadn't had a good start in life.  She never grew beyond half grown kitten size.

She got her name from her loud imperious voice.  She was a Princess Cat.  She liked to sleep in the strangest places, especially if they were high up (the top of the fridge freezer was her preferred winter choice for several years).  She liked to be warm.  She liked cheese, and would demand it at the top of her voice (which could be very annoying, and she soon had us fully trained.)  She refused point blank to use the cat flap, never EVER.  That was for Common cats.  So were litter trays.  Filthy places.  She would only ever deign to use one if she was sufficiently desperate and if it was absolutely clean and untainted by Other Cats having Used It.  Equally fussy about drinking water she took to coming upstairs to our bedroom and drinking out of my husband's bedside glass of water.  One day he had drank some at breakfast time so she went off in high dudgeon as he had obviously polluted it!

We would regularly lose her and she would turn up in boxes, shopping bags, dangling over a warm radiator or - a favourite one with her - amongst the tinsel bag of the Christmas decorations.

In the summer she would take herself off to the little field opposite to hunt, and would only come back home when hunting had been bad and she was hungry, and then off she would go again, unless it was raining.  She didn't like that.

She will leave a huge gap in our lives.  I have been crying all day and my eyes are so sore now.  I know it was the right thing to do - the vet said she might have only just been able to see shadows in the end - but it doesn't make it any easier.

Wholewheat Mincemeat cake for Remembering the Old Ways

WHOLEWHEAT MINCEMEAT CAKE

100g/4 oz butter

100g/4 oza barbados sugar
3 large eggs
300g/12oz mincemeat (mine is homemade)
175g/7oz self-raising wholewheat flour
About 4 tblspns milk

Grease an 18-20cm/8" round cake tin and line bottom with greased greaseproof paper (I do the sides too).

Cream butter and sugar well.  Beat in eggs, one at a time.  If it begins to curdle add a little of the flour.  Stir in the mincemeat and fold in flour, adding milk to obtain a moist mixture.  Bake in a moderate oven, Gas 3, 325 deg. F, 160 deg. C, for about 1 1/4 hours until cake is firm on top and shrinking slightly from edge of tin.

Keeps well for several weeks (apparently!!!  I couldn't possibly comment . . . )


I've blown the dust off this recipe again for Michelle over at Remembering the Old Ways blog (one of my favourites).  Back shortly with the Lyndhurst Museum photos.

Apologies for the silence

Since coming back from Hampshire, I have come down with Tonsillitis, and a chest infection, and am feeling tired and disinclined to do anything much other than rest/sleep.

I'll leave you with a couple of photos from the Lyndhurst Museum.

What a fabulous chair this is.  I'm not sure if it was Brusher Mills' chair, or made in memory of him, or just a Forest design, but isn't it superb?  The snakes (Adders) would connect it to Brusher Mills.

I hope you can read the legend on the side.

Back when I feel a bit more human!