Face squeezed between tall rails
My spirit vaporising out through the gap
The concrete contains
me.
Copyright owned by Jay Cool
Tittling Toupees at The Tap
Suffolk Punch Comedy Club’s 1st Birthday(and the cake that our compere, PJ, did not bake for the punters) |
What better way to celebrate Suffolk Punch Comedy Club’s first birthday than with …. Gavin Milnethorpe? No, not with Gavin – not yet awhile anyhow. First stop’s the bar. No woman in her forty-eighth year of life on planet Earth can’t possibly celebrate someone or something else’s first birthday, something else’s youth, without a pint of Mango cider in hand.
My favourite laughing barman, little-wizard-Oz, is serving this evening. My pint of cider is about to be hand-pumped by a wizard. Like myself, Oz failed to make the mark as a we-want-you-back comedian, at the Club’s debut gig twelve months ago; and, like myself, he’s still here – still standing (even if he is somewhat diminished in stature!). A pint of mango served up by Oz is sure to be like downing a bottle of Alice’s ‘drink me’ potion. It’s rehydrating properties’ll knock the years off me and, if only Oz were allowed to drink on the job, it’d expand his personage into giant proportions. Unfortunately, there is no mango cider – the barrel is dry! Seems I’ll have to settle for Aspall’s ‘Five Berries’ instead. What a let down!
But, I cannot be glum for too long. Gavin Milnethorpe, my very best and most favoured comedian of all time, is here … he’s just put one foot through the door … and … yes, here comes the other one … and … his guitar .. and …yes, Gavin’s head has arrived. Strange, how horizontal he’s looking today. Still, best not to linger too much on that thought. Best not to tell Oz that the comedians, as well as the regular punters, are now starting themselves off with cheap Tesco Value wine, before venturing into The Brewery Tap.
And, in any case, it’s most likely for the best to be horizontal, Gavin, when you’re into singing the ‘When I’m Cleaning Windows’ song (especially for fragile height-fearing types like the desperate-for-any-job-cos-I-ain’t-making-any-money-out-of-my-repeated-appearances-at-a-charity-gig Gavin Milnethorpe). If horizontal with a bog brush pretending to clean windows, when actually you are a peeping Tom, it’s best to look sideways rather than down. And it’s best to take sidelong glances, when singing insane lyrics about ‘honey-mooning couples’ and ‘blushing brides’, whilst simultaneously making footnotes – pencil between your toes – recording confessions of a freak with an Oedipus complex, a freak who’s sent his father into a stew.
But I’ve barely got lost in the fantasy of Gavin as a high-flying celebrity detective, when he changes tack and starts bemoaning his baldness and the loss of his old ‘curly mop’. What have you got to worry about, Gavin? You’re still a young, thirty-something! Wait until middle-age hits you, then you’ll really know about the loss of your curlies. In the meantime, get on out of here; us ageing Tap punters want to be reminded of our youthfulness, not of our bareness and your baldness. A toupee’s not that bad an idea, though … cut down to size … there must be a demand for it … here at the Tap .. A nice little sideline for Oz? Will have to put the idea to him …. but, for now … here’s ..
Chris Ray. Chris Ray? Who’s Chris Ray? Well, whoever he is, he’s outed the balding Gavin, and he’s abandoned foreign climates (Norwich), for poor dwindling little Sudbury. He really must be hard up. Not sure what he’s spent all his pennies on, though, ‘cos he’s ranting on about how much he hates technology. He hates SMART fridges, toasters, lightbulbs and trouser presses, and he hankers after the old days. Feeling sorry for him, I think about offering him the eyesore on my kitchen table, the bottle green kitchen scales made of cast iron, complete with 1, 5 and 10 Oz. weights (No, Oz – no, I’m not referring to you – you’re not heavyweight enough to counterbalance a pinch of Colman’s mustard powder!). An eyesore that I bought, out of embarrassment, from the vintage shop on Colchester High Street – after a failed attempt to haggle on a price for myself! But all thoughts of making such a donation to the worthy, but worthless Chris, disappear in a puff of Oz smoke – when he confesses he spent last week’s food budget on a PlayStation and a pack of Curly Wurly bars. Never mind the curlies, Gavin’s already taken off with those for his follicle transplant. It’s the PlayStation that gets me. Such hypocrisy! Such wanton technological greed. He’s sitting there getting all excited, with his hands around his own joystick ,whilst his girlfriend’s left high and dry on a diet of rice and pasta for the next twelve months. Get off with you, Chris Ray. Beam yourself on out of here. Get back to Norwich! Go and play! We want …
Ben Cohen! Ben Cohen – all the way from London!
But, first ….
Taking a quick stop to make my break at … the … cleanest conveniences in Sudbury. This ‘Five Berries’ stuff sure clears through the old pipework efficiently!
Shame it’s so cold and icy in the Tap’s Ladies’. What I need is a nice warm blast of air. I ready myself to communicate with the sensory controls of the hand-dryer, but am stopped in my tracks ..
‘HAVE A BLOW JOB, COURTESY OF THE BREWERY TAP!’ reads a new sign above the hand-dryer. A blow job? Surely not? … Oh! I’m in the Mens’. Quick turnaround manoeuvre – and I’m out! Out and straight into the oncoming traffic. “Oh, hello Ben. Hello, Adam Joyce. Hello, Matt Bray, Adam Bromley and …
No, no. No, I’m not Suffolk Punch Comedy Club’s resident Blogger! No, no, definitely not. In fact, I’m just one of the regular punters. Just a bit on the tipsy side. Just on my way out … out to …
… the Ladies’ …. Oh, hello PJ! Why are you in the …?
Aspall’s? Five Berries?
The Mens’ are that way! Yes, that’s right … out the door … follow the warm air … you’ll see a sign offering you a …. You put it there? Well, go and deal with it! Sort out the punters! Otherwise it’s a prime example of misleading advertising! You’ll get done by the …. commercial regulating thingmebobs …. SORT IT OUT!
By Jay Cool, September 2017
P.S. Please come and try out the Brewery Tap’s unique brand of hand dryer! Be at the Tap from 7.30 pm, first Wednesday of every month! Join the Blogger in laughing with, or at, the comedians and donate generously to the Prostate Cancer Research fund.
Credits: Birthday Cake picture, labelled as ‘free for reuse’, courtesy of Omer Wizar at: https://www.flickr.com/photos/thewazir/4232029536
An Exotic Photo-Shoot at The Tap
Well, I’m back (again!) Back from an inspection of the loos at The Brewery Tap (plenty of bog roll!). And, I ‘m standing back, standing back with the rest of the punters in the Tap; standing back to make room for the crane that’s been sent in to lift Jason Ventris out of his mango-maternity frock (seems he stole it from Wallmart and now they want it back!) Although a little disillusioned (On my arrival, I really did believe I was special guest Blogger for a Wallmart fashion preview!), I’m hanging on to my usual positivity and I’m moving on.
Clayton.
Clayton Harrison, comic-freak kid, is here. No doubt you’re thinking that he’s looking a little too much on the weather-worn side to be entitled to the look-at-me-I’m-still-fresh label of kid. But, you need to be here, here in The Tap, here listening to the poor lamb’s backstory before you make assumptions. Clayton, you see, is a little bit special; born at the physical age of five year’s old, he’s still rather delicate and impressionable, especially when it comes to taking advice on matters of moral judgement.
If you need further evidence to be convinced of Clayton’s social immaturity, then consider the time when he took a visit to a Christian Day Care centre, and came out with a strong conviction that everyone of God’s children should be treated exactly as if they were Jesus. And, to be fair, then it is true that parents should abide by equality laws and never have a favourite. But poor wee Clayton did exactly what he was told; when the TV Licence man came round, Clayton nailed him up on the For Sale sign in his front garden. You would think this might be a plus to potential buyers, but apparently not – Clayton’s still in situ.
I’m guessing that Clayton’s the type of Essex lad who was born and bred on homeground and who will die and be buried on homeground. Not so, with Maggie!
Maggie Kowaski’s the next comedian on the billing and she’s come all the way from Poland. You wouldn’t think she was from a foreign land, though, as she seems to have assimilated very quickly into our British ways. No Citizenship Test required for Maggie – she’s one of our own, a true Brit! She’s been on set for ten minutes, now, and she’s still rabbitting on about the weather. Seems she avoided paying for double-glazing to keep out the wind and the rain, by purchasing a raincoat instead. Being perceptive (admittedly not a British trait), Maggie’s right on the ball by concluding that ‘one doesn’t need double-glazing when one has a Mac’! Think I’ll leave her gassing on about the weather, but I’m here at The Tap on the hunt for something a little more exotic than that. I’m here for …
Chris Norton-Walker!
Chris Norton-Walker? Exotic? He might, according to him, be the biggest name in comedy – both in the physical and imaginary sense – and he might even have a very long twenty-three letter name – but exotic? Okay, I’m not sure that’s quite the image he has in mind, when he describes his own face as containing the opening three clues for a game of Bingo: ‘Beard, bald and glasses!’ But what Chris doesn’t know is that Jay Cool has updated the traditional version of Guess Who?to be all inclusive. Whereas he is picturing this:
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| Chris Norton-Walker’s outdated Guess Who? game |
I, Jay Cool, gone-viral-around-the-globe Blogger; I, am conjuring up these exciting and exotically-colourful images:
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| Saint Patrick’s day reveller, by Nick Gray |
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| Geoffrey Bilder at Wikimania 2014 – London caption |
And anyway, as Chris says, he’s not from Sudbury – he’s from St Alban’s. And, let’s face it, when you’re stuck here in Sudbury, trapped in a valley by a mountain range, even a comedian from St Alban’s is just a little bit (a big bit in Chris’ case) exotic! I must remember to have a word with PJ later; I’m all for cost cutting, but it’s a bit rough dropping the headliner comedian in by the giant crane that took the opening act comedian, Jason Ventris, out! (Even if, in view of the significant size of the acts, Virgin airways did refuse to give PJ the special offer of four seats for the price of two!)
Still, no doubt Jason Ventris’ photo shoot for Wallmart has helped to boost the funds – just a little!
 |
| Jason Ventris slapping PJ away, on the realisation that this is a ‘charity’ gig! |
Copyright owned by Jay Cool, August 2017
Disclaimer: All inaccuracies made in the transcription of the comedian’s acts are not the fault of Jay Cool; they are the fault of the mango cider readily available, by the barrel, at The Brewery Tap.
Future events: Any readers who would like to be similarly transported into the imaginary world of the Blogger, need to get themselves down to the Tap, on the first Wednesday of every month, to see all the forthcoming Suffolk Punch Comedy Club gigs (and to visit the Tap every day and evening in between times to drink as much mango cider as they can before Jay Cool dries the barrel up!)
Entry: The Wednesday night comedy event is free. But very generous donations into our charity pot, in aid of Prostate Cancer Research are more-than welcome.
Sources:
Photos: The photo of Geoffrey Bilder is a creative commons image, for which the link providing details is as follows: https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?title=File:Geoffrey_Bilder.jpg&oldid=223945741
The photo of the green reveller is a creative commons image by Nick Gray: Uploaded by Wikimedia Commons from http://flickr.com/photo/35034365374@N01/6792345 under the licence: https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/deed.en
Other photos are taken by the author, Jay Cool.
The photo of the green reveller is a creative commons image by Nick Gray: Uploaded by Wikimedia Commons from http://flickr.com/photo/35034365374@N01/6792345 under the licence: https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/deed.en
Other photos are taken by the author, Jay Cool.
Pumping it Up with Jason Ventris in Hollywood
Back. I’m back at the Tap; I know what I want, what I really, really want; but I’m not a Spice Girl and I’m not disappointed. I’m all psyched up, pint of mango cider in hand, and I’m really feeling it!
(CHECK OUT THIS SPACE FOR COOL PIC OF JAY IN GINGER SPICE GEAR – COMING SHORTLY!)
But, on a quick perusal of The Tap, it’s pretty evident I’ve been brought here on a false premise. Our Comedy Club booker, PJ, assured me that I’d be blogging about the world-renowned comedian, Jason Ventris. But PJ’s been less than truthful (No surprises, there! What else from a retired DFS Salesman?)!
What I’m actually now looking at is – a fashion shoot for the maternity section of Wallmart! I’m more-than surprised that such a successful American fashion chain would choose to branch out into Sudbury. Sudbury? Sudbury – the home of Wynch and Blatch?
But why not? Why not? And what an opportunity. If I blog about Wynch and Blatch, nothing will happen. But Wallmart? This could be my lucky break! With Wallmart, I might just blog myself into the big time. I might even go viral.
Okay, it’s true that I almost did go viral, when I slipped the word Nike into my last blog post – but going viral in Hartlepool and Stockton, even if the majority of my living ancestors haunt the North-East, is hardly on the same scale as going viral in the U.S.A. Boston, New York – Hollywood? Hollywood? Is Hollywood ready?
I find a perch for the mango and a perch for my bum. Notepad and pencil make an appearance and I get scribbling:
‘Jason looks stunning in a high-waisted-mango number. The puffed-out sleeves and the matching neck ruff really enhance the most shapely and meaty parts of his bod.’
Jason! Jason? B***** h***! What’s Jason Ventris doing, here in the Tap, modelling maternity clothes for Wallmart? PJ, for once, was actually telling the truth. Jason’s here!
F***! Hollywood? F***! F***! F***!
Jason Ventris is here. And I’m here. And we’re both in The Brewery Tap in the very, very small market town of Sudbury. It’s funny, but Jason doesn’t seem quite so ‘big’ anymore. I’ve got a sewing needle in my rucksack (It was a long journey down the hill, from suburbia to the hub!), and I imagine that, if I stick it in right now, during this very nano-second, into the front of that ginormously-juicy mango number, the explosion will be loud, the excitement and euphoria short-lived, and Jason and I will be left – with him looking and me feeling – pretty d*** flat …
It’s tempting, but I ignore the calls of my sewing needle, and make an effort to refocus. Jason’s ranting on about some traumatic occasion when he needed a p**s in Wallmart and when the just-as traumatised-and-underpaid shop assistants responded with a “Sorry, honey! No, we don’t sell that here!”
In Wallmart? Jason’s actually been in Wallmart? He was in the USA? He was in Hollywood? Things are looking up. I’m whipping out my bicycle pump (my rucksack’s a dead-ringer for Mary Poppins’ hold-it-all cloth bag), and I’m pumping it up. I’m here, in Sudbury, in The Brewery Tap, pumping it up with Jason Ventris. He’s looking big. We’re both looking big. And ..
PJ’s got hold of my sewing needle …
Copyright owned by Jay Cool (Hollywood, check out my CV!), August 2017
(1) Why the f*** am I asterisking out what Rupert Grint shouted out very loudly, and very repeatedly (If ‘very repeatedly’ is not good English, then Jay Cool has just made it so!), to his best mate Daniel Radcliffe, under some kind of perfectly legitimising (split-infinitives are now legal tender too) Code of Conduct for Wizards.
Feckless Fools: Part Four
On awakening, bright and early, or more likely befuzzled and early, with a splitting headache, Lots-of-Greats Granduncledad Humphrey [1]needed a quick fix. What better than a ride into Shrewsbury for a little therapeutic impulse shopping at the market? Little did Humphrey know – because, in spite of sharing his home with the devil, he knew very little about crystal ball predictions – that his arch enemy, the under Sheriff, had instructed a band of armed men to dismantle a section of the bridge Humphrey and Beezlebub would cross on their way back from market. But Beezlebub was no fool of a horse and he’d always secretly wished for a career in showjumping, (because, let’s face it, any kind of a career was a step up from being a grown man’s bed companion). Leaping across the whole width of the River Severn, Beezlebub landed his owner safely on the other side; at which point, the bushes all came to life, as the armed men, all disappointed and frustrated, bobbed their greenery up and down. [2] They looked like eejits – and Humphrey had escaped into the no-man’s land of the lawless Welsh Marshes.[3]
On depositing his master, Humphrey, safe and sound, at the top of the steep steps to their cave, the trusty stead was rewarded with a bale of hay, which had most considerately been gifted to him by the locals. Humphrey looked on jealously, as Beezlebub munched and burped, because, alas, it wasn’t Sunday yet, and his mother only brought him dinner on a Sunday. Not that Humphrey was at risk of going hungry because, along with the hay, the locals had left their protector with a good supply of corn and a bowl of deliciously cold chicken-head broth. It might be surprising that anyone bothered to reach out with a palm leaf to one such as Humphrey, but they didn’t do so out of kindness; they did so out of necessity. The locals were none too rich and Humphrey was generous, frequently sharing out his spoils. There has always been within my family an internal conflict of loyalties between the countryside and the seaside, and it may well have been that Humphrey really ought to have sought out a career at sea, as a pirate. He liked a good fight, as long as he had plenty of back up and the other person had none, and he liked to share his winnings with others. And, once he’d had his fill, he’d even abandon his women, and leave them free to be recycled.A good fight, and plenty of back up, and Humphrey was made up! And, in the end, this even helped him to make up with the powers that be. Like all immortal Kings, Henry VII kicked the bucket, and was succeeded by his son, another Henry who, unlike his father had the very clever policy of keeping his friends close and the criminal element of society even closer. And what is even more incredible about this story, is that Henry VIII just happens to be another relative of mine – my third cousin, and only sixteen times removed!
With his hot-temper, his flaming-red-locks, and his forgiving nature, I had rather hoped we might have a closer connection than that, but on with the story …
Tired of hiding out in a cave, and with a stead ready for a career break, his last shot before retirement in equestrian heaven, Humphrey decided to put on a show of loyalty to the new and fresh-faced King. Gathering around him an army of about one hundred men, with a number of other Kynastons in their company, but otherwise mostly consisting of common folk who owed him a few favours, Humphrey set off, in 1513, across the seas to France, without even having the sanction of an official standard, to fight on behalf of the King.
So many men did Humphrey slaughter on the battlefields of France – just a few lonely shepherds who happened to be walking the same path – that Henry, on hearing of Humphrey’s heroic deeds and his ability to recruit so many fighters, invited his new pal to court in London, whereupon he forgave him all of his past crimes (20th May 1571). I have the suspicion that his motive for this, however, may have been more to do with the fact that Humphrey and his brothers, could boast of the type of murder, that of a Cat
holic priest, that the new King, who fancied himself to be the only authority of the matter of religion, approved of.
holic priest, that the new King, who fancied himself to be the only authority of the matter of religion, approved of.
In 1486, Humphrey and a gang of twenty-four men, who again included his older half-brother Thomas Kynaston, undertook a nightly raid on Owestry Castle, at which they murdered several of the inhabitants therein, including a priest, who went by the name of Sir Thomas Kyffin. Humphrey left the scene a little better off, with a loot including two hundred pounds, me plate and other apparel. Not content with that, he followed up with a raid on Felton Aber, taking sixty pounds and a good supply of corn from the stocks which had been held therein at the order of the recently deceased Sir Thomas Kyffin, who had the responsbillity of being the keeper of the grain for the Lord of Owestry Castle, Thomas FitzAlan (also the seventh Earl of Arundel).
Here was a man who could take on the Catholic church singlehandedly, albeit with a gang of sycophants in tow, and not only that, but could summon up as many sycophants as might be required to suit any occasion. Uncle Humphrey was the kind of man, my cousin, Henry, could rely on. And, as he was once more a free man, some kindly relatives assisted Humphrey in a house move, from cave to town house, in Welshpool. Now an eligible bachelor, if a little battle-worn and suffering from a complete lack of conscience with regards to his past misdemeanours, Humphrey, with scant regard for Beezlebub’s feelings, cast aside his old be pal, and replaced him with wife number three, Isabella Maredudd.
Six children later, Humphrey realized that the responsibilities of being a father were far more wearing to his good health, than were all his days of criminality and deviance, and in 1535, with white hair, chest pains and chronic fatigue syndrome, he passed away, leaving most of his lands and tenements to his eldest son Edward by Isabella [4], and some property in Knockyn to Isabella, and his younger son Roger. [5]
Some say that poor old Granduncledad Humphrey passed away in his house at Welshpool, but the messages from my DNA tell me otherwise, and I rather prefer to believe that Humphrey preferred to meet his maker in the location he thought most likely to result in a reunion with a long, lost kindred spirit – the one and only true love of his life – Beezlebub. Feeling that the end was near, Humphrey departed from his Welshpool abode in the middle of the night, was transported via a curtesy car – a horse and rider, provided by the landlord of The Three Pigeons – and carried back to his cave at Nesscliffe; where, all snug as a bug, inside a horse-hair rug, we once more find Humphrey. Dead and gone forever. [6]
Copyright owned by Jay Cool (Who is Jay Cool?)
[1] Without recourse to Paracetamol!
[2] Looking like some potato grass-head growing kits that children now pay good money for at Poundland!
[3] The best equivalent today, being the Costa del Sol in Spain, where many a wanted English man has hidden out, to avoid conviction in a British court of law.
[4] There is some confusion here about which Edward, as, in between Mariona and Isabella, it has been rumoured, by some, that Humphrey had an interim wife, named Margred William, whom he married in about 1497, with whom he had two children, Elsbeth (c. 1502) and Edward (c. 1515).
[5] Needless to say, I haven’t yet seen any of this inheritance, but my door will be open when t
he ‘Heir Hunters’ from the BBC come knocking. I have my eye on a small cottage, called Dracup’s Cottage, in Bridgenorth, Shropshire (as featured in in the article ‘For Sale: Curious Cottage Complete with Cave’, published by The Shropshire Star, on Feb 11th2009). This unique structure expands down into a basement cave of endless hand-chiselled, chambers – surely be an appropriate expenditure and fitting abode for a descendant of Humphrey’s!
he ‘Heir Hunters’ from the BBC come knocking. I have my eye on a small cottage, called Dracup’s Cottage, in Bridgenorth, Shropshire (as featured in in the article ‘For Sale: Curious Cottage Complete with Cave’, published by The Shropshire Star, on Feb 11th2009). This unique structure expands down into a basement cave of endless hand-chiselled, chambers – surely be an appropriate expenditure and fitting abode for a descendant of Humphrey’s!
[6] Fortunately, all is not lost, because Humphrey Kynaston, my 12th Great Grandfather married Lady Isabella Maredud, my 12th Great Grandmother; and one of his siblings, Jane Kynaston (1466-1531, my 14th Great Grandmother, had the wisdom to marry Roger Thornes (1445-1531, my 14th Great Grandfather) and now, I am here to carry on Humphrey’s legacy – not the murdering part – I’m skipping that bit – but, being a vegetarian, I am a living tribute to Humphrey’s true love Beezlebub! And, also, I do rather like the idea of going for a run, hiding out for a while, and then re-emerging to a white-gloved handshake and a big-fat cheque from the Queen. But, failing the cheque, I’ll settle for one of her purple hats (Yes, I know they are expensive, but I’ve already made my own version, in lieu of getting hold of the real article! [Plate *], and the loan of a handsome body guard!
The following sources were referred to during Jay Cool’s research:
https://www.revolvy.com/topic/Humphrey%20Kynaston&uid=1575 – Revolvy
Ancestry.com
‘Antiquities and Memoirs of the Parish of Myddle: County of Salop (A.D. 1700)’ by Richard Gough (Henry Sotheran & Co., London, 1875).
‘Pursing an Outlaw – The Real Wild Humphrey Kynaston’ by David Hamilton, in (The New English Review Press, June, 2011).
Credits: The photo of Henry VIII is licensed for use as a ‘Creative Commons’ image and comes from the following blog: https://goodgentlewoman.wordpress.com/tag/henry-viii/
Disclaimer: Please refer to Jay Cool’s ‘About the Author’ blog post.
Feckless Fools: Part Three
My Great-Granduncledad-Something Humphrey Kynaston did, of course, do what all of my genes do best. He fled. Fled from his wife, his children, and his tumble-down castle [1]and his …. No, he didn’t flee from his favourite horse, Beezlebub; he had his priorities right and took his next-best-thing-to-central-heating with him, to a two-roomed cave in Nesscliffe Woods. Which is where we now rejoin his snoring and flatulent self.
Granduncledad’s in deep sleep now, having deep, and what might to some us be, deep dark dreams. Dark, because he’s not done with murder yet. Deep, because rumour has it that Humphrey’s brain cells were in good order. The reclamation of his favourite pub stool, may well have been an act of sudden and impulsive rage, as may have been the unfortunate meeting of the Kynaston gang with John Hughes, but the same could not be said for all of the other murderous scenes at which our Humphrey was at the healm, because these were almost certainly premeditated.
In fact, I don’t think it would be too much of an exaggeration on my part, to state that my dear old Uncle Humphrey was a member of the Shropshire equivalent of the Italian mafia, so in this respect he was well-ahead of his time. For some years before the incident with John Hughes, Humphrey and his brothers: Thomas, Oliver and Richard Kynaston, (Yes, all of them my uncles!) were wanted for a string of murders and robberies, referred to in Special Act of Parliament, for which they were to be tried before King Henry VII at his court of Chancery (Hamilton). Due to a general lack of respect for authority, [2] none of my ancestors bothered to present themselves to his highness, Henry VII, as requested, for which insolence they were outlawed for felony, being forced to turn in their estates to the crown (Dec, 23rd, 1487, Hamilton).[3]
But, as the evidence of a sleeping Humphrey suggests, to be turfed out of Myddle Castle was no punishment; it was an incentive. It spurred him on to greater and better things. As, before his visit to The Three Pigeons, our Humphrey received, or rather took , a bit of a windfall. His cave, being up a steep slope was in a great vantage point for partaking in a little bird spotting. [4]Passing between the cave and the Three Pigeons was a highway, not just any old highway, but the main highway between Shrewsbury and Owestry.
And, early in the afternoon, just as Humphrey was beginning to feel a little peckish (His mother, Lady Elizabeth Grey, had failed in her duty to leave a bowl of food outside the entrance to her favourite pet’s cave), a most beautiful lady came riding by. She had the most stunning long tresses of golden-red hair and her fulsome figure was adorned with an extravagant green-velvet gown. Her companion was a gentleman; he wore a red velvet jacket, fine breeches and long leather boots; he was by far the lady’s elder, but was her inferior with regards to looks. What Humphrey wanted, Humphrey got. And no, he wasn’t after the lady, he was after the money, or rather, her companion’s money.[5]
Humphrey, still reeling from the non-payment of his estranged wife’s dowry, went in for the kill. Down the slope he nipped and jumped, seeming to leap out, at one with Beezlebub, from the caverns of hell.
Success. One of many. A success celebrated, as were many before it, with a night of drunken excess at the Three Pigeons.
Copyright of text & all photographs (with the exception of the Lego man) owned by Jay Cool. Who is Jay Cool?
[1] Due to his financial difficulties, Humphrey had neglected to call in the maintenance workers for many years past. Were he alive today, he would now feel better in, the knowledge that throwing money at bricks and mortar is a waste of time; because, today, a façade of bricks hides a cardboard box style of construction that, built by Bovis, will fall down in a few years’ time regardless. We live and learn!
[2] Teachers will know all about these kind of young men!
[3] If only teachers used this policy when dealing with errant students, there would be no issues of boredom for teachers (they would have a wide range of iPhones, Nintendo 3DSs and wands of mascara to utilize during lunch-breaks, and at 3 o’clock, because everyone knows that teachers work the shortest hours in the world, and there’d be no shortage of new recruits to the profession. I shall soon be writing a letter the TES (Times Educational Supplement) to put this lightbulb of an idea forward.
[4] Today, it could be compared with Donald’s apartment in Trump Tower!
[5] As everyone knows women had no control over their finances in those days, and, unless they are Theresa May, still don’t!
The following sources were referred to during Jay Cool’s research:
https://www.revolvy.com/topic/Humphrey%20Kynaston&uid=1575 – Revolvy
Ancestry.com
‘Antiquities and Memoirs of the Parish of Myddle: County of Salop (A.D. 1700)’ by Richard Gough (Henry Sotheran & Co., London, 1875).
‘Pursing an Outlaw – The Real Wild Humphrey Kynaston’ by David Hamilton, in (The New English Review Press, June, 2011).
Credits: The lego highwayman is a creative commons image and is from:
Disclaimer: Please refer to Jay Cool’s ‘About the Author’ blog post.
Who is The Silly-Savvy Salopian?
Jay Cool has acquired the title of ‘The Silly-Savvy Salopian’, due to her eccentric ways and her egocentric obsession with Shropshire. So deluded is she, that she claims to have been birthed within a Salopian cave, and to be descended from every significant soul to set foot on Salopian soil. No-one has yet dared to point out to this fruit-loop that she herself lives in Suffolk, a point which gives rise to some serious doubts about her credibility.
It is, of course, just about feasible that red-haired Jay is related in some way to the cave-dwelling-ginger-bearded dwarves of the Shires. Did her unusual height give rise to suspicions about her pedigree? Could this have led to her expulsion from the aforesaid-cave community?
Whether she be deluded, or not, Jay’s enforced hermitage has resulted in an outpouring, not of tears, but of scrawl after scrawl, of memoirs, stories and poems, a plea to the world to listen, and to believe …
The Significance of Being Ginger
For those who doubt the validity of Jay Cool’s ancestral claims, just take a look at her fine head of hair, and doubt no further!
William the Conqueror was a ‘ginger’, as was Henry VIII and several of his wives, and as was Edward I, and as was Joan of Acre, and as was Lady Elizabeth Grey of Myddle Castle, and …. as was the first cat the Cool family had the pleasure of being acquainted with – Bobby!
Oh, and, before I forget, as is the author’s brother, Lord Something-or-Other (or was, before he went bald), , and as is …. Sorry, folks, that’s just about it! (Unless, … Ed Sheeran? Rupert Grint? Nicole Kidman? Cousins?)
And, in any case, are we not all descended from the very first gingers – the Neanderthals?
Photographs of Jay Cool, the author’s own, and the photograph of Edward II is in the public domain.
Links to The Silly-Savvy Salopian‘s blogs:
Back to Myddle
Jay Cool’s nemesis, first-time traveller, steps out of her cave to take a trip to Myddle, the birthplace of her paternal Grandfather Arnold Cool, and her maternal Many-Times-Great-Grandfather, Sir Humphrey Kynaston – the notorious Highwayman and thug.
Back Again to The Myddle
Jay Cool, travel-writer extraordinaire, sends her nemesis on a return visit to Myddle, from whence a Dacia Sandero takes her and her entourage on a tour of Shropshire’s hotspots:
Every Day’s a Tet Day in Salop
Jay Cool’s nemesis, psychic extraordinaire, takes advice from the voices of deceased Salopian authors, as she attempts to resurrect their talents, emulating their skills in her own masterpieces:
From the Myddle, to Everywhere and Back Again
Early Years in Shropshire
Jay Cool shares her own childhood memoirs, from her early years in Shropshire:Albrighton (near Wolverhampton), Church Aston (near Newport) and, Wem.
Mission Around the Coast
Jay Cools recalls the many coastal locations her Port Missionary family lived in, including: Grimsby, Aberdeen, Fleetwood, Felixstowe, Aberdeen (2nd time round), Immingham and East Tilbury.
Salopian Significants
Jay Cool tells the stories of a selection of her Salopian ancestors, including Sir Humphrey Kynaston, Grandfather Arnold Cool, and Sir Thomas Leighton.
Forty-Six Strange, Inspirational and X-Citable Poems
A motley collection of Jay Cool’s poems, published in commiseration of reaching the 46th year of her life.
‘Bus W******!’
Poems inspired by a Silly-Savvy Salopian’s bus travels around Suffolk and Essex; travels that, sadly, due to government funding cuts, and the consequent scrapping of certain bus routes, are no longer possible. Lamentable.
Beyond My Middle
Poems on all manner of topics, including people, politics and the British weather!
Poems from Small Places
Works of genius inspired by the mess in a Suffolk garden, followed up with a plea to ancestor Great Grandfather Geoff Cool, a keen gardener, to come and do a makeover. Failing that, Jay Cool, is working on linking her family tree up to the famous Salopian gardener, Percy Thrower.
An anthology of poems created in cafes, during recovery from malaise – J K Rowling style (minus the baby)! All courtesy of pots of Prado Lounge’s tea, Costa’s latte and Café Nero’s hot chocolate Milano (with lots of cream). Jay Cool awaits the arrival of her invitation to be the resident poet of Prado Lounge – the only payment required being a lifetime’s supply of tea, and the occasional Boston Bean brunch.
The Adventures of a Silly-Savvy Salopian
Jay Cool’s nemesis travels around the globe, featuring such property hotspots as the Chilton Industrial Estate in Sudbury, Suffolk.
Laughter on Tap
A taste of the talent on offer at Suffolk Punch Comedy Club, a monthly stand-up comedy show, that raises funds for research into prostate cancer. Join PJ, as he emcee’s and mentors some of the best, including our very own Martin Westgate (Simon Cowell, as gorgeous as he is, made his biggest mistake ever by buzzing this one off the Britain’s Got Talent stage!). And join Jay Cool’s nemesis, blogger extraordinaire, as she steals all of the best jokes!
Poems taking inspiration from the daily ‘Poem a Day’ emails I receive from Poets.org.
Jay Cool’s Published Works
A link to ‘Dissident Voice’, a website that has seen fit to publish some of Jay Cool’s poems.
Associated blogsites:
Carolina Lily in Bloom
A link to the blogsite of a sometime-removed cousin of Jay Cool. Carolina Lily is a talented writer who provides some uplifting words of wisdom.
A Savvy Disclaimer
Although based loosely on family tree research, courtesy of Ancestry.com, Jay Cool, a once-was-ginger comedic blogger and incredibly-serious poet, would like readers to be very wary of using any of the information contained within these blog posts for ‘serious’ family tree research.
Jay is not a professional genealogist. Exiled from her native Shropshire, she has gone into permanent hibernation, courtesy of a industrial-storage container in Suffolk. Occasionally, she releases her nemesis, of the same name, but better known as The Silly-Savvy Salopian, from it’s hideout.
The reader would be correct in making assumptions, based on the quality of Jay’s sleeping accommodation, that her funds, and her feet, do not stretch to the challenge of exhaustive-archival research.
It should also be pointed out that the surname ‘Cool’, and any associated Christian names, might not be good starting points for any keen family tree head hunters, unless they too, like the nemesis Jay, have been forced into constructing their own reality.
The copyright for this disclaimer belongs to the nemesis Jay Cool, August 2017.
Back to the Myddle: Day Nine of an Ancestral Adventure
Back to the Myddle: Day Nine of an Ancestral Adventure
Sunday. Sudbury. Sunday in Sudbury? Why not?
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“Yes, I there possibly is a cave”! advised the friendly shop manager in ‘At The Myddle’. “But I’m not entirely certain, because I’ve just moved in! I’ll ask around!”
“Yes, there is a cave near here somewhere!” proclaimed the friendly publican in The Red Lion, at Myddle. “But, I can’t tell you anything about it. I’ve just moved in and I’ve never been there myself!”
“I believe you are going in the right direction?” the friendly farmer assured me. “But I’ve just moved in and I’ve never been there myself, so I hope you find it!”
But there it is – the cave – and there you are, right in the middle of it all in Myddle – and you’ve never even seen it?
But, of course, I didn’t say this out loud. How could I? Who, after all, was I to pass judgement? Newbies have a perfectly valid excuse. I, on the other hand ….
******************************************************
I, have no excuses. I’ve been living in Sudbury for ten years. Ten whole years. Ten years of unknowingly walking in the footsteps of my ancestors. Ten years in repeat mode, perusing the same old locations over and over again. Ten years of grabbing bargains from the sale racks of Dorothy Perkins and New Look. Ten years of book buying in Oxfam and The Sally Army. Ten years of fine paying in Sudbury Library. Ten whole wasted years, when in all of that time, if only I had known it, in all of that time, I could have been living the life of Riley, or to be more precise, the life of a Lady. A life more fitting to one such as myself – the First-Cousin-Numerous-Times-Removed-Niece of Lady Elizabeth de Burgh.
To be fair, then I’m not so sure that the title Lady Jackie Cooke, has quite the same prestige attached to it as Lady Elizabeth de Burgh. But, such is the lot of those of us born into the female sex, those of us subject to a constant changeover of surnames. Choices, such as those which would make us stand out from the crowd are simply not ours to make. It’s time, I decide. It’s time to step out and take back my rights. Time to take back – Sudbury.
I cross over my doorstep and I step out in style (My pillar-box red tights can be purchased from a posh shop in Sudbury called Wynch and Blatch! My hat, self-made, is available by negotiation!).
Within half an hour – it’s a long walk down into the valley – I’m standing in Market Square, with my back to Saint Peter’s Church, trying to imagine fourteenth-century market traders vying for customers, shouting out so-called knock-down prices for their woollen fleeces. Perhaps these fleeces were produced by members of Lady Elizabeth de Burgh’s industrious household in Clare, for I’ve read that the Lady herself dealt in fleeces, and that she was responsible for the development of Sudbury’s market place. Business woman aside, I’ve also found out that Elizabeth owned the Manor of Sudbury and my research on trusty Google, informs me that there was once a manor house near the Croft. I can’t really hear any market traders, but there are some young teenage girls shouting abuse across Market Square to each other. So I resist the magnetic pull of Dorothy Perkins (I’ve heard its on its way out!), and I resist the suction power of WHSmith and The Works, and I move on – closer to my destiny. I need to get to the Croft and find my Manor house.
I sprint (a necessity, even if an impossibility for one of my middle age, as I’ve told my children I’ll only be five minutes!) down New Street towards River Stour and the Croft and take in the view. I have no choice but to take in the view, because there’s a very long wait at the traffic lights, waiting for them to allow me (Allow me? A Lady?) across Gainsborough Road, which is heaving with heavy lorries, churning out noxious fumes at me.
More noxiousness greets me, when I finally make it to the Croft. There’s a statue on a podium, on the Green just in front of Saint Gregory’s Church burial ground – and I want to take a close look. Who does it depict? Is he one of my own? But a young man of Sudbury is using the podium as a base on which to construct a roll-up. Tobacco or cannabis? I have no wish to venture forth into the come-and-get-cancer here zone, so I go for the more-attractive option of a whistle-stop tour of the already dead. Perhaps some of my ancestors live here?
But I can’t find any familiar surnames. It matters not, because I rather like an image of a skeleton on one of the larger tombstones. It’s not so different to the skull and cross-bone symbols on my Jolly Roger headscarf. I love it! Enthused, I Motorola a few more gravestones and, as an afterthought, take a photo of the church itself. And I’m on my way. A Manor House awaits.
But, the smoking commoner has gone, so I stop to examine the statue. Aelfhun, Bishop of Norwich. He looks a trifle mardy (as one would be, when recovering from the forced inhalation of someone else’s smoke fumes). He’s a long way from home, all disconnected and he’s no-one I’ve ever heard of! I decide to look him up on Ancestry.com. That’ll perk him up! He must be related somehow – to someone, somewhere!
The Manor House? It’s nowhere to be seen, so I phone a friend and ask them to Google it for me. In the meantime, I take a look at my pastures. But, my status as a peer means nothing. Because, even though this land belonged to my ancestor Richard de Clare, the Lady Elizabeth’s Grandfather, it seems that he gave it all away when he granted grazing rights to the residents of Sudbury. But, in order to take advantage of my entitlement to a mouthful of fresh grass, I need to have been born in Sudbury. I’ve been all the way to the Myddle, to my homeland, only to discover that I have vast meadowlands here in Sudbury. And that it’s all been given away! I can’t even put my issue out to pasture – I was foolish enough to give birth to them in a hospital ten miles away from here! (Will just have to continue feeding them myself! Which I can just about handle, as long as can get to Tesco at around 7pm, when they reduce all of their out-of-date goods to about 10p a pack!) Still, the view is pretty, and I find a swan that would be tasty in anyone’s homecoming banquet. So, all is not lost and my Motorola is calling me.
“You’re standing in the wrong place! Go to the traffic lights and cross over Gainsborough Road and you’ll see the Social Club right there in front of you. You must have walked right past it!” But I’m looking for a Manor House, for my Manor House, not for the Social Club – you moronic Motorola!
But it turns out that the Manor House has long since gone, and it’s not even certain that this is the location of the same Manor House that once came under the ownership of Elizabeth. But, there was once a Manor House that shared map coordinates with the Social Club, and it did once belong to someone, so I take a picture.
The Social Club’s quite cute – a converted corner terrace, painted a pretty pale cream. I’m guessing that – at the most – it has two rooms upstairs. Wonderful! But, it’s hardly on a scale big enough for a Social Club. I head around the corner – and there’s more. There’s more and it’s ugly – an eyesore of a brown-brick square box of a sixties’ style extension. It’s horrendous!
Shaken, I head back into town and pick up the children from WHSmiths (They’re really hacked off with me!). I avoid looking at the books. And I’m out of there! As we just happen to be going past Sworders, the Estate Agency, I check out the prices of Sudbury’s finest two-bedroom terraces. Completely out of my league. Start saving!
It’s all been for nothing. I’m bookless, and penniless. I spent all my savings on a trip to the Myddle last week, and, just to top it all off, my eldest child is so angry with me for leaving her in WHSmiths, in charge of her pesky siblings, that I have to fob her off with a £20 note to spend at New Look. My Manor House will just have to wait.
I’m penniless and I’m feeling deflated, so I’m more than agreeable when my youngest child spots some friends on the way home and forces me to sit down on a grassy slope to stay put, whilst she hangs out at the park. And, happy with her new spending power, my eldest agrees to continue on up the hill to our humble abode, with my middling child – the noisiest one – in tow. The scene is set.
It’s a bit on the chilly side, but it’s light and bright for reading, so I settle in and make a niche for myself on a gentle incline. Glasses on. Book out.
Thirteen! What? I can’t believe it. Lady Elizabeth de Burgh was only thirteen when her beastly Uncle, Edward II, arranged a marriage for her with John de Burgh! Thirteen! Just a child still. And it gets worse. He dies and she marries again. Marries again, at the grand old age of twenty-one. But at least, this time, she gets to choose her own man – the gorgeous Theobold de Verdoh. But, before she’s even given birth to Theo’s lookalike, her hubby goes and kicks the bucket – and he’s only been married for a year! What on this planet did our Liz do to him?
And there’s more. Six weeks after giving birth, Elizabeth is wedded for a third time. Uncle Edward II enforces this one – it’s one of his mates – Roger Damory! And I’m guessing that Liz is too knackered to give two hoots about what her new spouse looks like. In any case, it matters not, because Roger is dead within six years and, miraculously, she’s free. How convenient!
Elizabeth’s twenty-seven years old, still young and sprightly, and she’s free. Free to do what she wants. To top it all off, her only brother Gilbert’s long since dead, and she’s now a Lady with lands. Vast swathes of land. She owns Clare and Sudbury and she even goes and builds herself a luxury home in London. This Lady has power. She even has all the monks and nuns for hundreds of miles around praying for her soul, praying for free entry into Heaven. It makes my head dizzy even thinking about it.
But the temperature’s dropped. I need to shift myself. “It’s time to head back home now!” My daughter’s not convinced. She’s sleeveless and I’m wrapped up in her coat and my coat – and she’s enjoying herself. I’m preparing my case for home, when my thoughts are interrupted by a buzzing Motorola. It only buzzes three times. A text message.
‘I’ve got the all clear. I’m okay!’
My friend has just fought off the big one. She’s fought off cancer! Never mind the Manor House in Sudbury, the Castle in Clare, or the cave in Myddle. My friend’s back.
“Okay, Mum. I’m ready now! I’m hungry. You win. Let’s go!”
And, hand in hand (A lie, because there’s no way my last-born child wants her friends to see her holding my hand!), the two of us, my daughter and I, head back home.
It’s still Sunday. And I’m in Sudbury. I’m back. And I’m staying.
Monday? Work?
It’s still Sunday.
Copyright owned by Jay Cool
If you enjoyed this blog, in spite of it’s tenuous ancestral claims, please look out for Jay’s forthcoming book ‘From the Myddle, to Everywhere, and Back Again’.
Disclaimer: Please refer to the ‘Who is Jay Cool?’ post for details.
Back to the Myddle: Day Eight of an Ancestral Adventure
Back to the Myddle: Day Eight of an Ancestral Adventure
Reclamation. Whether I be at home in Shropshire or in Suffolk is a dilemma that can only be solved by checking out my territory – by a full survey of my lands and properties.
I can’t believe that I once stood in a classroom, zoning out the din, staring out at the wonderful view – a vast playing field – whilst planning an escape from my teacher’s life of 24/7 drainage and drudgery, when all of that time I could have been just a few hundred yards away, perusing my estate from the vantage point of Clare Castle. I’m so sorry, kids, that I made you construct castles for homework! By rights, slaves, you should have been out there, building the real thing!
My ancestors in the Myddle were all stonemasons – and that all makes so much sense now. Each new generation was trying to grab just a little bit back of what they had lost, reconstructing their castle walls, one man and one brick at a time. Clare Castle. Ludlow Castle. Myddle Castle. Yes, thanks to Great-Something-Uncle Humphrey Kynaston, they even lost Myddle Castle – and that was only a trumped-up manor house. But, I’m back. I’m back in Suffolk, and Clare Castle is just ten miles from my crumbling shed in Sudbury. My carriage, a miraculous survivor of the trip back from Myddle, awaits its Lady and her issue.
And we’re away. Away to Clare and I might even find my way this time. I made this journey, twice a day for six years. So that’s one up for you – long-distance-map-head savant of a cousin! Sat Nav not needed!
“Are we going the right way, Mum?” Yes, of course we are my heirs. Why would we not be? When have I ever got lost?
I park up and, unbelievably, find that I have to buy a ticket! A ticket to park on my own land? But that’s a minor issue – I’ll be talking to Clare Town Council about that later – because there it is. Clare Castle. It’s like a Barbie doll palace, or something out of a Disney film, perched on the crown of what must be the tallest mountain in the UK. No, it’s not Elsa’s ice palace, so please, please, please – my wonderful daughter, Princess as you may be, do not start singing that awful overdone-at-caravan-talent-shows ‘Let it Go!’
I want to be at my destination, but I’m puffing and panting and my issue are sprinting ahead. Don’t they know it’s not appropriate for the gentry to risk life and limb? I feel like I’m on a helter-skelter, going round and round, and I’m getting dizzy. Only, it’s not so much fun going up and up, rather than down and down, and I’m thinking I might not make it to the top. Still, if it comes to it, my heirs can stake our claim with the marker I’ve given them, the mug mat that bears our coat of arms.
Somehow, though, I make it and I’m here. I feel a little affronted that some commoners seem to already be here – standing and chatting loudly – in my living room! But, I hold my tongue, because I’ve been doing my research and my predecessor – First-Cousin-Numerous-Times-Removed Elizabeth de Burgh (Lady of Clare Castle) – was most generous with the poor. And, it’s important that one maintains standards!
I stand next to the castle wall – there only seems to be one of them – and allow my under-studies to capture the moment on my Motorola phone’s camera app. Tesco, you owe me some shopping vouchers for this one – you can deliver the goods without too much problem – once I’ve had the chairlift installed.
Once I’ve got my breath back, I do a slow regal-style walk over to my garden wall and peer down. It’s quite an extensive view, both across and down, which is unfortunate to say the least, because I’m still dizzy from my ascent. So, I take a few large strides backwards. You might be thinking that it’s impossible to stride backwards but, believe me, it can most definitely be accomplished. My daughter steps forward to Motorola the view, and I realise that we are under attack. The guards must have fallen asleep. My son wants the Motorola because he’s installed a Pokémon App on it, and he’s bored. Bored? How? There is much squawking and squealing, as the lovely siblings spear each other in a bid for exclusive rights to the crown jewels.
But the interruption is a good thing because, moments earlier, I had been planning to intervene in a discussion the commoners were having about whether to buy or not to buy a house in the village of Clare. Why did they have to come all the way up here, to my castle, to take in the view? Why didn’t they just enlist the help of an estate agent for a close-up tour? None of my servants rush to my aid so, like Joan of Arc, I take up arms and take back control of my Motorola – a preventative measure, as I fear it might be launched over the cliff, ready to do it’s own close-up tour the village!
I’m not ready for a fast descent, so we decide to take a gentle stroll along Lady’s Walk. The name Jay de Clare rather suits me, I feel, and I imagine I’m walking down the red carpet at the Bafta Awards, so I’m not overly chuffed to find that the access from the walk along the battlements to the steps down is blocked by an ugly work-in-progress stop sign. Why has my property been allowed to fall into such a state of disrepair? Only one wall and a crumbling stairway. With cuts like these, won’t be voting in the Conservatives at the forthcoming election. In fact, I won’t be voting in any political party. It’s high time that the tables are turned. I’m now a Royalist and will be taking action forthwith.
Although it is beneath my dignity, we all about turn, and go back down the way we came up. The helter-skelter comes into it’s own (We aren’t even provided with rugs to sit on!) and it’s a speedy fall for all. We are more than a little worse for wear, with scuffed bottoms and bruised egos. Nonetheless, we march onwards… Because, if I’m going to take a rest, I will do so in the company of my ancestors.
Another job to pass on to Maintenance – the wooden door to the priory’s walled garden is blocked – a preventative measure, as it’s pretty rotten! So we find another route in – through an open window. I’m scared I might see a monk. Because the last time I saw one, at a Christian camping rally in France, he told me off for hiding out in my tent instead of attending the morning service. If I had only known then, that I was a direct descendant of William of Normandy, I’d have had the monk beheaded there and then. But I’m not so sure that my kindly cousin, Elizabeth of Clare Castle, would go to such extremes. And, I’m here, in her name, trespassing in the grounds of Clare Priory.
There are no monks to be seen, just a 
long table-like structure, some kind of a stone alter, not dissimilar to the one that Aslan received a hair cut on, from the evil Narnian ice Queen. I must be getting close to my resting place. But further investigation of the table of offerings reveals nothing. I turn back.
And then I see it. There’s a plaque on the stone wall, just below the window through which I entered. I clambered in over the bones of my ancestors. For here lies, my Great-Something-Aunt Joan of Acre and her Great Granddaughter, my Third-Trillion-Times-Removed-Cousin Elizabeth de Burgh II. I don’t have time to offer them my apologies, because my son’s in a nervous state – he’s very law-abiding and, too late, I realise that I should really have told him about the sign on the way in that said ‘Visitors welcome!’ He’s running around in circles, flapping his wings, ready to take off. “Come on, Mum. You’ll get into trouble. Come on! Let’s go!”
Okay, fair play. I take a quick Motorola selfie and we escape.
I flick through my pics and realise that I look hot next to a dead daffodil and some even deader ancestors (hence, some serious cropping of the photo!). Perhaps I’ll be picked up to be cover girl for next month’s ‘Hello’ magazine. It’s about time for my cousins, Catherine and Will, to step aside. Their royal claims are less than plausible. And now …
I’m back.
Copyright owned by Jay Cool
All photographs are either the author’s own, or are in the public domain.
Back to the Myddle: Day Seven of an Ancestral Adventure
Back to the Myddle: Day Seven of an Ancestral Adventure
Shropshire. Suffolk. Shropshire. Suffolk. Where?
Just where exactly do I come from? I was born in Shropshire. I live in Suffolk. And, in between times, I’ve lived just about everywhere else in the UK. Rootless. Rootless and a long way from home. A long way from Myddle – the home of my Grandparents and Great Grandparents, and the home to the memory traces of my many Great-Great-Something Grandparents, Aunties, Uncles and cousins.
Convinced that Myddle was my true home, back I went. Never mind that I was born in Shifnal, a good forty-five minutes’ drive away from Myddle. Never mind that I’ve never even ever lived in Myddle. Never mind that I’d never even set foot in Myddle until last week! The point is that I did set foot in Myddle, albeit belatedly. And the point is that I set foot in Myddle and that my children clambered up and down Myddle Rock, placing their feet in the very footholes that had been worn in to that very same rock-face by their predecessors.
But when I myself sat down to rest at the foot of the rock that Grandad had once looked down upon from his bedroom window, I had expected to feel as if I had at last arrived home. But is that what I felt? No, not really. I felt elated, yes. But at home? Of that, I wasn’t really sure!
Still, the elation of the moment sustained me and nourished me, and I returned to Suffolk feeling a little more complete than I had felt when I left. At least that was what I thought. That was the thought I deluded myself with, before the very worst thing happened. Before the unimaginable happened.
Before, the day before today, when I decided to refamiliarise myself with the love-of-my-life, with Ancestry.com. And before I got sucked back into my addiction – and decided to take that one line of my family tree back … just a little bit further.
Back just a little bit further from the Myddle. From the Myddle? But I came from the Myddle. I came from a cave in the middle of the Myddle, so how could go back any further? But back I went. And back the tree went. Back from the Myddle, back from Great-Something-Uncle Humphrey Kynaston and his sister, my Great-Something-Grandmother Jana Kynaston, and back to their mother Lady Elizabeth Grey of Myddle Castle. Back to Lady Grey’s Great Grandfather, Edward IV (surely from Myddle?), and back to Elizabeth de Burgh (I’m related to Chris de Burgh? But he cheated on his wife!). Back to Elizabeth de Burgh’s Grandfather, John de Burgh, who married Elizabeth de Clare … What? De what? De Clare? That name. It was so so familiar…
A village named Clare is just a few miles away. I lived and worked in Clare, just a few years ago (quite a lot of years ago!).
The connection? Sh**! Elizabeth de Clare, her daughter Joan de Acre, and granddaughter Elizabeth de Burgh – they all lived just down the road from me. And … even worse …. unimaginably worse. Elizabeth de Burgh, my ancestor Elizabeth de Burgh, she … she … lived in … Sudbury! She owned a Manor House … in Sudbury!
I paid for all that petrol. I drove for nearly four hours to the Myddle, with two squabbling children. I humiliated myself over my inability to use a Sat Nav. And I undertook a gruelling eight-hour journey back … back from Myddle to Sudbury.
When all the time, all of that time, there was my ancestor … and a really significant ancestor at that … right on my doorstep!
Home. I’m back.
Copyright owned by Jay Cool, May 2017
Disclaimer: Please refer to the ‘Who is Jay Cool?’ post for details.
The Silly-Savvy Salopian in Suffolk: read, believe and write ... 