The Story Of Oxford Marmalade
I am proud to publish this story from THE OXFORD SAUSAGE by a graduate of my writing course. The author set out to write a spicy mix of Oxford stories from a house once belonging to a city sausage maker.
I am taking bookings for the next writing course, HOW TO WRITE A BLOG THAT PEOPLE WILL WANT TO READ on February 1st & 2nd. Come to Spitalfields and spend a winter weekend with me in an eighteenth century weaver’s house in Fournier St, enjoy delicious lunches and eat cakes baked to historic recipes, and learn how to write your own blog.
If you are graduate of my course and you would like me to feature your blog, please drop me a line.
Sarah Jane Cooper and her jars of sunshine
One of the activities that perks me up as I claw my way through January is marmalade making. A couple of weeks into the New Year, crates of the required bitter Seville oranges (smaller and more pitted than their sweeter counterparts) appear at Bonners in the covered market here in Oxford.
They are only available for a short period, a couple of weeks if you are lucky. So, as this is a city of marmalade eaters, you must be quick to secure your basketful of Spanish sunshine. My mother used to produce vast quantities, boiling the fruit whole to make the peel soft and easier to shred. She made it principally for my father who loved the thickly cut and chunky variety, spread liberally on buttered toast for breakfast and in suet puddings for Sunday lunch. I use the same recipe though I cut the rind thinner, but the heady smell of boiling fruit and sugar is still sweetly nostalgic for me.
I feel the weight of history as I boil and slice. Because Oxford is as well known for its marmalade as it is for its sausages. Indeed, 151 years ago, at this time of year in 1874, that Sarah Jane Cooper – as the story goes – made her first 75 lbs batch of marmalade just before the birth of her first child, using leftover Seville oranges from her husband Frank’s grocer’s shop in the High St. It was one of several ‘Italian Warehouses’ in the city that sold olive oil, parmesan, tea and hard-to-source oranges amongst other offerings.
Sarah certainly did not invent the bitter spread. More commonly made from quinces – the name is derived from marmelo the Portuguese word for quince, it was used medicinally to settle the stomach and was already popular in Scotland by the nineteenth century. Yet this was Sarah’s own special ‘Oxford’ recipe and it happened to arrive at the right time in the right place. By the eighteen-seventies, lunch was beginning to find favour over the substantial breakfasts of sole, haddock, bacon, eggs, porridge, steak, veal cutlets, kidneys and curried meats still served privately in Oxford college rooms. But toast and marmalade fitted the bill for a cheaper, healthier breakfast that could be eaten communally in the Dining Hall. The jars flew off the shelves and so, after having her baby, Sarah Jane made some more, a lot more. And, as was often the way in those days, her husband took the credit – ‘Frank Cooper’s’ Oxford Marmalade was born.
Sarah came from a well-known local family – the Gills had been ironmongers since the seventeenth century, until quite recently trading from a shop down the narrow alleyway that is Wheatsheaf Yard. To visit was like going back in time, every nook and cranny stacked high with pots, pans and boxes of screws of various sizes which you could buy singly, packed carefully in a brown paper bag. Now ironically the place is a nail bar, but not of the iron sort.
It seems unjust that the concoction Sarah cooked up should be branded with her husband’s name. There is blue plaque in her memory on the eighteenth century house at 83 High St where the family once lived, next to what was the old shop, now the Grand Café. But it is high up and hard to spot, so I hope I am doing my bit to put the record straight.
Cooper’s marmalade was at first produced in copper vats at the back of the shop on the High St by Sarah and a small team. The sweet smell must have been intoxicating as it wafted down the maze of the narrow back alleyways and up through the windows as students were assessed in the Examinations Schools next door. By the turn of the century, its growing popularity demanded an industrial scale of production. In 1903, a purpose-built factory was opened on Park End St – opposite the railway station – each storey catering for a different part of the manufacturing process. And despite the devastation afforded so much of this part of Oxford, it is still there.
Designed by Herbert Quinton and built by Thomas Kingerlee (now in its fifth generation as a family construction business), it is one of the few buildings that deserve attention as you alight from the train hoping for views of dreaming spires. Ornate wrought iron gates still stand where once horse-drawn carriages carried pots of marmalade for direct delivery to the station and shops in town. Huge, light filled curved windows reflect the shape of the roofline and beautifully ornate stone carvings of flowers and oranges adorn the frontage. The factory moved down the Botley Road in 1947, then the family sold up in 1964 and marmalade production moved fo Wantage and then out of the county altogether.
Frank Cooper’s Oxford Marmalade was in its heyday on Park End St. Employing a hundred staff, it was marketed as a cottage industry producing a natural product with no added ingredients, the peel shredded by hand, and packaged in beautiful Malings porcelain jars.
It received the Royal Warrant in 1913 – it was apparently a favourite with King George V – and there is even a tiny sample pot, complete with miniature signature label in Queen Mary’s doll’s house at Windsor. It accompanied Scott on his expedition to the South Pole. One of the only survivors is a rusty tin of the stuff, now on show at the Museum of Oxford, along with other Cooper memorabilia including a huge paddle used to stir the orange jam as it spluttered and spat.
It was to be found on the most aristocratic of breakfast tables. “Cooper’s Oxford, please Linda,” says Nancy Mitford’s Uncle Mathew in ‘The Pursuit of Love’. James Bond eats it in Ian Fleming’s ‘From Russia with Love.’ And you can be sure it was the principal ingredient of the marmalade sandwich the Queen took from her handbag when she met Paddington Bear.
And so it is in Sarah’s memory that I set about concocting what I hope will be a vintage marmalade year. First boiling until the fruit is pillow soft. Cooling, then scooping out the pith and pips, to be boiled again before sieving the amber juices onto the finely shredded peel. Add the warmed sugar, then watching while it boils because if you are not careful it will burn.
Marmalade makers can be a difficult bunch. We all do it slightly differently. Some use brown sugar which makes it darker and richer, others add cardamon or whisky. There is also the question of consistency. I prefer mine not so stiff that it stands to attention but not so runny that it dribbles down your sleeve. I know I have made a good marmalade when I hold the jars up to the light and the thin strands of orange seem to have stopped in the middle of a lively dance, suspended in pure sunshine. Sunshine on toast. I will settle for that. Thank you Sarah Jane Cooper.
On the left is 83 High St where Sarah Jane Cooper made her marmalade
The former jam factory in Park St, Oxford
Women in aprons and removable sleeves to protect clothes, shredding oranges at the jam factory. (courtesy Historic England)
The tin of Oxford marmalade that accompanied Scott to the South Pole
My Seville oranges. I boil them whole and then let them cool so the peel is soft enough to shred easily.
Scoop out the pulp and pips, and add to the liquid. This is what gives it a good set. Cool then strain.
Add the shredded peel and sugar. Then, once dissolved, boil for about twenty minutes.
My Oxford marmalade
Photographs copyright © John Milnes
Planting Diaries
I am proud to present these extracts from PLANTING DIARIES, Gardens, planting styles and their origins by Siân Rees, a graduate of my blog writing course who has been publishing regularly for more than six years.
I am now taking bookings for the next writing course, HOW TO WRITE A BLOG THAT PEOPLE WILL WANT TO READ on February 1st & 2nd.
We have such an interesting mix of people booked for this course that I am very excited to meet everyone and I am sure we are going to have a lot of fun.
Come to Spitalfields and spend a weekend with me in an eighteenth century weaver’s house in Fournier St, enjoy delicious lunches and eat cakes baked to historic recipes, and learn how to write your own blog.
If you are graduate of my course and you would like me to feature your blog, please drop me a line.
This plate showing a bright crimson ‘Picta Perfecta’ dahlia, with its beautifully shaped petals edged in black, was first published in The Floricultural Cabinet and Florist’s Magazine in 1835. Launched in 1833 by Joseph Harrison, a gardener and florist, his magazine reflects the appetite amongst amateur and professional gardeners alike for the cultivation of dahlias for show.
In the eighteen-thirties, dahlias were enormously popular garden and exhibition flowers, loved for their jewel colours, abundance of blooms and long flowering season. Starting in July, dahlia shows took place at regular intervals through the summer and early autumn. Harrison visited floral exhibitions all over the country, many hosted by newly formed horticultural societies, and published his accounts of these in the magazine.
Today his accounts give us valuable insights into the character and atmosphere of these shows. Dahlia shows ranged from those staged in public houses, such as the Baker’s Arms in Hackney Road, East London, and the Bull and Mouth Inn in Sheffield, to large exhibitions attracting huge crowds, such as the Metropolitan Society’s Grand Dahlia Show at Vauxhall Gardens in London. Many of the shows hosted dinners for members after the prizes had been given out, and some enjoyed dancing, and music from brass bands. Whatever their size, all the shows were united by appreciation for the dahlia and the spirit of competition.
Harrison’s attendance at these shows allowed him to meet the horticulturalists producing new dahlias, giving him an important overview of dahlia cultivation in England and contacts in the wider horticultural industry. He soon established himself as an influential voice informing taste and trends in gardening through his magazine, in much the same way horticultural journalists and garden designers do today.
With a format that gave advice on growing techniques from expert growers and seed and bulb suppliers, the magazine also encouraged amateurs to write in with questions and their own gardening tips. The Floricultural Cabinet was an instant success, boasting sales of 50,000 copies in 1833, its first year of publication.
Harrison appears to have understood the power of attractive colour images as a marketing tool to inspire readers to purchase his magazine, and the new plants he showcased. The dahlias in the coloured plates are accomplished artworks, portraying the flowers with accuracy and with a slightly naïve quality in the diagrammatic stylisation of the flowers. The ‘Picta Perfecta’ dahlia, praised in The Floricultural Cabinet for its perfectly round form and spectacular colours, was in fact a seeding raised by Harrison.
Harrison was meticulous in recording the names of prize winning dahlias as well as those of the judges and entrants. From his records, certain grower’s names re-appear, such as Mr Pamplin, a florist who lived in Islington, and raised the beautiful golden yellow dahlia ‘Pamplin’s Bloomsbury’ which was illustrated in the magazine.
Joseph Harrison (1798 – 1856) was born in Sheffield where his father worked as head gardener at nearby Wortley Hall, a position Joseph took over in 1828. He left Wortley Hall in 1837, setting up as a florist in Downham, Norfolk and eventually moving to Richmond, Surrey. As well as The Floricultural Cabinet, Harrison also edited The Gardener’s Record.
While they are an important part of our horticultural history, flower shows are by their nature ephemeral events. The plants, the exhibitors, and in some cases, even the venues where the shows took place are now long gone, but they live on in Harrison’s vivid descriptions.
Here follow extracts from The Floricultural Cabinet of three contrasting dahlia shows, documented by Harrison during his country wide tour of 1835. They start with the East London Dahlia Show, a small and well established local event with sixty stands of flowers on display. At the opposite end of the scale, Harrison is clearly captivated by The Bath Royal Flora and Horticultural Society’s Grand Annual Dahlia Show. Its decorations included an extraordinary figure of a Mexican chief made out of dahlias, to celebrate the country where the plant originated. But later in the season, Bath is topped by The Cambridge Florists’ Society Dahlia Show, with its model of a hot air balloon constructed out of 2,300 dahlia blooms and arranged around a chandelier:
The East London Dahlia Show
‘This exhibition took place, as usual, at the Bakers’ Arms, Hackney-road, and was well attended. Sixty stands of flowers were placed in competition, and the judges, Messrs, Alexander, Catleugh, and Glenny, placed them as follow :—
Stands of Twelve Blooms.—1, Mr. Dandy; 2, Mr. Crowder; 3, Mr. Rowlett; 4, Mr. Wade; 5, Mr. James; .6, Mr. Turner; 7, Mr. Dunn; 8, Mr. Williams; 9, Mr. Brown; 10, Mr. Riley; 11, Mr. Sharp; 12, Mr. Hogarth; 13, Mr. Green; 14, Mr. Buckmaster.
Stands of Six Blooms.—1, Mr. Williams; 2, Mr. Thornhill; 3,My. Dandy; 4, Mr. Crowder; 5, Mr, Wade; 6, Mr, Hogarth; 7, Mr, Dunn; 8, Mr, Carp
Sadly this pub that once stood at the corner of Warner Place and Hackney Road is now demolished.
The Bath Royal Flora and Horticultural Society’s Grand Annual Dahlia Show
‘The committee made extraordinary exertions to render this show the most splendid and attractive of the whole season, and they fully realized their purpose. The first object which met the view was a most singular figure on the right-hand lawn: it was that of a Mexican chief, holding a basket of flowers; the whole figure was composed of Dahlias, which, as our readers well know, came originally from that country ; and difficult as the task must have been, even the features of the countenance were very ingeniously delineated. This figure exhibited no less than 150 varieties of the Dahlia, in every imaginable tint, and of every gradation of size. A little beyond was the figure of a tree of considerable size, the trunk and every branch being composed of Dahlias of an equal number of varieties, and in the colour and size of the flowers.’
The Cambridge Florists’ Society
‘This Society had their grand Autumnal Show of Dahlias on Thursday, Sept. 24th, in the Assembly room at the Hoop Hotel. We have witnessed many floral exhibitions here and at other places, but we never before beheld any thing approaching the beauty and magnificence of this exhibition; on no previous occasion was the Dahlia exhibited in so high a state of excellence. We may expect to see great additions made to the colours and varieties of this very beautiful flower, but we much doubt if ever the grand stand of prize flowers displayed on this occasion will be surpassed in size or quality by that of any future show. The task of decorating the room was entrusted to Mr. Edward Catling, florist, of Cambridge; and nothing could possibly exceed the happy and elegant taste with which every ornament was executed. The sides and ends of the room were beautifully decorated with evergreens, wreaths, and Dahlias. At the head of the grand stand was an immense orange tree thickly studded with Dahlias, to represent the fruit in its various stages of growth, backed by a beautiful Fuchsia multiflora, 12 feet high, from the Botanic Garden. At the end of the room, was a prettily variegated crown entirely composed of Dahlias. But the grand attraction of all was a splendid balloon, wholly formed of Dahlia-blooms, suspended from the ceiling, the car of which appeared to be illuminated, from being placed over a gas chandelier. This ariel machine had a striking effect, the flowers being arranged in stripes to represent variegated silk; and we were told that more than 2,300 Dahlias were required to complete the balloon, exclusive of the car, from which two flags were pendent.—The afternoon show was attended by a numerous and respectable company; but the evening exhibition was crowded beyond all former precedent, owing to its being on the eve of the horse-fair, which gave the neighbouring country people an opportunity of witnessing the finest display of Dahlias ever seen in Cambridge. Upwards of 700 well-dressed persons were in the room at one time, and from eight to half-past nine o’clock the number amounted to little, if any, short of 3,000 persons, all with happy countenances, highly delighted with the fairy scene ; added to which were the musical strains of the Cambridge Military Band, who played several new and difficult pieces, with a precision and taste that would have done credit to veteran performers. After the ladies had withdrawn, more than 200 members and their friends sat down, with the splendid flowers before them, and enjoyed the scene with music, song, and toast. Fifteen new members were elected, and we rejoice to learn that the Society meets with the well-merited support of all classes.’
Levick’s Beauty of Sheffield
The Floricultural Cabinet
Brown’s Royal Adelaide
The Floricultural Cabinet
Harris’s Acme of Perfection
The Floricultural Cabinet
Harris’s Inimitable Dahlia
The Floricultural Cabinet
Dodd’s Mary
The Floricultural Cabinet
Barratt’s Vicar of Wakefield
The Floricultural Cabinet
Cox’s Yellow Defiance
The Floricultural Cabinet
Pamplin’s Bloomsbury
The Floricultural Cabinet
Harrison’s Charles XII
The Floricultural Cabinet
Images courtesy Natural History Museum
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The Gates Of The City
On this first day of the year let us contemplate those places of going out and coming in, specifically the old gates of the City of London.
Discovering the sixteenth century figures of Old King Lud and his sons that once stood upon Ludgate yet are now forgotten in an alley of Fleet St, made me think more closely of the gates that once surrounded the City.
So I was delighted to come upon this eighteenth century print in the Spitalfields Market for a couple of pounds with the plangent title “The City Gates As They Appeared Before They Were Torn Down.”
Printed in 1775, this plate recorded venerable edifices that had been demolished in recent decades and was reproduced in Harrison’s History of London, a publication notable for featuring Death and an Hourglass upon the title page as if to emphasise the mutable, ever-changing nature of the capital and the brief nature of our residence in it.
Moorgate (demolished 1761)
Aldgate (demolished 1761)
Bishopsgate (demolished 1760)
Cripplegate (demolished 1760)
Ludgate (demolished 1760)
Newgate (demolished 1767)
Aldersgate (demolished 1617)
Bridgegate (demolished 1762)
The City Gates As They Appeared Before They Were Torn Down, engraved for Harrison’s History of London 1775
Sixteenth century figures of King Lud and his sons that formerly stood upon Ludgate, and stowed ever since in an alley at the side of St Dunstan in the West, Fleet St
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Night At The Beigel Bakery
New Year’s Eve is always the busiest night of the year at the Brick Lane Beigel Bakery, so a few years ago I chose to spend the night of 30th December accompanying Sammy Minzly, the celebrated manager of this peerless East End institution, to observe the activity through the early hours as the staff braced themselves for the rush. Yet even though it was a quiet night – relatively speaking – there was already helter-skelter in the kitchen when I arrived mid-evening to discover five bakers working at furious pace amongst clouds of steam to produce three thousand beigels, as they do every day of the year between six at night and one in the morning.
At the centre of this tiny bakery which occupies a lean-to at the rear of the shop, beigels boiled in a vat of hot water. From here, the glistening babies were scooped up in a mesh basket, doused mercilessly with cold water, then arranged neatly onto narrow wet planks named ‘shebas,’ and inserted into the ovens by Stephen the skinny garrulous baker who has spent his entire life on Brick Lane, working here in the kitchen since the age of fifteen. Between the ovens sat an ogre of a huge dough-making machine, mixing all the ingredients for the beigels, bread and cakes that are sold here. It was a cold night in Spitalfields, but it was sweltering here in the steamy atmosphere of the kitchen where the speedy bakers exerted themselves to the limit, as they hauled great armfuls of dough out of the big metal basin in a hurry, plonking it down, kneading it vigorously, then chopping it up quickly, and using scales to divide it into lumps sufficient to make twenty beigels – before another machine separated them into beigel-sized spongey balls of dough, ripe for transformation.
In the thick of this frenzied whirl of sweaty masculine endeavour – accompanied by the blare of the football on the radio, and raucous horseplay in different languages – stood Mr Sammy, a white-haired gentleman of diminutive stature, quietly taking the balls of dough and feeding them into the machine which delivers recognisable beigels on a conveyor belt at the other end, ready for immersion in hot water. In spite of the steamy hullabaloo in the kitchen, Mr Sammy carries an aura of calm, working at his own pace and, even at seventy-five years old, still pursues his ceaseless labours all through the night, long after the bakers have departed to their beds. Originally a baker, he has been working here since the beigel bakery opened at these premises in 1976, although he told me proudly that the Brick Lane Beigel Bakery superseded that of Lieberman’s fifty -five years ago. Today it is celebrated as the most visible legacy of the Jewish culture that once defined Spitalfields.
Hovering at the entrance to the kitchen, I had only to turn my head to witness the counterpoint drama of the beigel shop where hordes of hungry East Londoners line up all night, craving spiritual consolation in the form of beigels and hot salt beef. They come in sporadic waves, clubbers and party animals, insomniacs and sleep walkers, hipsters and losers, street people and homeless, cab drivers and firemen, police and dodgy dealers, working girls and binmen. Some can barely stand because they are so drunk, others can barely keep their eyes open because they are so tired, some can barely control their joy and others can barely conceal their misery. At times, it was like the madhouse and other times it was like the morgue. Irrespective, everyone at the beigel bakery keeps working, keeping the beigels coming, slicing them, filling them, counting them and sorting them. And the presiding spirit is Mr Sammy. Standing behind the counter, he checks every beigel personally to maintain quality control and tosses aside any that are too small or too toasted, in unhesitating disdain.
As manager, Mr Sammy is the only one whose work crosses both territories, moving back and forth all night between the kitchen and the shop, where he enjoys affectionate widespread regard from his customers. Every other person calls out “Sammy!” or “Mr Sammy” as they come through the door, if he is in the shop – asking “Where’s Sammy?” if he is not, and wanting their beigels reheated in the oven as a premise to step into the kitchen and enjoy a quiet word with him there. Only once did I find Mr Sammy resting, sitting peacefully on the salt bin in the empty kitchen in the middle of the night, long after all the bakers had left and the shop had emptied out. “I’m getting lazy! I’m not doing nothing.” he exclaimed in alarmed self-recognition, “I’d better do something, I’d better count some beigels.”
Later he boiled one hundred and fifty eggs and peeled them, as he explained me to about Achmed, the cleaner, known as ‘donkey’ – “because he can sleep anywhere” – whose arrival was imminent. “He sleeps upstairs,” revealed Mr Sammy pointing at the ceiling. “He lives upstairs?” I enquired, looking up. “No, he only sleeps there, but he doesn’t like to pay rent, so he works as a cleaner.” explained Mr Sammy with an indulgent grin. Shortly, when a doddery fellow arrived with frowsy eyes and sat eating a hot slice of cake from the oven, I surmised this was the gentlemen in question. “I peeled the eggs for you,” Mr Sammy informed him encouragingly, a gesture that was reciprocated by ‘donkey’ with the merest nod. “He’s seventy-two,” Mr Sammy informed me later in a sympathetic whisper.
Witnessing the homeless man who came to collect a pound coin from Mr Sammy nightly and another of limited faculties who merely sought the reassurance of a regular handshake, I understood that because it is always open, the Beigel Bakery exists as a touchstone for many people who have little else in life, and who come to acknowledge Mr Sammy as the one constant presence. With gentle charisma and understated gesture, Mr Sammy fulfils the role of spiritual leader and keeps the bakery running smoothly too. After a busy Christmas week, he was getting low on bags for beigels and was concerned he had missed his weekly deliver from Paul Gardner because of the holiday. The morning was drawing near and I knew that Paul was opening that day for the first time after the break, so I elected to walk round to Gardners Market Sundriesmen in Commercial St and, sure enough, on the dot of six-thirty Paul arrived full of good humour to discover me and other customers waiting. Once he had dispatched the customers, Paul locked the shop again and we drove round to deliver the twenty-five to thirty thousand brown paper bags that comprise the beigel shop’s weekly order.
Mr Sammy’s eyes lit up to see Paul Gardner carrying the packets of bags through the door in preparation for New Year’s Eve and then, in celebration of the festive season, before I made my farewells and retired to my bed, I took advantage of the opportunity to photograph these two friends and long-term associates together – both representatives of traditional businesses that between them carry significant aspects of the history and identity of Spitalfields.
Old friends, Paul Gardner, Market Sundriesman, and Sammy Minzly, Manager of the Beigel Bakery.
The Gentle Author’s Writing Weekend
HOW TO WRITE A BLOG THAT PEOPLE WILL WANT TO READ – 1st & 2nd FEBRUARY
Spend a weekend with me in an eighteenth century weaver’s house in Fournier St, enjoy delicious lunches, savour freshly baked cakes from historic recipes, discover the secrets of Spitalfields Life and learn how to write your own blog.
This course is suitable for writers of all levels of experience – from complete beginners to those who already have a blog and want to advance.
This course will examine the essential questions which need to be addressed if you wish to write a blog that people will want to read.
“Like those writers in fourteenth century Florence who discovered the sonnet but did not quite know what to do with it, we are presented with the new literary medium of the blog – which has quickly become omnipresent, with many millions writing online. For my own part, I respect this nascent literary form by seeking to explore its own unique qualities and potential.” – The Gentle Author
COURSE STRUCTURE
1. How to find a voice – When you write, who are you writing to and what is your relationship with the reader?
2. How to find a subject – Why is it necessary to write and what do you have to tell?
3. How to find the form – What is the ideal manifestation of your material and how can a good structure give you momentum?
4. The relationship of pictures and words – Which comes first, the pictures or the words? Creating a dynamic relationship between your text and images.
5. How to write a pen portrait – Drawing on The Gentle Author’s experience, different strategies in transforming a conversation into an effective written evocation of a personality.
6. What a blog can do – A consideration of how telling stories on the internet can affect the temporal world including publishing books, writing articles, creating guided walks, curating exhibitions and leading community campaigns.
SALIENT DETAILS
The course will be held at 5 Fournier St, Spitalfields on 1st & 2nd February. The course runs from 10am-5pm on Saturday and 11am-5pm on Sunday.
Tea, coffee & cakes baked from eighteenth century recipes by the Townhouse, and lunches are included within the course fee of £350.
Email spitalfieldslife@gmail.com to book a place on the course.
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“I haven’t enjoyed a weekend so much for a long time. The disparate participants with different experiences and aspirations rapidly became a coherent group under The Gentle Author’s direction in a gorgeous house in Spitalfields. There was lots of encouragement, constructive criticism, laughter and very good lunches. With not a computer in sight, I found it really enjoyable to draft pieces of written work using pen and paper. Having gone with a very vague idea about what I might do I came away with a clear plan which I think will be achievable and worthwhile.”
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“I gladly traveled from the States to Spitalfields for the How to Write a Blog Course. The unique setting and quality of the Gentle Author’s own writing persuaded me and I was not disappointed. The weekend provided ample inspiration, like-minded fellowship, and practical steps to immediately launch a blog that one could be proud of. I’m so thankful to have attended.”
“I took part in The Gentle Author’s blogging course for a variety of reasons: I’ve followed Spitalfields Life for a long time now, and find it one of the most engaging blogs that I know; I also wanted to develop my own personal blog in a way that people will actually read, and that genuinely represents my own voice. The course was wonderful. Challenging, certainly, but I came away with new confidence that I can write in an engaging way, and to a self-imposed schedule. The setting in Fournier St was both lovely and sympathetic to the purpose of the course. A further unexpected pleasure was the variety of other bloggers who attended: each one had a very personal take on where they wanted their blogs to go, and brought with them an amazing range and depth of personal experience. “
“I found this bloggers course was a true revelation as it helped me find my own voice and gave me the courage to express my thoughts without restriction. As a result I launched my professional blog and improved my photography blog. I would highly recommend it.”
“An excellent and enjoyable weekend: informative, encouraging and challenging. The Gentle Author was generous throughout in sharing knowledge, ideas and experience and sensitively ensured we each felt equipped to start out. Thanks again for the weekend. I keep quoting you to myself.”
“My immediate impression was that I wasn’t going to feel intimidated – always a good sign on these occasions. The Gentle Author worked hard to help us to find our true voice, and the contributions from other students were useful too. Importantly, it didn’t feel like a ‘workshop’ and I left looking forward to writing my blog.”
“The Spitafields writing course was a wonderful experience all round. A truly creative teacher as informed and interesting as the blogs would suggest. An added bonus was the eclectic mix of eager students from all walks of life willing to share their passion and life stories. Bloomin’ marvellous grub too boot.”
“An entertaining and creative approach that reduces fears and expands thought”
“The weekend I spent taking your course in Spitalfields was a springboard one for me. I had identified writing a blog as something I could probably do – but actually doing it was something different! Your teaching methods were fascinating, and I learnt a lot about myself as well as gaining very constructive advice on how to write a blog. I lucked into a group of extremely interesting people in our workshop, and to be cocooned in the beautiful old Spitalfields house for a whole weekend, and plied with delicious food at lunchtime made for a weekend as enjoyable as it was satisfying. Your course made the difference between thinking about writing a blog, and actually writing it.”
“After blogging for three years, I attended The Gentle Author’s Blogging Course. What changed was my focus on specific topics, more pictures, more frequency, more fun. In the summer I wrote more than forty blogs, almost daily from my Tuscan villa on village life and I had brilliant feedback from my readers. And it was a fantastic weekend with a bunch of great people and yummy food.”
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“This is a very person-centred course. By the end of the weekend, everyone had developed their own ideas through a mix of exercises, conversation and one-to-one feedback. The beautiful Hugenot house and high-calibre food contributed to what was an inspiring and memorable weekend.”
“It was very intimate writing course that was based on the skills of writing. The Gentle Author was a superb teacher.”
“It was a surprising course that challenged and provoked the group in a beautiful supportive intimate way and I am so thankful for coming on it.”
“I did not enrol on the course because I had a blog in mind, but because I had bought TGA’s book, “Spitalfields Life”, very much admired the writing style and wanted to find out more and improve my own writing style. By the end of the course, I had a blog in mind, which was an unexpected bonus.”
“This course was what inspired me to dare to blog. Two years on, and blogging has changed the way I look at London.”
So Long, Old Town
Click here to book tickets for THE GENTLE AUTHOR’S TOUR OF SPITALFIELDS on New Year’s Day.
Francis in the role of Newsvendor.
Favourite clothing company, OLD TOWN, run by Marie Willey and Will Brown is closing after twenty-two years of supplying clothes by mail order from their shop in Holt, Norfolk.
As a tribute, I publish my account of my pilgrimage to Holt in spring 201o to collect a pair of tweed trousers, but perhaps the real tribute is that I am still wearing them all these years later. The story is complimented with a set of photographs of Old Town clothes by Scott Wishart under the title ‘Old Town Small Trades.’
If you remember your Chaucer, you will know that April is the time to go on pilgrimages. So, I decided to seize the opportunity of the spring weather to make a pilgrimage to Old Town to collect my trousers that I ordered. Taking the train from Liverpool St up to Sheringham, I walked five miles over the hills to Holt, a small town that exemplifies the term quaint. Here in Bull St, next to the fishmonger and the butcher was my destination.
On this dreamy afternoon, there were bluebells in the woods and rabbits in the hedges as I walked along lanes through attractive villages with fine churches built of flint, to arrive in Holt where second-hand bookshops and antique shops filled with Staffordshire figures beckoned. But my thought was only of trousers, and this kept my wayward footsteps directed upon the straight path that led directly to Bull St.
I rang the bell and Miss Willey descended the narrow staircase to welcome me into the shop. Once I saw all the clothes, I wanted to try on everything at once, but first Marie ushered me upstairs to have cup of tea and say “Hello” to Will Brown, who was working in the room above, cutting cloth. He was preparing all the pieces that make up each garment, ready for collection by the half-dozen machinists who sew the clothes together at home and deliver them back for Will to add the finishing touches later in the week.
With remarkable strength of mind, Marie & Will work here in two small rooms above their shop in this remote corner of Norfolk making their heart-warming clothes, and, as a result, this cottage industry works at peak capacity, selling as much as they can produce. Their unlikely success is a testament to their hard work and perseverance over all this time, pursuing the distinctive vein of workwear that is their forte and which has established them as pre-eminent in the field. Designers from Levis and Burberry sneak up to Norfolk to get a feeling for what is going on and attempt to incorporate it, but while trends ebb and flow, clothes from Old Town are classics that never go out of fashion.
Informed by his knowledge of work clothes over the last century, Will Brown’s designs are not reproductions of vintage or in the style of any single period, they are a synthesis. Using mostly British fabrics, every single garment is made to order with rigorous quality control – because Marie & Will personally ensure that everything is done beautifully. Their clothes are functional without being mundane, elegant without being demonstrative, and lacking in unnecessary details while at the same time possessing good details. You can wear them everyday. Neither posh, nor bohemian, nor nerdy, they exude a levity that defies categorisation. This is the genius of Old Town.
As I sipped my tea, Marie & Will chatted as they worked, without ceasing from the job in hand, inhabiting a moment of constant amused animation, moving from one task the next and doing each thing properly. Marie was answering the phone, wrapping up parcels perfectly in brown paper and pressing clothes with a steam iron – all in a room barely six-foot square – and running downstairs to customers in the shop. As a couple, Marie & Will complement each other naturally. While Marie is flitting up and downstairs, holding it all together with indefatigable buoyancy, Will quietly works at the cutting table with efficient calm and gravity. You could say it is all a kind of performance, but you could equally say it is a lot of hard work too. The singular life they have created for themselves and the clothes they make are inseparable, and to their many appreciative customers, Marie & Will are the quiet heroes of drill and twill.
Once I had finished my cup of tea, Marie placed my newly made pair of brown tweed trousers upon the cutting table with discreet pride and I carried them downstairs to the empty shop where, all alone in a back room, I tried them on. The tweed was soft and light, with a pale brown cotton lining, bone buttons and the most beautifully embroidered button holes I ever saw. Pulling them on, my legs seemed to grow longer and as I pulled them up around my waist, I lifted my head to stand up straighter. Once they were buttoned, I pushed my hands into the pockets for the first time and raised my eyes to the mirror to admire the effect. Although these were my first pair of Old Town trousers, the effect was curiously familiar. They fitted perfectly and the design was such a masterpiece of understatement that I was at home in them at once.
Before I set out for the bus stop, Marie packed my trousers into a flat cardboard box that, if it were under a Christmas tree, would create the expectation of a doll’s tea set or a model railway inside. Striding across the town square with the magic box under my arm, I was grateful to Marie & Will, not only for my wonderful tweed trousers, but also because thanks to Old Town – even in spring – I always have a reason to look forward to winter.
Sonia in the role of Archivist at the Department of Circumlocution
Jim in the role of Carpenter.
Harvey in the role of Waiter.
Twins Lee & Lisa in the role of Housekeepers.
Chris in the role of Costermonger.
Miss Willey and Old Brown in the role of Tea Stall Proprietors.
Izzy in the role of Flower Girl.
Barry in the role of Barber.
Bommer & Appleton in the role of Piano Movers.
Photographs copyright © Old Town
Viscountess Boudica’s Christmas
Our dearly beloved Viscountess Boudica was evicted from her flat in Bethnal Green in 2016 and moved to Uttoxeter, be we still remember her fondly every Christmas.
Let it be said that if anyone in the East End knew how to keep the spirit of Christmas, it was the Viscountess Boudica of Bethnal Green. At this time of year, her tiny flat near Columbia Rd was transformed into a secret Winter Wonderland where the visitor might forget the chill of the gloomy streets outside and enter a realm of magic, fantasy and romance in which the Viscountess held court like a benevolent sprite or fairy godmother, celebrating the season of goodwill in her own inimitable style.
Boudica had already been at work for weeks when I arrived with my camera to capture the Christmas spectacle for your delight, yet she was still putting the finishing touches to her display even as I walked through the door. “You see these bells?” she said, reaching up to add them to the colourful forest of paper decorations suspended from the ceiling, “I bought them in Woolworths in Tottenham for 45p in 1984. When I think of all the people they have looked down upon – if only these bells could talk, they’ve seen it all!”
Evidence of the season was apparent wherever I turned my eyes, from the illuminated coloured trees that filled each corner – giving the impression that the room was actually a woodland glade – to the table where Boudica was wrapping her gifts and writing cards, to the corner where a stack of festive records awaited her selection, to the innumerable Christmas knick-knacks and figures that crowded every surface, and the light-up reindeer outside in the garden, glimpsed discreetly through the net curtains. “This is thirty years worth of collecting,” she explained, gesturing to the magnificent display enfolding us, “that set of lights is older than I am.”
In common with many, this is an equivocal time for Viscountess Boudica who does not have happy childhood memories of Christmas. “It was hell,” she admitted to me frankly, “We didn’t have any money to buy presents and, in our family, Christmas was always when fights and arguments would break out. The reason I have so many decorations now is to make up for all the years when I didn’t have any.” Yet Boudica remembers small acts of kindness too. “The local shops used to save me their balloons and give me scraps of fabric that I used to make clothes for the kittens in the barn – and that was the beginning of me making my own outfits,” she recalled fondly.
“People should remember what it’s all about,” Boudica assured me, linking her own childhood with the Christian narrative, “It’s about a little boy who didn’t have a home. They should think of others and remember there’s poor people here in Bethnal Green.” Naturally, I asked the Viscountess if she had a Christmas message for the world and, without a second thought, she came to back to me with her declaration – “Be kind to each other and get rid of discrimination!”
Boudica contemplates her Christmas listening – will it be Andy Williams or Jim Reeves this year?
“Whenever I hang up these bells, I think of all the people they have looked down upon over the years”
Wrapping up her gifts.
Filling her stocking
Nollaig Shona Dhaoibh!
Drawings copyright © Viscountess Boudica
You may also like to read
Viscountess Boudica’s Domestic Appliances
Viscountess Boudica’s Drawings
Viscountess Boudica’s Halloween
Viscountess Boudica’s Valentine’s Day
The Departure of Viscountess Boudica
Read my original profile of Mark Petty, Trendsetter
and take a look at Mark Petty’s Multicoloured Coats
