I’m so excited. I’ve just had two books delivered. They arrived on the doormat bound in tantalisingly plain brown cardboard packaging. I can’t wait. Having persevered over the summer, reading novels on my ipad and coming to the conclusion that it really is no substitute, I decided to get back to the real thing. There’s nothing like a proper book, is there? I like a nice cover, the feel of a book; I like the non back-lit, kinder-to-the-eyes off-white pages; I like flicking back and forth to check things – maybe make a wee note or two – but I’m not ruling out e-books completely: they’re a convenient way to take reading material on holiday. However, unwrapping my parcel felt like welcoming in an old friend.

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Not that the books themselves are familiar- that would be pointless – but the tempting little stack they are making makes me want to get stuck in straight away. The first is Grayson Perry’s ‘Playing to the Gallery’ which is mostly the transcription of his highly entertaining Reith Lectures, broadcast on BBC’s Radio 4 programme last year. I shall enjoy dipping in and out of that one. The second is a biography of the Bloomsbury Group sisters, Virginia Woolf and Vanessa Bell. I was prompted into buying this one after a visit to the most extraordinary house during my summer break when I became fascinated with the relationship between these two highly creative yet completely different characters and wanted to find out more.

Charleston is the rambling old farmhouse nestling comfortably beneath the South Downs in Sussex that was home to artists Vanessa Bell and her lover, Duncan Grant. They moved there in 1916 after Virginia Woolf, who was already living in a village a few miles away had written to her sister declaring that “it’s a most delightful house” although she warned that there was no hot water and “the house wants doing up – and the wallpapers are awful.” Vanessa became interested in the idea of a farm as this would give Duncan Grant the guise of farmhand, allowing him to escape jail as a conscientious objector during the First World War. Apparently, during the height of the shelling across the channel, the windows at Charleston would shake.

The bohemian household soon became a magnet for other artists, writers and musicians of the era. Vanessa and Duncan hosted parties and the likes of Lytton Strachey, Roger Fry, E.M Forster, Benjamin Britten, T.S. Eliot and Clive Bell – Vanessa’s estranged husband – would stay for weeks to enjoy and take advantage of the creative atmosphere.

Vanessa and Duncan set to improving the house and stamping on it their own inimitable style. They painted every possible surface in bold, glorious colours – walls, ceilings, floors, mantelpieces and furniture, for not only were they artists, they were designers. Their work was to be seen on textiles, wallpaper and crockery designed exclusively for Harrods. Some of their fabric designs have recently been revived by Laura Ashley and can be seen on some of the upholstery in the house.

The couple lived at Charleston for the rest of their lives, with her two boys Julian and Quentin, and their own daughter, Angelica. Vanessa died in 1961 and Duncan remained at the farm until he died in 1978 at the age of ninety-three. He was still entertaining artists like David Hockney at Charleston well into his eighties.

In 1980, The Charleston Trust was set up to preserve this wonderful property and share it with the world by opening its doors in 1986. A major restoration program was undertaken to restore some of the rooms to their former glory. Being an old building, there was no damp-proofing. On the day I visited, I was lucky to have the most informative guide who explained that the walls in the dining room, hand painted by the couple, had suffered substantial damage. The restoration team had to lift the walls off in sections – fortunately held together by layers of the awful wallpaper that Virginia had first mentioned to her sister – where after they were taken to London and treated. During this time, a proper damp-proof course was put into the house and the walls duly replaced in all their original glory. Only a very small section, to the left of the fireplace, is reproduction.  Sadly, photography inside the house is not permitted but there are pictures on the  Charleston Trust’s website.

The Charleston Trust continues to improve the old farm. There are plans to restore the historic old farm buildings and create educational facilities. With the support of their patron, HRH Camilla, the Duchess of Cornwall, Charleston will continue to flourish. This year the house hosted its 25th annual literary festival where ‘books, ideas and creativity bloom.’ Authors and artists arrive at Charleston to give talks and lectures and to mingle with their admiring public – carrying on the vision created by its extraordinary owners almost one hundred years ago.

The following pictures of the garden are mine. Here too a restoration is underway,  getting the outside of the property back to how it was in its Bloomsbury heyday.

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Front door to Charleston

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Through the gate to the compost heap!

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Spot that butterfly …

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Herbaceous borders – a jumble of glorious colour

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A tranquil little spot in a sunny corner

And now to my reading pile …

 

 

If you are a lover of dogs or drive an unnecessarily large vehicle, you may want to skip this post in case it causes offence.

You have been warned.

Now, you’re probably wondering to what that word in the title refers. It’s an invented word which became part of my family’s vocabulary since the time I was really quite small. It is a word coined by one eccentric uncle who, while out walking with us as he frequently did on a weekend, would shout out periodically, ‘Mind the Oomjar!’ warning us of unmentionable messes smeared across footpaths left by animals who know no better.

Don’t get me wrong: I like dogs. Some of them I’d even say are cute but I don’t want one. I’m quite happy to join dog-walking friends just so long as I have nothing to do with their accompanying plastic bags. We don’t have the time or the type of lifestyle that would be fair to a furry addition to the family. Shoving a dog in kennels every time we decided to have some time away wouldn’t be kind – it compares to packing your kids off to boarding school at the first opportunity. Why bother to have them in the first place?

It’s the dog owners I have issue with. Or at least some of them. Having just spent the most glorious weekend on the Camel Estuary in North Cornwall, it became apparent very early on that this is a dog’s paradise. Every other person we seemed to encounter had at least one canine in tow, often with an uncomfortably human name. Since when did it ever sound right to name a dog ‘Stan’ or ‘Jonathan?’ Perhaps their children are called Rex and Rover (or even Satan), I don’t know, but to me, there is a blurring of nomenclature here which just sounds weird.

Dog owners arrogantly assume that everyone else will be as besotted with their pooches as they are. So while you’re sitting on your picnic rug on beautiful golden sands, whiling away hours minding your own business and trying to enjoy the scenery, the peace is invariably shattered by the frenzied yapping of a small dog or the louder, gruffer barking of a larger variety followed by the braying tones of an over indulgent owner. A sea-drenched spaniel will probably come bounding over and shake itself all over you while its owner will become terribly offended if you shoo their pet away. They’ll make jokey excuses like ‘Oh, he’s just playing!’ and ‘Oops, sorry: Hector, bad boy, come here!’ which simply aren’t good enough, frankly. I can’t remember ever letting my toddler wipe his jammy little fingers over a complete stranger.

Talking of toddlers – I can illustrate here how barmy some Brits are about their dogs. We witnessed, on a short ferry ride across the river Camel, a young couple with a pushchair containing a dear little boy push a pacifier in his mouth while they proceeded to take photographs of each other with their dog; of the dog and selfies with the dog. The child was completely ignored. What’s that all about?

I don’t care how intelligent or obedient dog owners think their pets are, they can’t read. (The dogs, that is, not the owners – although the jury is out on that one, actually). So when confronted with a large sign at the start of the wonderful coastal path walk that says in large letters ‘No Dog Fouling’ – who in the name of the National Trust is this directed at? We undertook a walk of around five miles along a fantastically beautiful stretch of the South West Path but instead of being able to walk, head up and enjoy all that nature has to offer, we were constantly looking at our feet to watch out for the Oomjar. Where are all the responsible plastic bag wielding dog owners then? And before anyone tries to tell me that it was probably fox – I do know the difference – I live in the country.

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The South West Coastal Path along the Camel Estuary. Good job you can’t view this in Smell-o-Vision.

Dog owners are also very quick to tell you that their animal would never hurt anyone. I’m sorry, but that’s ridiculous. They might be the most docile of pets but they are still unpredictable animals. Owners do not have complete control over their pet’s actions and while I’m happy to believe that a dog won’t bite me, you can’t say for definite that a large excitable one won’t bound up to a toddler, put his paws up and knock the child off his feet potentially causing damage, can you? Dogs can hurt – albeit indirectly – as I know two people who have broken their ankles while out dog walking.

So enough of Oomjar for a minute and on to vehicles: large ones. I drive a small hatchback, perfectly adequate for my needs yet last week while attempting to park at our local station before boarding the London train I was almost thwarted because the station commuter car park is littered with four wheel drive monstrosities or huge people-carriers. These cars are too wide for the current parking bays so those of us with ordinary cars are finding it increasingly difficult to acquire a space. Why are these cars being used just to leave in a car park all day? Why do folk have these vehicles in the first place – do any of them actually use their four wheel drives properly? Have they ever actually been off-road? (No; only in the wretched station car park).

Ah, I know – they must be owned and carelessly parked by the same unthinking types that let their animals leave their Oomjar all over the place. You’d need a big car for children and dogs, wouldn’t you? But only at the weekend when they all head off for Cornwall to ruin the place for the rest of us.

Any invented words still in use in your family?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lest we Forget # 2

For me the most enjoyable modules we deliver on the English curriculum are the poetry ones because they’re a good way for students to play around with language and begin understanding inference not to mention the techniques they will need to espouse for their exams. Of the poets chosen by whoever it is that decides what and who we should be teaching, Wilfred Owen (who would have been a punk poet had he lived in the late 1970’s – imagine ‘Dulce et Decorum Est’ spat out by Johnny Rotten – it works!) and Simon Armitage, a contemporary British writer, are my absolute favourites. I’ve been fortunate enough to see the latter in performance. If he turns up at a venue near you, crawl over broken glass to get a ticket – it’ll be worth it.

Here’s an example of his work, an extract from a longer poem which I’ve posted to commemorate today’s sadly memorable, eponymous date. When this was first released in its entirety in 2005, Armitage was criticised by some – unfairly, in my opinion. See what you think.

 

Out of the Blue

You have picked me out.

Through a distant shot of a building burning

you have noticed now

that a white cotton shirt is twirling, turning.

 

In fact I am waving, waving.

Small in the clouds, but waving, waving.

Does anyone see

a soul worth saving?

 

So when will you come?

Do you think you are watching, watching

a man shaking crumbs

or pegging out washing?

 

I am trying and trying.

The heat behind me is bullying, driving,

but the white of surrender is not yet flying.

I am not at the point of leaving, diving.

 

A bird goes by.

The depth is appalling. Appalling

that others like me

should be wind-milling, wheeling, spiralling, falling.

 

Are your eyes believing,

believing

that here in the gills

I am still breathing.

 

But tiring, tiring.

Sirens below are wailing, firing.

My arm is numb and my nerves are sagging.

Do you see me, my love. I am failing, flagging.

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Click here if you’d like to watch a short clip of Simon Armitage reading his poem.

 

 

As we trundle inevitably towards our new school year next week amid threats of redundancy, more cut backs and an ever shrinking national curriculum, here’s a reminder of why we do what we do.

Queuing up in our corner shop the other day, I recognised the young man in front of me as one of our ex students. He bought a couple of cans of coke and a pack of cigarettes.

“Still smoking then Danny, I see,” I said smiling, but trying to force a look of disapproval.

He turned and grinned at me. “Orright, Miss? Hey, do you remember when….?”

We reminisced a little before he left the shop. I watched him drive away in smart little car.

Do I remember? How could I forget? Eight years ago Danny (not his real name) was a student in a class of sixteen listless, under-achieving kids with bad attitude. I supported their English GCSE lessons alongside a young teacher who has since become a firm friend. I shall refer to her throughout as TF (Teacher Friend). She was patient, innovative and determined to get the best from this rabble who were not overjoyed to be in school at all, let alone have to struggle with Shakespeare or, heaven forbid, visit the library and select a book. I admired her enthusiasm but worried that she was being overly idealistic.

Nevertheless, we took them on for two years from the age of fourteen and from the outset they were a challenge. Their target levels were understandably rock bottom. They never produced homework. A detention was not a deterrent – they never turned up for one anyway. Their reading wasn’t fluent; none of them could spell or at least, didn’t bother. They would arrive in the classroom without their exercise books or even a pen. Because they were such a small class and they had most of all their other lessons together as well, they formed a tight bond: they worked and moved as a pack. TF wasn’t having any of this – she set about finding the pack leader and working on him. She wisely reckoned that with him on side, the others might eventually follow.

(I ought to point out now that it was not Danny who was leader; if anything, he presented as slightly anxious. He was content to follow the crowd, take the path of least resistance).

And follow the others did. Amid much groaning and sprawling on desks, we started studying “Much Ado About Nothing.”  Instead of making them write reams and unpick unintelligible quotes, TF got the students acting the play out. Pack Leader was Benedict; our feistiest female played Beatrice. The others took turns in having a go at the other parts; they began to understand the play and, dare I say, enjoy it.

When we finished with that, we moved to a modern text by Willy Russell called “Our Day Out” – chosen because it is a short play about a load of dysfunctional kids going on a school outing. The irony did not pass over their heads: they thought it was hilarious. We began to love these kids: as hard as they found this subject, they had a sense of fun: they began to work for TF and produce essays of sorts. It was more than we had hoped for.

During one lesson, one of the pupils mentioned that she had never been on a school outing. Most of the others agreed. I was appalled. TF and I exchanged glances and before I knew what I was doing I had suggested that we take them to the theatre to see Willy Russell’s musical play, “Blood Brothers” – at that time showing in London.

Well, what can I say – we had opened the floodgates – the kids were thrilled with the prospect. A few of them had never even visited our capital city. They were nervous. To them, London represented a terrorist target.

Of course, we hit massive resistance as well as disbelief in the staff room.

“Take that lot out – you must be mad!”

“You’ll never get the risk assessment passed,”

“Of course you can’t take them by train – far too dangerous!”

“Imagine them in a theatre -they’ll disrupt the performance! You’ll get the school a bad name …”

 And so on…

TF dug her heels in. Management suggested she team up with the Drama department who were running the trip later in the year but she politely refused. She didn’t want our little band of oddballs mixed in with a lot of high achieving students who regarded a theatre trip an everyday occurrence. She wanted this to be an occasion for them.

I dug my heels in. I don’t like being told I can’t do something either, surprisingly. I filled in a lengthy risk assessment form, got it begrudgingly signed and then I set about ordering subsidised tickets, checking out the school minibus schedule and acquiring a driver. My heart sank when I saw the state of the minibus. Used virtually exclusively by the PE department, it was filthy and smelled of unwashed bodies and football boots. Not suitable for a theatre trip to London. I called in a favour from an old ex-colleague who had started running her own hire company. She provided us with a vehicle and driver at minimal cost. Our trip was on – hurrah!

The kids were uncharacteristically enthusiastic. They all paid their fees within a couple of days. We finished “Our Day Out” and started on the poetry, expecting some opposition. There was none. The class continued to work well.

A couple of days before our outing, Danny dropped a bombshell. We were rounding up a lesson when he stood up, said he hated English and wouldn’t be coming on the trip. He stormed out. We were mystified. Nothing appeared to have provoked this outburst.

Pack Leader took me aside and explained conspiratorially that Danny couldn’t come because he wouldn’t be able to smoke. I almost laughed, but not quite. Pack Leader went on to explain knowingly that Danny was addicted to nicotine and “got the shakes” if he didn’t have a cigarette. When I realised that PL wasn’t winding me up, I was horrified. Apparently Danny had been smoking regularly since about the age of ten – with his parents. I thanked PL for his honesty and told him to leave it with me.

I managed to get Danny on his own for a quiet word. I asked him to explain his reason for the outburst. With a little coercing, his reason bore out what PL had told me. I asked Danny if he ever managed to go to the cinema and sit through a film. He had, many times. I told him that a theatre performance was just about the same length as anything at the cinema. It wasn’t the theatre he was worried about, however. We had suggested to the kids that because we would have to leave school in the late afternoon and they’d probably be hungry, we’d go for a burger before the show. Danny told me that after food especially, he needed a ‘fag,’ otherwise he got the shakes and started sweating. I told him that no way was he missing this trip and I’d sort something.

I mulled it over and discussed it with TF. I hatched a plan of which she wanted no part as it might compromise her professional position but she agreed to turn a blind eye.

Can you guess what my plan was? And what would you have done given the circumstance?

Here’s what happened.

At last our much anticipated evening arrived. The students met us back at school having gone home to change into their ‘smart-casual’ clothes. The girls teetered on impossible heels, looked a few shades of deeper orange and carried huge handbags filled with goodness knows what. The boys wore nicely pressed shirts and jeans. Because it was coming up to Easter, TF put little bags of chocolate eggs on each minibus seat which were scoffed down as we drove the forty odd miles to London’s West End. Any affectation of being ‘cool’ dissipated within the confines of that bus. As we crossed the river their excitement grew as they spotted Big Ben and then Nelson’s Column.

Our driver dropped us at Leicester Square and arranged a rendez-vous point for later on. We trooped off to Burger King where the kids were at home ordering their meals. TF and I withdrew a little with a bag of fries and a coffee. I kept a surreptitious eye on Danny, who was having a whale of a time with the others but who was, I noticed, unusually fidgety. When they’d finished, he was definitely looking sickly; I wasn’t imagining it. I nudged TF who, in her teacherly fashion, grouped the kids together and suggested we move across the street to Frankie and Benny’s for ice cream. This was our pre-arranged cue. I stayed behind to make sure the rubbish had been cleared by our party, and Danny stayed to ‘help.’ Then he and I sauntered off in the opposite direction, into the Square, and he (self-consciously, I have to say) lit up. I stood by the gate while he wandered up and down dragging on his horrible cigarette.

Eventually I was joined by PL who had cottoned onto what was happening and didn’t want to miss out, so he had a quick couple of drags too. Understandably, we received a few disapproving stares. I turned a blind eye to that one and, as we walked back to meet the others, while I impressed on them that I thought smoking was a disgusting habit and that it would affect their health this occasion was not to be discussed or mentioned back at school. They promised me that the incident would go no further – and it never has.

Having met up with the others again we walked crocodile fashion along Charing Cross Road to the theatre, our students keeping to a tight, nervous formation. It was interesting to see a bunch of supposed streetwise kids so far out of their comfort zone.

Their amazement and appreciation of the old theatre was gratifying. They gazed about them in wonderment at the old Victorian building. They were awestruck. We had fantastic seats along the front row of the dress circle. TF had grilled into them the need for excellent behaviour as the other theatre-goers had paid top dollar for their seats. We told them there’d be time for sweets in the interval. They were as good as gold, and as the music began, they leaned forward in their seats and became absorbed.

As the play came to its final heart-wrenching scenes, the sound of muffled sobbing came from along our row. Feisty Girl left the theatre with black mascara tracks coursing through her powdered orange face. Our party was buzzing. Danny gave me the thumbs up as we waited for the bus – he looked calm and chatted to the others about the performance. When our driver saw how much the kids had enjoyed themselves he suggested taking them on a short tour of the sites before we left the capital. So they took in Piccadilly Circus, Buckingham Palace and the Houses of Parliament to round off their evening. We arrived back at school after midnight and we dared any of them to bunk off the next day. None of them did. It was business as usual and back to poetry in the classroom.

On my desk I found a scribbled note which said simply ‘thanks for last night.’ It wasn’t signed, but I recognised the writing.

I’ve just had another run in at our doctor’s surgery. You might remember that back in May I was unfortunate enough to have to visit the doctor to get something for a cough.  I know I’m an impatient patient – I wrote about it – but honestly, this latest brush takes the proverbial biscuit.

Let me back track slightly. Several months ago, we received in the post three brown envelopes, addressed to each one of us. The envelopes had CONFIDENTIAL: ADDRESSEE ONLY stamped across them. Inside were two sheets of A4 paper onto which was printed a lengthy notification from our healthcare authority that after a certain date in the not too distant future, we would no longer be able to collect our medicine from the dispensary at our local surgery. It went on to explain that because we lived within a mile of another local pharmacy, we would not be allowed to collect meds from the surgery – it would be expected that we would use the pharmacy instead. However, before we could use said pharmacy, we would have to collect a signed prescription from the surgery for any medications needed.

Because three of us received the same notification (hardly confidential, in my view), that seems like an awful lot of wasted time and effort not to mention paper by our continually cost cutting National Health Service. What’s wrong with a leaflet stuffed through the door? I was outraged. I sent an email to our local MP, the Right Honourable Jeremy Hunt who at the time was Secretary of State for Health and whose election flyer had co-incidentally hit the mat at the same time as these missives from the NHS. I waited weeks for a reply, which to be fair, I received (albeit from a likely internee), thanking me for the points I had raised and that wastage was always a cause for concern. I still didn’t vote for him.

So there we are – progress – we now have to visit two establishments to eventually acquire our medicines. After the last debacle with my unwanted antibiotics, I’ve made up my mind that unless I’m at death’s door I won’t be troubling the doctor again but our son suffers from seasonal hay fever, for which a prescribed treatment is required. 9iz7Gg9iE[1]The over the counter stuff doesn’t come close, neither do any of the natural or herbal remedies – he’s tried them all. So for six months of the year he’s on high dose anti-histamine. Which is fine – it works.

Getting it is now the problem: we have reached that date in the not too distant future.

Anyway, back to the latest brush …

The surgery is of course, only open during working hours – when guess what – most people – including Son – are working or commuting home. Because I have endless time at the moment, I offered to collect his paper script and take it to be processed elsewhere. I won’t use our local pharmacy because it is frankly grimy and twice I have returned over the counter meds for being out of date, only realising this infuriation when on close inspection at home, with the aid of my reading specs, I made this unfortunate (for the pharmacy) discovery.

Off I go, first thing, round to the surgery where I have to fill in a form requesting a repeat prescription. I’m then told that it will take two days to process. TWO DAYS! All they’ve got to do is print the damn thing off and get it signed by one of the four or five doctors who work there. I fix the pharmacist with my best steely glare and tell her that I need the meds today, that Son has run out and that I will wait. I notice that on the shelf beyond the pharmacist’s left shoulder, tantalisingly out of reach, is a large package containing the anti-histamines we need. But I know I can’t have those; I remember that extensive letter.

She tells me the best she can do is to have the script ready for me after five that afternoon and turns slowly to attend to wiping a ring of coffee cup from the Formica. I spin on my heels and march swiftly out of there before an expletive escapes my lips.

Five o’clock arrives and I gaily return to the surgery, all thoughts of the morning forgotten as I’m not one to hold a grudge. The waiting room is full of the sick and ailing so I wade through them to the dispensary desk and ask for my script. With a smile.

Can you guess the next bit? Tell me you can’t. Well, ok then, you’re right.

The script isn’t ready. It’s joined a pile of others to be signed. I suppose I should be thankful that at least it’s been printed off. I see a different person. She takes my script to get it signed. I’m still waiting twenty minutes later, sitting with the sick and ailing.  I’ve had enough. I leave and tear my hair out on the way home.

Having spent considerable time over the last few years accompanying my mother to routine hospital appointments I have come to the conclusion that a pre-requisite for working in the healthcare profession is to lack a sense of urgency or any kind of people skills whatsoever.

Just how difficult is it for someone to say “good morning” or “won’t keep you long” or even, “sorry, we’re running a bit late with appointments today, we’ll be with you as soon as we can.”

Apparently, very. They meander past, eyes averted, carrying clipboards, chatting amongst themselves, ignoring the rash of anxious patients lined up in their waiting rooms. Hospital dramas on TV are nothing like the real thing. No-one really rushes anywhere, or seems at all concerned for their patients welfare like they are on the telly – caring is a thing of the past. Two of my current colleagues at school are ex-nurses, who left the profession because of just that. They signed up and trained to care back in the day, but they saw the way things in the health service were going and got out when they could.  The employees at our surgery certainly aren’t letting the professional side down from the current institutionalised attitude-to-the-poorly perspective.

I eventually got my hands on the script and the meds this morning – but not without a battle and not without being told that there is now no such thing as a repeat prescription.

Ready for round two? I will be.

 

Lest we Forget …

Motoring through the sleepy ruralness of France’s Limousin region with its gently rolling hills, mile upon mile of wheat fields, crops of sunflowers interspersed with oak and beech woodland you’d be forgiven for thinking that life here has been much the same for hundreds of years.

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And to a certain extent it probably has but an occasion in its recent history has left a scar so deep that is unlikely to ever recover. For a small town just north-west of Limoges memories from seventy years ago are still raw; events shouldered alone while the attention of the allied world was focussed on the major battle raging in the north of the country meant that no-one shared the agony of this small, tight-knit community.

On the 10th June 1944, just four days after the Normandy landings Oradour-sur-Glane, a prosperous little market town, was razed to the ground by the German S.S, its inhabitants brutally massacred.

Women and children were rounded up and locked into the church which was then set alight; men were rounded up into smaller groups, machine-gunned down, covered with hay and fuel and their bodies burned. Some were burned alive.

 There were very few survivors. On that fateful day, 642 inhabitants of Oradour-sur-Glane lost their lives.

After the war, a new Oradour-sur-Glane was built nearby but, on the orders of General de Gaulle, the original town was to remain exactly as it had been left after the atrocity as a memorial to its fallen.

Today there is a sombre visitor’s centre which leads you through a tunnel under the road to the original town where you are free to roam along the streets and view the devastation. There is no charge.

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Rusted cars remain exactly where they were torched seventy years ago; tram lines are still visible, running the length of the main street; an old sewing machine, battered yet still recognisable, has been left in the charred ruins of the tailor’s shop. Patterned ceramic tiles, fallen from the wall of the butcher’s store lay heaped on the floor while where the old garage was, an enamel placard advertising Renault Cars is still just visible.

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The butcher’s shop

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The Girl’s School

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The Church

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The Post Office with tram lines in front

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The main street leading up to the cemetery

At the top of the town, you cross a grassy flower meadow to the old cemetery. Only here is there evidence of human intervention – the place is kept respectfully neat and tidy while the ornate headstones provide testament to the truly shocking reality that so many families perished on the same day. There is a newly built underground memorial hall to the inhabitants of Oradour-sur-Glane. Every name of those who died is engraved on its walls while encased in modern, light-filled  vitrines are some of the artefacts taken from the victims or discovered amongst the wreckage. Spectacles, pocket watches (with the hands stopped between the hours of five and six in the evening – the time of the massacre), pots, ceramics and the metal handles of handbags – all serve as reminders that this atrocity happened to ordinary people just like us.

As you pick your way carefully back towards the visitor’s tunnel along the cobbles separated by mosses and self-seeded wild flowers the atmosphere in the ruined town is one of reverence – people walk quietly around the shattered buildings each with their own thoughts, taking a few poignant photographs.

The preserved wreckage of Oradour-sur-Glane is a very powerful memorial.

For further reading, click here.

Just to say …

As we race towards the sharp end of the summer term with the dreaded sports day and activities week safely out of the way, the long summer break looms ahead and my postings are likely to be more erratic than usual. Without the daily routine that term time requires I fear that my time will merge into a summery haze although I have every intention of concentrating on some story writing and editing. beach-scene120412[1]

However, if last summer was anything to go by I managed to fail miserably on both of those counts, so I’m not promising anything or indeed setting a deadline that I will feel obliged to fulfil. I shall keep up with reading as many blogs as I can so won’t have evaporated completely from the stratosphere and I shall hopefully find some interesting places during August that will be worth blogging about later.

Before I go though, I must just share this with you.

The autistic son of an acquaintance of mine was recently banned from his school bus for a few days apparently for causing damage to said vehicle. He sat down next to a sign which clearly stated:

TAKE HAMMER AND BREAK THE GLASS.

So he did.

Enjoy your summers!

 

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