Turkish Moustaches

The curious case of the disappearing Turkish military moustache

I was recently passing a hot afternoon on a guided tour of the museum at Selimiye Barracks in Istanbul. (No one has ever accused me of being normal.)

I was a kind of support worker on a medical tour. We were from a small cruise boat exploring the eastern Mediterranean. Most of the participants were over seventy and some were octogenarians or even nonagenarians. My role was, in part, to help them on their trip, which was primarily designed to visit museums and the ruined sites of archaeological interest, such as asclepieia (healing centres in the ancient world), and it wasn’t the sort of experience I’m likely to forget.

‘Keith, hold on. I can’t find my hat. I can’t go out in the sun without it.’

‘You’re wearing it, Michael.’

‘Ah, yes, good. That’s a relief... Oh, no, it’s not that! I meant my stick. I need my stick.’

‘I’ll get it for you. When did you last have it, Michael?’

‘I’m not sure. It might be with my passport...’

‘Ok, Where’s your passport?’

‘I’ve no idea. I can’t find my passport either.’

Since we visited Istanbul, Gallipoli, Troy, Pergamum, Ephesus, Bodrum, Kos, Rhodes, Syros, Nafplion, Epidauros, Mycenae and Athens in just a couple of weeks, it was all educational and great fun but pretty exhausting. The trip ended in Athens and I remember 87-year-old Rachel leaning, conspiratorially, towards me and saying, ‘I’m so disappointed I couldn’t make it right to the top of the Acropolis. But I’ve been before, many years ago: and that ouzo bar you took me to last night was much better!’

Back to the plot. When we all leapt from the coach at the barracks – you can picture the scene – we were herded into a waiting area, because Selimiye is an active military headquarters and administrative establishment and under strict army rules. You can only get in with special permission.

(As an aside: everyone has to do military service in Türkiye. For six months. Unless you can afford to pay the equivalent of £5,200, in which case you only have to do 28 days. George Orwell was right, of course. As ever. Some are more equal, everywhere you go.)

Anyway, a very smart-looking soldier was to be our guide. He told us to line up, in ranks of four: we were to proceed, in a militarily precise formation, to the museum building. I wonder if anyone reading this has ever attempted to harness the myriad disabilities of forty aged former medical consultants and dentists along two hundred yards of scorched pathways, keeping them in lines, up slopes and round obstructions? No, thought not - but the image of them scattered like disorientated First World War casualties along what seemed a vast expanse of roadway will linger long in my memory.

Finally inside the museum, we stood respectfully in wide corridors where hundreds of injured British soldiers had lain during the Crimean War (1853 -1856), when the Turks were our allies against the Russians. It used to be called the Scutari Barracks Hospital and was where Florence Nightingale began to establish her reputation, having previously run the Institute for the Care of Sick Gentlewomen in Harley Street in London.

I’d visited the place before and knew we ended up climbing a short spiral staircase to the room in which the Lady with the Lamp used to work. It is now much as it was then. Her actual carpet and chair are there, as well as her desk, with her notes upon it; and there are extracts from her handwritten writings, framed, on the walls. The view from the window, right to the Bosphorus, is stunning. She would have been able to look down and see, in the distance, wounded soldiers being unloaded from transports at the wharf.

However, it was the room from which you climb to Nightingale’s study that particularly held my attention on this occasion. It serves as a memorial to Turkish soldiers who died in the Crimean War, the First World War and the War of Independence (1919 – 1923), which was fought in a confusing scenario against the UK, Greece, Armenia, France, Italy and the collapsed Ottoman Empire and which established the Republic of Türkiye. Around two of the walls runs a floor-to-ceiling metal frieze of very human moments from the conflicts, and there are free-standing life-size tableaux, including cannons and the men firing them, and Nightingale is there too.

Florence Nightingale and wounded soldier tableau

One moving representation is of a Turkish soldier carrying an injured British enemy from the battlefield in WW1.

In that war, the man who became the greatest Turkish hero, Mustafa Kamal, known as ‘Ataturk’, made his reputation by repulsing the allied forces at Gallipoli, out-marshalling Churchill and his commanders and, after thousands of casualties on both sides, forcing the invaders to withdraw. The remaining British and Empire forces might well have been massacred during the evacuation, but it’s believed the Turks, who had held the heights throughout eight months of fighting, simply allowed them to retreat.

That is credible, because Ataturk was an unusual and special man.

To slightly mis-quote Shakespeare, ‘he bestrid his world like a Colossus’

When independence was achieved in 1923, he founded the Republic and served as its president until his death in 1938. He was forward-thinking and probably as ‘woke’ as it was possible to be back then. He modernised the country, shifting it into the twentieth century and making it westward-looking. Türkiye became a secular state and he introduced equal rights for women. He was revered and still is today. On the anniversary of his death, the country comes to a halt for two minutes at the time he died. Traffic stops and people stand in silent tribute.

As you stare at the frieze and tableaux in the museum, it is instantly apparent you are looking at Turkish soldiers. Some wear the fez – which Ataturk sensibly decided was no way to protect your head in modern warfare, and banned – and all of them, each soldier, sports a luxuriant and mightily impressive moustache, thicker than a ‘Freddie Mercury’ in every case, better harnessed than a ‘Dave Bedford’ (for those who remember the great runner) and perhaps akin to a ‘Graeme Souness’, so they might all have played for Liverpool FC in the late 1970s.

However, in 1923 Ataturk also banned the wearing of moustaches in the armed forces. It was one very small part of his plan to leave the past behind and focus the state on being part of the new world. As a consequence, all the soldiers we saw at the barracks were immaculately clean-shaven. Traditionally, the Turks had believed that his moustache gave a soldier courage and strength; the more prolific the growth, the greater the resilience of the man wearing it. Ataturk told them that when times get tough what really matters is mental attitude and professionalism. You can’t rely on facial hair to bring you victories; especially, I suppose, when the enemy’s armed with machine guns and tanks...

We left Selimiye and Istanbul and all its glories and sailed south through the Dardanelles and away. Our daily trips from the boat continued, of course, and our brilliantly lucid but extremely antique cruisers coped incredibly well and on a daily basis with the difficulties they encountered on the sites we visited: miles of often extremely rough ground and steps and obstacles, as well as intense heat.

At times it became positively gruelling. How did they manage to cope? Well, a coach carried us to the right location, then it was all down to their mental fortitude, I guess. They certainly didn’t rely on moustaches. There wasn’t one to be seen. Michael didn’t have one. Neither did Rachel. And neither did anyone else.

That Ataturk guy knew stuff.

          A moustache, neither bushy nor trim,

          doesn’t add to your valour or vim:
          so Ataturk said -
          sharp focus instead
          was essential, according to him...

Keith Brindle
www.keithbrindlewriter.com

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Imprint - It's only words

When I was considering what to include in this blog on the theme of imprint, several things crossed my mind.

The scars left on my face by falling off my bicycle head first and skidding onto a tarmac carpark as it tore into my skin. (After 60 years I still have one scar beneath my right nostril and a piece of stone in my lower lip.)

No, not gruesome memories like that one. Words often leave a more profound impact. 

While I was recovering in hospital with concussion following the afore-mentioned accident, my dance partner (then a girl called Lynn Jones) came to visit with her parents. Without any sympathy for my situation, my scabby face and broken teeth, she pointed at me and declared "That's what you get for telling lies!"

I was terribly upset by this and when I told my dad he reassured me that I need never see her again. He arranged for a visit to Blackpool Tower during the British Junior Dance Festival. There we met a friend of his, former Ballroom World Champion Eric Lashbrook. He took me twice around the floor and told my dad he would be in touch. 

A few weeks later he arranged a 'try out' for me with a boy partner and within months we were successfully admitted to the British Juvenile Team for a trip to compete in Switzerland. But for Lynn's dreadful words, none of my dancing success would ever have happened.

In my teens, my elderly Auntie Effie (short for Ethel) took herself off on a solo trip to Paris, very brave for a woman of 70-plus. She had a career as head corsetter in a local department store and had married late in life. Her husband had recently died. 

She once told me that people place on you half the value you place on yourself. That left an imprint too. Never undervalue your own worth.

My poem today is based on factual personal experience and the lasting imprint of the power of words. My motto is: Always think before you speak.

Imprint

That was the day
the day I decided I’d had enough
the day I chose to leave

I put the children in the car
he took them out again
pushed them back into the house

I tried to get them back
he blocked me
he slammed the door on my arm

He grabbed me
he lifted me up
he threw me at the copper beech

The neighbour was concerned
he called the police
an officer drove me to hospital

He said “think about it overnight
a man’s reputation
is at stake”

The bruise shaped like the door lock
would fade in time
I would be fine

But those misogynistic words
will always remain
a permanent imprint in my mind

Adele V Robinson

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Classical Cities

I met Steve for lunch today and promised him a short blog and a poem for this week's theme. It was a great lunch, great pizza, great talk about Rome and the Coliseum among many other things...

some of the beauty and splendour of Rome

... not so sure about the poem.

Classical Cities

The thing about cities
is that they are full of beautiful women.

High cheek lines, red velvet mouths,
white swan necks, proud breasts and slender thighs.

Auburn, black or blonde long hair
Scarves and stripes, silk and stockings.

Stylish, eye catching, head turning, beautiful women.
The older the better...

The cities that is.

Thanks for reading, Bill Allison.

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Old School

Britain’s oldest schools offer a remarkable window into the country’s religious, political and educational history. Long before the modern school system emerged, these institutions were founded to educate clergy, train administrators and preserve learning in an age when books were scarce and literacy was limited. Among the most ancient surviving schools are The King’s School, Canterbury, St Peter’s School, York, and Sherborne School.

Each began in the early medieval period and endured immense upheavals, including Viking invasions, the Norman Conquest, the Reformation and modern war. Their histories reveal how education in Britain developed from monastic instruction into the broad academic tradition associated with independent schools today.

The King’s School, Canterbury is widely regarded as the oldest school in England, tracing its origins to 597, when St Augustine arrived from Rome to convert the Anglo-Saxons to Christianity. Education formed part of the new religious foundations at Canterbury Cathedral and St Augustine’s Abbey, where boys were taught Latin, scripture and church music. Although the earliest records are limited, the school’s connection with these monastic communities suggests a continuous tradition of learning on the site.

Its modern form dates from 1541, when Henry VIII, after the Dissolution of the Monasteries, re-founded the institution by royal charter and established fifty King’s Scholars. Over the centuries, the school survived the turbulence of the English Civil War and even wartime evacuation during the Second World War, while preserving its setting within the cathedral precincts. Its long history makes it a striking example of how medieval religious education evolved into the prestigious independent school tradition known today.

St Peter’s School, York traces its beginnings to 627, when it was founded in connection with York Minster during the conversion of Northumbria to Christianity. Like Canterbury, it originated in the world of the early Christian church, where schools existed primarily to educate future clerics and administrators. Tradition associates the school with Alcuin of York, the great scholar who later served Charlemagne and helped shape the Carolingian Renaissance in Europe. This link gives St Peter’s an importance beyond England, connecting it to the revival of learning across western Christendom.

The school was later re-established under a royal charter in the sixteenth century, a pattern common among ancient English schools whose medieval religious foundations were reshaped after the Reformation. Over time, it evolved into a major independent school while retaining its historic identity. Its endurance from the seventh century to the present demonstrates the resilience of educational institutions rooted in both faith and civic life.

Sherborne School, founded in 705 in Dorset, emerged from another important religious centre, Sherborne Abbey. It was established during the Anglo-Saxon period, when monasteries and cathedrals were the principal guardians of literacy and education. Although younger than Canterbury and York, Sherborne still belongs to the earliest generation of surviving British schools. Its medieval roots were similarly transformed in the sixteenth century, when Edward VI granted it a charter in 1550. From that point it developed into a grammar school and, later, one of England’s best-known public schools.

 Sherborne’s history illustrates how ancient institutions adapted to changing political and cultural circumstances while preserving a sense of continuity. Through the centuries it educated clergy, scholars, statesmen and writers, linking the modern classroom to the intellectual life of early medieval Wessex. Today the school remains deeply conscious of its origins, using its heritage as part of its identity while embracing contemporary education.

Together, these three schools show how education in Britain was originally inseparable from the church, royal authority and the preservation of learning. Their earliest forms were not schools in the modern sense, but religious communities dedicated to instruction, discipline and scholarship. Yet their survival across more than a millennium is extraordinary. 

Each institution was reshaped by the Reformation, renewed by royal authority and gradually transformed into a modern school, but all retained a strong sense of historical identity. The King’s School, Canterbury stands out for its connection to the coming of Christianity to England; St Peter’s School, York for its intellectual links to European learning; and Sherborne School for its place in the cultural development of Anglo-Saxon Wessex. Studied together, they reveal not only the longevity of Britain’s oldest schools, but also the enduring importance of education in shaping national life.

Please find below a poem on education by Thomas Grey. This poem gave us the phrase “ignorance is bliss”.

Ode to a Distant Prospect of Eton

To each his suff’rings: all are men,
Condemn’d alike to groan,
The tender for another’s pain;
Th’ unfeeling for his own.
Yet ah! why should they know their fate?
Since sorrow never comes too late,
And happiness too swiftly flies.
Thought would destroy their paradise.
No more; where ignorance is bliss,
’Tis folly to be wise …

                                          Thomas Grey, 1742

Thanks for reading and please leave a comment as they are much appreciated. 

Dermot Moroney

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Old School

I attended Elmslie Girls’ Independent Grammar School here in Blackpool, founded by two sisters named Brodie and sited on Whitegate Drive in a substantial double-fronted detached house. The school grounds were filled with Elm trees (hence the school’s name) and also abundant with crocuses every spring, from which came the splendid purple and gold of the school uniform.

Attending an all girl’s school had its ups and downs. The atmosphere was great. Sports were very competitive and many students excelled in music, sciences and the arts. I hazard a guess that this was probably due to a lack of distractions by boys but it was also due to a great sense of camaraderie and identity.

I had started at Elmslie Girl’s Grammar School as a naturally very bright, scholarship holder with an acquired Liverpool accent that was more of a strain for my headmistress than my already blossoming career in International ballroom dance. It had been made clear to me, before I was offered a place at the school, that if the standard of my school work should deteriorate due to dancing, then the dancing would stop. Mum and Dad were surprised that I even considered agreeing to Miss Oldham’s terms, but it made me all the more determined to succeed at both.

In the late 1960s and early 70s, my study of English Literature was peppered with novels, short stories, poetry and plays. Each academic year I was entertained by at least two Shakespeare plays, a novel by Charles Dickens and poetry by the Romantics.

In 1970 I was reading aloud in English: A passage from Pygmalion by George Bernard Shaw, when suddenly the voice of Eliza Doolittle was transformed into a cockney twang. Immediately I was playing Audrey Hepburn, the most beautiful and glamorous actress that I had ever seen. Lerner and Lowes pastiche of Shaw’s remarkable play was transformational for me. 

Pygmalion was a turning point. A working class girl in a public school, intelligent but awkward, playing the role written for me by others. Suddenly I knew how to live in both worlds. I became a living pastiche. I let the school and the world of dance transform me into from ugly duckling into a swan and I soared.

Our school uniform was distinctive. A deep purple blazer, trimmed with gold braid and a brimmed, purple felt hat with a taffeta band adorned with a fabulous enamelled badge bearing the Red Rose of Lancashire and the crossed keys of St Peter, topped with the bishop’s mitre. I really wish that I still had by hat badge. If anyone has a spare please feel free to contact me.

On the downside, we Elmslie girls were affectionately called, The Purple Virgins. Needless to say that I have no comment to make on that score. I know what I know and I promise ladies my lips are sealed. We have a code of honour. We have a school song with a Latin motto. Attending Elmslie was a little like being a student at Hogwarts. We had our secret passageways, spooky staircase and archaic sick bay too.

I am proud to have been an Elmslie girl and loved wearing my purple regalia. It carried a certain kudos and on through my lifetime it has opened a few select doors. I am still in touch with many school friends and as 2018 would have been the school’s centenary, hundreds of former purple virgins gathered in Blackpool in the spirit of friendship and reunion about which we sang in the school song so many years ago. Eat your heart out J K Rowling.

Omne Bonum Dei Donum

Omne bonum, dei donum
Is the motto of our school
All good gifts they come from heaven
To be grateful is our rule.

Midst the splendour of the elm trees,
In a shady place and cool,
Towering up above the branches,
Stand our much loved Elmslie School.

Omne bonum dei donum
Omne bonum dei donum.

Joys and sorrows both are known there,
Battles are both lost and won.
Fearlessly we all press onwards,
Happy when the task is done.

When our schooldays are behind us
And fresh duties we pursue,
Memories then will crowd upon us
And old friendships we’ll renew.

Omne bonum dei donum
Omne bonum dei donum.

"It matters much more what a girl is than what she does, and if you have learnt to work hard, play hard, keep faith, forget self, help others, you will have begun to be, in the highest sense of the word, a useful member of society. I would remind you of the famous words, "To labour and to love is the sum of living".

Miss Elizabeth Brodie
July 1928

Thanks for reading, Adele V Robinson

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Old School

I recently asked AI about myself. It told me was I was one of the leading figures in educational developments in the twentieth century, which came as a revelation. I never knew.

Of course, my ridiculous biography said everything about our brave new world and how technology shapes our lives and, apparently, our histories. It wasn’t always like this.

I actually left teaching in 1999 after being a head of English for fifteen years. I found myself one day sitting in a staff training session when we were being introduced to the wonders of ‘white boards’. I remember clutching the piece of chalk in my jacket pocket, feeling like Butch and Sundance must have done as they realised they were part of the past and there was no hope for them in the era to come. Instead of going to Bolivia, I resigned and started a new life.

Back in the twentieth century, everything was so different. I was a teacher in a time when we taught ‘pupils’: ‘students’ back then were studying in HE. We had no idea that in a quarter of a century’s time, every kid would be walking around with a mobile phone, effectively a personal computer, in their pocket and would be doing their work on an electronic tablet. We’d have protested if we were told that every lesson in every subject must follow the same pattern, that all that matters is results and, above all, Powerpoint rules, ok?

I admit at times we wandered into class and asked, ‘Where did we get up to last time?’ or ‘Would you like to watch TV today?’ I admit that on a miserable day, we might have allowed a joke-telling session. I remember a headteacher once catching me perched on my desk doing an owl impersonation for the least able year 11s on a Friday afternoon. But school could be fun. It was about more than just achieving Grade 4. It was also about stimulating kids to think, enjoy learning and, in my case, to enjoy English.

My latest novel, ‘How Was It For You, Mr Pilgrim?’ is about a young English teacher starting out on his career. Set in 1976-77, in a light-hearted way it presents a society, people and schools as they were half a century ago. 

from the front cover of 'How Was It For You, Mr Pilgrim?'

No one could claim that everything was better – for a start, misogyny was rife (indeed, the Sex Discrimination Act had only recently been introduced) – and in many ways the country bore little resemblance to what we have today. There were just three television channels, there was no need to wear a seat-belt, take-away food meant fish and chips…

However, some things never change. Here, our hero, Paul Pilgrim, is doing battle with his most challenging group:

‘OK, there’s a book between two. Don’t fight over them. And you’ll need a pen later. Yes, alright, I’ll find some for all those who haven’t got one. Settle, settle. Shush. Gillian, keep your hands to yourself. And you, Jimmy – especially you, Jimmy. Quiet now, everybody. Come on, settle down. Quiet. This is about a dead soldier who’s been killed in a war in South Africa.’ He began to read: ‘They threw in Drummer Hodge, to rest uncoffined – just as found…’

‘Sir, what the f…? What’s that about? That’s stupid, that,’ Bobby Savage interrupted straight away. ‘He won’t be coughing if he’s dead, will he?’

‘Yeah. It’s rubbish. What’s it mean?’ asked Gail Hudson, as if he cared.

‘Oh dear.’ Paul sighed. He didn’t feel strong enough to survive the battle either…

Discipline, back then, came in very different forms. Not always in a good way. One boy in the novel is complaining because he’s always caned at least twice a week and it’s Friday afternoon and he’s only been caned once and he thinks it’s not fair keeping him waiting for a second beating until the very end of the day.

In this extract, one disgusting boy has been caught making masturbatory gestures at the deputy head of department:

‘Jimmy, you are a bad, bad boy,’ said Allison, standing over him. ‘And you should know that I am not fond of bad boys. They have to be punished.’ In another place, at another time, Paul would have loved to hear her say exactly the same thing to him, but here she was on a different mission.

Widdle tried to lean away but she grabbed him firmly by the left ear. Her long red fingernails bit into his earlobe and she twisted and lifted and the boy rose from his seat.

‘Agh. Agh. Gerroff, miss. Aagh. That hurts. Give up! Stop! Ow! Gi’ up!’

She held him there.

‘And what do you have to say, Jimmy?’

‘Ow. Nothing. Ow. I mean I’m sorry, miss.’

‘Louder.’

‘I’m sorry, miss.’

‘Very sorry, Jimmy?’

‘Very sorry, miss. Very sorry, miss.’

The class was loving it. Several thumped their table in approval.

‘I’m pleased you have apologised, Jimmy, for you have done a thing which is not acceptable. I am also worried that someone from my own class might hear about your disrespect later. So, do you know what we are going to do now?’

‘Agh, agh. No, miss. No.’ He was on his tiptoes and his pug face was even more contorted than usual.

‘We are going to take a little walk to my room so that you can apologise in front of my class too. Is that alright, Mr Pilgrim?’

‘Well, yes, of course, Miss Argent,’ said Paul, unable to take his eyes off the blood which had begun seeping from Jimmy Widdle’s earlobe and was trickling down her nails.

She walked Jimmy from his seat, still on his toes and with his head on one side. She left the door open. The delighted chatter in Paul’s room was drowned by the howls of laughter that greeted Widdle’s entrance next door.

‘She’s great, her,’ said Widdle on his return. ‘And she fancies me. She’ll do anything to get her hands on me, she will…’

If you were around in the 1970s, you might enjoy being reminded of what life, in school and out of school, used to be like. Or what it might have been like. If you weren’t around back then, you might be surprised by what you missed.

An early review of the novel said, ‘It’s full of fond, bawdy scenes, peppered with on-point satire on various kinds of posturing, and an underlying vision that juggles irrepressible optimism with something darker.’ And approval like that made even the author want to read it again.

The book is available in paperback, for Kindle and in Kindle Unlimited. If you want to find out more, take a look at www.keithbrindlewriter.com.

Keith Brindle

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The X Factor

The phrase ‘The X Factor’ has attained common usage in the English language, often used to describe an indefinable quality that makes someone or something stand out from the crowd. The phrase the X Factor is linked to the popular television talent show of the same name crated by Simon Cowell but the origins of the phrase date back much further, with roots in British culture, science, and language.

The term ‘X Factor’ has been used in English for many decades, long before it became associated with televised entertainment. ‘X’ in mathematics and science represents an unknown quantity or variable. The ‘factor’ element refers to a characteristic or component contributing to a result, so together, ‘X Factor’ denotes a mysterious or elusive quality that is difficult to describe or identify. Perhaps the first and most famous scientist to possess the X Factor was Albert Einstein who knew all about scientific and mathematical X Factors. His sheer presence popularised science to a global audience and he is still recognised to this day.

image of Albert Einstein

The phrase X Factor gained widespread popularity in Britain through its adoption by the media, particularly in discussions surrounding entertainment and sport. For example, sports commentators would refer to a player having ‘the X Factor’ if they possessed a mysterious ability to influence the outcome of a match, even if their technical skills were not the most outstanding. One such footballer who had the X Factor was Vinnie Jones of Wimbledon. He possessed intangible qualities such as leadership and a determination to win at all costs.

image of Vinnie Jones demonstrating the X factor against Paul Gascoigne

Similarly, in show business, the phrase was used to describe performers who had something special—an inexplicable charm or magnetism—that attracted audiences. The Sex Pistols or Oasis for example. This characteristic was often seen as more important than technical ability or training, as it was seen as the key to true stardom.

image of Oasis in the early days

In 2004, the phrase ‘The X Factor’ was catapulted into mainstream consciousness with the launch of the British television talent competition of the same name. Created by Simon Cowell, the show sought to find individuals who possessed not only talent but also that elusive ‘X Factor’—the quality that would make them a star. The show’s format explicitly referenced this concept, as judges and audiences were encouraged to look for contestants who stood out due to their unique appeal, personality, and presence, rather than just their singing ability. Some of those who appeared in the X Factor show and went on to become successful include One Direction, Little Mix, Leona Lewis and Olly Murs.

image of Simon Cowell's X Factor logo

The origin of the phrase ‘The X Factor’ is rooted in both scientific and cultural history, reflecting the British penchant for describing the indefinable qualities that set individuals apart. Its transition from scientific jargon to cultural shorthand, and finally to global phenomenon via television, illustrates the enduring appeal of mystery and uniqueness. Whether used to describe a footballer, a singer, or a business leader, ‘The X Factor’ remains a powerful expression of that special something which cannot be taught or measured, but which makes all the difference.

The X Factor

It’s coveted, sought after, once found
people think it’s happy ever after

It can’t be bottled, mined, found in
a tin, caught in the air or hidden
at the bottom of a wheelie bin

It can be a passport to fortune and fame
and things may never be the same again

A double-edged sword that can bring
affluence, manic discord, madness

No one knows how it’s made or where
it’s from but you’ll know it when you
see it, hear it, feel it

Thanks for reading and please leave a comment below as they are always appreciated.

Dermot Moroney

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Curry and My Family History

When I was in the top end of primary school in 1959 or thereabouts, I used to go to Burnden Park every other Saturday to watch Bolton Wanderers home games. Sometimes I even travelled to away games on specially provided supporters coaches. I wore my black and white bob hat and scarf wrapped up against the cold. It was always cold in Bolton. Once or twice I even got my photo in the Bolton Evening News as an avid supporter. Only fifteen seconds of fame, not the full wack of fifteen minutes.

In those days part of any well-equipped football fans’ gear was a wooden rattle. You held it above your head and whizzed it round to make a clunky noise when it seemed appropriate. Goal!!! Clunk. Clunk. Seems incredible now that all grounds let supporters in with these lethal weapons. They were banned in the 1970’s.

Mine was quite special. It was even more chunky and looked like an antique in comparison to the fashionable light weight models my mates had. Because it was indeed an antique, even a family heirloom. It had been my grandad’s who was an Air Raid Warden in the WW2 and used to tell people to get to safety.

The final piece of what every trendy young football supporter in the 1950’s needed was a flask to keep you warm. I guarded it from rattle clunks of others and opened it at half time and carefully poured it out.

“Whoa? What’s that smelly stuff?” came the fortnightly cry.

“It is mulligatawny soup” I replied. “Curry soup”

“Curry soup?” I got looks of doubt and bemusement.

“I always eat it. It comes from India. My mum was born in India.”

“Born in India?”

Looking at me with more looks of doubt and bemusement, not sure what to make of it. Cutting off their “Well you don’t look Indian” I quickly jumped in and said, “Her dad was a soldier. He took his wife, my gran, and went there with the Army after the First World War in 1919. My mum was born in Mhow in December 1920.

Funny to think now that curry is the most popular food in Britain because in those days no one had ever really heard of it. The family returned in 1932 and brought this exotic taste back with them. Where she got the mulligatawny soup from I’ll never know. In those days all you could get was Heinz Mulligatawny Soup. It was one of Heinz 57 Varieties. Probably number 57 in terms of sales and popularity.

Whether the Wanderers won or lost it always did the trick, kept me warm and because everyone else thought that it smelt horrid I didn’t have to share it.

At home she would sometimes “make” curry. This was a dish she made in a frying pan with a small amount of water, fried onions, peas, chicken, sliced boiled egg and sultanas, with rice, most people only knew about rice in rice pudding but we knew more than that. and, of course, curry powder. It was expensive and hard to get. But she got it.

She also made curried potato hash. Potato pie, no crust and curry powder. Fusion food before it was invented. She made curried pasties with what was left. For my 70th birthday I asked my sister to make some. Comfort food.

The next step on the nation’s culinary journey to chicken korma, and poppadoms was Vesta Curry.

Vesta Curry was introduced in the early 1960s and by 1970s it had become popular. It came in in a brightly coloured box and was seen as an exotic, accessible, and trendy with boil-in-the-bag beef or chicken with rice meal. Home cooked, of course, when funeral directors were thought to be the only kind of takeaways. How things have changed but you can still buy it on Amazon at £80 for 12 boxes.

Right now there are said to be more than 8000 curry restaurants and takeaways everywhere in Britain. It has been suggested that the curry industry contributes £4.5 billion annually to the British economy annually.

But back to my mum to finish with. Although she spent the first twelve years of her life in India, early years, often regarded as the most formative years of your life, she never spoke about her time there much. However apart from the curry she, along with her parents, brought back artifacts particularly paperwork that now stand as some of the most important in my collection of family history documents.

As kids, my sisters and I, used to love to look at photos of my mum and her parents in India. It must be said that their India was an expat colony where my granny and my mum lived in privilege while my granddad was away defending the Khyber Pass with the British Raj Army. Photos in the big brown cardboard albums kept in the bottom of a wardrobe in my mum’s bedroom, provided us with a glimpse of what was going on in their life, including (below) her and her friend sitting on a leopard skin that my granddad had shot dead. Not politically correct now, of course.

Amazingly there was also my mum’s school report. How documents like that have quite literally travelled across the world and ended up almost one hundred years later in Blackpool would tell a stories all of their own. It’s the photos and documents that make family history exciting. 

And I still love mulligatawny soup and- you can get it everywhere now. Waitrose, Sainsbury’s, Morrisons, Asda, Aldi, Lidl, the lot- perhaps the beginning of Britain’s love affair with curry. Try it.

Thanks for reading, Bill Allison

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Hag Stone Charms

According to the dictionary, charm can mean a quality that makes you like or feel attracted to someone or something. For instance, “she was a woman of great charm” or “I don’t trust that easy charm of his”. A charm can also be deemed to have magical powers, to ward off evil spirits such as an amulet like a rabbit’s foot (not so lucky for the rabbit). Charms can also be imbued with supernatural powers and magic to protect the wearer.

Historically, charms can found way back in time in natural things such as rocks, stones or pebbles and these charms are to be found all over Britain. One such example of these is a hag stone or witch stone, fairy stone or holy (sacred) stone, and it is a small piece of rock/stone with a naturally occurring hole in it caused by water erosion whether by a river or the sea. The stone has also been rounded by the actions of water.

Image of a collection of Hag Stones

In folklore, hag stones are believed to possess potent protective powers. Their associations with witches and the supernatural stem from the belief that the hole in the stone acts as a portal, a window through which harmful magic or evil spirits can be warded off. Placing a hag stone above a doorway or tying it to a key ring was thought to prevent witches from entering the home or causing harm. Farmers would attach them to their barns to protect livestock, while sailors carried them for luck and safe passage across treacherous waters. The hag stone’s reputation as a talisman was widespread, and stories of its powers abound in local legends.

Image of Hag Stone as lucky charm to be placed over a house doorway

One of the most fascinating aspects of hag stones is their ability to reveal the unseen. Tradition holds that peering through the hole of a hag stone allows one to glimpse into the realm of fairies, spirits, or other supernatural beings. This belief is rooted in the idea that the hag stone’s aperture acts as a lens, transforming the ordinary landscape into a magical vista. The stone became a tool for divination and discovery, a bridge between worlds.

The name ‘hag stone’ itself is evocative, conjuring images of witches and wise women. In some traditions, these stones were said to offer protection against the ‘hag’—a term once used for witches or malevolent spirits. The adder stone, as it’s sometimes called, links the object to serpents and ancient Druidic practices. The intertwining of pagan rituals and later Christian beliefs ensured that hag stones retained their mystique, even as the nature of their magic was debated and reinterpreted.

Today, hag stones are often collected as souvenirs or displayed as decorative items. Beachcombers and enthusiasts delight in finding them, recognising their rarity and the folklore attached. The stones are sometimes incorporated into jewellery, hung in gardens, or placed on altars, maintaining a link to the ancient traditions and superstitions that once governed rural life.

Image of Hag Stone jewellery by John Smith

Hag stones are much more than mere rocks with holes. They are embodiments of cultural history, symbols of protection, and gateways to the imagination. Whether seen as magical artefacts or geological curiosities, their presence on a beach or in a collection speaks to a deep human desire to find meaning and mystery in the world around us. To discover a hag stone is to stumble upon a story, one that stretches across time and continues to enchant those who seek the extraordinary in the ordinary.

Hag Stones

Ambling along the beach
absent minded yet looking
for clues

in amongst the driftwood
and sea holly there
you were

unassuming, not shouting your
presence despite the wind,
rain, sea’s restless churning

the world can be traced with
your eye, protection descends
from celestial power

ancient reminder of time’s
endless line and an echo
reframing the past.

Dermot.

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Fruit Tree

When I moved into my previous house in Thornton Cleveleys it was the garden that sold me on the deal. It was an really ugly house, the kitchen was drab and cheerless, the bathroom cold and unwelcoming, but the back garden was huge. Despite a couple of discarded mattresses, overgrown by grass and weeds, there was a mighty sycamore at the far end and closer to the house, a fruiting cherry tree and a neglected apple tree.

I had to prune it back quite hard and attach sticky strips to the trunk to deter ants but by the next spring it was showing signs of recovery. The cherry blossomed and bore some sweet fruit. The apple tree did not. Naturally I was disappointed. I had planted raspberry canes the previous year and would pick a handful to eat with breakfast every summer morning. The apple tree was a dilemma.

The following spring I took my mum and my daughter to Southport flower show. I bought some vanilla lily bulbs and while walking round the marquees, came across seated group involved in a question and answer session with two celebrity gardeners. We took our seats and after a while I put up my hand and asked how they would suggest I could fix my tree. They in return asked whether there were other apple trees in the surrounding gardens. I responded that, yes, one garden had a tree. The solution, they announced is to cut a branch from that tree when it is in bloom and brush the flowers in my own tree with the pollen. I am pleased to announce that it worked and soon apples appeared. Simple solution.

Sadly the following year, we were hit by The Beast from the East and the cherry tree took the brunt of the cold winds and started to die. The apple tree thrived, however much of the fruit had brown speckles and were not appetising. I would take them off and had soon built up a pile at the foot of my perimeter hedge. During the cold winter season, this became a food store for hedgehogs and blackbirds who feasted on the fruit and the worms that the apples attracted. It is said that everything happens for a reason.

When I was much younger, my parents were tenants of a 16th century coaching inn. Next door was an abandoned cottage with an orchard behind. As village children with little entertainment to be had, we loved to play in the old building. We collected discarded tins of paint and made attempts to make it cheerful. The colours of paint made the interior quite a spectacle.

One day, around a dozen of us were messing about in the cottage when we heard a child's voice screaming. Running outside we discovered a little boy of around four had climbed an apple tree and was being viciously attacked hundreds of wasps. It seems that he kicked the nest. I told one of my friends to run and get the child's father, then ran to the telephone box and dialled 999 for an ambulance. He was going into shock by the time help arrived but after treatment and a brief spell in hospital, he recovered. It is a vivid memory for me and very frightening!

Now to get back to my old apple tree. Eventually I began to hang bird feeders from it and attached a birdhouse that I found in my dad's shed after he died in 1998 to the sycamore. That year we had our first brood of baby bluetits and on Christmas Day while eating lunch, the lawn dusted with snow,  a magnificent great spotted woodpecker came to eat from the feeder. It was a red letter day for the apple tree and as an avid bird lover, for me too. Over the years it attracted jays, wood pigeons, countless robins and just once, a pair of waxwings. It became a happy little tree.

The poem was written a good few years ago but I think that it captures the right moment.

A Winter's Tail

On a bright and bluish Boxing Day
when the house is quiet
the kids away
I am ironing alone
in the peace
facing the window
wide and clear
and I gaze to the garden
through frosted grass
while the tears stream down
for the love that I lost
for the joy that passed
Then I stop
and I peer at a flash of light
the green and yellow
a bird in flight
with a soft black cap
and a bold black chest
my acrobats are back to their nest
dashing and dancing
from limb to limb
of the apple tree with its mouldy trim
swinging from strings to a coconut
to taste sweet suet and butternut
such delight to my wondering eyes did appear
and brought me a smile from ear to ear.

Thank you for reading. Adele

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Vinyl Junkies

For Christmas in 2025 my sister-in-law bought me a mug with the legend “It’s Not Hoarding if it’s Vinyl” emblazoned across it. She knows me well. It now stands full of paper clips in the room I keep my vinyl hoard in.

In the Seventies I lived in Lancaster just about the time I was coming of age. My records certainly weren’t a hoard then, but they were on their way to becoming a collection. A guy I worked with, John LePage, showed me how to make a box to store records in. He said you buy four pieces of blockboard ready cut to fourteen inches square and a piece of plywood to form the back. Take them home, counter sink and screw it together. It may take half an hour to make. You can paint it if you want to.

a vinyl hoard?

Now fifty years later, I’ve got fifteen of those boxes with over a hundred albums in each. Fifteen hundred records and more. If I play three a day over the next five hundred days, I’ll probably get them all in before I go to the great record shop in the sky. Ah well- maybe. That’s some going, even in retirement, and if I take out family days, Christmas days, birthdays, holidays, football matches and time with my wife, we are up to a thousand days already. So it’s probably totally unrealistic but then again hoarding is. I am not sure I would describe myself as a hoarder but others would. Hence the mug. I try hard not to be.

But do you know what the saddest thing of the lot might be? I can remember where I got most of them from or have a good go. I can certainly have a good go at guessing. The first long playing record I ever got was The Beatles' first album “Please Please Me “. My mum and dad were separated and my sister and I got our dad to buy two LP records, one for her and one for me. They were 30/-  (shillings) each. We got him to buy us these instead of his usual selection box. My sister got “With the Beatles”. We wore them out. But guess what - I have still got mine.

When I was doing my paper round, for which I got 30/- a week- luckily. I would plan out what records I would buy next, as I plodded around in the wet, cold and snow delivering the Bolton Evening News.

So it went. I used to buy new albums then. The folk boom came. I fell in love with the music of Mr Dylan. But if you wanted to be more esoteric you could buy albums on Elektra Records but they were 32/6d. The price of being erudite. Two and six more.

You could sit upstairs on the bus going to school with an album propped up on your knee, thinking everyone is looking at me because I’ve got a Jesse Fuller album. In truth they didn’t give a shit.

Somewhere wonderful to buy vinyl was Yanks in Manchester, a subterranean cellar next to the public toilets where Len Fairclough got caught or so they say, just across the road from The Palace Theatre. It was full of deleted records from across the pond that you could buy as cheap could be. The stuff I got from there was mind blowing.

In 1990 I moved to Blackpool. Forget the Tower, the Big One, Bloomfield Road - sorry Steve - the greatest thing Blackpool ever had to offer was Saddle Records which eventually ended up in Layton. This was a goldmine. Sadly missed by me and hundreds of others I would suspect.

a vintage Blackpool record shop

I once paid £20 for a David Blue album “Stories” in a second hand record shop in Chorley. I asked the lady if she wouldn’t mind taking the price tag off. She replied that of course she would and added that I would be surprised how many people asked this, so that their partner wouldn’t notice how much the record had cost.

And so on. Don’t worry I am not going to take you through every phase and every record I have ever bought since 1963. That would take more than five hundred days for me to write and for you to read. You would probably find it pretty tedious anyway.

I might add that these days I buy albums for their cover as much as for the record itself, which, of course, could well be knackered. There is always a good chance of that. I recently bought “Have I Right?!” album by The Honeycombs for two pounds in a charity shop in Poulton for the obscurity of the album itself and the cover. The record actually plays quite well. I had also previously bought an album by The Four Pennies at the same place for the same price with the same outcome.

I have six frames specially made for album covers on the wall in my mancave. I change these regularly to show off my collection and covers. Still remember the Jess Fuller album on the bus. Don’t know who I am trying to impress anyway. Nobody comes in here. Right now they display 60’s British R’n’B albums - The Rolling Stones, The Animals, The Pretty Things, Georgie Fame and the Blue Flames Live at The Flamingo and an Alexis Korner album. The last is of interest. Some second hand dealers have realised the interest in covers. I bought this for 50p with no record in it. These are in the frames now because I put them in after I took out my Christmas albums covers. Sad bastard stuff really. Confessions of a Vinyl Hoarder indeed.

Georgie framed and friends

I have always thought that the concept of the speed of records, seventy eight, forty five and thirty three and a third rpm was a good analogy for the way the baby boomers., like me, have lived our lives. Starting at breakneck speed and coming of age as the music slows to thirty three and a third. In the poem I have taken this idea and written around it in my poem.

The last verse stops in the early seventies. It has a certain pomposity and piousness about it. Still we were without too much doubt like that in our early twenties in the early seventies. I was anyway.

The Speed of Sound

You slid it from its cardboard wrapper
as if it were a holy relic.
You cranked up the gramophone.
The needle crashed down.
The black twelve-inch record,
spun at breakneck speed.
Seventy-eight revolutions a minute.
Brittle and fast they could easily shatter

Just like the records our lives turned fast,
We were the bees’ knees and bobby dazzlers.
Jiving, crashing, rocking and rolling.
ploughing the furrows, moving through the grooves.
Baby boomers let off the leash.

We lived our lives at seventy-eight rpm.
Brittle and fast we were easy to shatter
Whole lotta shaking going on

Stored in their paper sleeves,
there they stood pleading to be heard.
You switched on the Dansette.
The diamond hard stylus never missed a beat
The black seven-inch record
spun without threatening to break
Forty-five revolutions a minute.
Loud and proud get out of the way

The speed of the records was the sound of the times.
We were razor sharp and dressed up to the nines.
Short skirts, suave suits, with scooters outside.
Our clothes and the music danced hand in hand.
More than just records they said who you were.
We lived our lives at forty-five rpm.
Loud and proud get out of our way
Talkin’ ‘bout my generation

Laminated, leaning up against a shelf
each cover looked like work of art.
Hi fi separates balanced the sound.
The cartridge revealed glorious stereo.
The black long-playing record
spun six songs a side
Thirty-three and a third revolutions a minute.
Shining and modern they were shatter proof

Cooler, calmer, career guided and minded
coming of age as the music slowed.
We had boxes of albums stacked by the wall.
Nothing is better than a vinyl collection
and buying records at the speed of sound.
We lived our lives at thirty-three and a third rpm.
Shining and modern we were shatter proof
Wish you were here.

the speed of sound

And if, after all that, you're starting to feel the urge, consider this. Think of it as a vinyl junkie hit list.

In “On the Road” Jack Kerouac offered thirty tips for aspiring writers. Many clearly are about writing itself but others are more general such as “Be open to everything” and “Be in love with your life. I am going to offer some fun filled tips for buying records, predominantly second hand ones at that. If you want to spend twenty pounds plus on buying a new copy of your favourite album that’s fine but these tips are about getting out there and hunting for fun and being open to everything, wanting to build up your record collection and most of all being in love with life. Not quite thirty still nevertheless you can add some if you want to. So let’s go.

· Never pass by a charity shop without going in to see what they might have.

· Car boots can sometimes offer something you may want.

· Always look at the collections of your family, neighbours and friends. They will have stuff in their attic they will probably be only too glad to give away.

· Consider eBay from time to time.

· Take chances on something you might not be sure about but it’s always worth a couple of quid.

· Get out of your comfort zone. Buy stuff you feel might expand your musical boundaries.

· Most importantly of all, never ever leave something you think you might want because what will be for sure if you hesitate or doubt, it will be gone by the time you have made your mind up. You have been warned!

Thanks for reading. Happy collecting.

Bill Allison

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Robins

“The English robin is a bird rather smaller than a sparrow, in build between a thrush and a warbler, uniform brown on the upper parts, with an orange red breast and white abdomen. It is widely distributed through the woodlands of Europe, and in Britain is also a familiar garden bird.”

Stephen Moss quoting the great ornithologist, David Lock in his 'The Life of the Robin', 1943.

Isn’t there something heart-warming about our avian friend, who is a feature on our Christmas cards in the last month of our year and in the winter season? This is an image on a card I received from my dear friend, J this year.*

It is archetypal of the rather romantic picture we have of a lone songster in a bleak and hostile environment, its red breast puffed out, perhaps indicating to us hope of the new year and the warmer climate of spring to come.

This blog will give insight into the realities of this beautiful and familiar bird that has found its way into every art form involving the visual, aural and even the kinaesthetic. You will learn how and why it should be associated with the Christmas season and its actual relevance to the Christian religion.

Bird lovers, you will also know what you should leave out for them in a freezing cold winter.

Well, here goes. We will start with robin statistics.
Height: 5.5 inches, 14 cm
Wingspan: 8.4 inches, 21 cm
Weight 18 g approximately
Lifespan: 1-2 years

It has a membership of the largest of all the world bird orders – the Passeriforms. This bracket of bird includes almost half of the world’s species. Four thousand, like the robin are songbirds.

The robin is the only species on its individual genus Erithacus. There are one hundred different robins and some species of birds termed robins are not really robins at all. There will be more on this later.

Their plumage is not always so colourful. Juvenile robins, which are around in the spring seasons, are brown, mottled and often speckled in appearance. Only adults have the familiar orangey-red feathers. Females and males are identical in appearance.

In the UK we think of it as British. In fact, robins inhabit Europe, from Gibraltar to beyond the Arctic Circle, the Middle East, Central Asia and North Africa. Robins in Eastern Europe leave their breeding ground in autumn where they look for warmer climates, including the UK.

The actual nature of this bird suggests Tennyson’s description of nature in his poem In Memoriam, A. H.H. as,

“red in tooth and claw”.

According to Stephen Moss, author of 'The Robin: a Biography', they are vicious and when competing for a mate, duel their rival to death. Their mating season starts in January.

There is one reason this male sings so sweetly. It is to breed, their sole purpose and instinct in life. The song is a call to a mate. They often die shortly after this. They are territorial and defensive of territory they establish, frequenting cities and the countryside, often inhabiting woodland areas.

In March and April their song is continuous, but the aim is to repel other males. Once they have their territory established, they begin nest building, egg laying and finding food for their hungry chicks, particularly vulnerable at this time to jays and magpies, which prey on the chicks. In the autumn, the juveniles develop their beautiful bright coat.

Why should these birds be on Christmas cards? Interestingly, they do have a connection with Christianity. Among ancient folklore is a tale about a robin trying to keep the baby Jesus’ fire lit, and doing so, scorching its breast, symbolizing its devotion. Mary then humbly declares that its red breast is to be handed down to its descendants.

There is also a connection to the crucifixion. Another legend concerns a crown of thorns, which a robin plucks from Jesus’ crown when he is on the cross, which leads to its breast being stained with blood.

During the Victorian era the new tradition of sending Christmas cards emerged because of the development in printing, which led to robins being a favourite on cards. Sir Henry Cole sent the first Christmas card in 1843 then the size of a business card used today, because at first, they were expensive to make. By the 1860s, cheaper cards were available.

Postmen were referred to as “robins” because they wore red coats as part of their uniforms. It led to the bird becoming a festive symbol.

By the 1880s, Victorian artists showed the robin delivering Christmas cards to peoples’ houses instead of a postman – and the tradition has stuck. The British love to give feathered and four-legged creatures anthropomorphic qualities. See the image below.

A modern Christmas card in Victorian style, with the robin delivering the Christmas card to a recipient. This looks rather cute, don’t you think? I would like to see the robin at my door! Or on my local post box!

Until the mid-twentieth century, this bird also acquired the nickname Redbreast. The description ‘redbreast’ first appeared in the fifteenth century and was used until the middle of the twentieth century. In 1952, the British Ornithologist’s Union showed the species official name as ‘redbreast’. The Victorians no doubt helped with this by giving the bird human qualities of delivery. It would have seemed natural to give the bird a name Robin redbreast. There is a pleasing alliteration that would have appealed to children of the time.

Moss, in his book points out that the bird’s breast is actually orange, rather than red, and suggests that it was called redbreast because the actual fruit orange only appeared in the Middle Ages. It is referenced in the nursery rhyme,

“Oranges and lemons,
Say the bells of Saint Clements.”

The rhyme heralds the excitement of the bells of an exciting and tasty new fruit to arrive on Britain’s shores at that time. The colour orange was first used in 1557, over a hundred years after the word ‘redbreast’ was used to describe the robin. There was no colour called orange in the Middle Ages and it only became an accepted shade one hundred years after the fruit orange was imported into Britain.

The robin has since found its way onto clothing and Christmas decorations, solidifying it as a Christian icon in the UK and elsewhere.

The name, ‘robin’, if not the actual species, proliferated round the world because of sailors and explorers, who, landing in other parts of the world and having no ornithological expertise at all, called all kinds of small colourful birds with red, pink or yellow breasts robins.

The name stuck, however, which is why there are Siberian blue robins, Indonesian cloud-forest robins, Polynesian robins and the American robins, which are not robins at all!

The robin has made its presence in all art forms. Apart from the visual, the paintings, drawings, decorations and embroidery kits, on which it is displayed, the robin has found its place in orchestral, ensemble and popular music and across traditional and pop dance.

French composer Olivier Messiaen, a passionate ornithologist, in addition to being a genius as a musician, loved the robin and his music reflects this, featuring the European robin in his small bird sketches, (Petites Equisses d’Oiseaux. There is a movement titled Le Rouge-Gorge, (The Robin).

His large, orchestral work Des Canyons aux Etoilles has a movement titled Le Cossyphe d’Heuglin, The White-Browed Robin-Chat, (an African Robin).

Here is Matthew Schellhorn live, 29th January 2021 playing Robin, by Messiaen. While this is playing, you will see drawings by talented children and youths of the robin. These illustrations are fitting to be shown while the music is playing of the man who regarded birds as “the greatest musicians upon the planet.” Link: Robin

In popular music, the “American robin” that inspired the Al Jolson hit When the Red, Red, Robin Comes Bob, Bob, Bobbin’ Along, is actually a THRUSH. (Remember our sailors and explorers?) 
According to Moss, it is “lumbering and bulky”, not like our robin at all. Link: Red Red Robin

This thrush is also the bird referred to in the hit Rockin’ Robin, made popular in 1972 by Michael Jackson and the Jackson Five. Remember anyone? Link: Rockin Robin

Here, you see the robin represented kinaesthetically with dance. They have movements called ‘tweets’ with jive steps, bouncy motions and running in circles with high knees to create a bird-like movement.

For robin movements, choreographers create quick, sharp, head movements, (rocking the head and listening for prey), hopping and sudden stops, pausing and perching movements alternated by moments of stillness followed by spurts of energy.

A more traditional robin dance is where the men and women dance in a counterclockwise circle. The movements are inspired by the running and hopping of the robin. Link: Iroquois Robin Dance

In literature, the writer Anthony Trollope, himself a post office employee has characters in his novel 'Framley Parsonage', who refer to the postman by his nickname.

This postman says, “Oh, but it is mortal wet,” as he hands the vicar the post and newspaper.
Jemima the cook responds with the phrase, “Come in, Robin Postman, and warm yourself awhile.”

Other writers who use the robin in their repertoire include Enid Blyton, Shakespeare, Robert Burns, Robert Herrick, Chaucer, Shakespeare and Frances Hodgson Burnett.

The British, ardent bird lovers in general, do have a soft spot for the robin.

In 2015, the robin topped the polls for Britain’s favourite bird, while in 1960 it was crowned Britain’s national bird.

These lines, from 'Robin Redbreast', by W H Davies, (1908) sum up our national affection for it.

Robin on a leafless bough,
Lord in heaven, how he sings!
Now cold winter’s cruel wind
Makes playmates of withered things.

Robins are aware of our feelings and, perhaps unbelievably, there is a relationship between the robin and us. They know we leave out food for them in cold winter months, when the ground becomes too cold and hard for them to find food and makes them vulnerable to starvation and death. Even woodland birds know to visit the British garden.

The custom of the British being generous towards feeding birds began over one thousand, five hundred years ago as did our love for the robin.

There is the story of a youth, (Saint Serf), taming a robin by giving it food but his classmates killed it out of jealousy. Miraculously, his friend Kentigen, (later St Mungo) brought the robin back to life.

Feeding birds declined through the centuries but was revived in the Victorian era when they extended their charity to all God’s creatures, with the exception of workhouse residents.

In 1890-91 the writer W H Hudson noted working men gathering along the side of the River Thames during their lunch break to give scraps of food to starving birds, which led to the custom of regularly feeding our birds in our gardens.

The result is that fourteen million households leave food out for garden birds and there are more than six million breeding pairs of robins in this country owing to our generosity to this breed of bird. This is surely a great achievement.

So when you put out food in bird feeders, remember to include sunflower hearts and corn grains for our robins to keep the population high as these give them energy.

In the next few days, listen out for the sweet song of the robin and Happy Christmas to you all.

Anne G. Dilley

*This image is on a card to raise money for the Leprosy Mission, see THELEPROSYMISSION.COM

Bibliography:

The Robin, a Biography by Stephen Moss

postalmuseum.org/blog/a-history-of-christmas-cards

https://poetrynook.com

https://www.bostonglobe.com

https://www.youtube.com

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