A step back in time in Rutland

We took a step back in time this week to visit a tiny Rutland village called Lyndon. It’s located just south of Manton and it’s on Google Maps, but there are few signposts and just a single-track road.

The village is a mixture of stone-built houses with either thatched roofs or Collyweston slate and the church is near the highest point surrounded by a small wood with some fine specimen trees, including a couple of sequoia, a Cypress of Lebanon and a Scots pine.

The village has only 70 dwellings, a population of around 100 and all but a handful of properties are owned by the Lyndon Estate. Here is a village organised in the manner that most villages would have been 100 or more years ago. The “lord of the manor” owned the lot, you paid your rent, you paid your respects and you probably worked for your landlord (or one of his mates).

We were there to visit the church, a trip organised by Peterborough U3A, and it’s a lovely little church, named after St Martin, patron saint of France and founder of the monastic movement. The church was built in the 13^th and early 14^th centuries and (like most churches) was restored during Victorian times. The tower is 14^th Century and still has large sections of the original mediaeval rendering intact.

Cat (above) and man (below) on the
south side of the church)

There are four large gargoyles incorporated into the drainage system from the nave roof. They look slightly out of proportion on a relatively small church. There’s a large cat (probably a lion) and a man on the south side and, on the north side, there’s a large eagle head (very nicely carved) and an arsehole with the drainpipe placed in the bum-hole. This is directly opposite the head of the man, so we have his head on the south side and his bottom on the north. That’s mediaeval humour for you!

Inside the church, there are other, crude carvings of faces which look like skulls or apes. The church is wonderfully light thanks to the clear glass windows. There’s just one small stained-glass window in the west wall of the tower which was installed during the Victorian renovation.

I liked the memorial from the First World War. It lists the 14 men from the village who went to war. None were killed in action, although one died later from his wounds. There’s a list of priests, starting with Magister Stephen de Sandwich in 1234, but ending at the Reformation when Henry VIII seized church property and Lyndon was incorporated into Peterborough Diocese.

We were offered a chance to go up the church tower, but it involved putting in place and climbing an old, heavy ladder into the bell loft and no-one took up the challenge. There are four bells, dating back to the reign of Elizabeth I, with a couple re-cast in the Victorian restoration. They can still be rung, and teams of bell-ringers visit the church from time to time.

Eagle (above) and arsehole (below) - mediaeval
humour at its best.

The font is 12^th century. It’s a square stone bowl with crudely carved animals around the outside. It was found buried in the churchyard during the Victorian restoration. There’s also part of a cross displayed in the west window of the south aisle, which was possibly part of the village cross that once stood by the crossroads. It’s been dated to 1130.

When the Victorian restoration took place, they installed pews, an organ and an alabaster pulpit – very unusual for a village church. There’s also alabaster reredos (altar screens) depicting the four evangelists in the centre and a couple of gruesome Old Testament Bible stories either side. There’s the Passover on the north side, with dead children lying everywhere, and Moses and the bronze snake on the south side. This story (from Numbers) is a warning to moaning minnies everywhere. The children of Israel are being led across the wilderness, they’re getting fed up of eating manna and have no idea where they’re going, so they do what anyone would do – complain about the lack of clarity from their leader and ask for a more varied diet. Jehovah responds by sending down poisonous snakes to bite them (which is a little harsh), but then gives Moses an antidote in the form of a metal snake which will cure snakebite if the victim looks upon it.

The evangelists – Matthew, Mark, Luke and John – are depicted as a winged man with a book (Matthew), a winged lion (Mark), winged bull (Luke) and an eagle (which comes with wings as standard) for John.

Moses and the metal snake

The four evangelists

The angel of death. You know it's Egypt because
of the pyramids.

One of Lyndon’s famous sons was the squire Thomas Barker (1722-1809) who kept detailed, daily weather records from the age of 14 for the following 60-plus years. He recorded pressure, temperature, wind, rainfall and general weather conditions; but also nature’s changes – the seasonal appearance of leaves, flowers and birds; and the success and failure of his beehives and condition of livestock. In 1749 he described a tornado that struck Lyndon. The recordings survived and are now a valuable historic record for the study of climate change. Thomas is buried in the churchyard, but his grave has been lost.

I was chatting to the two women who served us with tea and coffee. I asked how they managed to keep things going in a village of just 100 people, it was hard enough in a village of 1,500 to find people to fill the various voluntary positions. They said that the three of them basically ran the church and there was a core of five people who did everything in the village that needed to be done.

They knew Thorney and one of them once had relatives farming in Thorney before going on to Whittlesey. Being of farming stock, they’d lost land when Rutland Water was flooded to create a reservoir. Two things grated – the poor price offered in compensation and the fact that, although you could see the lake from Lyndon, their water came via Severn Trent.

One lady was called Clare and it was clear from the minutes of the Parochial Church Council annual meeting (pinned outside) that she was Lady Clare Conant, resident of the manor house and owner of the village and surrounding land. The estate has been in the same family since the reign of Charles II (almost 400 years). Two brothers, wealthy sheep farmers from Harringworth, bought the estate and built two manor houses within sight of each other – one next to the church and the other on a high point about half a mile away. The houses are identical and they are smaller replicas of Thorpe Hall, the Carolean mansion house near Peterborough. The Conants are now in residence, but the family name is much changed over the generations – apparently, they were very bad at producing male children.

After tea and scones, Clare Conant took us for a walk around the village, including the garden of the manor house. It has some fine trees, a view toward Rutland Water and a bamboo and water garden, although the water wasn’t flowing. The village is very pretty. I had a look on the estate’s website and one of the thatched cottages – the Old Post Office (three bedrooms and one en-suite) was offered for £1,400 per month. That  would just about get you a one-bed flat in an OK part of London.

The only stained glass in the church

Crudely carved face in the south porch

Ski holiday in Arc 1950

Margaret and I in Arc 1950 with a view of Mont Blanc between our heads

Just back from a week in Arc 1950 with Margaret, Sam, Lucy, Arthur and Saoirse. It should have been the week that Arthur learned to ski, but instead of digging in his edges, Arthur dug in his heels and was not in co-operative mood.

He’s only just turned three and perhaps he’s a wee bit young to be skiing. I’m sure he could have done it, but he decided he didn’t want to and, with Arthur, there’s not a lot of hope persuading him once he’s made up his mind.

Sam had bought him a ski jacket, salopettes, reins and goggles and we hired boots, skis and a helmet when we were out there.

He is quite interested in skiing, but it all started to go wrong when we put his salopettes on. He didn’t like the feel of the material on his leg and that was that! He wouldn’t have his ski jacket on, he wouldn’t put his boots on (let alone his skis) and you’d think his ski helmet was full of wasps. When it came to the safety reins, we might have been trying to strangle him.

During the course of the week, we did manage a few small victories. It was like negotiating with the DUP over Brexit, and we compromised to the extent that he didn’t have to have his ski jacket on in the chalet. It would be put on outside and zipped up only half-way.

The salopettes seemed acceptable if he had trousers on underneath and so couldn’t feel the shiny material.

The chalet hosts (Henry and Chelsee – yes spelt with a double ee) gave us some moral support and persuaded Arthur that he should try his skis on. After a couple of days, we got them on in the house and he’d also try them outside but wouldn’t wear his helmet or reins.

Gosh, it was hard work! We did manage to take him up to Arc 2000 where there’s a magic carpet and learner slope. Sam took him down a couple of times (holding him between his legs) and once we let him go and he skied around 10 metres on his own.

It was a shame that the skiing didn’t grab him, he could certainly have done it, but maybe next year.

In other respects, it was a great week. The snow was crisp and deep and the weather sunny. In midweek, it snowed heavily one day and added a good 12 inches to the cover.

Arthur had real fun playing in the snow. We built a snowman and then knocked it down before any other kids did so, we threw a few snowballs, Arthur did a snow angel CLICK HERE and he had great fun crawling around on all fours in the deep snow. 

My skiing was successful by my standards. I fell over three times, skied around 20 to 25 miles in a morning or afternoon (between child-care duties) and really enjoyed some of the cruisy blues in the bowl above 2000. Now I’m 65, I get a reduced ski pass and have to pay €215 instead of €269.

Here’s me having a very gentle ski in the bowl above Arc 2000 CLICK HERE. There’s a fantastic view of Mont Blanc. 

On the last day, I went out with Sam and we skied down to Villaroger. The classic run in Arc is the Aiguille Rouge, which starts at the peak of the Aiguille Rouge at 3226m and runs down to Villaroger at 1200m. It’s a length of 16km and a descent of 2000m.

I’d done some of it a couple of years ago when Sam and Lucy were staying at Villaret and it hadn’t gone well. I was skiing down from above Arc 2000 on a fairly busy section but keeping control quite well when I hit a chunk of ice deposited where the pisting machine had not quite matched up its previous course. It was a famous comedy fall because I overtook Sam on my back, like a 15-stone turtle, but I did break my glasses and when we stopped at a café a little further down, I managed to push the lenses back in, but mixed them up so I had wonky vision until I realised what had happened and managed to sort them out that evening.

I’m a bit more practised these days and my technique is a little better, so Sam was sure I could do it and, besides, it would be a bit of an adventure.

It is good to have a destination for your skiing. I’ve enjoyed it when we’ve been across to La Plagne on the Vanoise Express cable car or down to Peisey-Vallandry at the other side of the mountain. We joined the Aiguille Rouge from the Lanchettes lift in Arc 2000. It’s a mix of red and blue runs, but the blues seem as steep as the reds in places and the snow was quite mounded during the afternoon, so I was at the limit of my skills.

Lower down, there’s the option to take a longer ski road rather than the steeper red, so I could go into cruise mode. I was happily doing this when the road crossed the red and I spotted a lone skier coming down fairly gingerly. His body language suggested he was way out of his comfort zone, but I didn’t think any more of it. I was cruising down when, suddenly, my ski wouldn’t turn and I found myself falling forwards. There were only two of us on this piste (Sam had skied ahead) but the chap had managed to ski into the back of me! I was lying in the snow and he was standing there leaning back on one pole and windmilling his left arm to try to regain balance.

I offered him a pole which he grabbed and pulled himself upright, then he did the same for me. He apologised and I said he should go ahead of me, which he did. I didn’t see him again, so he either skied into the forest or jumped straight on the lift at the bottom.

At Villaroger, the last section to the lift was the option of a short, but very steep section (heavily rutted) or a loop of ski road. I took the ski road, but halfway down the snow ran out and I misjudged my stop in the slush and skied onto a gravelly patch. My ski stopped and I carried on – my second tumble of the day. Thankfully, there was no-one to witness this one.

I’m glad I did it. Villaroger was one of those fails that you need to put right (like Renard) and it’s something to be able to complete a long, single run with such as fall in altitude. Perhaps, one day, I’ll do the black at the top.

In between skiing, I was helping out Margaret with child-care duties for Arthur and Saoirse. Saoirse is developing so fast. She’s just four months, but is looking around at everything, has enough core strength to pull herself forward in your arms and can move her head to her will. She’s starting to get some hand and eye co-ordination so she’s starting to grab things and pull them towards her mouth.

She likes to sit on your knee watching everything that’s going on; even better, she likes to be carried facing forward to get a better view. Best of all is to be stood up on the floor when she locks her legs and thinks she’s a fully-fledged toddler.

Here’s Saoirse enjoying some time on her feet CLICK HERE. She thinks she’s dancing, and Arthur is doing a great job of entertaining her. 

Babies seem to develop so fast at this age that I’m sure we saw her come on in the week we were with her. On a couple of days, I carried her in the sling, so we could take Arthur out to play in the snow. She goes to sleep fairly quickly and seems to quite like it.

It’s not so good for the carrier – I have to worry about the sun in her eyes, on her face or scalp, snow blowing in, getting too hot or too cold and whether the straps are rubbing her face. She also feels quite heavy after a couple of hours and you don’t want to sit down for long in case she wakes up. So, while Margaret and Arthur were sitting in a café in the sun, I was strolling around Arc 1950 until I was absolutely sure that she was asleep.

Actually, it’s rather nice to be cuddled up with my granddaughter and she gets lots of admiring looks and comments, especially when she’s in her white, fluffy suit. Generally, it’s other grandmothers, but I did get chatted up by one yummy mummy who thought she looked like a little polar bear. I can’t decide if Saoirse will be a redhead or a blonde. She’s got a covering of fine hair which looked ginger last time I saw her, but now appears to be lightening to blonde. Sam was blond when he was a toddler, but it gradually darkened as he got older.

It was also good to spend time with Arthur. We bought him a jigsaw (four puzzles in one box) which I thought would be in separate compartments, but it turned out they were all mixed up together. One was four pieces, one six, one eight and one 10, so the pieces were a little different in size. The first time he did it, I helped by sorting out the pieces (which wasn’t as simple as it sounds) and after that, he wanted to go it alone. At the end of the week, he was able to do all four, unaided, in 10 or 15 minutes.

Arthur studying the safety instructions.

His games are very imaginative. He wouldn’t have the ski reins anywhere near him, but he enjoyed playing with them. They were a crane, an anchor and a rescue rope; also a fishing line where we caught Big Bad Barry, a very snappy fish. He gets very frustrated when a game doesn’t work, but also engrossed in one as well. The reins had kept falling off the chair back when he wanted them to stay and I suggested we tie a knot. Did Arthur want me to show him how to tie a knot? No, he didn’t! But it will stop it falling off, I told him. Arthur gets furious at the supposed interference and dances with rage – being three must be a nightmare sometimes.

He made us laugh on the plane back to Gatwick. He was desperate to hear what the captain was saying and to listen to the recording of the safety instructions and was getting irate that other people were talking. Margaret gave him the safety instructions and he spent 20 studying it intently (looking quite comical in his pyjamas with dummy and cuddly toy). He was particularly interested in the oxygen masks.