“I don’t like people….I only like horses.” National Velvet – Enid Bagnold

To be honest, I never went looking for Enid Bagnold.  I just happened to stumble upon a house that she lived in when I was looking for someone else.  It’s funny how writers seemed to congregate in the same areas.

Enid Bagnold lived in the same street as Sir Winston Churchill and Virginia Woolf

Enid Algerine Bagnold was born on the 27^th October 1889 in Rochester Kent. Although born in the UK, she was brought up mostly in Jamaica; however Enid did attend school in London.

During World War I, Enid was a nurse but was dismissed from work after writing critically about the hospital’s administration. The rest of the war was spent in France as a driver. These experiences were portrayed in written form as A Diary Without Dates and The Happy Foreigner.

Enid married Roderick Jones in 1920, but continued to write under her maiden name.  By all accounts, it seems that this woman was strong willed and determined.  Perhaps not a feminist as such, but a rebellious woman who believed ordinary women could do extraordinary things and this comes to light in National Velvet.

Before I even read National Velvet, I watched a television show  about a girl named Velvet Brown and her love for her horse King. Velvet’s constant desire was for King to one day win the Grand National.  The original story is slightly different.  Set in a small English coastal town, it’s the story of a 14 year old girl who rides a horse to victory in the prestigious Grand National in the 1920’s. But more than that, it’s a story of inspiration about an ordinary girl who broke the rules and succeeded.

Enid Bagnold – Lady Jones, passed away in 1981 and is buried in St Mary’s Churchyard in Rottingdean, not far from the home that she shared with her husband. Throughout her life she chose the path of truth and difficulty and received a CBE for her efforts in 1976 which leads me to say that, Once upon a time in England, a self-believer wrote a story that inspires us to do whatever we believe we can.

‘If I cannot inspire love, then I will cause fear!’ - Mary Shelley

Ok, so I know I strayed a little off track last week, but please forgive me my flaws.  This week you might be happy to know, I’m visiting what some refer to as, the horror genre, and getting in touch with my parental instincts at the same time.  If you have a thirst for rich gothic style as I do, then our subject will satisfy.

Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin was born on the 30^th of August 1797 in Somers Town London. Of course, we know her as Mary Shelley. There was no formal education for Shelley, she was merely taken on educational outings by her father, and had access to his library and was an avid reader.

Mary fell in love with the already married Percy Bysshe Shelley, and against her father’s wishes, the couple ran off together.  They travelled around Europe, but it was in Geneva that Mary Shelley got the idea for her most famous novel Frankenstein while sitting around a campfire telling ghost stories.

87 Marchmont St London

I must admit that when I was growing up, I thought that Frankenstein was the name of the hideous monster, but after reading the book, I discovered that it was the name of the doctor and not his wretched creature.  But which one is the true fiend? It has been said that Frankenstein’s monster is the result of what might happen when a man tries to have a baby without a woman and of course, a little radical thinking.

A gift from my son Warren

This book is one of my all-time favourites and, unfortunately, the only one of her books I have read to date.  I have a beautiful copy that my son Warren bought for me. When I first read the story of Frankenstein, it didn’t have the same impact that it had all these years later.  Now I have children of my own, I understand the importance and love that goes into choosing a name and it saddens me to think that the character created by Mary Shelley and brought to life by the doctor, never really had that identity to relate to. If I were to rewrite Frankenstein, I would definitely name the creation.


Mary Shelley passed away in 1851 and is buried in Bournemouth at St Peters Church along with her parents. There’s so much more that I could tell you about her tragic life, but everything has to end eventually, contrary to which I say that, Once upon a time in the 1800’s Mary Shelley created a monster that  has been  continuously resurrected to live for ever.

My Mother said, I never should – anonymous

This week while researching for my blog, I came across some rhymes from my childhood and one in particular stood out to me.  It’s a rhyme about playing in the woods with Gypsies and I started researching the origins.  You can imagine my surprise and disappointment when I couldn’t really find what I was looking for. 

I believe this particular rhyme was a clapping song and the author is unknown.  To me the words conjure up something sinister and we all know that parents once said anything to scare children into behaving themselves.  I remember my own mother telling me if I pulled a face and the wind change direction I would stay that way for ever, and guess what – I believed her!

Traditional Gypsy Caravan

Anyway, back to the rhyme and the subject, Gypsies. I’ve always wondered about Gypsies.  I know that they have a bad rep for jumping over peoples back fences and not paying for taxis and the like, but to me, when I think of Gypsies, I think of adventure.  I think of crystal balls and tarot cards and brightly coloured caravans pulled by Clydesdales. I think of barefooted children with snotty noses laughing and playing in fields.  I think of campfires with dogs sniffing around them and dark haired men playing guitars. I think of women with hooped earrings and colourful clothing dancing. But most of all I think of this rhyme from my childhood.  So here it is, the complete version – I hope.

My mother said, I never should
Play with the Gypsies in the wood;
If I did, she would say,
Naughty little girl to disobey.
Your hair shan't curl,
Your shoes shan't shine,
You gypsy girl, you shan't be mine.
And my father said if I did,
he'd rap my head with the teapot lid.

The wood was dark, the grass was green,
In came Sally with a tambourine.
I went to sea - no ship to get across,
I paid ten shillings for a blind white horse,
I up on his back,
and was off in a crack -
Sally, tell my mother I shall never come back.

Nowadays, this type of rhyme just isn’t pc. You wouldn’t be singing a clapping song like this with your friend in school just in case you offended somebody. But I love these old rhymes.  They were written before political correctness was introduced, in a simpler time.  So if you know the origin of this one, please let me know. Hopefully I won’t be saying in the future, Once upon a time in 2012, I asked a question about a rhyme and didn’t get an answer.

And hand in hand on the edge of the sand, they danced by the light of the moon 

 Edward Lear

Everybody likes a little bit of nonsense every now and then, don’t they?  I for one love to escape from the normality of everyday life and when it comes in the form of a book, it’s even better.  This week I’d like to introduce an artist who was known for nonsense. So without further ado, please make welcome, Edward Lear.

Born in Holloway in 1812, Edward was the 20^th of 21 children and the youngest to survive. He was raised by his sister Ann who was 21 years older than Edward and when he was four, they left the family home and were forced to set up house alone due to the family's failing fortune.

Edward suffered ill health in the combination of bronchitis, asthma and epilepsy, and later in life partial blindness. He felt guilt and shame from his epileptic seizures, but Edward always sensed the onset of them and was able to move out of public places - as in his time, seizures were believed to be associated with demonic possession.

Lear liked to travel and he also painted, but to me he is more known for his nonsense.  I enjoy limericks and I’m happy to report that none of his mention Nantucket. My favourite Lear work is not a limerick but a rhyming story called, ‘The Owl and the Pussycat’.  The poem is classic Lear nonsense with mention of a piggy-wig in the land of Bong-trees and a runcible spoon. It conjures up images that make me smile.

Edward Lear is buried in Foce Cemetery in San Remo, Italy. The centenary of his death in 1988 was marked with a set of Royal Mail stamps and this year when he would have been 200 years old if he had lived that long, Google honoured the date with a depiction of the Owl and the Pussycat dancing.

Edward Lear’s limericks continue to inspire people to write in that fashion, which inspires me to tell you that,

Once upon a time very near

Lived a writer who brought us good cheer

When they asked, “who is he?”

He replied, “can’t you see?”

The nonsensical Edward Lear.

A nice old duck really, when you know her!  - Dorothy L Sayers

I’m not quite sure how this blog idea came about.  I remember when I wrote the first one, I did a lot of research on a few different writers to find any information or landmarks that might be of interest, but I think the original thought process started by accident.  I came out of work one night, went the wrong way and stumbled upon a blue plaque on the outside of a house.  Of course, I was curious to see whose name was on the plaque and it just happened to be one of my favourite writers, so I took a picture. After finding that one, I went hunting for blue plaques and info, and my blog was born.

Naturally, when I stood outside 24 Gt. James Street, I actually wondered if Dorothy Sayers had stood in that very spot talking to a neighbour or the postman or just enjoying the lovely English weather. But that’s enough about the wondering, let’s look at her life.

 Dorothy Leigh Sayers was born in Oxford on the 13^th of June 1893. Sayers was an only child and her father was the Reverend at Christ Church in Oxford. Her father sent her to be educated at a boarding school in Salisbury and she graduated from Somerville College. At that particular time, women were not awarded degrees at graduation – I think they wanted us to stay home and bake scones, however when the position changed a few years later, Dorothy L was one of the first women to receive a degree.

My favourite of Sayers’ books are those centred around the characters Lord Peter Wimsey and his valet Bunter.  What really appeals to me about these books is the proximity to where I am now, and the dashing Lord Peter of course.  As I read the stories, I can almost picture the characters in their surroundings.  Even though they are fictitious, I can imagine them shopping in Fortnum and Masons, or strolling through the Burlington Arcade, both of which are on Piccadilly. When Dorothy Sayers created Lord Peter, she deliberately gave him a large income to compensate for what she was missing out on. But when you write fiction, you can make up for anything that might be just a little out of your reach.

The tower at St Anne's in Soho London

Sayers also wrote within the religious genre.  Religious books don’t really appeal to me so I must admit; I haven’t read any of hers.  I can however tell you that she was offered a Lambeth Doctorate in divinity by the Archbishop of Canterbury which she turned down. As Sayers was a church warden, when she passed away in 1957, she was cremated and her ashes are buried beneath the tower of St Anne’s Church in Soho.

As with any writer, there’s always more to tell, but I’d rather let you find out for yourself.  If you’re one of the curious like me, you may be urged to delve into the world of literature and find a comfortable spot to curl up in.  But before you go let me just say that, Once upon a time in London, a woman from Oxford created an amateur sleuth that would be not only her hero, but mine as well.

As pleased as Punch

I know that Punch and Judy is a puppet show and not a book but while I was out on the weekend doing some research for my blog, I stumbled upon a traditional Punch & Judy booth and there was a show going on.  After watching for a while and taking a few pics, it prompted me to do a little digging to find the origins of the puppet show that’s slightly non PC.

The origin of Mr Punch was developed in Italy in the 16^th century and was known as Pulcinella or in English, Punchinello. Punch’s wife was originally known as Joan and they were marionette puppets.

Punch & Judy pub at Covent Garden Market.

The first Punch & Judy shows in England were recorded in 1662, performed by Italian puppet showman, Pietro Gimonde and were witnessed in Covent Garden London.  As time went by, the puppet shows became too expensive and one man booths were developed to house a glove puppet show. The operator or the puppeteer was known as a Professor or Punchman.  The character of Punch went from a marionette that said comedic things, to a violent and aggressive glove puppet.

The characters in the show, apart from Punch and his wife Judy, include their baby, a crocodile and a hangman would you believe it. My favourite is Joey the clown who is a bit of a trickster and likes to upset Punch with his shenanigans.  Although the Punch and Judy show centres around violence, whether you’re seeing them for the first time or the thirtieth time, you can’t help but laugh.  It’s funny to watch a puppet beat another puppet with a slapstick. After all, it is just a puppet show.

Punch and Judy is normally entertainment found near the seaside so when I stumbled across the booth I was delighted. The shows are timeless and although there are no books, there have been scripts written and published for the puppets.  They have proved to be so popular over the years that many establlishments have borrowed the name Punch.

The Punch Tavern - Fleet Street London.

The squeaky voice of Mr Punch is one of the most recognisable in England and a testament to the traditions that continue to entertain us all. His catch phrase, ‘That’s the way to do it,’ is as recognisable as the voice. Which pleases me once again to let you know that, Once upon a time in Russell Square London, (on the weekend to be precise) I stumbled upon a show that inspired me to find out the origins of a couple of crazy puppets – just in case you wanted to know.

Let every eye negotiate for itself – William Shakespeare

This week I set out on a pilgrimage to Stratford-Upon-Avon to seek out the birthplace of the most famous writer in English history, William Shakespeare. Even if you don't like his plays and sonnets, Stratford-Upon-Avon is worth seeing and once you're there, you kind of get into the whole Shakespeare theme.

Shakespeare's statue at Stratford-Upon-Avon

Birthplace of William Shakespeare

The old river poet was born in 1564, the third child of eight children and the eldest surviving son of John Shakespeare and Mary Arden. It is likely that he was educated at King’s New School in Stratford, but unlikely that he ever went to university.

Anne Hathaways Cottage

At the age of 18, Shakespeare married 26 year-old Anne Hathaway in a hurried ceremony and history shows us the reason for this; their eldest daughter Susanna was born six months later. 

The year that Shakespeare started writing is somewhat hazy; however, performance records indicate that his plays were on the stage by 1592. The first of his plays were performed in Shoreditch in London by Shakespeare’s own company.  After a dispute with the landlord, the company tore down the theatre and used the timbers to build The Globe theatre, the first playhouse built by actors for actors.

Shakespeare’s time was divided between London and Stratford, but we do know that his final resting place is in the town where he was born.  William Shakespeare was buried in the chancel of the Holy Trinity Church and his grave bears a curse which reads,

Good friend for Jesus’ sake forbear,
to dig the dust enclosed here.
Blessed be the man who spares these stones, and cursed be he that moves my bones.

To this day, William Shakespeare lies where he was buried.

Although William and Anne had three children, there are no surviving relatives.  However, his work continues to be a source of entertainment on both stage and screen. Which brings me to the end of this week’s blog and invites me to tell you that, Once upon a time in Stratford-Upon-Avon, a gentleman put pen to paper and wrote the plays and sonnets that will live on *tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow…..

*Macbeth

www.shakespeare.org.uk

www.shakespeareglobe.com