Tag: history

Shiny new toy

The last four days have been a steady stream of information and sadness in the passing of our Queen. Elizabeth II was a constant in our lives who never wavered and our loss is only just beginning. There will be the very reality of her passing to come to terms with in various forms. The changing of the literal, the money, postage stamps and passports example. And then there will be the more tangible times which will hurt our hearts. The Christmas speeches and the very unusual ‘God Save the King’ (I actually typed the ‘Q’ before remembering this has now changed) phrase we now adopt. 

Friday and the days since have seen people crowd into London to line the streets for a glimpse of the new King and his Queen consort. On Friday it felt beautiful to behold him arrive at the palace, his new home, and yet also so very sad to see him attend to the crowd. Smiling and shaking his way along the line of waiting mourners it felt strange to see the happy faces just 24 hours after the Queen’s passing. 

Where was the grief? 

I understand the unusual circumstances, who can say that they have shaken a King’s hand? And to be one of the first? Who wouldn’t want to? Perhaps this will be the only chance for him to hit us with his best shot. This may be the prime time to prove his devotion and loyalty to this country and the commonwealth. His connection with his people will be closer now than ever, when would a better time arise to plant the seed of trust than now? Gain respect in the very beginning when emotions are high. It is a very shrewd move. It is also telling of how quick we are to judge him, the people there, and the ones who watched, based on this one appearance. Why was he smiling? Was it a consoling face? Or a new King stepping into his role? Dare I say, happy to be adored?

Do not get me wrong, I have no anger towards the man, no problems with him whatsoever. I don’t know him, none of us truly will, I judge him purely on what emotions I saw on display at the time. And as we all know too well, a smile can hide a world of hurt. I am sad to think about how much pain he could have been hiding away. I wish he and the rest of the family could have had their time like any of the rest of us have when we lose a loved one. 

It personally felt tacky on the crowds part to smile and cheer whilst her Majesty was 500 miles away and barely cold. I commend Charles III for reaching out to the crowd but it didn’t feel as though someone so treasured had just died, it felt too celebratory. It was sad enough to think he had barely any time to grieve himself before his duties began. And yet there he was kissing strangers and being the happy Charlie for the clapping crowd. 

The crowd that flocked to Buckingham Palace over Thursday afternoon waiting word on her Majesty was silent. They stood with bated breath while updating their news apps and watching the palace. When the flag fell to half mast, quiet tears rolled down anguished cheeks and voices caught in throats. The crowd came to be where her spirit still remained. To the largest icon of her name. Her home. They seemed lost. Wandering and waiting. It felt very organic. 

Friday felt more or less an extension of the same flock. Mourners and lost souls looking for others who felt equally saddened and grief bound. Upon the King’s arrival I fear the excitement quite literally pushed the sorrow aside. Yesterday, after the world watched the crowds meeting a King on Friday, even more people flocked to Central London. Maybe they too could grasp a monarch’s hand! It is a shame to think, and very morbid, that this may have been the reason people made the journey. That the lost souls of Thursday have been replaced by the fame seekers of Saturday. That the tear stained faces have been replaced by smiles and shouts of ‘I shook the King’s hand!’. Kissing the King and plastering your story over the news channels is really quite unsavoury.

I know all of the above is very cynical and it comes from a place of grief. A place where I feel strongly about needing to show respect when someone has passed. Yes, we have a new monarch, in name and position Charles is a replacement, but not in spirit or adoration. That will come in time I am sure but it will be for what he stands for and does in the next couple of decades that dictates how much he is worth to his country. This is a fresh slate in our history. He is not his mother. And therefore our grief should not be replaced by the thrill of a shiny new toy. There is a lot of respect to be given at a time like this. Respect for her. Respect for him and his family. Respect we hold for ourselves to understand, grieve and act appropriately. 

I am sure in the days to come we will all find our path through the sadness and accept the new era ahead. The funeral will see the country come together and grieve like never before. A collective sigh for one very special lady. May flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.

Sit with me a while

There is a river my family is fond of. We know it well. The River Thurne ebbs and flows much like our return to it. So far three generations of our family have continued their summer visits here and it is a tradition that is beautiful.

The River Thurne runs through Potter Heigham beneath an old medieval bridge. When the water level of the river rises with the tide, the space below the bridge is so tight that nervous boats turn around to find other passages. It makes for an interesting spectacle from the banks with an ice cream or cone of chips.

I remember my first visits here, I was maybe 4 or 5 and my parents would bring us for a week’s summer holiday. There would be a boat hired for the week to go exploring the broads. Its first job was to take a week’s worth of luggage and food down the river to our rented bungalow. The car would be pulled up next to the staithe, our suitcases, boxes of food and teddy bears would be unloaded onto the gravel path and we with it. One parent would hoist the boxes from the ground to the other parent in the boat. All the while we sat, good little children, watching the ducks. Like the game tetris our belongings would be loaded methodically into the boat and we would then fit into the gaps for the short journey down river. The green and white bungalow had a huge green lawn dotted with daisies and a beaten up old tree that welcomed you to your week long stay. I look out for it, even now. It has one double room and a twin room that my brothers and I shared. The boxes that the food was brought in would be flattened and placed up against the window to try and bar the room from the morning sunlight. It would stream through the windows at 5am and wake us kids for the day. The flattened box meant my parents got an extra 2-3 hours sleep. However there was the odd duck call from the water outside that would have me bending back the cardboard to peek at the river, flooding the room with daylight and beginning the day. It is a sound now that returns my mind to that time and place no matter where I am in the world.

I learned to fish here. I learned to drive a boat. And just today I learned not to be the one holding a big ice cream on a sunny day whilst someone runs to the toilet. As I stood there waiting, cream running down my forearm, I heard my grandad laughing in my head. It would have amused him to no end.

He loved it here. He would get up before the sun and set up his fishing rod. Sitting with the river before anyone else was awake, watching the rod for its slightest movement indicating a bite from a passing fish. Nodding off in his chair with the river lapping against the bank. His return meant that breakfast was ready and after breakfast the day’s plans were decided. Usually it was a boat trip along the river to a pub for lunch. There are no white water rafting experiences or rapids on this river, it slowly moves on and gives you peace away from the hustle and bustle that life generally throws at you. You’ll find a leisurely paced trip on a spluttering old boat making you question, why? But the truth is, spending three hours on the peaceful waters, watching the wind in the reeds and the birds in the sky, is just the break you didn’t know you needed. As kids, we would sit in the boat awaiting the call of ‘ducks ahead’ and spring into action with our pre-bought duck food. If you ever saw an enormously overweight duck in the late 90’s waddling around the Norfolk Broads it is highly likely my family were the cause. A pub lunch was a quick pit stop with lunch favourites of sausage and mash or fish and chips. Cries of ‘Mum, can we have some 2p’s, Dad got any change?’ so us kids could play the old arcade game in the corner. Then back to the boat to beat the sun returning to the horizon. It seems so simple now. A whole day spent on a journey and a meal but it was what my childhood was made of. The sounds of the river. The smells in the wind.

Even today, as I sit on the wooden riverside porch, I am beckoned to the water to see the ‘omg, look at the ducklings! 13!’ It’s taken me 15 minutes to come back to my spot and continue on. Yes they are tiny. Yes she is clever for having 13 (!). And yes, despite my grumbles I will race around with a camera for the hundredth time in my 34 years to take photos, coo over them and share the disbelief. This is what this place does. It repeats the experience but it never grows old.

There is a photo somewhere of my dad taken here. He stretches up towards the sky with a piece of bread between his finger and thumb. A swan next to him, reaches up at full height, stretching its neck long, wings spread for balance. I remember it every time a swan passes.

Photos of cousins crammed into a boat.

My brother catching a pike, a first for the family.

Maggot races on paving slabs while the adults fished.

Being slimed by an eel, wriggling on a hook.

Mid-day chip shop runs to the best chippy known to man.

This place is steeped into my history. Ingrained in our story.

A rainstorm that made a boat journey across a deep broad unforgettable. Barn owls flying over the field as you prepared dinner. Countless tips of the hat as families passed you on their day cruisers. Silent cups of tea at 7am taken outside, in the chill of the morning, just to say hello and good morning to the river. The ducks quacking. The seagulls screeching. The far flung fields of cows throwing up the odd moo. The ever present lap of water against an aged wooden bank. The ‘eeeee’ of a fishing line as it is cast across the water and the plonk as it lands, disappearing into the depths.The sounds that anywhere else are just background noise but here are moments of history popping up to say ‘remember me.’

Three generations that return like the flowing river to carry on the tradition started by a man who chose this as his place to escape and remember what was important. I like to think that even though we move from the same path at times, we come back together in important times and share laughter once more. Our journeys are changing everyday, branching out like tributaries finding their way and yet always remembering where we came from and how to go back.

The River Thurne has a new neighbour. An oiled, cared for bench bearing a tribute to a man who once sat at the head of this family. His name is engraved on the metal plaque that sums up his life and this place. When it comes to describing this place and why we return it is hard to put into words. We come. We sit. We drink and eat. Simple pleasures, with wordless actions and to ‘Sit with me a while’.


Photo by Dave Watson

Please check out his work on https://www.instagram.com/davewatson_uk/ or at https://davewatson1980.picfair.com