It's the end of the pier....

As November 5th approaches, there is one particular bonfire night that has stayed in my memory for a very
long time.

I had been to visit friends in North Fylde and as we crossed the border from Blackpool to St Annes, a red glow lit up the horizon, like a magnificent  sunset as far as the eye could see.

'The Corporation have gone to a lot of trouble tonight,' I remarked to the taxi driver sleepily.'That's the biggest firework display I've ever seen...'

'I don't think  Guy Fawkes has got anything to do with it, Miss,' he replied. 'That's one heck of a big blaze.'

I opened my eyes wide.  This was 1974 and St Annes Pier was on fire. The architecturally-acclaimed Moorish Pavilion  was completely destroyed whilst the fire  caused serious damage to the floral hall, jetty and some of the vital substructure that had been in place since 1885.  All that could be seen the following day at the end of the pier was blackened ruins.

Today, the pier's length is reduced to 182m (600 ft) but  is still a 21st century attraction  to people from all over the country.

Looking back, it's a good job I wasn't on duty that night - I'd have missed the story of the decade.

Do I look like my grandfather? Who nose?

I love this photograph of my paternal grandfather, Private James Richard Brown of the 2nd Royal Guernsey Light Infantry, who was discharged from the army on May 6, 1919,  after losing one lung and damaging the other. The photograph was given to me by my late father, Harry Brown, who, as you can see,  inherited the strong nose and determination of his ancestors.

My father had three daughters of his own (no sons, although he longed for an heir) and guess who

inherited the nose....?

Well, you can't have everything. Let's just hope I inherited the determination as well.

Pennies from heaven...

A little piece of Guernsey history surfaced in the heart of York last weeknd when I found this silver threepenny piece for sale  in a city centre vintage shop.  The 1956  coin, with its unusual 12-sided scalloped edge, had been made into a necklace, presumably for visitors who liked to keep an eye on their money...
It features a Guernsey cow on one side and the three lions from the Royal Standard on the other - showing that  islanders are  still proud to be a part of Great Britain. Having done a bit of research I've discovered that these 'polygonal' coins were made of copper-nickel, 21mm in diameter and 1.5m thick - probably a different take on our own good old 'thrupenny bit.'

York Minster

While York sweltered in temperatures of 29 degrees, the visitors arrived in their hundreds from France, Germany, Japan and America - many keen to see the ongoing restoration of the magnificent York Minster.

Talking of France, I discovered that York is twinned with Dijon, in the Burgundy region  to the South-east of Paris,  which is famous, of course, for making mustard.  I bet it aint 'arf  hot  over there...

Shakespeare's Sisters...

Oh to be in Stratford when September's here...

(With apologies to Robert Browning - and Shakespeare - of course)

I've just spent two days in  Shakespeare land with my favourite sisters - Diane and Elaine. Everything was perfect - from the white swans swimming on the Avon to the lovely guy who insisted on taking a photo of us all by the river. Stratford  understands tourists. The locals are proud of its history ( so they should be) and recognise the financial stability it brings - and thankfully no-one tried to sell me a Bard mug!  There were flowers everywhere - outside shops, cafes, restaurants, hotels and pubs - and everyone was smiling
Just one complaint - the railway station was a relic of another age.  If I was an American tourist, I'd have turned right round on Platform 3 and made my way home again. Come on England - we can do better than that...

Baby, look at me now...

This image of a baby in a gas mask really sums up, for me, the horrors of World War Two.  I took this photo
on Lancashire's Lytham Green recently during the Forties weekend where hundreds of people gathered  for a brilliantly sunny celebration of England.

Band music drifted across the grass as 'soldiers' and 'sailors'  strolled around with their glamorous girlfriends in tow, 'starlets' strutted in satin and seamed stockings whilst  a German officer peered out menacingly from
beneath his leather eye patch.

There were vintage cars, American and German armoured vehicles and  a mass of memorabilia that  had
everyone reaching into their hankies.  The baby, of course, was only a doll. Golly - fancy that!

Hot off the Press - it's 'Paraffin' Brown...

It's more than twenty years since the death of Guernsey's most infamous journalist, but I'm happy to report that he's still making headlines.

Nicknamed 'Paraffin' for  his fiery temper,  my father Harry Brown was featured this week in the Guernsey Press, along with the story of the 'Guernseyman' magazine he was determined to make his own.

Says writer Shaun Shackleton 'He was a 19-year-old returning home after the Occupation and he harboured a dream - to be a journalist.  So Harry Brown started his own magazine... We follow the story of 'Paraffin' Brown and his dream come true - the Guernseyman.'

Dad was never one to fight shy of controversy. 'Is divorce here too easy? Are islanders ignorant? Do local

lads prefer blondes? These were some of the tongue-in-cheek articles he wrote in an attempt to drag Guernsey into the twentieth century.

I suspect no-one took him too seriously. Not only was the war over, but he'd suffered his own personal tragedy - the loss of his 11-year-old brother -  and he needed a reason to carry on. After the pain and suffering,  he just wanted to make people smile.  As I browse through this week's articles in the Press, I feel sure that's exactly what he did.

So here's to the freedom of the press - and here's to a man who, in his own small way, made it possible.

Winning the Sex War...

'There is something delightfully feminine about a wife who  spends a little more than her

husband's actual income...'

This brilliant quote comes from   a 1930's copy of Woman's Own  I found at an antiques fair in York this weekend. In his article ' praising women's faults,' Guy Trent explains: 'We admire your feminine tantrums,  your naughty unreasonableness, your funny little vanities...but most of all we love you for your dependence on us.'  Victoria Beckham - please take note!

I'm addicted to vintage women's magazines. They catalogue social history and the changing roles of the sexes over the years. Remember the bra burners of the swinging  sixties? They'll be in their sixties themselves by now taking Ibruprofen for back pain and  wondering just what they have achieved.

By the fifties 'Picture Post' was championing motor cycle sport for women whilst still telling us to don our best hats for Ascot. And in 1985 Peugeot were urging women to buy their very own sportscar -  only £5,995 on the road...

But back to that Woman's Own.   'Now it's YOUR turn'  it finishes   'to tell us what you feel about the men. Five shillings each for the best letters and  only one fault at a time please.'     You couldn't make it up...

Here's to the next generation of women - says 'thoroughly modern Millie...'

A summer Tale..

                My favourite place to write is in my own garden-who says we haven't had a summer?

                        And summer wouldn't be summer without some Guernsey photos, too...

Can anyone spot the Guernsey cows?

Parlez-vous Guernsey French?

When I was small my grandparents would talk to each other in Guernsey French whenever there was something they didn't want me or my sisters to hear.  The result? I learnt quite few words for myself, especially those concerning chocolate or treats!  So I was delighted recently to discover in a second-hand bookshop a glossary of 1,000 'Gernesies' words by Eric Fellowes Lukis.  'An Outline of the Franco-Norman Dialect of Gernsey' (Revised Edition 1985)  also charts the fascinating history of this wonderful language.

Says the author in the foreword 'It is almost a miracle that a language existing only as a spoken dialect for nearly a thousand years and continually exposed to French influence, could have retained so much of its ancient heritage.'

Whilst searching through the book I have found several fascinating words  like 'charlotaer'  which means 'pamper' and gavlottaer' - 'to lounge about.'  There's the devilish 'pimperluche', a perfect word for a 'wasp' and the unlikely-sounding 'babiloubuene' which means, apparently, indiscretion.

Controversially, the author has built up a case for the revised spelling of the language insisting that 'the French spelling adopted in the 19th century cannot represent accurately the strange un-French sound of Gernesies.'

I think I might I agree with that  - it was mostly Double Dutch to me...