What a 'privy' lege....

My photographs  of the exquisite vintage costume museum in Alstonefield, Derbyshire, produced plenty of interest this week, but I should add that  some of the displays do have a lighter side. My favourite scene (above) has to be of the man reading his newspaper while sitting on the outside 'privy.'

My compliments to owner Notty Hornblower for showing us the 'other' side of life. If you want to know more or would like to donate clothes or memorabilia to the museum please contact:

http://www.hopehousemuseum.co.uk/

If I could turn back time...

One of the pleasures of writing historical fiction is getting  into character. Growing up in the sixties I longed to go back to the days of majestic staircases and sumptuous ballgowns, though the reality may have been quite different. 'Be careful what you wish for,' my mother used  to say, 'Or you might end up as a scullery maid.'

I spent a wonderful day yesterday at Hope House Costume Museum and Restoration Workshop in Alstonefield, near Ashbourne, Derbyshire, run by longstanding family friend Notty Hornblower.This beautiful museum is the realisation of a lifelong dream for Notty who has gathered together a unique collection of outfits and

accessories dating from 1790 to the 1970's. My favourite display  is 'Brides  Revisited' showing exquisite vintage wedding dresses, hand-stitched veils and  bejewelled satin shoes dating back to the turn of the century, some with the original photographs of their owners wearing them on their special day.

Notty has appeared on BBC's Antiques Roadshow, ITV's Heart of the Country and various other TV channels, as well as being regularly featured in several lifestyle magazines. Most importantly, her love for all things vintage has benefited  many different charities.

If you want to know more visit http://www.hopehousemuseum.co.uk/

Anyone for an argument?

There's nothing tourists like better than an English seaside town, and Whitby, in North  Yorkshire is quirkier than most. Here you can taste some of the freshest fish in the county, (second only to Guernsey mackerel) and  have an argument while you're at it...

I've always had a fiery temper - it must be the French blood in me - so I couldn't resist taking this photograph whilst doing some research across the border recently.

Could it be that quarelling  was a Yorkshire pastime? The truth, it seems, is a little more mundane. Yard is the ancient word for an alleyway, and this  one was built by a certain Thomas Argument who, naturally, named it after himself. He built five cottages off the yard, most of which still stand today.

Sounds like Mr Argument had a fair bit of wealth - as well as a sense of humour. And who could quarrel with that?

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.