Regular readers of the Downsman will remember, that to celebrate the millennium and honour its oldest inhabitant, Woodcutts had created its own seat in the House, (this does not the mean the small one found at the end of old kitchen gardens). The person, who was to have the honour of this prestigious position, was to be granted the title of "The Laird of Woodcutts". The first incumbent of this unique post was of course Mr. Robert Meehan, known variously as Jock, Shep, Bob, Mr. Jock (by the little girls next door) and several others, which I am afraid I am not able to spell; well that is my excuse.
Unfortunately for all who knew him, Jock left this world in December last year, to take up an even higher office. All who really knew him, will miss him dearly. It is certain that he had no wish to inconvenience anybody, but it does leave the newly created title unoccupied. This means, that currently there is a diligent search continuing for a successor; unfortunately there do not seem to be many 90 year old Scotsmen in this part of the world at present. Is this another effect of global warming we ask?
Before any applications are made, it is only fair to point out what sort of person the applicant must be. Probably, the best way to do this is to write a few words about Jock and his lifestyle.
He was born in Scotland in 1911; he was never to know his parents or anything about them except that his mother had come from Northern Ireland, hence his surname of Meehan. Brought up initially in an orphanage, he was soon to see himself farmed out to various crofter families, who lived on the Islands scratching a living at farming, under extreme conditions. To supplement their income, these crofters would take in children from the orphanage, for the princely sum of seven shillings and sixpence a week. (For the younger reader that in today’s money, ignoring inflation, is seventeen and halfpence per week.) These people were poor and Jock's early life was hard. Possibly not as hard as some of the developing nations of today, where the UN puts the poverty line, at an income per person, of one American dollar per day. (Currently worth sixty nine and a half pence, Sterling.) A comparison for instance, with Madagascar where 60% of the population lives below this level, or Nigeria where the figure is even higher at 70%, while India is at 44% and Uganda, Zimbabwe and Botswana all over 33%. We the people of the free, developed world today, don't know how lucky we are!
Sorry about the above, but we should take note in this materialistic world, of what we have, not what we have not got. Jock would surely have agreed, he knew what it was like to go without, yet he was not bitter or twisted. His only possessions, when he left the orphanage, were the clothes he was wearing, a complete change for Sundays and a trunk to carry it in, plus a second pair of boots.
He had many tales to tell of his early life, one particularly comes to mind, when he was a youngster just short of his teens. He was sent to school one winters morning, it was snowing and freezing hard, and he did not have an overcoat. Nearing the village, he was so cold he crept into a garden shed, where he hoped to find shelter. Imagine his delight, when not only finding shelter, he found an old coat hanging there. He pulled on the newly found clothing immediately, the benefit of which he soon appreciated. So much so, that he felt ready to venture out and continue his journey after a very short while.
The fact that his 'old' overcoat was far too large for him mattered not a jot, he was warm! His enjoyment was short lived however, when he had been told that he had stolen the minister's coat that had been hung in the shed to dry. When asked what punishment he had received, he was very non-committal, just saying, "They kept an eye on me for a long while." He told it as it was, simply a fact of life, in no way was he bitter about it.
Having been brought up on the crofts, it was only natural that he should turn to agriculture as a way of life. To begin with, he did everything, including horse ploughing, from which I believe he had received great satisfaction. Tractors he knew nothing about, he did not see his first car until he was fourteen. Eventually he turned to shepherding, where his was to make his name. In his late teens he realised that to be successful, he had to be good at his job and settled. In his early twenties he found his life long mate, married and found himself a worthwhile shepherds situation, in the Islands.
This life was good to them, until his eldest son was getting of age to leave school. What would the boy work at, jobs were scarce? Added to that, his second son would need a job in the not too distant future. The answer was to go to the mainland, even to travel south, This of course the family did, eventually arriving at Cranborne and then ending up on the Rushmore Estate, where Jock was to live out his life, having lost his wife several years previously.
His life had not been a bed of roses, suffering many setbacks, but he was not at all resentful, and of talking of his experiences again, he did so in a matter of fact way. He was very generous in his way, especially in later life. It has been very interesting hearing from others, of the help he gave, especially financial. His popularity in the village of Handley, on his weekly visits was obvious on the very, few occasions I had the 'pleasure' of accompanying him.
There is just one other story that must be recorded here, before moving on. Many people will know it, but it has probably never been written down before. It concerns both his wife and himself. Apparently, on a Friday evening in winter, the couple would make their way to Pimperne, she to bingo in the village hall and he for a 'wee dram' in the pub. One very wet and cold evening, he came out at closing time, finding his wife not so patiently waiting for him. He jumped in, turned the key but nothing happened. They needed a push, it was late there was no one about, it was pouring with rain and Mrs. Jock couldn't drive. Guess who got out to push? Anyway, the car was started and he drove home in the pouring rain. Stopping at his garden gate, he turned to see why his wife was not getting out to open it, then he realised his mistake, she was still in Pimperne.
Not his only error, but he had many successes too. A man of simple needs, appreciative of what he had, as were others who took advantage of his good nature, but all in all, when it was his time to go, he was ready and looked forward to a well earned rest. To have known him as a younger man was a privilege I had missed; despite the fact that he described me to a neighbour, as the 'Old Man' over the road. (He was only thirty years my senior.) He was described to me as a likeable rogue, but in the nicest possible way. A proud man, proud of what he had achieved. A man of the countryside, with very good tastes, for example for lamb, trout, venison, pheasant ---I rest my case.
After careful consideration, perhaps the vacancy is not available; it would be better if Mr. Robert Meehan was the first and last Laird of Woodcutts.
Now back to the more mundane subjects of life. Firstly, the lane, known as Between Gates. This is the main thoroughfare for this part of Woodcutts, and as suits its status, is the responsibility of the county council. Beyond this, the roadway is the responsibility of the 'Estate', who with this in mind, sent a large load of rejected tarmac, which had been removed from a nearby section of roadway undergoing resurfacing, using one of those machines which gobbles up the old surface, transferring it to an accompanying lorry. Rather like a combine harvester does corn, but somewhat more robust.
This load was levelled out and rolled flat at the intersection of the main lane with the slip lane to the School House. With the repair material, came three sets of catseyes, this now adds to the five mobile sets already here. These new additions are of course much treasured by the residents; in fact it is believed they could become a major tourist attraction. Unlike those seen elsewhere, one set is upside down, presumably for the many moles in the area, the next ones are at right angles to the traffic flow, and thought to be for the assistance of larger mammals, such as deer who want to cross the lane, while the third set face in the right directions but are situated approximately one metre (please note metrication) from a huge boulder, protruding some two feet (sorry the metric equivalent is not known) out of the ground. As a general warning to drivers, those that keep to the left of the catseyes when travelling to the west will require a new sump.
The next topic is hardly mundane, but since the word was used previously, this subject must start; secondly, snowdrops. If the reader is not following, don't worry it won't become any clearer. As mentioned before, snowdrops, this year they have appeared some two weeks later than in the previous two winters. To make up for this, irises are blooming in Mrs. Win Kirby's garden and the rooks of the neighbourhood are extremely vocal and would appear to be pairing off. It is as well that nature is not predictable, how bored we would be.
Speaking of predictability, it may be advisable to start saving water now for the summer. Water drains from the village to the south, down the valley to Wimborne St. Giles and on into the river Allen. Last year the bourne, which is five feet deep in places passing Wyke Farm, was overflowing, flooding the land for weeks. This year on the 13th January the bourne was bone dry. With the water table down out of reach, gardens on the chalk could look mighty dry by August. Be warned and plan accordingly, palm trees, eucalyptus and cacti could be the plants of the future.
Talking of the future, may I wish all, daft enough to read this, a very belated but happy and successful New Year, and may God be with you all.
There can be few amongst us that are not familiar with the war memorials that grace our towns and parishes across the land. Solid tributes to the fallen from the two world wars that blighted our history in the twentieth century, the names inscribed are frequently repeated inside the local church, either on panels or on plaques that, perhaps, recall in finer detail the place or circumstance in which a loved one fell. And, if one inspects the many wall mounted memorials that bless the interiors of so many of our churches, one frequently comes across a tribute to a serviceman who died in the centuries past, but whose circumstances of death have long since been forgotten in the mist of time.
Such a reminder of our past history can be found in the charming parish church of St. Rumbold’s at Pentridge. In brass, it records the name of Harry Williams, Royal Marines, who lost his life when HMS Victoria sank on June 22nd, 1893. Intrigued as to how this young Pentridge man met his end, I resorted to the comparatively modern medium of the internet to discover if there was a website that would provide me with an answer. By entering the keyword "Victoria" and initiating a search, I was rewarded in seconds with a directory of 11,777 sites that contain the word "Victoria". To my surprise (and relief), the website at the head of the first page provided me with chapter and verse on the entire sad story.
It is now necessary to imagine that you are amongst the hundreds of spectators gathered at vantage points along the Syrian coast (an area now part of Lebanon) near the port of Tripoli witnessing the approach of ten battleships and a supply ship of the British Mediterranean Fleet under the command of Vice-Admiral Sir George Tryon, who was flying his flag aboard HMS Victoria. Even though the might of the British navy was well known throughout the Middle East, an occasion such as that in the making was still an event worthy to behold.
All eyes were drawn to the sight of the two leading battleships; Victoria and Camperdown, the latter under the command of Rear Admiral Markham, Tryon's second in command. As the vessels manoeuvred, those watching were aware of a plethora of flag signals being run-up on the halyards of the two huge battleships. Some consulted their pocketwatches; the time being around 3 o'clock in the afternoon while others held their gaze as the Camperdown commenced turning to starboard with Tryon's flagship, Victoria, making to port. Even to the uninitiated, the distance between the two ships seemed remarkably slight (it was, in fact, at the commencement of the turn 1,200 yards), especially as the Camperdown appeared to be bearing down on the flagship. Surely, some miraculous manoeuvre would occur which would demonstrate the fleet handling for which Vice-Admiral Tryon was an acknowledged expert. But, to the horror of all, the distance between the two ships grew less and less until with a sickening crash the Camperdown sliced into Victoria's starboard side, opening up a massive gash below the waterline, which was quickly exacerbated as the two ships swung together, their propellers frantically thrashing in reverse. Already, tons of water were swirling unchecked through the lower decks (with a collision imminent the order to close watertight doors had been given, but only a handful had been slammed shut before the ominous sound of "Collision Stations" was being piped through the ship), flooding the coal bunker forward of the stokehold before rushing into the starboard battery spaces.
Aghast at what they had witnessed, the throng now watched utterly transfixed as the flagship began to list, her bows already much down in the water. Nonetheless, it was apparent that great efforts were being made to run her onto the shore but still some distance out, and within less than fifteen minutes of the collision occurring, Victoria's bows dipped steeply and with her stern clear of the surface the pride of Great Britain's Mediterranean Fleet sank beneath the waves. The end, when it came, was so swift that many of the ships' company were unable to get clear, though, remarkably, it is reported that 357 officers and men were saved, amongst them the flagship's Executive Officer, Commander John Jellicoe who, some twenty years later, would command the Grand Fleet and go down in history (in the eyes of some) as our greatest Admiral since Lord Nelson of Trafalgar fame.
Amongst the deceased was Vice-Admiral Sir George Tryon (some say his last word were, "It is all my fault", though many historians dispute this), and, of course, Marine Harry Williams.
A much fuller explanation than that given here, particularly in respect of the events that preceded the collision, can be found on the website, http://www.compass.dircon.co.uk/Victoria.htm along with an artist impression of HMS Victoria foundering. I also used the search engine http://www.Google.com and this, too, will lead you to further sites that feature the loss of HMS Victoria.
Of HMS Camperdown, a little can be learned from: http://www.battleships-cruisers.co.uk/hms_camperdown.htm
Briefly, she was a pre-Dreadnaught Battleship launched on November 24th, 1885 and in 1891 had been the flagship of the Channel Squadron. By 1908, Camperdown was being used, at Harwich, as a submarine depot ship. Sold in 1911 she was eventually broken up for scrap, with effect from June 11 of that same year. With a displacement of 10,600 tons, HMS Camperdown was slightly heavier than HMS Victoria (10,420 tons) but while her main armament was four 13.5-inch guns, each weighing 67 tons and mounted in twin turrets fore and aft, Victoria sported two massive Armstrong 16.25inch guns, each weighing 110 tons and capable of firing a 1,6001b shell. Both guns were encased in a single forward turret, the Board of the Admiralty grandly explaining "no British battleship would be called upon to fire astern".
In preparing this account, I fully acknowledge the work of John Marriott whose "Disaster at Sea, was published in 1987 by Ian Allan, the compilers of the various websites consulted and Andrew Chorley for his patience and kindness in allowing me use of his computer.
Postscript
While browsing through the myriad of websites concerned with naval matters, I came across one of several sponsored by the National Maritime Museum whose sub-title was "Frequently Asked Questions". The questioned posed was, "Did any ship's captain ever stand saluting on the bridge as his ship sank?". After some thoughts on the matter, the author concluded that it was likely that "many captains bade a last farewell in this way." He then continued by noting that this heroic image was lightly satirised in the classic Ealing comedy, Kind Hearts and Coronets in which the late Sir Alec Guinness played many parts, including the pompous Victorian naval officer, Admiral D'Ascoyne who, having brought into collision his ship (though his own stupidity) stands to attention, saluting on the bridge until his cap floats off amongst the swirl of flotsam from his doomed vessel. Apparently, this part of the film was based on the tragic collision between HMS Victoria and HMS Camperdown, and though it may be argued that Sir George Tryon did bring about his own death (and that of half his ships’ company of over 700) he was far from being a vain and stupid officer, as depicted in the film. Nonetheless, it does give an added dimension to the memory of Marine Harry Williams in that the circumstances of his death should, in the next century, be remembered through the medium of the cinema, albeit somewhat lightheartedly.