Voltaire, The Saucy Wenches of Greenwich Park and the Unfortunate Admiral Byng

The more I dig around into the past, the more I realise that nothing stands alone - everything bounces off everything else. Things are going on at the same time as other, seemingly unrelated, things, fun mingles with tragedy, national events mingle with personal moments; celebrities mingle with those whose names are lost forever.

So, in trying to investigate what made the French philosopher and satirist Voltaire come to Greenwich in May 1726, I found myself trudging old ground with new boots.

Voltaire, in exile from France while his candid writing continued to smart among certain influential parties, managed to arrive at what must have been a truly surreal moment. He stepped off the boat on a cloudless Greenwich day, a gentle west wind playing at his periwig, and immediately found himself surrounded by hundreds of fabulously-dressed, sparkling, beautiful people. The young maidens, in particular, entranced him with their elegant cotton gowns, running pell-mell across the grass, and dazzling young men on horseback. All along the the Thames merchant vessels were bedecked with bunting, and a gilded barge twinkled with the sound of musicians and laughter. Everyone made him welcome, finding him a good place to view the races and getting him to join in.

"I fancied that I was transported to the Olympian games, but the beauty of the Thames, the crowds of vessels, and the vast size of the city of London soon made me blush for having dared to liken Elis to England."

What is this Arcadian Elysium he's describing with such rapture? Greenwich Fair, of course. Sadly he was relieved of his moment of bliss later when he met some ladies of the court, “who were stiff and cold and took tea and made a great noise with their fans”who put him right - telling him that the nymphs he had enjoyed so much earlier were mere serving girls in their Sunday best and the youths just apprentices on hired horses. The real hoi-poloy wouldn't be seen dead at such a bun-fight.

It's likely that Voltaire's account of his first day in England is about as true as Candide - but that doesn't necessarily make it un-real. The poor sod wouldn't have been able to speak a word of English, and he didn't have any money either (he later admitted "I was without a penny, sick to death of a violent ’flu, a stranger, alone, helpless, in the midst of a city wherein I was known to nobody.") He was writing to a pal back home - for his friend's amusement - but what he was doing here was what he always did - tell a funny story to illustrate a finer point. His point being the coldness of the people of the court - whether or not he actually experienced much warmth at the fair itself doesn't really matter.

It's his contempt of the courts and the people who ran it that is at the heart of this passionate man, and it's his other connection with Greenwich that touches me more. England had been at loggerheads with France for donkeys years - and much of the time that amounted to all-out war. Remember Admiral Byng? The unfortunate seaman who thought he'd try to repair his ship before facing the French again and got executed for his pains? Well Voltaire was really very affected by Byng's case. So affected, in fact, that he thought he'd try to help out.

He wrote several impassioned letters to various people, including passing on the good opinions of his great friend, the Duc du Richelieu to relevant English authorities.

In retrospect, this may not have been the best possible thing to do. It doesn't seem to have occurred to Voltaire that both himself and the good duke were, by pure accident of birth, ahem, French. Byng's stars already occupied the wrong place in the heavens, and though it's unlikely that Voltaire's well-meant intervention actually did for him - he was a gonner anyway, I doubt it helped much.

In February 1757, Voltaire wrote to Richelieu of Byng "The court martial found him a brave man and a true. But, notwithstanding, by one of those contradictions which are common in all such cases, he was condemned to death on the strength of an ancient law--I know not what."

And poor old Voltaire had to admit that their own efforts probably hadn't helped much:

"The faction which attacked him now accuses him of treachery in trying to turn your letter to account-as if it were that of a man he had bribed to speak for him. So reasons malice: but the clamour of the dogs will not prevent honest people from regarding your letter as that of a just and generous conqueror, prompted only by the magnanimity of his heart."

Despite the Gallic duo's best efforts, Byng was executed a month later, on his own ship, after being held in Greenwich Hospital as a prisoner. The above wasn't quite Voltaire's last word on the matter. He mentions it obliquely again in his 1757 masterpiece Candide, where the Byng-character is also executed.

"Dans ce pays ci, c'est bon, de temps en temps, de tuer un amiral pour encourager les autres."

In this country, it's good from time to time, to kill an admiral to encourage the others..."

Bet he wished he'd never left Greenwich Fair...

The Perils and Pitfalls of Handkerchiefs

Being the First of May, it seems almost obligatory to go back to a time when May Day was a big deal. There was virtually nothing Henry VIII liked better than going a-Maying. Although it really only seemed to consist of going for a walk with whichever queen was in vogue at the time (and half the court, of course), collecting some of the scented May flowers from the hedgerows and coming back, Henry used it as an excuse for yet another Royal kneesup.

He'd get himself all togged-up with new clothes (tradionally new linen shirts were the thing to have on May Day, though I suspect he'd have gone the whole hog, being king, and got hmself a new doublet, hose and codpiece ensemble while he was about it) gather his nobles together and set out for Shooters Hill or some other bit of countryside near Greenwich Palace. Often there would be little 'surprises' set up for him along the way - he'd be presented with flowers by maidens or met by a bunch of archers dressed in green, for example. Once he was even introduced to 'Robyn Hood.' Oh, how they laughed...

It was a jolly occasion - not being Christian in any way, it owed more to pagan traditions than most holidays - and it's always been associated with fecundity (think Maypoles...) And what better than to combine a favourite holiday with a dose of his favourite sport, which also employed a giant phallic symbol? Henry jousted every day he possibly could, and May Day was a good excuse for a new suit of armour and a tournament in the Greenwich Tiltyards.

Katherine of Aragon was, of course, the king's Queen of the May for many of those happy festivals, but things started to get darker when he ousted her for Anne Boleyn. The newly-installed queen had three heady years of excess before Henry realised he wasn't going to get a male heir out of Anne either.

She and Henry might have pretty much literally danced on Katherine of Aragon's grave at her death in January 1536 (they wore yellow and declared it a day of joy) but she knew she'd be up to her own neck in trouble if the child she was carrying wasn't a boy. It was. Unfortunately for Anne it was also dead. In some horrible irony she miscarried the day of Katherine of Aragon's funeral. Things were getting edgy.

Henry was in a right mood for weeks. He moved-in his latest mistress (Jane Seymour) and started looking for excuses to get rid of Anne. With Katherine dead, it would be most convenient if Anne died too - none of that nasty divorce business. So it was mighty handy when, as Tradition tells us, Anne dropped her hanky in front of Sir Henry Norris in Greenwich Park on May Day 1536. It wasn't the first time she'd been a butter-fingers with that handkerchief - she'd already done it once, several years earlier, in front of Norris at his family gaff in Yattendon in Berskire.

This was clearly a come-on if ever the King had seen one. Anne was obviously having an affair with the Royal Steward. Henry rode off in a huff, leaving the Queen just standing there.

The next day she was arrested for adultery and carted off to the Tower. Just in case there was any doubt, the King's special commission miraculously also discovered no fewer than five other men that the queen had been supposedly dropping her hankies for. One of them was Mark Smeaton, a local musician (about whom more on another day.) This poor sod was dragged up before the King's 'investigators' and after some intense 'interrogation' (read 'torture') 'confessed' to the whole kaboodle, and named several other blokes the queen had been secretly hanky-pankying with, including her own brother. They weren't allowed to be tortured, being gentlemen, so they went straight to the executioner's axe. Smeaton, a mere commoner, was hanged.

On the 19th May, Anne herself was beheaded. Henry didn't stick around to watch - he waited under an old oak in Greenwich Park for the gun-signal which would tell him the deed was done - though of course out of respect, he didn't actually marry Jane Seymour until the following day.

History doesn't tell us whether the embroidered hanky used to bind Anne's eyes at her execution was the same one she dropped in Greenwich Park, but I feel I should warn the morris dancers who will no doubt be dancing this weekend for modern May Day celebrations to be careful. Handkerchiefs are clearly lethal in the wrong hands.

I will, of course be looking into the antics of our own Greenwich Morris Men,who seductively promised me a "dawn dance at the donkey rides" this morning on their website, but neglected to say what time it was so I could attend (yes, I know - dawn - but for any time before 8.00am I want specifics...) on another day.

Just as an aside, as I was researching this post, I came across something that made me realise there really is a website for everything out there. I don't necessarily recommend the Sneeze Fetish Forum as a place to spend quality time with your family, but I guess it gives hope to all those hayfever sufferers who hate this time of year - yes, guys, there are people who acutally get turned on by your wheezing...

John Penn and Widow Smith Almshouses

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Greenwich South St

I wanted a picture of these with the fabulous blossom that's in full bloom outside at the moment, but I made special trips twice and each time it was either too dark or bloomin' raining, and the pics in my collection are just not good enough. Then Benedict came to my rescue, rushing out this morning to capture in its finest moment this fab, almost Tudor-looking building with its royal-iced decorations and pretty little garden. Thanks Ben...

I'm talking about them today because David's been asking about them - he sent me a google earth link asking what they were and, to be honest, they're slightly easier to deal with than the other question he's asked (don't worry David - I'm onto it...) It's interesting to note from that aerial view that they appear to be a bit fur-coat-and-no-knickers - all front, and virtually no back. I'd appreciate it if any of you know what the rear of the place is like...

The Penn Family was one of the big Victorian clans of Greenwich. They were engineers - making cranes and treadmills to start with (not the sort you get in gyms - these were early 'generators' powered by slaves or convicts) but moving on to marine engines under the leadership of John Penn Jr, popularising the rise of the propeller. He even, apparently, perfected the compact oscillating engine - one or two of which are still used now.

They were very sociable. John Penn himself was the first president of the West Kent Microscopical Society, which doesn't seem to exist now, which somehow seems a shame, and he and his wife liked to hold large soirees at their house, The Cedars (not the one in Westcombe Park; this one was on Belmont Hill.)

Three years after John Penn's death, in 1884, his widow commissioned George Smith, who had already built Greenwich and Blackheath railway stations, to design some memorial almshouses in Greenwich South St. It was Smith's last major work and he clearly decided to use up all the ideas he still had left. There are parapets, arches, big chimneys - you name it, these cute little houses have got it.


Fifty odd years later, in 1930, a mysterious lady known only as Widow Smith was building some almshouses of her own, over in East Greenwich. I find it utterly amazing that this is not that long ago, and yet virtually nothing's known about her (I guess I shouldn't be surprised - I'm still marvelling that after much less time the secretive Amanda Hinge and unfindable Helena Pare Lydia Mott have so totally gone to ground...) and, if Mr Hitler had had his way, she would have been totally forgotten. Her almshouses were bombed to buggery in WWII, and even John Penn's delicious confection in South St was badly hurt. The two charities merged to repair the one mendable set of buildings, giving them their present name.

For more about John Penn, check the Greenwich Industrial History's site, where I also read about the fate of Cold Bath Street, which someone was asking me about recently (to my embarrassment I can't remember who.) It's now called John Penn St...

BTW Does anyone know the story of that sad-looking dark brick building next door? It looks very unloved - but could be stunning. Any clues?

The Sad Story of Admiral Byng

29 Oct, 1704 - 14 March 1757

Today marks the 251st anniversary of the execution of Admiral John Byng - a loyal man sent to battle with inadequate supplies (sound familiar at all?) and still an embarrassment to the MoD.

It all started out well enough. Byng went to sea at the age of 14. His father was the Viscount of Torrington who had carefully nailed his colours to the right mast in supporting William III's bid for the throne and had made it to the top as an admiral himself. Young John was determined to follow his father's example and was soon a rising young seadog. He quickly became a lieutenant and then a captain at 23. He was clearly able - even if carrying the Byng name probably did him no harm at all at meetings of the promotions board...

He led a pretty comfortable career until the Seven Years War - a series of cushy jobs and straightforward ships hadn't brought him into any real problems.

Byng was in the English Channel when he was told he needed to hotfoot it to Minorca where the dastardly French had just invaded what was at the time a British territory. He took one look at the ships he was supposed to sail, and realised that they were total wrecks. He complained repeatedly as the money, ships - and, crucially, time were just not forthcoming from the government. What was worse, they faffed around unnecessarily while he and his men kicked their heels waiting for their orders, cutting down on preparation time. He kept asking for proper equipment and a sensible amount of troops, but ended up setting out with 10 leaking ships completely undermanned.

When he actually got to Minorca, it got worse. He was relieved of what troops he had to relieve someone else's garrison. It was quite cleared his ass would get whooped if he met the French and he wrote home to that effect. Still the governor of Gibraltar refused to send any more troops.

After a skirmish with the French, Byng's ships were indeed in shrebbons and the losses were huge. The nearest port was Gibraltar so he set off there to get his ships repaired. It was at this point it all went horribly wrong. His limping fleet was intercepted by another ship from Britain, which assumed Byng was running away, took over the job - and poor old Byng into custody.

Minorca fell anyway and the Navy was outraged. English law had just been changed, which made failing to do one's utmost against an enemy, either in battle or pursuit, a capital offence. At the court martial, it was pointed out that Byng had not done his utmost - he had failed to chase, with his tiny broken fleet, the enormous undamaged French flotilla.

The court martial was forced to sentence to him death, acquitted of personal cowardice and disaffection, but still guilty of failing to do his utmost. They told him they were powerless against the new Article of Law but suggested he go to the House of Commons to ask George II for clemency. The House agreed, but George II (whose statue, by the way, stands in the centre of the Old Royal Naval College) was unmoved. On hearing the House of Commons had recommended mercy he said "You have taught me to look for the sense of my people elsewhere than in the House of Commons." Byng was to be shot.

He was kept in Queen Anne's Court, manacled to a wall overlooking the Thames, whilst awaiting his death. Malcolm Godfrey reckons that his is the most prolific ghost in Greenwich - repeated sightings in various areas around his final lodgings have been reported for years. Amazingly, he's not malevolent - he's always a very polite and helpful spectre, holding doors open for people and handing workmen their tools.

Admiral John Byng was shot on board his own ship a hundred and fifty one years ago today. His death prompted Voltaire to write in Candide that the British liked to shoot admirals on an occasional basis "pour encourager les autres..."

I'm glad to say that Byng is not forgotten even today. Shaun sent me a link to a BBC article which mentions that a petition has been launched to gain him a posthumous pardon. So far there's been no dice from the Navy. Presumably it would encourager les autres...

General James Wolfe

1727 - 1759

I have been holding out writing about General Wolfe, a local superhero for local people, for some time, for reasons which may be apparent if you look to the right of the screen. I have always thought his was a wonderful statue, standing eerily sentinal at the top of Greenwich Hill, keeping silent watch over the town. Although he wasn't actually born in Greenwich, he was brought up and lived here, and the town is littered with Wolfe-abilia.

Wolfe was the classic action man - the Sylvester Stallone of Greenwich - always on the move, always itching to get going, always striding in where, perhaps, if he'd thought it through, he might have been a bit more circumspect. At least one brigadier thought he was bonkers, and said so within the earshot of George II. The King retorted "Mad is he? Then I hope he will bite some of my other generals."

On the other hand, he wasn't all Rambo. There was definitely some Tom Hanks in him. When fighting at Culloden, he defied his commanding officer, by refusing to shoot a wounded Highlander, saying that his honour was worth more than his commission. A metaphorically square-jawed hero, then, even if, bless him, his was not a face best reproduced in profile...

Born in Westerham, he moved to Greenwich at twelve years old, when his parents bought MacCartney House. It's still there, one of the Phantom's fantasy residences, all wisteria-covered and leafy, backing onto the Park. There's a blue plaque on the wall, but I'll leave the house itself for another day - it deserves a post of its own. He lived here in between being a hero at various wars - you know - sort you've heard of but couldn't actually say what they were about. He was a soldier's soldier - and as the campaigns continued he became well-respected by all (including the Scots, who'd not forgotten his gallant behaviour at Culloden) even if many privately thought he was a few troops short of a batallion.

Of course, what he's really famous for is his heroic victory (and death) at Quebec. Wolfe shares with Nelson the dubious honour of being mortally wounded just at the point of National Supremacy, thus securing him eternal hero status.

Imagine the scene in the classic heist/war/intelligence movie. You know - the "It can't be done" moment, where, in the tent of the commanding officer, someone important tells the hero all the obstacles that lie in the face of success. There has been stalemate for three months as the British holds Quebec in siege. The fortress, even if you could get into it, is built like the Chateau D'If, but it is surrounded by deadly waters and unclimbable cliffs. If you get past the cliffs, there are several cannons aimed straight at you. And if you get past all that, there's still a vast number of highly trained Canadian troops waiting to bayonet you at their convenience. (For a more European-cinema version of the story, check out Benedict in the comments section, but for now, I'm sticking to the Hollywood Hokum, 'cause it's more fun to write.)

As in all the best Hollywood Saturday-nighters, Wolfe wasn't having any of that. By now, he was George Clooney. In a dazzling montage of derring-do, Wolfe and his troops crept along a secret path in the dead of night and scaled the cliffs below the towering fortress of Quebec. After a thrilling climax of buckling and swash, they captured the castle, thus securing British interests. But by now, he was John Wayne. In slow-motion closeup, accompanied by stirring classical music, a bullet struck him in the chest.

Of course, he was allowed a death-scene close-up, supported by grieving soldiers. His final words were, of the enemy, "What - do they run already? Then I die happy."

He was brought back to Greenwich where his body lay in state; a national hero. It somehow seems a shame that when, a quarter of a century later another national hero also lay in state in Greenwich, Admiral Lord Nelson managed to eclipse his illustrious forbear (though Wolfe does still have, like Nelson, a fan club. The Wolfe Society, much like the 1805 Society, meets annually for a formal dinner, celebrating his Pious and Immortal Memory. I intend to find out more about this curious club...)

James Wolfe is buried in St Alfege's Church. Don't bother trying to find him in the graveyard; he's in the crypt, which is another one of those places I'd like to see on London Open House Day...

A word about the statue. There had been murmurings of a there needing to be an eye-catcher at the top of the hill for some time - and in its day, potential subject matter received as many column inches as the fourth plinth in Trafalgar Square today. One of the suggestions included a 200ft colossus of Britannia. The final sculpture is by Dr Tait Mackenzie and wasn't actually unveiled until 1930, though perhaps the time-lapse was a good thing, given the unveling was done by the Marquis de Montcalm, a direct descedant of Wolfe's opponent at that final siege.

The monument was rather near the business-end of a bomb in WWII, the results of which can still be seen on the plinth, making General James Wolfe possibly the only British soldier to have received schrapnel wounds in major wars 200 years apart.

For some time I found the cloaked silhouette with swashbuckling boots and mysterious tricorn hat slightly sinister, but now I can only see his as a benign presence.

In my imagination, on a clear, starry night, I see him hop off his plinth, stride down the hill and vault those wrought iron gates, before silently patrolling the Greenwich streets, righting wrongs and fighting the never-ending battle for Truth, Justice and Bugsby's Way.

I like to think he wouldn't mind too much my nicking his image for my own phantsamagorical purposes...

Peter Kent

A Peter Kent fan

Artist

For someone whose work is both instantly recognisable and almost omnipresent (can you have 'almost' omnipresent?) in and around Greenwich, Peter Kent himself is an enigma. I know nothing about him - and can find virutally nothing about him either.

You'll know his work immediately - his is that sketchy, pencil-lined topographical drawing - sometimes with a watercolour wash, sometimes not. It's nearly always of buildings, and incredibly detailed despite its sketchy appearance, a satisfying style that invites the viewer to look beyond instant impressions and delve deeper into the bigger picture. It reminds me of the sort of work that might have been architects plans for a Wren or Hook masterpiece - a modern interpretation of 17th Century perspective work, and he's at his best when he's drawing buildings of that period. The staggering thing is that much of his work is a sort of aerial view - and completely believable. How does he do that?

Peter Kent's work can be found everywhere - from his monthly 'column' in The Guide (utterly fascinating, whatever subject he chooses; definitely the best bit about that particular magazine) through the somewhat optimistic visions of the East Greenwich Traders Association's website to a commemorative fan for The Fan Museum.

Without a doubt my favourite picture by him is the giant overview of Greenwich residing in the Pepys Centre - just over by the suit of armour and that amazing B&W photograph of the Placentia excavations. I can happily stand for hours in front of it, immersing myself into the detail - the little extras that you don't notice on a first, second or even third look. I'm not the only one. I often have to queue to get my Kent-fix at that fantastic, laminated vision. There are several posters of Peter Kent views available in the shop (some of them are on special offer just now) but that giant picture is not available - which is, IMHO, a missed opportunity. I'd have that on my wall in a trice, though of course I'd have to get rid of my current Athena poster of a backlit Chris Roberts in a tennis outfit adjusting his knickers...

But back to Peter Kent. I mentioned earlier I can find virutally nothing about him as as a human being, but I have found a tiny snippet on the website of a local gallery I hadn't even heard of. Sea Pictures Gallery is in Vanbrugh Park and specialises, unsurprisingly, in seascapes. There are four Peter Kent originals on the site (I guess they might have more) priced between £250 and £450, though only one has a nod to Greenwich - a Thamescape of river traffic - the rest show views of Richmond, Milwall and Henley. For me, it's slightly odd to see pictures in Kent's style that aren't actually of this area, but it just goes to prove, I guess, that he isn't just a local artist for local people...

It was on the Sea Pictures website that I found the only mention of Peter Kent the man. He has had a Greenwich studio on the Thames for the past 15 years, and has illustrated many books on river churches, The City of London - and, of course, Greenwich. He also takes on commissions from major companies, though sadly Phantom Incorporated probably won't manage any Peter Kent illustrations for this website yet...

Vice-Admiral Sir Thomas Boulden-Thompson

1766-1828

I've been watching the diggery going on in the grounds of Devonport House with interest. When I first saw the workmen in there I was a bit worried that they'd discovered a nice patch of real-estate to build flats on in the middle of town (paaayyyydiiirt!) but as the weeks wore on it was clear they were just building paths. It's all been lain out there now, with baby hedges and little benches, with paths around each monument.

Personally, I always rather liked a little piece of un-worked land just there. Everything else (and now this) is so manicured that a little shaggy grass was a welcome sight - and went well with the austere building behind it. These paths feel like they're trying a bit too hard. I almost quite liked that no one was officially let in, though of course I can't have been the only one who sneaked in occasionally to view the monuments.

Does this mean that it will now be officially opened so that anyone can walk around - or is it going to be a private garden? Who can tell. For the moment those heavy iron gates are firmly locked, but that path goes right down to them. Maybe it's for show. In the meanwhile, at least it's less than impressive for their new scheme if they continue to display huge plastic banners advertising cheap conference facilities...

But once more I'm digressing. I've been looking into a few of the remaining memorials in the grounds and, if you recall, the one that's been bugging me most has been the broken column...

I used to have a book about Victorian Funerary Symbolism (a remainder-shop-lovely, which I stupidly got rid of several culls ago. Whenever I have a book-cull, I always regret it...) which was all about the symbolism of graveyards. Ivy is the obvious one - for eternal life. Time is another biggie - scythes, hourglasses and skulls (like those splendid ones at St Nicholas in Deptford) are pretty obvious, as are sleeping babies and cherubs. I knew a broken column was hugely significant but, couldn't remember quite what it was...

Thank God for the internet. If you are of a similarly warped disposition as me, you will love this dictionary of Victorian Funerary Art - never be without it when you're walking around a graveyard again. It's an American website, but I'm pretty sure that the basics are the same - they seem to make sense.

"Column, broken: an early grief, end of life, sorrow. Life cut short too soon. May be girded with flowers. This image represents the decay. It usually represents the loss of the family head."

Trouble is, the longer I look at it, the less sure I am that it's just that. There's deffo a broken column there - but is that a flame too?

"Vessel with flame: the eternal flame or the eternal spirit of man."

...or is the whole thing covered in a cloth?

"Drapery: Drapery over anything - sorrow, mourning "

And what's with the wreath?

"Laurel wreath: is usually associated with someone who has attained distinction in the arts, literature, athletics or the military."

So who was this guy? Vice-Admiral Sir Thomas Boulden-Thompson, actually.

"Knight and baronet, and grand cross of the most honourable military order of the bath; vice-admiral of the red; treasurer of Greenwich Hospital ; a director of the chest; and a visitor of the West India Naval School."

The Annual Biography and Obituary of the Year 1828

Blimey - that sounds crusty. But a closer look at he seems rather more Master and Commander than at first appears. This is the chap described by Nelson as "an active young man,"as he fought at Santa Cruz and was injured, though not as badly as Nelson himself of course, who lost an arm.

Thompson got much more badly-injured captured by the French in a long sea battle not long after, trying to save his ship, The Leander at the Nile. The dastardly French treated them appallingly, plundering everything in sight - including the instruments of a surgeon who was in the middle of an operation. When Thompson tried to remind the French Captain of the way French prisoners were treated by the English, he merely shrugged gallic-ly. "I am sorry for it, but the French are expert at plunder..."

When Thompson was finally freed he was court-martialled for losing The Leander. I'm not sure how he managed to not only get off the charge, but get himself a knighthood in the process, but he certainly went on to have all kinds of honours bestowed on him. It was all going very well indeed.

He continued to fight under Nelson, until it all went horribly wrong at the Battle of Copenhagen, where he lost a leg. "I am now totally disabled and my life is run through, only at the age of 35," he wrote in frustration.

Well. Not quite. He may not have made it to Trafalgar, but back home his derring-do had not gone unnoticed. He was made Treasurer of the Royal Naval Hospital and became an MP. He became Director of the Chest after the death of Lord Hood.

It remains to be seen whether we'll be officially allowed in to see Vice-Admiral Sir Thomas Boulden-Thompson's tomb at closer-hand, or whether we'll have to continue resorting to the time-honoured tradition of sneaking round the back. In the meanwhile, the broken column is one of the more visible of the Devonport memorials.

More stories of obscure monuments another day...

Lavinia Fenton

1708 - 1760

What I love about Greenwich is that whatever cliche you care to mention, we have an example of it somewhere. Lavinia Fenton is 18th Century 'actresses' personified (child prostitute to duchess with a spot of acting in between) and it's very pleasing to know that she once walked at least one or two of the streets we know today (no - not that kind of walk - by that time she was most definitely in "respectable" mode.

There is, of course, as with all stories of this nature, a questionable lineage. She was brought up by her mother's husband, but it's unlikely he was her real father - that honour probably going to a sailor (see what I mean about cliche?) called Beswick.

These were saucy days - where London was a dangerous and exhilarating world full of coffee houses, silks, satins, grand buildings - and footpads, murderers, cozeners, whores, drinking and gambling dens. She became a child prostitute (there were hundreds, perhaps thousands of filles-de-joie in those days - it's worth taking a peek at a copy of the slightly later quarter-million seller Harris's Lists of Covent Garden Ladies which was literally a catalogue of hookers - what they looked like, where they lived and what they would do, including 'specialities' of eye-popping inventiveness - any notions of genteel history fly right out of the window...) but really made her (stage) name as an actress.

As Lavinia Fenton she played Monimia in Thomas Otway's The Orphan in 1726 at the Haymarket Theatre, and then moved onto Lincoln's Inn Fields where she joined a theatre company and became quite a starlet - mainly with the gentlemen. It wasn't that she was particularly beautiful, but she was vivacious (why aren't people described as 'vivacious' any more?) had a good figure and could sing well

Her big moment came with the still-performed (though more often as the inspiration for Brecht/Weil's Threepenny Opera) Beggars Opera by John Gay. No one was interested in any of the other poor sods in the show - all the notices raved about her portrayal of Polly Peachum and she became almost synonymous with the role.

Audiences went mad, buying up all the souvenirs they could - mezzo-tint drawings, 'biographies' - and the lyrics of her songs printed on ladies fans (I wonder if they have one in the Fan Museum..?)

There was one fan in particular, of the supporter-variety, Charles Paulet, who became really obsessed. The fact that he was the 3rd Duke of Bolton probably made the attention a bit more palatable but he was hardly a catch looks-wise. Much older than her, in Hogarth's painting of a performance of the show, he is the creepy bloke watching her intently from the box in full stalker-fashion. The flesh crawls even more when you know that this particular performance was taking place in Newgate Prison.

It was the talk (though hardly scandal - everyone was at it) of the town but she knew which side her crumpets were buttered and, after several revivals of the show, she moved in with him. He married her as soon as his wife died. They had three illegitimate children.

So what's the connection with Greenwich? Well, she survived her husband and came to live at Westcombe House. This is not, of course, John Julius Angerstein's Woodlands; it was an earlier building. I think there's a painting of it in The Spread Eagle restuarant. She spent the rest of her life living grandly as a Duchess, and when she died was buried in St Alfege's Church. I'm not sure where her grave is; I assume it's in the crypt with Thomas Tallis and General Wolfe, but if anyone knows for sure, I'd like to know.

We don't have any real reminders of her in Greenwich, which is a shame - a nice statue of her as Polly Peachum would be a welcome feminine addition to a largely masculine bunch of sculptures here - but there is, inexplicaby, a Rua Lavinia Fenton in Sao Paulo and a Lavinia Fenton suite in a hotel in Basingstoke.

Maze Hill Pottery

The Old Ticket Office, Woodlands Park Road, SE10

Once upon a time there was a little railway station. It was a fine railway station, with wide sidings and a dear little ticket office who was his best friend. But one day a wicked old wizard came along and cast an evil spell, his greedy eye on the little station's land. The little station fought and fought but the wicked old wizard's magic was too strong.

The brave little station survived but at what cost? He had lost his lovely sidings and the wizard forced him to live with an ugly hovel instead of his beloved ticket office. Only the wave of a fairy godmother's magic wand and could save the little station's friend...

Maze Hill Pottery is a wonderful example of the kind of thing we can't afford to lose in Greenwich - a sweet little Victorian building turned into something that isn't an estate agent's office or a KFC rip-off. It's run by Lisa Hammond, an internationally-acclaimed artist whose stuff is not just beautiful, it's useful too. Each item is unique and although she does do some interesting 'art' pieces, most of her stuff is actually useable. Bowls and pots, cafetieres and casseroles, each is subtley different and has a practical purpose, rather than just an ornamental dust-trap function...

As I was walking past one day in December, I saw a postcard advertising an open studio day - just the sort of thing I can't resist. Even better, it was going to coincide with a rare kiln-opening. Apparently the thing takes several nail-biting days to cool properly - if she opens the door too quickly, the contents crack. She doesn't actually know how her latest pots will turn out for some time after she's fired it all up. And since she only fires up about once a month, a bad batch can represent a real problem.

What seemed like the entire population of Greenwich turned up for the opening - let's face it, it's not the sort of thing we often get to see round here - and the tiny studio was utterly packed. As the rack was slowly winched out, the tension on Lisa Hammond's face was obvious, turning to relief as she realised that it was, after all, a good batch. Pots and plates, vases and jars, all jumbled up next to each other, filling the kiln to the last inch.

What I found delightful was the surprise Lisa Hammond still has every time she opens a kiln. She can't be sure exactly how anything will look - I didn't realise just how inexact a science slips and glazes are. And that's what makes ceramics so exciting. As she examined each piece, it was clear that even things from the same batch will be different - so every item is unique. A good thing in this age of mass-production.

Lisa Hammond exhibits all over the world, and her wares can be purchased from exclusive stores in Tokyo (though of course you could just nip into the workshop if she's in there.) It's a terrific place to get presents (it solved the problem of what to get for the Phantom-Webmaster-who-has-everything) but they don't have to be just pottery. Lisa Hammond finds time to run classes and workshops too which would also make a good 'virtual' gift. I've never been to a class, but I'm tempted. They look great fun. There's loads about them and all manner of other interesting things about the place itself on the excellent website. I won't reinvent the (potter's) wheel here by repeating what can be found at http://www.greenwichgateway.com/mazehill/index.htm

Remember Greenwich

Iris Bryce, Greenwich Community College Press, 1995

I hadn't expected much from this book. I'd passed it over several times in the Pepys Centre Tourist Information shop, having read various local 'memoirs' in the past and been underwhelmed by the writing standard and unexciting content. I was put off by the cover (aw, c'mon - show me the person who doesn't judge books by covers just a little...) with its dated font and annoying landscape format.

Once again I've been forced to eat humble pie. I bought this book on Friday and, despite a full weekend where I was staying with friends and supposed to be doing stuff with them, I just couldn't tear myself away from it. Iris Bryce is not just a natural storyteller, she has a story to tell.

Born and brought up in the centre of Greenwich in the 1920s and 30s, she came from a world where if you left your very street you were in foreign parts, dangerous and murky to a child who knew the hostility of poverty and the dangers of straying into the territory of a rival gang of kids.

Of course, we're hardly talking Yardies here. This is good old-fashioned intimidation, not gun culture. But childhood cruelty comes in many forms and the taunts of kids from a street only slightly more well-off than your own still cuts to the quick if you're the only one whose mother, even in a poor street, has to go to work to make ends meet. And to wander into the really poor areas was to risk the horrors of the 'witch' who sat on the step smoking a clay pipe or the docks, warehouses and scrap yards, with their seedy, shady 'other' worlds.

Where Iris Bryce's memoirs differ from so many stories of poor, working class lives in the 20th Century is the knowledge that, from a very early age, she wanted out of the circle of poverty that most considered their lot. She was a bright kid, something recognised by her teachers, but not her own family. Time after time she was given glimmers of hope - offers of scholarships and better education, time after time she suffered the despair of her father ripping up the letters that would better her life and throwing them into the fire.

This is no misery memoir though (BTW - has anyone noticed that places like Waterstones now have a special section for this dismal genre? I vaguely remember the title "Tragic Lives" sits above the section. I ask you - who on earth would search these books out as a matter of course?) Bryce's frustration is palpable but she never gives up for more than a few seconds, and it is that optimism that drives the book, and which kept me reading.

The detail about Greenwich is fine-tuned - enough streets, pubs and places namechecked to give a sense of real geography, but it is balanced with a strong storyline which although not always linear (hard to do linear when you're talking about someone's life, I guess) has a humanity about it. Even people like her father, an angry, violent man, are never painted totally black - there are moments of tenderness where it's possible to see the dilemma and perhaps even guilt Bryce felt at wanting to leave her 'lot' behind.

This is not a perfect book. But it is mainly sins of omission, rather than badly-written. Bryce repeats herself from time to time, but it's not something that really bothers me. Hell, I do it myself. What does get me, though, is that at no point is there any kind of biography of the author, and we are not given any start date for the story - forcing the reader to try to work out what period we're talking about. This vagueness makes the early part of the book shaky, as the reader is constantly trying to work out dates of gas-lamps, street name changes and electricity-arrival just to get a handle on when other things are going on.

My biggest problem with the book is its sudden end. Even a book that will have a sequel needs some kind of conclusion. Its whole conceit has been driven by Bryce's desire to leave her world, and at the end, she sort of does - she contrives to get herself conscripted into the ATS. But that's it. For a story so well-paced up to this point, it's extremely frustrating to turn to a blank page. No word on what happened next, whether she actually managed to break out of her cycle of poverty or even whether she ever returned to Greenwich. Even a "coming soon" teaser-note at the bottom would have sufficed. I found it extremely frustrating, lying in bed Sunday night, after a weekend of snatched paragraphs and sneaky peeks, to not actually find out 'the end.'

Of course the first thing I did yesterday was get onto the internet to see what I could find out about Iris Bryce and, after some searching, I have found out some of her story - she apparently married a well-known British jazz musician and went to live on a barge, writing several books about her life on the canals. There is even a follow-up to Remember Greenwich. I concede that she perhaps didn't know there would be a sequel when the first book was published - but a short biography at the end - even a few sentences - would have rounded-off the story without ruining the appetite.

I thoroughly recommend this book, whatever minor issues I may have with it. It would warrant a reprint - perhaps combined with the sequel, in a more attractive format, but in the meanwhile, I intend to quote liberally from this remarkable woman's story. It is as much a part of Greenwich's history as that of Henry VIII, Samuel Pepys and John Flamsteed.

Jason Lewis - Expedition 360

You know, just when I go off on one of my favourite hobby-horses - that in our homogenised, bland-ed- up, dumbed-down society there is no room for characters any more - Jason Lewis turns up and restores my faith in eccentricity. Not, of course, that this is the old-fashioned, nutty form of eccentricity - he doesn't keep 58 cats in a council flat or invent flippers for injured penguins. This is a modern, highly-organised, website-savvy eccentricity - but none the less exciting for that.

I bet not many people remember the departure on the 12th July 1994. If I'm honest I can't remember what I was doing myself, let-alone what probably elicited one of those "And finally..." type stories on the news. Two guys, Steve Smith and Jason Lewis, thought it would be fun to try to circumnavigate the earth using only human power. You know the sort of thing - biking, hiking, roller-skating, swimming, kayaking and, my favourite, pedalo-pedalling. I mean - one of those ridiculous little boats for kiddies you get in Greenwich Park - in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean? That's eccentric in my book.

Still at least there were two of them. They set out from Greenwich (where else should you set out from if you're circumnavigating the globe?) and a BBC website photo shows them posing at the bottom of the Eiffel Tower on the first leg of their journey. But Steve Smith only made it to Hawaii - he returned to write the obligatory book - while Lewis soldiered on alone. I doubt he expected the jaunt to last 13 years.

His main problem was cash. Explorers of the olden days relied on aristocratic family wealth or being sponsored by sovereigns who demanded they nab land for them in return. These days sponsors want a different kind of riches - advertising - and there ain't much room for a poster on the side of a pedalo.

Although there's an impressive lost of sponsors listed on his website, I suspect that they weren't all queueing up to give him money to start with - especially when he was knocked off his rollerblades in Colorado by an 82 year-old drink driver and broke both legs. It got even less glamorous. He contracted malaria. Was attacked by crocs. Had to treat himself when he got septicaemia in the Pacific on his pedalo, though he did get to stop and eat Christmas dinner with some cable-layers in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Lewis often had to stop his trip for less fun reasons -to earn enough money to continue - mainly crap jobs, but occasionally more dinner-party-discussion-worthy stuff like working as an undertaker and a cowboy among other things along the way (and now - oh, boy is there a publishing deal to be had now...)

So - back to why this story's on this blog. Jason Lewis finishes his mammoth tour on Saturday, welcomed back to Greenwich by clamouring crowds and the Duke of Gloucester. He's probably going to miss out on a couple of Guinness World Records on technicalities but as a thoroughly modern eccentric, he can count on a healthy after-dinner speaking career to keep him afloat now he's back on dry land...

I have tried in vain to find out the exact time of his arrival on Saturday morning. For the same (most annoying) reasons I won't be able to make it to the Greenwich Market Consultation I won't be waving my hat in the air to greet him, but if any of you folk go, do let me know what it was like...

www.expedition360.com

Grace O'Malley

1530 - 1603

Avast! Shiver me timbers me hearties, 'tis International Talk Like A Pirate Day!

And to celebrate with all ye lubbers, I thought I'd talk about one of the swaggering, saucy buccaneers whose dread ship did sail up ye Thames and shiver the timbers of Greenwich Olden Days.

Grace O' Malley was a fine young wench born in County Mayo in the days of Henry VIII. At the time although England controlled Ireland, it mainly had a hands-off policy which left it to individual clans and lords to rule. Grace's father, Owen "Black Oak" O' Malley, was the Lord of the clan and a sea-farin' man - though he didn't need to be a pirate - he already got to tax the local people and anyone who fished in his waters. Every so often the local chieftains toughed each other up and local turf wars were common. As the years war on, though, English intervention hotted up - Henry VIII was worried (rightly, as it turned out) about the security of his borders and wanted the chieftains on his side. His policy, "Submit and Regrant" was just that - he gave extra land to the chieftains who towed his line.

The O'Malley's didn't need Henry - they were powerful enough already.They knew the dangerous waters of the irish Sea - and where all the dastardly pirates hung out. But as Henry moved in closer, the began to cramp the O'Malley style. Black Oak O'Malley went round the long way, and in the process started plundering the odd ship that strayed into his path, and transporting Scottish mercenaries under the cover of his respectable trading business.

Young Grace loved the sea and pestered her da to be allowed to go on a trip to Spain. In what can only be one of those rubbish excuses that parents give to shut up their children, he told her that she couldn't go because her long hair would get caught in the rigging and it would Really Hurt. It didn't work in 16th Century Ireland any more than it would today. Grace shaved off her hair. It earned her the nickname she would keep throughout her life, Gráinne Mhaol, which, roughly translated, means "Bald Grace." She started wearing boy's clothes, despite catcalls such as "Avast Behind!" Those doublet-and-hose combos did no-one's bum any favours...

Her father told her to ignore the scurvy coves - they were just jealous. He started treating her more like a son and taught her to command a ship. He took her on trips with him - and she was just as happy to jump into an affray with pirates as anyone. Who says ladettes are a modern concept?

She was married off to Donal O' Flaherty an Chogaidh (Donal of the Battle) who was, as the name sounds, a big old bruiser of a bilge rat, always up for a Friday night fight at the local tavern after a few bottles of grog. He drank and gambled away Grace's inheritance, and got in the way of her going away to sea by 'giving her' three children - one just like himself, one a sweet man, and a girl, disappointingly for Grace, who turned out very girly indeed.

Donal managed his estates so badly that the people came to Grace for help. She couldn't take over as she was a woman, so she decided to turn to the the only thing she knew - piracy. She started a protection racket - promising ships "safe passage" though her waters in exchange for extortionate 'fees' - if they refused she merely plundered them anyway. Most gave up the booty pretty damn smart.

Her husband, meanwhile, had not changed. He beat up anyone who came close and eventually declared war on a neighbouring clan. His death is mysterious - but what mattered to Grace was that he was dead. Of course she had to look angry - so she declared war on the clan for the murder and rode into battle herself. Her husband's family refused her her widow's pension so she went back to piracy. Arrrgh!

She terrorised the waters around Ireland, though there is one story, just waiting to be made into a Hollywood movie about her taking a handsome Lord captive who had been wounded in battle who she nursed back to health and had an affair with. It was a very silly rival clan who murdered him.

Furious, Grace rode into town, burned their boats, killed the lot of them then took their castle. Unsurprisingly she is known by their descendants as the Dark Lady of Doona. She wasn't happy with just one castle though, so she seduced and married the gullible owner of another one, then locked him out and divorced him. Bizarrely, he forgave her and became her Life Partner instead, helping her in her piratical adventures from then on.

The day after she'd given birth to another child, she was having a snooze in her cabin when they were attacked by Turkish pirates. Seriously pissed off with her crew, she got out of bed and shot the pirates with a blunderbuss. "I don't know - I leave you lot in charge for one day and we get invaded by the Turks..."

She grew in power - by now she had twenty ships. She was becoming a serious problem to the English. They tried to attack her at her castle, but she took the roof off and poured molten lead over her assailants. Various other attempts failed in similarly spectacular fashion. The was a serious price on her head. The English started bribing the other clans so she decided to promise to be good. She had no intention of being so. She continued to rob and plunder. She was captured, but managed to get out. Yo ho-ho. She was 54 and it was a pirate's life for her.

Back in England, Queen Elizabeth I was on the throne by now and terrified of the Irish joining forces with Spain. She started putting the squeeze on Grace. Her sons were captured, and then she was. Her clansmen arranged to pay a ransom. In a tit-for-tat battle, Grace burned a town. The English killed one of her sons. She attacked again. They took her possessions. The Spanish Armada came and went.

Eventually Grace got fed up with dealing with middlemen. She wrote to the Queen, telling her that things had gone far enough. She explained that she had been forced to become a pirate for the past 40 years to feed her people, and made Elizabeth an offer. If the queen would let O'Malley keep her men, arms and ships, she would attack the queen's enemies. Seemed like a deal to Elizabeth. She was quite impressed and sent her some questions, which Grace answered cleverly.

But letter-writing was for wimps. She sailed around to London and surprised the Queen at Greenwich Castle. She even wore a fine gown for the occasion. Everyone threw their hands up in horror at this burly pirate in a dress and thought she'd get arrested, especially when she refused to bow as she didn't recognise the queen as her monarch.

Everyone was shocked at this uncouth barbarian swilling grog and swaggering around in big boots. It's said she sneezed and a lady-in-waiting gave her a fine lace handkerchief. She blew her nose noisily then threw it into the fire - after all, she argued, why would you want to use a hanky again after you've covered it in snot? Elizabeth roared with laughter and granted Grace a private audience. It's a mystery what went on - but Grace secured the release of her youngest son, the dismissal of her nemesis back in Ireland - and the respect of the English queen.

It didn't last long. Grace O'Malley went back to her scallywag ways, especially after Elizabeth returned the nemesis to Ireland. She never did see the gallows though - she died at home in 1603, the same year as Elizabeth herself.

Elizabeth Woodville

1437(ish) - 1492

Family weddings - don't you love 'em. A few glasses of cheap bubbly, someone from the bride's side insults the groom's mother and all hell breaks loose. Bun-fights, punch-ups and the next thing you know someone's started the next round of the Wars of the Roses...

So there was young Margaret of Anjou, who, if you remember, had married Crazy Henry VI and had just done up her new pad at Greenwich in girly colours and pretty patterns. Life had got a bit scary after Jack Cade's rebellion so she'd decamped Ooop North and Round One of the Wars of the Roses had got underway.

Edward IV came to the throne in 1461 and was the complete opposite of Henry VI. He was the kind of squared-jawed burly-framed Hollywood Hunk that made women swoon - he was 6 foot 4 at a time when most people were about a foot shorter and his interests included hunting in Greenwich Park, gold-brocade outfits and knightly pursuits. I can just see those Disney-esque teeth gleam...

He married local girl Elizabeth Woodville (from Lee) probably for love, or at least lust, given her long black hair, her famed beauty and especially her lovely heavy-lidded eyes ("the eyes of a dragon", one chronicler tells us. The mind boggles.) Apparently her USP was her skill at fluttering her eyelashes.

It was all hush-hush - not least because Lizzy's first husband had been killed fighting for the Lancastrians - when Edward was the leader of the York contingent. When they found out, his advisers who'd had their eye on a nice political union with a French princess, were pretty fed up. Some even whispered that she'd bewitched him, a murmur that got rather louder when she bowled up to Westminster Abbey with some of her distant Luxembourgian relatives carrying shields with pagan goddesses painted on them and the whole thing had to be settled by fisticuffs.

Edward poo-pooed the lot of them and where the rest of us are lucky to get a toaster, he gave Lizzy Greenwich as a wedding present, including the tower and park. Nice work if you can get it.

They seem to have had a happyish life (considering that England was in turmoil and everyone hated everyone else) although he appears to have had a lot of mistresses, most of who also seem to have been called Elizabeth. I'm just glad Freud wasn't going to be around for 700-odd years.) Edward had lots of children by both his wife and others, at least two of whom you'll have come across - but we'll get to that.

Sadly Elizabeth's family were the original Sarf London chavs - they pushed themselves forward at every opportunity and won themselves no great favours at court. They made sure they married themselves into as many of the best families as possible (presumably wearing Burberry doublet-and-hose) and availed themselves of all the lucrative opportunities to shine, which many of the courtly toffs thought was dreadfully vulgar.

One splendid example of Early Bling was when one of Lizzy's rather obscure brothers-in-law died, they interred him at St Albans with a gigantic, very shiny and much larger brass plaque than even that of the Bishop. It all became very embarrassing, but all Edward really wanted was an easy life and he tended to turn a blind eye to it all.

It was at Greenwich that the ultimate Little Britain family wedding took place. Elizabeth's son by her first marriage was given the hand of Anne, an heiress, who had been promised to heavy-hitting York-supporter the Earl of Warwick who had been instrumental in bringing Edward to the throne and was naturally a bit pissed off at Edward's short memory. I am so glad I wasn't at that wedding - I imagine a surreal cross between an Alan Ayckbourn parlour drama, The Royle Family and a Quentin Tarantino shootemup. The slighted Earl of Warwick switched sides, withdrew to France and cooked up Round Two of the Wars of the Roses with New Best Friend Margaret of Anjou.

Meanwhile, back at Greenwich, it all got a bit nasty when Edward died. Elizabeth became, briefly, "Queen Mother," to her two little princes who were the heirs to the throne, but - and I'm sure you can see where this is going - enter, stage left, Hiss! Boo! panto villain, Uncle Richard.

I have no idea whether Richard III was actually as evil as he is painted - or, indeed, any more evil than anyone else at the time - there is a lot of revisionist history going on just now - but one thing seems sure. Richard found a priest who said that he had presided over Edward and Elizabeth's marriage and that since Edward was already promised to marry someone else, he had committed bigamy. Richard declared Dead Ed's marriage null and void, Lizzy was banished from court and the two princes disappeared.

In later life, after being brought back into favour and seeing her daughter married to the future Henry VI, Elizabeth was allowed back to court for a bit, before being packed off to a nunnery in Bermondsey for possibly being involved in a rebellion (all that's left now of Bermondsey Abbey is a rather sad-looking plaque on the wall of some council flats. You can see it if you travel into town on the 188 bus. ) She was nearly married to the young King of Scotland but he most inconveniently died, so the now-ageing ex-queen stayed in the convent, where she died too. She was given a no-frills funeral by her son-in-law King Henry VII which, as you can imagine, really offended her designer label-loving relatives.

But was she bovvered? I doubt it. Her daughter had just given birth to Henry VIII.

Sir James Thornhill

1675/6? - 1734

James Thornhill, in accepting Wren's commission to decorate The Painted Hall, made one fundamental mistake. He agreed to be paid after the mural was finished. In all fairness, he probably didn't imagine that it was going to take 19 years and had his eye on a little more than money at the time (as well as seeing the job as a superb advert for his skills, he fancied a knighthood and a life in politics.)

Thornhill wasn't a Greenwich guy by birth - he came from gentle stock - albeit impoverished. He got himself apprenticed to Thomas Highmore, who did fancy paintings in toff's houses across the land. He proved an apt pupil, and got a fair amount of work on graduating, but needed a special job that would act as a calling card for even more splendid commissions. The Painted Hall seemed the perfect opportunity to show off. He just hadn't counted on how long it would take.

The allegories and allusions that litter the ceiling and walls of the Painted Hall deserve a separate entry on another day, but suffice to say that it is absolutely chock-a-block with stuff going on - stuff which meant much more to an 18th Century viewer than it does to us today. He had taken this job as a way to display how good he was at painting portraits - and he certainly got a lot of practice. The Royal Family kept changing and he had to repaint sections, and since he was being paid at the end, he received no recompense for continually repainting the various Kings, queens and sundry royal hangers-ons' likenesses.

The job got out of hand in virtually every respect. The hall, originally intended as a mess room for the elderly sea dogs was covered in scaffolding and paint pots, so the pensioners had to eat downstairs in the undercroft. (They never returned, because when Thornhill finished it was deemed too posh for the likes of them, and just became a tourist attraction, where the old boys earned a few coppers by showing visitors around.)

Thornhill had his fun, with a few allegorical gags but things were really dragging on. It didn't help that various contemporaries who could have been more charitable were, frankly, sniffy about him. Sir John Vanbrugh, who was, to be honest, in a bit of a Glass house himself, thought it would be "a pleasant joke" when Thornhill, a mere "painter" applied to become Royal Architect at Greenwich. He clearly thought a playwright would be better qualified - and, of course, he was right...

In 1718, as a bit of a sop, presumably, King George I appointed him court painter, promoting him to Sergeant Painter two years later, when he also knighted him. It was the least he could do, considering how he was going to shaft the guy when he actually finished. There was a great deal of grumpiness over the bill when Thornhill's work finally came to an end.

I'm not sure how much of an insult it was to treat him as a posh painter and decorator in the end, instead of paying him as an allegorical historical artist, but it must have stung like crazy to have his life's work divvied up by the yard - three quid for the ceiling and a mere pound for the walls.

Luckily, by this point he wasn't desperate for the cash, having gone into politics in the meanwhile, and he was still able to build a rather sweet palladian country pile at Stalbridge in Dorset. He set up his own art academy where one of his saucier students, William Hogarth met and married Thornhill's daughter. Thornhill is part of Hogarth's parliamentary group 'The Goals Committee of the House of Commons.’

Nearer the end of his life he didn't have any commissions (presumably being out of the loop for 19 years didn't help much)so he set himself to copying the Rapheal Cartoons at Hampton Court. He managed a lot, but slowness still bugged him and he never completed them.

Societies

Dennis asks:

I was wondering whether you knew of any neighbourhood or residents' associations in downtown Greenwich?

The Phantom replies:

I've been meaning to do a links page for ages - but in the meanwhile here are a few local groups. I'm not commenting on any of them here; merely listing them.

I'm sure I'm going to miss a few, so feel free to chip-in, folks...

The Greenwich Society

The Blackheath Society

The Charlton Society

The Friends of East Greenwich Pleasaunce

The Friends of Greenwich Park

Park Vista Area Residents Association

The Westcombe Society

Vanbrugh Castle

Sir John Vanbrugh is a classic example of the Renaissance Man (even if he was a bit late to be truly from those times.) There aren't too many people who can have claimed to have written some of the rudest, funniest and most influential plays of their day, become Surveyor to Greenwich Hospital with vitually no experience and been the architect of several of the largest and most opulent palaces in Britain. Hardly surprising, then, that when he came to building his own dwelling, he wasn't going to settle for any old boring house.

He didn't start out very well. The son of a linen merchant in Chester, he decided that the best way to see the world was to join the army. Trouble was, he had a bit of an unusual surname and he managed to get arrested in France because they thought he was Dutch. Since he didn't have any papers on him, they decided to throw him in jail. Rather optimistically, they had assumed that he was really important and put him up for ransom in exchange for some high-end French prisoners. Sadly for Vanbrugh, no one gave a stuff and he ended up there for five years before the French gave up.

By this point he was nearly 30, so he had a bit of catching up to do. He claims to have written The Relapse, or Virtue in Danger in six weeks. Whether he did or not, it was an instant hit, and he was suddenly the toast of seamy, seedy, fashionable London. A natural bon viveur, he was extremely popular with his public (The Provok'd Wife came hot on the heels of his first hit) but not so popular with the other bon viveurs of the day, upon whose square-capped satin shoes Vanbrugh was joyfully treading. He built himself a very curious house in Whitehall, which Jonathan Swift reckoned looked like a Goose Pie (whatever one of those looks like,) everyone laughed heartily and it was known as Goose Pie House ever after.

I have no idea how John Vanbrugh persuaded Lord Carlisle to ditch the highly experienced architect he had asked to build what was to be Castle Howard and hire the experience-free Vanbrugh instead, but that man must have had some gift of the gab. This guy had never built anything bigger than his extremely odd house and had no skill at all as a draughtsman. I mean - the man couldn't even draw. He built a little wooden model to show Carlisle what he had in mind. Presumably he got some tips from his mate, Sir Christopher Wren. Mr Swift was even more scathing. But Castle Howard, with all its turrets and ramparts and crenellations went up and got Vanbrugh another commission.

Blenheim Palace was next. But he started doing all sorts of things not in the original model (actually, he started adapting the old castle in its grounds as, ahem, a bijou residence for himselfand ended up with a very angry duchess, so he wrote some notes about the aesthetics of architecture to placate her and inadvertently created a seminal treatise that is still valued today. But the duchess wasn't impressed, and Woodstock Castle was demolished.

Vanbrugh's fascination with the theatrical pervaded everything he did. Virtually everything he built looked like a stage set. He was renting a place in Greenwich that he hated (John Evelyn visited and even he had to admit it was "wretched.") But he did like the view - and let's face it, the view from the little mini roundabout outside Vanbrugh Castle is still one of the great sights of Greenwich (if a little changed from Vanbrugh's day.)

Because his job was now there (he was surveyor to Greenwich Hospital though frankly didn't do an awful lot) he decided to set up his new roots and Maze Hill, handily next to the park, was as good as any. Vanbrugh Castle was his usual concoction of towers and crenellations, gatehouses, ramparts, arch-y windows etc, in brick rather than stone,and he made sure that he kept his view by making the lead roof accessible - possibly Greenwich's first roof garden. It all looked very medieval and has been claimed to be influential in the beginning of the Gothic revival in the 19th Century.

I am glad that Vanbrugh Castle itself remains to this day (if vastly altered on the interior, presumably) but that makes me even sadder about what is not left. Vanbrugh built a row of about 5 follies in his back garden, placed prettily down the hill to a 'fortified' gatehouse at the road. It must have looked fantastic. It was meant to impress visitors who would travel past each of them as they wound up their own private road just to the east of Maze Hill. Romantic names like "The Nunnery" and "Mince Pie House" (clearly Vanbrugh had a bit of a thing for pies, and let's face it, who doesn't?) and "The White Towers" conjure images that can only be imagined today as I am pretty convinced none of them exist any more (please tell me I'm wrong and someone has one of these in their back garden...)

The Castle, at least, survives, albeit divided into apartments. I cannot comment on the interior as I have never seen it. Maybe you can fill me in? The yellow stock bricks have darkened with age, but that imposing frontage is still with us. Thank heavens.

Spem in Alium

It all started as a bet, really. The glittering Alessandro Striggio, fresh from the Medici court in Florence, had written a glorious Mass in 40&60 parts for Cosimo Medici who had dreams of being recognised as the Grand Duke of Tuscany. Striggio had gone on tour with his mass, doing the usual round of function gigs - various noble weddings, christenings, and gala dinners, not to mention the odd coronation and command performance, all with the idea of impressing the local nobs enough to support Cosimo in his quest for power.

While he was in Paris, Striggio fell in with some English guys who suggested that he take some time out in swinging 16th Century London, so he visited in 1567, to bum around the English Court with his new mates. We don't know whether he came to Greenwich, but it won't surprise me if they discover that he did - after all, the Court still spent a lot of time here. But it's very likely that he brought his mass with him.

I know it doesn't sound that exciting, but get this. There is no other piece of music in existence like Striggio's Mass, which possibly accounts for the fact that Striggio was the highest-paid musician in the world - it took 200 years before any musician would be paid more.

The bulk of it is written in 40 parts - that's not forty voices, arranged into the usual four parts - soprano, alto, tenor, bass. This is FORTY DIFFERENT LINES - forty voices weaving in and out of each other, each one different. And, in the Ave Maria at the end it bursts into SIXTY different voices, in what Davitt Moroney (more about him in a minute) reckons will sound like a giant vocal Mexican wave (note the future tense, folks.)

But back to funky Elizabethan London. Not surprisingly, Striggio's Mass was a bit of a hit, but it stung a few toffs that it was was written by an Italian. Could no Englishman set such a song, the Duke of Norfolk wanted to know.

Thomas "Teflon" Tallis, a composer who managed to survive every court intrigue and religious controversy in this most flammable of reigns, rose to the challenge with his extraordinary 40-part motet, Spem in Alium sometime around 1570. Sadly for poor old Norfolk, it's unlikely he ever heard it - by this point he was languishing in the Tower for one of ELizabeth's periodic hissy fits. It got worse - he lost his head in 1572.

This is one of the most incredible pieces of music one will ever hear. It's not long - about ten minutes at most - but the intensity of the voices is so powerful that frankly much longer and you'd be on the floor. It's the musical equivalent to rich fruit cake - of exquisite taste and full of every good thing, but to be enjoyed in small doses.

It gets dusted down from time to time, not least by our very own Thomas Tallis Society Choir, whom I heard singing it a couple of years ago as part of the 400th anniversary of Tallis's birth, in St Alfege's church, where Tallis (and his wife) are buried. Tallis spent the last part of his life in Greenwich, in Stockwell St, if tradition is to be believed. Another fine performance was the Canadian artist Janet Cardiff's installation last experienced at the Whitechapel Gallery, but which could stand a repeat booking in Greenwich in my humble opinion.

The next opportunity to hear Spem in Alium will be at the Prom next Tuesday - 17th July. Personally, I find the giant (lack of) acoustic in the Albert Hall is inferior to that of St Alfege's,(which in turn bows to the chapel at the ORNC) but there is another reason to attend this particular concert - or at least listen to it on the radio.

Remember Striggio? Well, after his death, the manuscript for this amazing Mass got lost. It passed from pillar to post, library to library, disappearing completely during the French Revolution.

Enter Davitt Moroney, the Indiana Jones of the choral world. He spent 20 years searching for Striggio's lost manuscript, a task that was made more difficult, he discovered later, because, presumably for travelling, it was all bound into a tiny 'pocket' version and wasn't the whopping great score you might expect for sixty different parts. His search took him across Europe, to the libraries of all the great cities, searching through dusty tomes and scrutinising badly-scrawled catalogues.

He finally discovered the manuscript a year or so ago, in the Bibliotheque National in France. No wonder it had remained a secret for several hundred years. A sort of clerical Chinese whispers had been going on - every time the score had moved, it had been re catalogued with another spelling mistake - which Moroney was forced to follow through from the start. It had lain, undiscovered for centuries in the vaults as a FOUR part work by the obscure (read 'non-existent') composer 'Strusco.' Clearly no one until Davitt Moroney had been inspired enough by that particular catalogue entry to ever get it out of the cover.

Striggio's 40&60 part Mass will be sung for the first time in 400-odd years on Tuesday 17th July at the Prom. No one knows quite what it will sound like, but I for one cannot wait to hear. My only other wish is that there will be a repeat performance in a place with proper acoustics - St Alfege's will do nicely, don't you think?

Margaret of Anjou

1429 - 1482

Remember Duke Humphrey? You know - the chap who fought at Agincourt, collected books and women in equal quantities, built a nice big tower then fell foul of nutty King Henry VI ? Well, I've been finding out about the Lady Macbeth character in all this, the scheming Margaret of Anjou, who ended up being the next owner of t