Ertblog

Richmond riverside: a family story

Sixties snapshot: me and Mum at Richmond, circa 1969

Richmond, Surrey has long been one of my favourite places, as I've explained before on Ertblog. I was thrilled a few years ago to find this photo of Mum and me on the riverside as it brought back so many childhood memories. I wonder if it was the day I had an ice cream from a kiosk just beyond the bridge, near where Gaucho is today?

On Friday, Karen brought Owen, now three and a half, to my office. He got to sit at my desk, typing his name. He charmed everyone at work. And we had a fun lunch at Giraffe. But we also got to recreate that 1969 photo. 

 

A few curiosities. I couldn't quite replicate the shot, even though this part of the riverside has hardly changed since the year of the first moon landing and Swindon Town winning the League Cup. How did Dad get so much space between Mum's head and Richmond's historic bridge, when Karen rose over it like a giant? (Mum is short, but that can't make that much difference, surely?) I can't imagine depth of field differences or standing further back making such a difference either.  Did he bring a stepladder? It seems very unlikely. The mystery remains.

Out of shot, Richmond riverside has changed totally since my childhood photo. For years, the area was derelict as a fierce debate raged about what to do with the site. The 1980s saw the Quinlan Terry redevelopment opened by the Queen. It was criticised by some as a pastiche concoction, but it has stood the test of time.  

Was the Battle of Britain 1940 or 1941?

It was 1940, before you comment!

But there's a serious point here. My father, born in 1926, thought the Battle of Britain was fought in 1941. I was adamant - knowing the overwhelming documentary evidence in my favour - that 1940 was the year. And I was surprised that he was so wrong, given his strong memories of the Blitz.

But then it struck me. His memories are of the bombing. And to a 13 year old, there's no difference between being bombed in the Battle of Britain and the Blitz that followed through the winter and spring of 1941. Oh, and unlike us, Dad didn't learn about the second world war in history. It wasn't history to anyone born in the 1920s. It was news.

The lesson, though, is clear. Don't take memories as gospel truth. Don't assume people who lived through the events in question can give you the facts. But don't trust your own assumptions about history. Dad's point was that Cardiff was bombed before London, and that his parents and aunt sent him to the Welsh capital for safety just as the Luftwaffe decided Cardiff was a perfect target. (The debate about the Battle of Britain is a sideshow.) Looking at the records, he's right. I didn't realise Cardiff was bombed before London.

But my point remains. Don't assume that eyewitnesses are flawless witnesses to history. In fact, don't assume anything...

Snow Sunday

Winter is here. The snow arrived on Saturday night, at the end of a day that began with a bitterly cold night. (It was minus 6.5C when I drove Owen to his football class at 8.40am.) The mild winter had turned real.

We enjoyed an unforgettable day. Owen is now big enough to relish snow, especially five inches of the white stuff. (Proof above in the shape of Karen's old school ruler.) He joined friends Martha and Betrys (aka Betty) on the sleds, and built an interestingly shaped snowman. 

I also turned intrepid explorer, venturing through Hodgemoor Wood on my 18 year ol mountain bike. It was an exhilarating experience, slipsliding on road and trail. There was barely a soul in the deep dark wood, and I was the only cyclist to pedal the route since the snows fell. My Garmin shows that the ride took 45 minutes compared with 23 the previous, snow-free day. (But my average heart rate was almost the same.) The ride whet my appetite for adventures on my new mountain bike, which should arrive later this month. But it's probably just as well that my ancient Diamond Back Ascent took the icy punishment today...

Is this the last of 2012's snow? Time will tell...

PS: here's my blogpost about February 2009's snowday, Simply Snow... And my praise for my Mini's winter driving abilities 10 months later.

In praise of the wonderful RAF Museum, London

Above: Owen and the immortal Hawker Hurricane, RAF Museum

Karen was off Christmas shopping yesterday, so Owen and I went to the RAF Museum at Hendon, London.

What a wonderful place. Owen's too young to appreciate the significance of the RAF's role in saving Britain 70 years ago, but he loved the aircraft - and the hands-on gallery that explains the wonder of flight.

He was intrigued by the film about the famous bouncing bomb that the valiant dambuster squadron unleashed against Nazi Germany in 1943. What he doesn't know is that his grandmother regularly saw dambuster leader Guy Gibson in her hometown of Penarth during the war: Gibson's wife came from the seaside town.

Yet I was slightly uncomfortable as we had a snack in sight of the peerless Avro Lancaster bomber. Yes, I share the regret of many that the enormous sacrifice of Bomber Command crews was brushed under the carpet after peace came in 1945. (Back in 1942, the nation was grateful that the RAF was alone in taking the fight to Nazi Germany. Three years later, the politicians were more queazy about the resultant death and destruction.) But as we sat underneath the gun turret, I knew that I'd want Owen to understand that war is something to avoid rather than glorify.

Here's my video of our day at the RAF Museum.

 

 

Poppy day pride - and prejudice

Above: my father and uncle in uniform during the second world war

I wore my poppy with pride today, as Britain marked Remembrance Day. 

On Friday, the 93rd anniversary of Armistice Day (11.11.11), I left my office in Richmond to walk to the Poppy Factory, the place where remembrance poppies are made for people in Britain and many other Commonwealth countries. The modern entrance stood in stark contrast to the original building, built soon after the end of the Great War.

Above: Richmond's Poppy Factory

The last veterans of the Great War have passed away in recent years. Yet there are still some very old people alive who lost a father in that terrible conflict. The Guardian yesterday interviewed several, in a very moving feature. As Donald Overall, 98, said, "I'm an old man, I am supposed to be tough. I thought I was hard but I'm not. He's my dad and I miss him." The killing fields of Flanders exert a powerful emotional pull down the years. 

My grandmother (born 1891) and her siblings lived through terrible times. The two world wars left millions dead and injured, while economic depression and recession blighted many other lives. How lucky we are by contrast. 

The poppy appeal is a simple call to commemorate the dead of the great and small wars alike, while helping today's veterans. Yet my father, Bob Skinner, who served in the army during the second world war, is uneasy at the way this quiet tradition is becoming a compulsory exercise in sentimentality. He asks whether BBC newsreaders would be allowed to go on screen without a poppy. Political correctness has taken over. Bob hasn't worn a poppy for several years. 

I'm also uneasy. I was appalled by the undignified argument between England's Football Association and FIFA over whether players could wear a poppy on their shirts during a game. FIFA's view that it was a political symbol was as crass as the FA's totally inappropriate aggressive stance. It's significant that these arguments are raging now, over 70 years after the end of the second world war, and not in the immediate aftermath of those great wars. This is the era of Daily Mail intolerance of alternative opinions - especially ones that are critical of the military. Back in 1921, when the first poppy appeal took place, no one would think to glorify war. The object was to mourn, to commemorate and to help survivors. Almost a century later, Britain is much less likely to criticise its warriors, their leaders or the decision to send them to war. As a result, we've been involved in wars that have nothing to do with us for well over a decade. 

 

 

In praise of Brindley House nursery, Beaconsfield

Today was a sad day. Our three year old son Owen spent his last day at his first nursery, Brindley House Childcare Centre, in Beaconsfield, Buckinghamshire. He's been going there since he was 11 months old. Owen starts at his school nursery in September.

We first heard about Brindley House when Karen was pregnant. A visit before the centre opened confirmed that this was the place for Owen. We've never regretted the choice. The care has been fantastic, especially in the early days when Owen was getting used to being looked after by someone other than his parents. Brindley House has reinforced our emphasis on good manners - so we were delighted when Owen said thank you to his carers today after yesterday's Gruffalo party! The party was a good example of the activities the centre runs. It also organises a very impressive Christmas concert at Beaconsfield's Curzon centre. 

Brindley House founder Sarah Fahey opened a second Beaconsfield childcare centre last year after the success of Brindley House. We've always been impressed by Sarah's professional and caring attitude, and haven't been surprised at how popular both centres have become. Parents want the best for their children, and that's exactly what Owen has enjoyed at Brindley House. 

We’ll always remember Brindley House with affection and gratitude. 

PS: just one less happy note. We've only today received the cheque returning the deposit we paid when Owen joined Brindley House - eight weeks and three chasing phone calls after Owen left. 

Start of the Pier show: Penarth wins lottery money

Snow on Penarth pier pavilion, 23 December 2010. Photo: Bob Skinner

It's lovely waking up at Mum & Dad's home on Penarth's seafront and looking out the Bristol Channel past the town's pier. The view wil be even better soon, as the Heritage Lottery Fund has just awarded £1.65m to Penarth Arts & Crafts' plans to restore the distinctive art deco pavilion at the pier entrance. Fittingly, I heard the news after we got back from a weekend in Penarth.

Penarth is a small town in the shadow of the Welsh capital, Cardiff. It was once a significant port, but is now best known for its short seafront and pier. Penarth has featured in countless family memories - ice cream on the pier and trips on P&A Campbell's steamers to Weston and Ilfracombe. 

The winners of Penarth's lottery funding, Penarth Arts & Crafts, are based in the excellent Washington Gallery, which hosted the launch of my father Bob Skinner's autobiographical book on 60 years in journalism and PR, Don't hold the front page. 

Penarth has a special place in our family. Mum was born here in 1928, and both parents started their journalism careers on the Penarth Times in the 1940s. (Mum took Dad's job as chief reporter when he joined the army in 1944!) Now Owen is the latest member of the family to discover the town's charms. It will be even better when the iconic pavilion is open again. 

The pier and pavilion, November 2010

Winter sunrise: 28 December 2004

Penarth Pier, February 2008

 

 

Happy 120th birthday, Nan!

Above: me with Nan at her 100th birthday party, April 1991

I'm celebrating my Victorian grandmother's 120 birthday today.

Sadly, Nan won't be there to blow out the candles. But 20 years ago today she celebrated her 100th birthday, and enjoyed two further anniversaries. 

Gwendoline Annie Skinner (nee Dymond) had a remarkable life. She was born on 22 April 1891, and turned ten a few months after Queen Victoria died. The Titanic sank the week before her 21st birthday and she was married the week Alcock & Brown made the first flight across the Atlantic. She made just one flight herself: from Cardiff to Bristol in her nineties. 

She was a perfect grandmother: kindly, lovely and a source of endless stories. I was fascinated by her tales of Queen Victoria's Diamond Jubilee in 1897. And moved by her harrowing story of helping fetch her dying father's oxygen cylinders by Hansom cab in 1912.

Like many of her generation, she had a tough life in many ways. She lived through two world wars and the Great Depression. She was bombed out of one home in London's blitz. Her husband's twin brother died in the great flu epidemic at the end of the Great War. And she was widowed at 51 - exactly half way through her long life. 

Yet she had tremendous spirit. She took great pride in the success of her three children and five grandchildren. And lived to enjoy the arrival of six of her nine great grandchildren. 

Turning hundred was quite something, especially as she had been so ill during the war, fifty years earlier. (The devoted care of daughter Dorothy, whom she lived with after husband Frank's death, was a big factor in her longevity.) We all enjoyed a special party at County Hall in Cardiff. And on her 100th birthday the Lord Mayor of Cardiff visited Nan and toasted her centenary - below.

Finally, here's a photo of Nan as a young woman. 

 

 

 

 

Census memories

Above: my grandmother. She appeared in nine UK censuses, starting in 1901

We completed the 2011 UK census online last night. It felt odd but good to be taking part in this ancient ritual in such a modern way. 

I've seen a lot of criticism of the census in the media. The usual civil liberties crowd have condemned the amount of personal information required. I can't see what the fuss is about: how can government plan for future services if it doesn't know anything about us? 

The Office of National Statistics is obviously still coming to terms with online services. When we filled in the section about our two year old son, it asked for his marital status, and queried whether he looked after family members! (More sensibly, it didn't ask for employment details.)

For me, the census is a significant, even moving event. Almost 20 years ago, my grandmother appeared in her last census, the day before her 100th birthday on 22 April 1991. She was born 17 days after the 1891 edition, and first appears in the 1901 census for Cardiff, Glamorgan as Gwendoline Dymond, aged 9 years old. She would have taken part in 10 censuses had 1941's not been cancelled because of the second world war. It's very moving to be able to look her up in the 1901 census, which took place less than three months after Queen Victoria died, and two years before the first aeroplane flew. 

Surprisingly, I have vivid memories of my first census in 1971. This is purely because my mother volunteered to help. She collected the forms in Whitton, Middlesex, and made sure people had returned their forms. (She complained that one nasty man was very aggressive.) But the main reason I remember the 1971 count was that it gave me time with my first love, Helen! I may have only been seven (Helen was about 18 months older), but I stayed the night at Helen's house while Mum was on census work; in return, Mum looked after Helen while her mother was on census duty. We moved back to Wales shortly after, but I still remember the special time Helen and I spent together thanks to that long-ago census!  

Remembering Grampy

This is my grandfather. The photo captures him at his trade: a linotype operator at the Western Mail & Echo in Cardiff who turned journalists' words into the magic of print. His trade has long vanished, along with the steam train fireman and lamp lighter. 

Grampy died 44 years ago in December 1966, some five years after he retired. I was just three at the time, so I have just one clear memory of him. But it's a precious one: we were sitting in front of the fire in my grandparents' home in Penarth, Glamorgan, and Grampy was showing me how to shell peas. 

I was thrilled last week to find this photo of me (and my sister) with Grampy. I reckon I was between two and three years old, which means it dates from the spring or summer of 1966. (Was it taken the same day that I watched Grampy shelling peas?) I like to think it captures Grampy's pride in his two grandchildren. It's strange to think that my son Owen is the same age as I was on that far-ago day in the 1960s.