Bungay Antiques Fair 2014

A few weeks ago I woke up in a country rectory in Suffolk, England.  Not a remarkable or unplanned event in itself as a few of us were gathered there for a weekend of reunion which involved a great deal of croquet, canasta, food and drink – and a Sunday morning spent at the annual Antiques and Plant fair in the nearby town of Bungay.

Nestling in a bend of the Rover Waveney the town of Bungay has a long and proud pedigree. Not far to the north the Celtic tribe Iceni made their capital.  The Romans garrisoned soldiers in what is now the outlying hamlet of Wainford. From the 5^th century, when the Romans had had enough of the weather and the food, the Saxons moved in and left plenty of archeological litter to fill our museums.  Normans came after 1066 and generally tidied up by imposing manorial government.  And thereafter, over three hundred years, wonderful country churches were built.

Bungay is a delightful country town, and on that peaceful and sunny Sunday morning in May it thronged with people and wares.  I’ll let the photographs take up the narrative at this point – for they speak for themselves. (Clicking on each image will link to an enlargement.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In just two days time...

... I will be flying home to the United Kngdom for a long overdue visit. It will be wonderful to spend days with my mother in Worcester. The weekend in Suffolk will be a refreshing reunion. And the opportunities to advance my notes and photographs of the rural churches of Worcestershire are exciting.

I plan to spend the hours of at least three days wandering those important parishes. One or two have  been declared redundant. Most are actually thriving. I hope I won't bore you with the blog posts which are yet to be written bug I hope to convey something not only of history, but also some of the quirky tales of these countryside communities.

Parishes with names like North Piddle, Upton Snodsbury and Grafton Flyford will grace your computer screens. I will enjoy them. I hope you will also.

THE SANDYS FAMILY: A Primate and a Pioneer

Edwin Sandys

Archbishop of York 1575-1588

Unknown artist.  Oil on Canvas

University of Cambridge

I never knew Lord Sandys, the Sixth Baron of Ombersley, as he died shortly after my fifth birthday, but I have dim memories of him calling at the vicarage and spending time in my father’s study.  My mother told me later that the two men would also take long walks together, deep in conversation, and that Arthur Sandys (who insisted on calling dad “My Rector”) expressed a deep interest in matters of religion, and was constantly thinking about his family history with all its colourful characters with an ardour that bordered on obsession.  And I can understand why.

The Sandys family is a very old tree that can trace its roots back to the twelfth century and the old country of Cumberland in what we now recognize as Cumbria and the Lake District.  There then followed nine centuries of history in which several generations made their mark on the world in a number of ways under the motto:  Probum non poenitet.  “We do not repent of what is good.”

Here is not the place to narrate the long military history of the Sandys, although it is fascinating to note that men from different branches of that tree fought on different sides during the English Civil War (1642-51.)  Nor the lists of those who served politically in both Houses of Parliament.  Highlighted in this brief column are two other Sandys.  An Archbishop of York and his son.

Edwin Sandys was born in Lancashire in 1516 of royal Scottish blood on his mother’s side.  A keen and natural scholar, ordained as a young man, he developed radical tendencies and even joined the primitive Puritan Party and supported Lady Jane Grey in her bid for the English throne.  (Look up that story for yourselves.)  This resulted in his being thrown into the Tower of London for a few weeks and then exiled in Switzerland until a new monarch was enthroned – Elizabeth 1. 

He became a favourite at court and at the age of forty-three was enthroned as the Bishop of Worcester (1559. ) Climbing the ecclesiastical ladder he was made Bishop of London in 1570 and then in 1575 invited to become the Archbishop of York. He was not a popular man in many circles, and contemporary commentators are less than flattering about his character.  He is described as “an obstinate and conscientious puritan,” and a man “strongly repressive in tendency.”

He sired nine children, eight by his second wife Cecily. (He was previously married to his first cousin who died a young woman.)  The youngest of these was George Sandys. (1578-1644.) 

George was a free spirit and a talented scholar and composer.  He was one of the early pioneers in the Colony of Virginia and is famously remembered for being the man who wrote the Constitution of that colony – on which George Washington and others later modeled what would be the Constitution of the United States of America. And did anyone ever mention the notion that George Sandys was probably gay?  He never married, and there was more than a fair share of court journals and correspondence to suggest this.  But we will never know for sure.

Arthur Sandys (1876–1961) would almost certainly have known all this and more.  As an elderly man, perhaps leaning on my father’s arm as they walked along the lanes of Himbleton, would he have talked of these people and more? I like to think that he did, and might have said something along the lines of, “My Rector, did you know I have an Archbishop in my family?”

Now Cynthia, the Lady Sandys, is another story.

Written in Stone

 

Computers, although often cursed, are really a blessing.  This morning, after I negotiated successfully through the British Airways web site and booked flight tickets, I sat back at the very same computer and casually flicked through the hundreds of photographs I took during last spring’s visit to England.  It felt odd to think that, Deo volente, I shall be there again in under a fortnight’s time.

On every visit I replenish my stock of images of Himbleton Church, the small parish church of St Mary Magdalene that sits among water meadows and sheep pastures to the west of the Bow Brook.  Half a century ago I fished in that stream, played in those fields and misbehaved in that church where my father was the vicar.  Little, if anything, has changed with the passing of the years.  Even the names on the parish Electoral Roll, shrouded in plastic and attached to the porch notice board, are familiar – although these are the surnames of a recent generation. Their parents’ names, known to my family, are now engraved on stones surrounding the church.

Every set of pictures, often of the same interior and exterior scenes, reveals something new or different. Perhaps it is the change of season, time of day or a different light.  Or perhaps my mood and intention in photographing an object.  I don’t know.  What I do know is that today I found myself looking at the Sandys memorial stone (see above) as if for the first time, and realizing that I have never really considered how important these people and their lineage were to my family - and surprisingly the history of the world.