An ancestral town remembered : Bungay

Bungay is a market town of much significance to my ancestry. Three of my family lines came from Bungay, the earliest record of which is a marriage which took place in 1771, at St Mary's Church.

Bungay is rich with history:  Bigod's Castle, a Benedictine Priory, two parish churches (St Mary's and Holy Trinity), secret tunnels, and perhaps more notably, the legend of the Black Shuck. For lovers of gothic tales and the macabre, Bungay is the town for you.

Bigod Castle

Elizabeth Bonhote (1744 - 1818), wife of Daniel Bonhote (an attorney), was born in Bungay and wrote novels and essays. Her most gothic novel Bungay Castle was written in 1796 and is still in print today. Set during the War of the Roses, Bonhote's novel included gothic themes of mystery, wicked uncles and long-lost sons.

In August 1577 while the congregation of St Mary's Church were assembled for worship, a thunderstorm blew up suddenly, plunging the church into darkness. Then, before the terrified congregation, appeared a black dog. Described as "the divel in such a likeness" it ran along the body of the church with great swiftness and incredible haste, seizing upon two people who sat praying for mercy. Known as a "Straunge and Terrible Wunder" the Black Shuck is still an ongoing legend in the town of Bungay and there are several shops in the town named after the legendary dog, one being Black Dog Antiques on Earsham Street.

St Mary's Church

My ancestors lived and worked in Bungay from the late 1700s, my first ancestors gaining their living in Ostlery and Agricultural labouring. One family line, the Jolly's, originated from nearby Laxfield. My 3 x great-grandfather Josiah Jolly arrived in Bungay in 1829/30 with his new bride Susan and they remained in the town, having at least 13 known children! Another family line, the Preston's, didn't come to Bungay until the late 1890s from Norwich (formerly Holt) but they also remained in the town.

Bungay must have been a particularly cold place to live in as two of my family lines were kept busy raising large families. Josiah and Susan had 13 children, as I have already mentioned, and another family line, William and Eliza Ward were also kept busy with a family of 12. Jokes aside, it would have been more common to raise large families in Victorian rural areas, as the eldest children usually worked on the land alongside their parents, whilst the middle children invariably stayed at home with the youngest infants. Given time, the entire family would be out working, side by side come rain, hail or shine. Their livelihood would have been dependent on the seasons. More often than not, my male ancestry spent their "leisure hours" esconced in a local publichouse. Two known favourites were 'The Swan' and 'The Three Tuns'. Life was hard, money was scarce and children were prone to infant death or crime. Indeed, there is at least one known ancestor of mine who was transported to Australia in 1847, after stealing from a Butcher in Earsham Street. Before leaving England for good, he was sent to Millbank Prison for 3 years. He was 22 years old.

Earsham Street circa 1910

I remember Bungay with a deep fondness. I have always been attracted to the gothic feel in Bungay and its familial connection with my dearest grandmother Lilian and dearest great-grandmother Nellie Jolly. My grandmother worked in the Buttercross Tearooms (known in her day as Alfo's) during the 1960s and my great-grandmother ran a Boarding House for single working men in Lower Olland Street during the 1940s and 1950s. Both women were strong, fiercely independent, loyal to their faith, and family-oriented.

As a child I remember walking through Bungay town with my mother, bicycling to nearby Earsham, Mettingham and Ditchingham, walks through the churchyard  of St Mary's and nearby ruins of the Priory, the Outney Common, and Falcon Meadow.

The last time I visited Bungay I was pleased to see so much history still alive and well in the town, especially with the Castle and the Museum. Fisher Theatre in Broad Street is open once again (originally opened by David Fisher in 1828) and Bungay can still boast many literary people such as George Crabbe, Henry Rider Haggard, Elizabeth Bonhote, Ethel Mann, and Parson James Woodforde. Even Chateaubriand, during a period of exile, resided in Bungay in the 1790s (rather reminiscent of the more recent exile of Julian Assange!).
In recent years the continued efforts of people such as Frank Honeywood, and Christopher & Terry Reeve keep the history of Bungay very much in our hearts and minds.

Song of "Old Bungay"

(First Stanza of Eight)

Written by Samuel Taylor in 1816

Sung at the Theatre, by Mr Fisher, to the tune of: "The Roast Beef of old England"

I

Of London and Plymouth, and fifty more such,

Enough has been said, aye, and some say too much:

Of all the fam'd Town's this fam'd Island can boast,

Where's the like of Old Bungay? search thro' the whole host!

Then of all places, this is the place of renown;

Oh, what a place is Old Bungay!

Old Bungay's a wonderful town!

Aerial view of Bungay showing both Churches: St Mary's Church (left) and Holy Trinity (right)



Postcards & Photographs : Each One Tells a Story

This morning I visited the Nexus Toy Fair with my science-fiction-loving family, and there was one senior chap who was selling old postcards. Did I look at the wonderful array of Star Wars figurines and sci-fi DVDs? Did I heck as like. I went straight to the postcards table, and oggled his vast collection!


Recently a dear friend at  oldpostcardsetc.co.uk  said: "Think about it - why do people collect old postcards? The main reason is nostalgia..." This got me seriously thinking.

A dictionary definition of nostalgia is: A sentimental longing for the past, typically for a place or period with happy personal associations. When it comes to old postcards I certainly love to see places as they once were. Also, for me personally, it captivates me to see how a place looked in my ancestors time. I am fascinated with scenes of old streets, old houses and businesses, seaside attractions, and churches.

On the left you can see a postcard scene of the church tower of St Michaels in Beccles. The church itself has not changed over time but its surroundings have significantly changed. Housing and businesses have altered and changed hands, been demolished and some buildings which were once publichouses or mills are now private homes.

I love to collect old postcards so that I can see places through the eyes of my ancestry. Beccles, my hometown, has seen much progress and alteration throughout the centuries, and yet local history books and photography show how little has really changed. The shopfronts and the people may have changed but the historical flavour remains when you walk the streets or sit by the Quayside.

Postcards are a window to the past, no doubt about it. Not only do they provide a valuable historical resource for genealogists and social historians alike, but they also allow us a glimpse into how our ancestors once communicated with each other. I have many postcards that have scrawled messages such as: "I will be with you in two days time. The train leaves at 8.15am..." Soldiers relied on the exchange of postcards with their families and loved ones, mothers and lovers fervently sent postcards of home, and holiday postcards were delivered far and wide at the envy of their recipients. The famouse catchphrase "Wish you were here..." was coined by the sending of a postcard.

Over 100 years ago my Norfolk ancestors sold postcards in their stationer's shop. They didn't just sell them, they went out to the various places within a twenty-mile radius and took the photographs that ended up on the postcards. Historical documents prove that they travelled from place to place on bicycles and snapped local scenes such as churches, farms, houses and halls, prominent local businesses and organisations, as well as taking photographs of a journalistic nature. In particular, they took photographs of the damaging effects of the 1912 East Anglia flood.

Photographs are my passion. Not just simple portraits of men, women, children and pets. Not just landscapes and scenery. Not just buildings and architecture. For me it goes beyond the subject matter. For me it is about the story photographs tell. When you look beyond the composition and the framing, recognition of the subject matter lights up the photograph in an entirely new way.Just sit with a group of elderly people and watch their faces as they recall the subject in the photograph, the memories they inspire and evoke, and the hearty conversation that follows. Sit with any family member and their photo album and listen (and watch) as they regale you with the finer details such as where the photograph was taken, what the weather was like, where the clothes they were wearing came from (and what colour the fabric was, if it is a black and white photograph) and, before you know it, all kinds of history (family and social) comes pouring out.

That is how my love of family history began. Back when I was a child and my beautiful grandmothers sat me down and showed me their photograph albums. For hours we would sit together, pouring lovingly over each page. With each photograph I learned who the people behind the faces were, where they had lived, what they loved and who they loved, and the variety of special events the photographs had captured. Some photographs are blurred, some are over-exposed, some have faded or lost their vibrancy and some are stained or damaged but each one is cherished and loved. They are a very special, very real link to the past. A photograph can tell the viewer so much. Perhaps that is why I love scrapbooking and journaling. Many of my scrapbooks are filled, not only with the photograph itself, but the story behind the photograph.

If you love genealogy and social history, photographs and postcards provide a vital visual aid to your story. They bring your ancestry alive in ways that pure words alone cannot convey. Telling your story is so much more than just names and dates. With today's technology it isn't too hard to open a Google Images search engine and begin a visual journey to your family's past. Better yet, why not visit a Fair, your local history centre, a car-boot sale or a charity shop? You never know what you might find. There is a wealth of visual history out there, waiting to be found. Let the stories begin...

Image from Ultimate Photo Guide website

An Elusive Ancestor : Richard Humphries

Every now and then an ancestor comes along, destined to elude you. We all have at least one in our family tree, right? I have several but none has proved as elusive (or as frustrating) as Richard Humphries.

Born in Hammersmith in 1829, to John Humphries and Ann Rogers, Richard was the eldest of seven children. They lived on The Mall, which fascinates me because when I was a teenager I lived in a block of units by the river, not unlike the scene here (left).

John and Ann were both employed as Mattress Makers, and when Richard went out to work he got his trade as an Upholsterer.

Around 1849 the Humphries family were dealt a cruel blow when the house they moved to in Putney was infested with the deadly cholera disease. Within days of moving in, one son was dead and the father, John, quickly followed. Suddenly Ann was left alone to raise the remaining children, two of which were mere infants. She sent the youngest four to the North Surrey Industrial School in Penge. The eldest two, including Richard, were old enough to fend for themselves. Richard took work in Lambeth and later that same year, married Mary Ann Smith.

Richard and Mary Ann had four children, the first child (an only daughter) died of Scarlatina. Their remaining three sons were born and raised in Putney and they lived in relative comfort until 1871. Then the real confusion began. The census of that year was very revealing in that Richard was no longer married to Mary Ann. His new wife was listed as Sarah Ann. In addition, there was a new child listed. I automatically assumed that Mary Ann had died and Richard married again. Searches for Mary Ann's death and Richard's second marriage almost caused temporary insanity, as both turned up nothing. Eventually I located Mary Ann as having died at the Wandsworth & Clapham Union Workhouse (oddly, 10 years older than she actually was), being listed in their records as a "Widow". Long story number one...

Richard and Sarah Ann were not married, but they had three children together nonetheless, the last of whom was born in 1871, three months after the census of that year. Then the search goes cold for Richard. He is not in the 1881 census, and interestingly, Sarah Ann is married to someone else and they are living in Battersea. She married in 1876 and used her maiden name of Spencer. Her three children are all listed on the 1881 census as Spencer children, not Humphries!

Which begs the question? What happened to Richard Humphries? All manic searches have proved dead end after dead end. The paper trail has, time and again, gone completely cold, having been thwarted at every turn. For example, there are three possible death registrations for a Richard Humphries, however, all three have been investigated and I can attest with every fibre of my being, that they are not my ancestor. I have several cousins who believe they know when he died (1890 is one theory, 1915 another) but I have gone back through the records with a fine tooth comb and can assuredly disprove their theories. It is maddening to not know the truth. Hence, long story number two...

When I poured over the Putney parish registers seven years ago, I came across a burial for an unknown man, around the age of 40 years, drowned in the Thames at Putney. The year was 1875. He was given a burial at St Mary's Church and a coroner's report found that the unknown man had drowned as a result of his leg being caught in a barge. I know I am an ardent lover of Charles Dickens (see previous post) but could it be? Could it possibly be Richard Humphries? Tell me I am grasping at straws, clutching to a romantic fictional notion but it is the best theory I have to go on. Richard disappeared, without a trace, sometime between 1871 and 1876. His "second wife" who he was not legally married to, but had three children with, marries another man in 1876 and carries on with her life, as though Richard Humphries did not exist.

Where did you go Richard? What on earth happened to you? Why has your trail gone cold? Why don't you want me to find you?

Image from Genea-Musings

My Love of Writing : Family Letters

This morning I started reading The Shadow of the Wind and already I am completely bewitched. In it, the character Daniel Sempere, describes his passion for fountain pens and immediately I was transported to my father’s study.

For as long as I can remember my father always wrote with a fountain pen. I don’t think I ever saw him use an ordinary ink pen, unless it was passed to a client to sign his or her insurance papers. My memory of my father writing is always holding a fountain pen.

 

Since very early in my childhood the giving and receiving of letters and note-cards played a significant part in my family life. From a tender age I learned to love writing. When I was around five years of age my aunt and cousin emigrated to Australia and letters were frequently passed betwixt my family. Many is the time I would come home from school and find my mother ensconced on the settee, lost in a letter from her sister. The emotions they evoked; the pleasure and the pain I witnessed on my mother’s face; hearing her on the telephone excitedly telling my grandmother the latest letter had arrived; hours spent at my grandmother’s house, drinking copious cups of tea and exchanging letters – all filled me with a deepening love of writing.

When my mother emigrated to Australia four years later, it was my turn to write letters. Now I knew first-hand the effects of receiving a new letter, getting to know the style and colour of the aerogramme and airmail envelopes, the thickness of the folded letter inside, and the anticipation of reading its contents. I loved my mother’s writing; always so curly, neat and decorative. Her life, in the written word, lifted off the pages (Years later, she took calligraphy classes and further improved her individual style of writing). Two years later, it would be my turn to write letters to my father and my paternal grandmother. Then the love of writing letters using a fountain pen grew for me.

As I have already mentioned, my father always wrote with a fountain pen. All of his letters to me were written with flowing, blue ink. There were no blotches or spills, never once. I loved his writing style too, very neat and precise. His words flowed beautifully in the most perfect ink I had ever seen. When I returned to England for the first time since I had left, I sought out my father’s fountain pen. I desperately wanted to replicate his penmanship. I pleaded with him to tell me what pen he used in his letters to me. He told me it was an Osmiroid so I rushed to WH Smith’s in Lowestoft and bought myself one. I was so enthralled and so excited, I couldn’t wait to try it out. However, no matter how much I practiced, I could never replicate my father and his unique writing style. The ink wouldn’t flow properly, the nib would always snag or the ink would blotch everywhere. I was disappointed beyond words, but I never lost my love for the fountain pen or indeed pens in general.

Even today, more than twenty years later, I am still searching for the perfect writing pen. I have bought hundreds of different ball-point varieties and brands. I always prefer to use medium point as fine point simply irritates me. When I compose stories and for journaling purposes, I usually always turn to a Pilot ball-point pen. Even with my scrapbook journaling and page layouts, I prefer to always use medium point pens.

Where does my love of writing come from? The seed was planted during my formative years when I loved writing stories and letters. As a teenager, I was rarely seen without my diary and I kept one religiously for many years, buying only the best, beautifully crafted covers. During my late teens I joined a pen-pal service and enjoyed sharing letters with friends in Scotland, France, Germany and Sweden. The giving and receiving of family letters over the years, until the age of email and internet took away the more traditional methods, increased my love of story-telling.

Then there was my love of books, and the passion for researching my family history. Anybody who has seen an original document or transcription showing his or her ancestor’s very own handwriting knows the exquisite thrill it gives! This is my 4 x great-grandparent’s signature on their wedding certificate of 1846:

My paternal grandmother always used to tell me that I would be a writer. She had utmost faith that I had inherited her mother’s love of writing. For many years I automatically assumed that she only meant writing letters. It was not until recently that my father told me my great-grandmother wrote articles for the Beccles Parish magazine. I felt truly moved by that. As my maternal forebears were printers and stationers and postcard sellers, I also strongly believe that I have inherited their natural flair for the written and the printed word.

My great-grandmother

Joseph Powell 1786 - 1857 : Thames Waterman

Anybody who knows me well, knows that I am an avid admirer of Charles Dickens and his literary works. In 1998 the ABC aired the serial adaptation of 'Our Mutual Friend'. Being a fan of the actor Steven Mackintosh it was added incentive to tune in!

It was not for another 4 years that I discovered that one of my own ancestors was a waterman on the Thames. In that very moment, my favourite Charles Dickens book was thrust into sharper focus and exuberant reality. My very own my family history could tell the tale of the 'Great Stink' of London, the daily menace of gridlocked water traffic and demanding customers, and London's dead found in the River.

My 4 x great-grandfather Joseph Powell was baptised at St Paul's Church in Hammersmith in 1786, son of Bartholomew Powell. When he was 15, in 1802, Joseph was apprenticed to Nicholas Taylor. Joseph was bound to him for a full seven years until he qualified as a Waterman of the Thames in 1809.

Men like Joseph Powell were especially skilled as rowers and as navigators and as tidesmen. So skilled was this job that the Company of Watermen Guild was set up in 1555 and later in 1700, the Thames Lightermen amalgamated with the Watermen (The difference between the Thames Watermen and the Thames Lightermen was that the Watermen carried passengers and the Lightermen carried goods). Once Joseph had completed his apprenticeship and could work alone fully qualified, he had to apply to obtain a license from the Port of London Authority who issued him with a numbered badge which, by law, was sewn onto his coat sleeve. He would have then purchased or hired for himself a Wherry or Skiff to carry his passengers and he was responsible for keeping his boat in sound working order at all times.

Strict rules were in place by the Watermen’s Guild which ordered that Watermen not consume any alcohol whilst ‘on the job’ but despite this, they still had a reputation for being extremely obnoxious, uncouth, abusive and foul-mouthed. Come on! I think they had to be given the circumstances, don’t you? You have to remember that in the early centuries there was no sewerage systems in place and all raw effluent of the London populus went straight into the Thames so the Watermen were - pardon the pun - 'in the thick of it' all day every day!
Add to that the fact that the Thames was extremely busy all the time, filled with navy and merchant ships, cargo ships, ferries, Lighter barges, as well as their fellow Watermen. It would have been utter stinking chaos! Other foul conditions were things like floods, mud, slime, sludge, stench, rats, other people’s diseases and infections, even dead bodies were sometimes found. That’s not to mention the weather conditions!


By the 1760s there were well over a thousand ‘Hackney hell-carts’ as the Watermen had dubbed them, and it was causing considerable congestion. London streets couldn’t cope with the demand, and the increasing bottle-neck and deaths through accidents meant something had to give. London needed bridges to ease traffic flow and enforce safety for its people. You could imagine the outcry from the Watermen.
Until 1750 there was only one bridge in London and even that had caused upset when it was put in place hundreds of years before there was any talk of subsequent bridges being built in London. When Westminster Bridge was built in 1750 the Watermen strongly opposed and lobbied their case in Parliament but over time, they were defeated. The Watermen’s further appeals made even less impact as the years went on, causing only temporary delays but in the end they just could not prevent the building of bridges. The Watermen were losing the fight for their livelihood as the demand for road traffic ease grew ever stronger.



My 4 x great-grandfather Joseph Powell endured, through the extremes of weather, inestimable stink and traffic congestion. His daily route took him from Fulham, where he lived on the High Street with his wife and family, to his final destination at Hungerford Stairs  (yet another connection with Charles Dickens!).

According to the 1819 Post Office Directory his stops would have been:

Queenhithe
The Globe Wharf
Hungerford Stairs

The 1826 Pigots Directory water conveyance listing from FULHAM:

King's Arms, Rose and Crown, Queenhithe, Waterman's Arms & Globe Wharf, Hungerford

A few good reasons to stop for alcoholic refreshments in amongst that list, wouldn't you say?!
I may be ridiculed for having a rather nostalgic, or even romantic, viewpoint of my ancestor Joseph Powell, but I would dearly love to have known him. He could well have been quite a feisty character like Gaffer Hexam, or calculating and cunning like Rogue Riderhood. He would have to have been a good mix of both to abide the stink of the Thames!

Lizzie and Gaffer Hexam in 'Our Mutual Friend'

For further reading on the life of a Thames Waterman you may like to search out Robert Cottrell and Christopher O'Riordan's meticulous works, and you may also like to read the great novels of Charles Dickens and Clare Clark for further inspiration! x

An ancestral town remembered: Holt

The first time I visited Holt in Norfolk, was during a holiday in 1993. My father took me there for the day and I vividly remember feeling an unexplained strange sensation about the place. At that moment in time, I had absolutely no idea why I felt that way. Dismissing the feeling, I forgot about Holt until years later when my research into my Preston ancestry was well under way. One day, whilst browsing the 1901 census, I located my great-grandfather and his parents living in Bungay. My 2 x great-grandfather was born in Holt. The hairs on my neck prickled!

When I visited Holt again, in 2007, it was a miserable misty day and I remember being annoyed because the rain never let up the entire time I was there.

Holt was home to my ancestors and I wanted to see the place properly! My 3 x great-grandfather William Preston had moved to Holt, from Fakenham, when he was in his early twenties. This would have been in the 1840s. He married a local girl by the name of Eliza Bunnett and they had five children; three sons and two daughters. The first-born was my 2 x great-grandfather William Gowen Preston.

William Gowen Preston lived in Holt up until he was 17, when mysteriously, he left Holt with his girlfriend and moved to Norwich. The day I came back to Holt, I hoped that somebody could help me understand why this had happened. Was he cast out of the family? Out of the town? If so, why? I wanted to find the answer to that and more, in the streets and the shops, the houses and the people of Holt. Irrationally, I hoped that somebody would spot me, know who I was and why I was there, and tell me everything I needed to know. This never happened of course but the rain and mist almost prevented me from discovering anything about my ancestors life there.

High Street, Holt circa 1905
Arthur Preston's Printing Works on the right

After a few hours of walking the streets, meeting up with a local historian and writer, the late Keith Entwistle, and taking photographs and video footage, I went to the local church. I did not know, or fully comprehend even at that time, the strong connections that my ancestors had had with this church. Years later, with more research, I have a better understanding and a deeper sense of their devoted years to St Andrews. Standing on the footpath leading up to the church, gravestones to my left and to my right, I looked feverishly for any ancestral graves. I walked right past my 3 x great-grandparents' grave and didn't realise that I had until I had come full circle around the entire churchyard. I followed the track around to the right hand side of the church, to the back. There were many gravestones there, surrounded by mushy and muddy grass mounds, unkempt in the harsh winter months.

After a short while I found the grave of my 2 x Great Uncle and Aunt (with her parents) and I stood talking to them, cleaning the stone, taking video footage and photographs, and then asked them to guide me to my 3 x great-grandparents' grave. However, as I pressed on, the rain worsened and the muddy sludge underfoot was beginning to depress me. The graves led to nothing and nobody. I was growing heavily down-trodden and yet I was still determined to find something. My stubborness kept me searching.

I walked around again, becoming tired, hungry and cranky. I felt as though I was going to burst. Then came a breakthrough...

At long last I recognised the name: Eliza Preston. And right there, in front of me, at the very spot I had started out from! I could have kissed the stone, I was so relieved. The video footage I have is proof of my emotional rollercoaster in that moment. I wept tears of sadness and relief. It was rather sad to see the stone is in such a poor state, the bottom of which is barely readable.

Here in Holt I found a connection to my heritage, in particular to my maternal grandfather who I never knew. I felt a strong connection deep in my soul that day.

One day I will return again to Holt, and the weather will be perfect. There will be clear blue skies and sunshine, and I will discover even more about my Preston ancestors and the glorious market town of Holt.

My Grandfathers

Inspired by the fact that today is Father’s Day in Australia and that I have just seen one of the saddest movies of all time, my next blog is dedicated to my grandfathers.

I was blessed to have four grandfathers, although I only really knew one of them well enough to write anything about with any real heartfelt emotion.

My paternal grandfather died when I was 10 years old and I curse my childhood memories sometimes, as they are not rich with any memories of him. What I do recall are only fractured scenes, like from a movie that you saw years ago and only remember snippets of. He left an indelible impression on me though, and his death caused my father such an outpouring of grief. I vividly remember being told to go to my father’s bedroom one afternoon, only to be told that Grandad Ward had passed away in hospital earlier that day. I shall never forget my father’s tears. For a child my age, it was an especially poignant moment for me.

Herbert Ambrose Ward was a quiet man, a somewhat serious man, and a bit of a loner I think. The opposite of this was his enormous sense of humour. He really enjoyed a good joke and liked to play pranks from time to time. My childhood memories of going to visit my grandparents are marked by the fact that he spent much of his time away from the hustle and bustle of noisy visitors and us over zealous grandchildren, preferring to stay in the kitchen preparing the pot for tea or going outside to tend to his garden.

Born 5 August 1910, in the market town of Bungay, he was the first-born son of Arthur Ward and Barbara Hargreaves. Having served in the Boer War Arthur was a strict, austere man who my father remembers, kept a rifle in his hallway by the front door! This is quite ironic of character given that Arthur gave his son the name Ambrose, from the surname of the man who ran his favourite local drinking establishment.

Herbert Ward, doing what he loved most

Herbert was a keen cinemagoer and he loved film all his life (one of all-time favourite actresses was Mary Pickford). During the war years he kept a diary of films he showed the troops at Barracks, as part of his service with the Royal Army Service Corps was with the Army Kinema Services. An electrician by trade before the war, Herbert's love of cinema won out and despite taking on a post-war job at Beccles Maltings, he worked in the evenings and weekends as a Projectionist at both the Regal Cinema and the Beccles Cinema in Saltgate.

I do recall visiting Grandad in the Projection Room after I had been with my father to see a film at Beccles. He would take me up the back stairs and we would enter this dark, pokey room filled with cigarette smoke and I would be deafened by the loud, clacking sound of film running through the reels.

My parents divorced when I was still quite young and my father married the second daughter of Frank William Denson and Mildred Alice Leach. Frank was born 18 April 1914 in Beccles, the son of William Denson and Frances Lillian Leon.



Frank Denson (left), taken at Beccles Museum
opening ceremony in 1975

My childhood memories of him is with a pipe permanently in his mouth. He looked stern and serious on first glance, but he was funny too. He liked to tell me about local affairs, more of a historical nature than current. Frank is a renowned Beccles historian and Borough Archivist, and for many years worked at the Museum. He has spent many years of his life transcribing and researching the history of the town. Frank is still very much alive, having celebrated his 97th birthday this year.

My maternal grandfather passed away one year before I was born and my grandmother married again two years later. By this time I was about 18 months old.

I grew up hearing countless stories about Percy Preston, not all of them very flattering. My mother certainly missed him terribly when he died (and, naturally, still does 44 years on), not least because their relationship was not always smooth sailing.

Percy could be a hardened man, made bitter from his war experiences, but he also possessed a heart of gold, which endeared him to many local townsfolk of Bungay.

(What struck me when I started researching the family history was that both my grandfathers were born (and lived during their formative years) in the same street of Bungay! If they knew one another back then, I was never made aware of it.)

Percy Preston, with his wife Lilian

Percy was the first-born son of Percy Preston (senior) and Ellen May Jolly, born 29 September 1913. Better known to everyone as Pat, he was well known in the town for his participation in the Salvation Army Band, and, in his post-war years, for his job as Dust Collector in Bungay, and Café owner in Cross Street. Percy would open his doors for anybody in need of a cup of tea and a plate of bacon & eggs. Lorry drivers would detour off the main road to Bungay based solely on Percy’s goodwill reputation around the district.

Since researching the family history in-depth I have acquired Percy’s army records and set about meticulously researching each individual service he completed. What unravelled was a gallant and sometimes heart-wrenching story.

From his pre-war service in Dacca, India to his capture at Dunkirk in 1940, his years spent in a Prisoner of War Camp on the Polish borders to his rehabilitation in 1943, and finally to his Medical training at Aldershot and subsequent service with the Ambulance Trains in Epsom, county Surrey, Percy spent a total of 29 loyal years in the British Army.

My grandmother married two years after Percy had passed away. This is the grandfather I remember best of all, and spent the most amounts of quality time with. I remember him for all sorts of different things, such as his tobacco (Drum), his use of Blycream and Old Spice, his love of Westerns (especially John Wayne movies) and reading crime novels. He worked hard all his life, and was not afraid of getting ”stuck in” wherever he was needed.

Alf "Buster" Sampson, with my mother Denise

Alfred James Sampson was born 3 July 1926 in Mettingham, county Suffolk and was the first-born son of James Sampson and Alice Trett. James Sampson ran a farm in Mettingham and all of his sons helped out, and none were adverse to the hard graft. I have many happy childhood memories of Grandad digging and planting in the allotment patch that he lovingly kept. He was always outdoors, getting his hands (and his clothes!) dirty and muddy, and frequently getting wet!

At the beginning of this blog, I mentioned I had been to see a sad movie today. It was called ‘Red Dog’ and it tells the true story of a red Kelpie who travelled the length and breadth of North-West Western Australia (the Pilbara Region) in the 1970s. One place he called “home” from time to time was Dampier.

When my Grandad, better known to everyone who knew him as “Buster”, emigrated to Australia in 1978, he worked harder than ever. Taking on a job in Dampier, he would be away from the family home for weeks at a time. Dampier was a hot and unforgiving place, a mining town, and a man’s man territory. Alf seemed to fit right in, and he made many firm friends over the years.

I sorely wish I had known each one of my grandfather’s better. Growing up, I would say the females of the family were a stronger influence and presence in my daily life. My grandfathers taught me to remain quiet inside, to feel strongly about something but not to act out in a gregarious way or be driven by material possessions. Also, they each possessed a fabulous sense of humour, each one of them loving to share a good joke and have a hearty laugh. It may sound daft but I always associated the men in my childhood like the company BP – they were the “Quiet Achievers” in my life!

So I end this blog by saying “Happy Father’s Day” to my dear father and to the fondest memory of each one of my grandfather’s – Percy (Pat), Herbert, Frank and Alfred (Buster).

You are all missed and you are all loved. I hope this blog will do each one of you a small piece of justice.