Dost thou goest a Mothering?

It’s March 14th – it’s Sunday March 14th – the fourth Sunday in Lent. It’s the day that the Lenten dietary restrictions are relaxed in memory of the miraculous five loaves and two fishes – It’s Simnel cakes and violets - It’s Mothering Sunday; and I am peeved!!

I am English, my children are English, so why this fixation on the American upstart Mothers’ Day – rather than our ancient tradition of Mothering Sunday?

The memory of homage paid to mothers goes back into the mists of time in this country. Some say that its origins can be found in the Roman Spring festival honouring their Mother Goddess Cybele. It certainly occurs right in the beginning of spring, and there are a number of similar celebrations in honour of a number of similar spring goddesses throughout the world – (in fact Easter is a direct descendent of the Saxon Fertility Goddess Eostra),

But whatever the ancient origins were, with the spread of Christianity many of the pagan festivals were adopted and amended for the new culture and beliefs.

And so we see a new tradition developing, of pious Christians wending their way back to visit their mother church on this day in order to attend the Laetare Sunday Mass honouring the Virgin Mary. After the reformation a similar service was continued; bolstered by the epistle listed for the fourth Sunday in Lent, “Jerusalem which is above is free, which is Mother to us all” - Galatians 4.26.

The activities that grew out of this religious requirement also grew out of the conditions of the day. Many young people were hired out as farm workers or domestic servants, and their time was strictly limited. Deeming this day a holy-day with a duty to return to their home or ‘mother’ church also meant that they had the opportunity to visit their earthly mothers as well.

And like all children, they knew the value of bringing with them a small present for Mum!

Because so many young girls were in service it became traditional to bake the Simnel cake (simila being the Latin word meaning fine, wheaten flour from which it is made) with its rich topping of baked marzipan and eleven balls depicting the loyal apostles of Christ.

However, there may be an older version. My grandmother, raised in rural Yorkshire, always put twelve around the edges and one in the centre. This she told me was for the twelve months in a year- plus the one in the centre to remind us of who created us all. She was a Yorkshire Methodist and not given to flights of fancy.

However, my great-aunt – a recognised expert on English farm traditions – and (say it softly) suspected of being a witch, dismissed such claims of religious fervor. They were, she confidently stated, twelve around the edges to echo the months in the year – plus one in the centre for the mother goddess who ruled the turning of the wheel – and all together they made thirteen which added up to the yearly lunar cycle.

I was an idealistic child and liked my aunt. I believed accordingly.

Actually it matters not where it came from, what matters now is that we do not forget that our tradition of Mothering Sunday is much different from the American imposed one of making the shopkeepers richer in May.

Girls trotting home with Simnel cakes lodged in their baskets were joined by farm lads with bunches of violets clutched in their large hands. Small gifts, from the heart for mothers they had left behind. They would later return to their place of work with their mother’s blessing.

Robert Herrick was very familiar with the tradition of Mothering Sunday and of the Simnel cake.

I’ll to thee a Simnel bring

‘gainst thou goes a Mothering;

so that, when she blesseth thee

Half that blessing thou’lt give to me.

– Herrick : Hesperides 1647

And surely I cannot be the only one who remembers when flower sellers gathered the violets and bunched them up for children to give to mothers at only 6d a bunch?

So I’m peeved, because I have just phoned my son, and advised him of the long tradition of Mothering Sunday; – he tells me I’ll get my card in May.

But after about a thirty minute diatribe on the real traditions of Mothering Sunday he has promised to go out and look for a bunch of violets; however I am not hopeful!

And as the possibilities of getting the daughter to bake a Simnel cake are virtually non-existent I’m off to sulk.

However, I have put in my orders for next year; and they have promised ‘to goest a Mothering’ like the best of them.

Which is one small step in returning to our English heritage in our house again!!


Have YOU phoned your Mother yet?????

They’re racing at Kipplingcotes!

Do you fancy a bit of a gamble on the horses? Visiting Yorkshire in March? Well the first meeting for 2010 is not until the 14th May at York – but if you really want to go to where the action is – get out to Kipplingcotes on the 18th March where it’s all happening... again!

Forget Ascot – that’s only been going since 1711; Epsom Downs is a mere child, born in 1780 – but Kipplingcotes? Well that is a different matter; Kipplingcotes is THE King in the sport of Kings!

And where on earth is Kipplingcotes I hear you ask? Well it is classified as a ‘small hamlet’ close to Market Weighton (also spelled Wicstun by the purists) and is located in what I still refer to as the ‘East Riding of Yorkshire’.

It is also the home of the oldest horse race in England. Horses and riders competed against each other for the first time in 1519 – but for the life of me I cannot find out why! What caused the first intrepid horsemen to put themselves and their horses to the test in what can be the most contrary county for weather conditions in March

The reason seems lost in time; but today it is still a proud tradition, one that has been carried on throughout the passage of time - without fail. In fact there is a clause, dating back to the race’s endowment in 1669, that states if the race misses a year it can never be run again.

This has placed some pressure on the organisers in time past, such as 1947, when the weather was so bad that even the farmers of East Yorkshire were reluctant to put their horses to the test; - things were looking bad; when one local farmer took it upon himself to walk a solitary cart horse around the course, ensuring that the conditions of the endowment were met. They breed ‘em tough in Yorkshire!!

Like all races the Kipplingcote Derby has its own set of rules –so for anyone considering entering here are some details you may wish to know.

First; riders must weigh in at a minimum of ten stones (or whatever it is now – one hopes the race official follow tradition rather than new fangled changes) –but this excludes the saddle. Anyone who doesn’t use the flat English saddle is probably carrying too much weight.

And this can be important because horses can be of any age – as indeed can be riders. One of the most successful ‘jockeys’ is Ken Holmes of Cliffe near Selby, who is 78 this year. He last won the race in 2002 and holds the record with 10 wins.

However, I understand that while the winner gets £50, the second place receives the sum of the entry fees, which can often outweigh the first prize – so there truly is no shame in coming second in the Kipplingcotes Derby!!

The course itself is extremely challenging. Not for these hardy souls the boring flat green swards of Beverley and their ilk; no this course provide a true test of horse and rider.

Starting at the now defunct railway station it meanders along farm tracks and back lanes; and while there has been no jockey fatalities, sadly some horses have succumbed to the pressure and collapsed. Perhaps age may be a factor in that.

The winning post is near the Londesborough World farm, where most people gather to see the eager competitors heading for home.

There is an excellent record of the 2009 race here; it seems that even after almost 500 years the race is still going strong.

So if you want somewhere to go on March 18th this year; if you are fascinated by the bond between horse and rider – don’t bother with Ascot or Epsom, head straight for Kipplingcotes and the 491st running of the Kipplingcotes Derby.

But you had better take a flask of hot tea and ‘something’ with you, it gets a little chilly in March, and the facilities are a little basic. But it’s a great day out for all that.

Life, Death and Politics in Newark

This is an English Heritage blog, but there is no need to be insular so I have it on the best authority, (My maternal great aunt) that the courteous greeting to any Welsh man or woman today is “'n ddedwydd St Dafydd s Ddiwrnod”

I may not have the accent right but my heart’s in the right place!

So let’s go to visit Newark-on-Trent in the county of Nottinghamshire. I love Newark; it has a fabulous history which still feels so real and immediate, and is all around you as you wander through the streets.


And if you wander past the NatWest building you might glimpse a plaque mounted high upon the wall, which you probably won’t be able to read.

It marks the site of Hercules Clay’s residence in the seventeenth century, and a remarkable tale of ghostly warnings incredibly coming to pass.

Newark in the Civil War was defiantly for the King (and as I took my allegiance in this spat from The Children of the New Forest I raise my feathered hat to them!)

After Charles I raised his standard in Nottingham, the royalist town of Newark was first attacked in 1643 by the malignant forces of Parliament.  Dwelling in a rather grandiose house in Stodman Street, was one unlikely named Hercules Clay, a rich merchant and an Alderman of the town, - Hercules was a king’s man.

On the night of 11th March 1643 he had his first dream. He dreamed that his fine house was in flames and his family was in grave danger. He apparently awoke in fright, but probably considered this was just a bad dream and possibly due to a rather indigestible supper.

He settled down and went back to sleep when once again this vivid dream of fire and flames brought him wide awake. One can only imagine with what anxiety he settled down again, only to be woken once more from a frightful dream of fire, flame and destruction.

Hercules was a god-fearing man, and he took this as a divine warning and gathering his family together, they raced out of the house. As the family cleared the building a bomb, aimed by the Parliament forces and directed at the so-called Governor’s House right opposite, dropped short.

Crashing through the roof and exploding in a roar of flames the incredible dream of Hercules Clay came true. There in front of his eyes his home was destroyed by the fire and flame he had so prophetically dreamed about.

Hercules could tell a miracle when he saw one, and so he left two bequests to the town. The first was £100 to support a sermon to be preached in St Mary Magdalene Church, and a second £100, the interest from which was to provide penny loaves for the poor of Newark, so long as they had listened to the sermon!

The tradition still continues today – well the sermon does; the penny loaves no longer are provided as the money ran out (a sign of the times perhaps) and indeed, it was said that the unruly behaviour of the not-so-needy people of the town may have had something to do with it as well.

Having said that; it was whispered in my ear that the loaves are still distributed but only to the choristers present at the service to remember Alderman Hercules Clay and his remarkable escape. I offer that information for what it is worth, as I cannot corroborate it.

That was a story of Life - this is not.

In 1997 Fiona Jones of the Labour Party was elected to parliament for Newark; she became one of the so-called ‘Blair Babes’. The defeated LibDem candidate questioned her election expenses and accused her of fraudulently failing to declare the full amount. She was subsequently convicted of election fraud in 1999 and was the first MP to be disqualified from the House of Commons since 1883.

It was noted that Fiona began to drink heavily both at Westminster and, according to her husband, at home during this time of acute stress.

The conviction was overturned by the Court of Appeal and she triumphantly took her seat again in the House to the cheers of her colleagues, but alas the damage had been done. She lost her seat in 2001 and undertook a futile civil case against the police for malicious prosecution.

Tragically, she died on 28 January 2007 after a history of alcohol abuse – how much of that history was due to the events of her political career will probably never be truly known.

So Newark has one remarkable story of cheating death by Hercules Clay, an outcome of the political events of his time; and the tragic story of a wasted life – probably an outcome of the political events surrounding Fiona Jones.

Just two stories about Life, death and politics in Newark