The Spender Oath

Posted by barneyspender on August 18, 2018
Posted in: History, Spender. Tagged: , , , , . Leave a comment
edward spender

Edward Spender, founder of the Western Morning News and architect of a Journalistic Code

Hardly a day goes by without President Trump launching an attack on the press. Not just the individuals on the White House lawn but on the very concept of the freedom of the press. His persistent declarations of “fake news” and his insistence on “alternative facts” poison the mind of the public and weaken the pillars of an honest profession.

Over the years, there have, of course, been publications and individuals who have blurred the lines between newsman, rabble-rouser and gossip-monger. And the establishment of the internet as the primary news source for most people today has blown the industry wide open. Many people who are not journalists in the strict sense of the word now wrap themselves in the title as if grasping for a cloak of credibility.

Journalism is at a crossroads. I am an old hack, a journalist with 30 years chalked up on my inky sleeve. I look out wearily on a battlefield of broken oaths. How much more difficult and confusing for the youngsters coming into the trade, wondering what the hell they are supposed to do. Imagine the confusion among the medical profession if the President of the United States were to declare war on the Hypocratic Oath.

So, what should be the guiding principles?

Doubtless, every hack has come up with his or her own ideas about truth, honesty, integrity, balance and so on. I am lucky in that I can consult my family.

I never knew my great grandfather, he drowned with his two eldest sons in Whitsand Bay, Cornwall in the summer of 1878, 85 years before I was born.

The memorial in his honour that was erected overlooking Tregonhawke Bay has now been put up for listed status.

However, I can still tap into his his views on the profession that we both share.

Edward Spender was 26 when he set up the Western Morning News with his brother-in-law William Saunders. Published out of Plymouth and, with careful use of the railway timetables to make it the biggest newspaper in the south-west of England, the first issue appeared on January 3, 1860.

WMN First issueThe copy I have in front of me which only runs to four pages has blackened slightly along the creases, the result I am afraid of being stowed away for some years in a wooden box in Zimbabwe’s Eastern Highlands; but that is another story for another day.

The front page of the first issue is filled with small advertisements as was the custom. Fine Old Port and Sherry Wines are to be sold at auction at Skardon & Sons at Plymouth Commercial Showrooms that very day; the Newly-Invented Stereoscope (50 to 100 views) is for hire at WH Luke’s in Bedford Street (just up the road from the thump and grind of the presses of the Western Morning News); and Miss ME Grigg of 8 Crescent Place, Mulgrave Street “begs to state that she continues to give LESSONS in DRAWING”.

The rump of the News follows inside. The international news is headed by the French Emperor Napoleon’s reception of the diplomatic corps at the Salle de Trone while the Spaniards “displayed great bravery” under an attack by the Moors in the Morocco War.

The Police Intelligence section is particularly busy. Shoemaker Richard Joyce was charged with assaulting his wife and a police officer, the result it seems of a monster session of binge-drinking. Mrs Joyce doesn’t come out of this too well either: “The most disgusting language appeared to be common between them and they were in the habit of drinking together for days,” cites the report.

WMN First issue boySpare a thought for a couple of 10-year-old boys too. John Ridden was charged with stealing four penny puddings from the stall of Mrs Sarah Cundy in the market while Thomas Roberts was charged with pinching a magic lantern from the store of Mr Jonathan Herder in Buckwell Street before selling it to another boy for two pence. Both boys were imprisoned for seven days and whipped.

There is even a murder, 64-year-old man killing his wife and dumping her in her night clothes outside their own front door at Roche, near St Austell.

The first issue also has a Letters column, notably an account from Spectator of “barbarous cruelty” perpetrated by workers at Millbay Pier as they attempted to move a bullock “suspended by its horns from a crane!”

However, at the heart of this first issue of a newspaper which is still going strong almost 160 years later, and the item which rings particularly loud in this Trumpian Age of Alternative Facts, is the Editorial. Perhaps Mission Statement would be a better description.

It was written by my great grandfather who lays out the principles behind this new publication, including what might be seen as the principles of journalism. I won’t quote the whole thing but here is a section that all journalists, whether they are old hacks or young thrusters, would do well to consider and take to heart.

“In matters of Politics and Religion, we shall be strictly independent. We do not hold a brief for any party, in Church or State. The journalist should aim at a higher office than that of the advocate retained to defend a client, or to blacken an opponent. If he have a right idea of his vocation he will strive to be the impartial judge, rather than the ingenious but one-sided counsel. He will carefully seek to avoid the misrepresentations of motive and perversions of fact that too often disfigure the Press in its treatment of public men.

“But let it not be supposed that independence involves neutrality or silence. Although we have drawn up no confession of faith, we shall not be found wanting in the expression of opinions. Bound to no party, we shall have no hesitation in criticising any.

WMN edditorial

“We have heard it remarked that strict justice is impossible: that we must of necessity join one of the two great factions that rule the State and vex the Church. To us, however, it seems far more easy to write vigorously as well as truthfully, if allowed perfect freedom of speech, than if we were pledged by secret promises, and hampered by stringent contracts.

“Every inducement that can influence will concur in preventing us from giving any party indiscriminate support. We cannot honestly assert that the Conservative is always a selfish traitor , or the Liberal a generous hero. Neither can we endorse the dicta that “Providence is always on the side of the Tories” and that “the Devil was the first Whig and Cain the second.” Extreme opinions of this kind suppose a happy indifference to the facts of history, and the events of daily life, which we have not yet attained. It is not probably that we shall reach it just yet. In the meanwhile we hope to prove that there is both honesty and bravery in the ranks of Free Lances. We shall have equal liberty in discussing local matters as in dealing with matters of general importance. We shall have no interests to serve, nor classes to uphold, and thus we shall best advance all.

“Our columns will be open to the opinions of those who differ from us: and we shall ever be ready to give a fair hearing to our correspondents so long as they observe the good old knightly rule of Christian courtesy.

“Public speakers of whatever creed shall be faithfully reported. We have never yet found it happen that all the orators on one side are eloquent while those on the other side are fools. Wisdom and folly are generally fairly apportioned; and whether it is in the House of Commons or on the Platform correctness of thought and clearness of expression are, for the most part, equally shared by every section.

“We shall carefully exclude from our pages all such advertisements and criminal reports as are morally objectionable

“We have set before ourselves a high standard. Being but human, we shall no doubt often fall short of it. Nevertheless we believe that English men and women are always ready to forgive occasional failings , when they see the hearty desire manifested to serve the cause of truth with vigour and honesty.”

WMN insigniaHaving set up the Western Morning News, Edward Spender moved to London in 1863 where he and Saunders set up the Central Press agency in Hatton Gardens. He continued to contribute to the Western Morning News as well as numerous other publications and published a book Fjord, Isle and Tor in 1870.

After his tragic death in 1878, links to the Western Morning News continued in the family. Another brother-in-law Russell Rendle served as managing director, a role that Edward’s son Arthur Edmund, my grandfather, would also fill when he came of age.

Sadly it stopped after Arthur. When I applied for a place a rookie back in the 1980s, I was politely told there were no vacancies but that my details would be kept on hold. I am still waiting for the call to follow in the family footsteps.

Not really.

I do sometimes feel, though, that I was born in the wrong age. The dystopian Trumpian values, the crumbling of the Fourth Estate, the despicable phone-tapping antics of fellow hacks and the deliberate narrow lens of political chicanery all seem wrong. They make me question my own role as a journalist.

But the words of Edward Spender, written over 150 years ago, reiterate the power and nobility of a truly great profession. And, I suspect, a rather fine man.

©Barney Spender 2018

The Sale of the Century

Posted by barneyspender on February 22, 2018
Posted in: Culture, History, Spender. Tagged: , , , , . 1 Comment

The Roman Triumph by Peter Paul Rubens (National Gallery, London)

The guide at the National Gallery in London wasn’t entirely sure where I might find Rubens. She furrowed her brow and scratched her chin.

“Oh they have been messing about again,” she said. “They keep moving him. Last thing I knew he was in two rooms. Margaret?”

She summoned over her colleague who had been enjoying what can only be described as a quiet moment in her chair by the door of the neighbouring room where I had just moments before gazed on Titien’s Noli Me Tangere. To be fair it was a Sunday and the gallery was closing in the next 30 minutes.

Margaret sprang into action and bustled over to join us.

“Rubens? Oh what do you want him for, Judy? Can’t bear Rubens.”

“Can’t bear Rubens? Crikey. I love Rubens.”

“No,” said Margaret. “Very overrated. I wouldn’t want one on my wall, thank you very much.”

Fascinating though their debate was, I was feeling the feathery tickle of time. I also needed to find Domenichino’s Saint George Slaying the Dragon over in Room 37.

“Is he in 18 or 31? They split him up didn’t they,” said Judy, my original guide, wanting to emphasise her disgust at the gallery authorities.

“Oh no. That’s changed,” came back Margaret, brushing her fringe from her eyes. “He’s back in one room.”

“Is he? When did they do that?” Judy lowered her voice, tucked her chin into her neck like a courting pigeon and murmured in a conspiratorial manner worthy of Catesby and Fawkes.

The National Gallery in London, home to eight of Champernowne’s collection

“They do this. They get these nonsense ideas, move everything around and no one ever tells us anything. So we end up sending people to the wrong rooms. They never tell us anything.”

I nodded understandingly and was about to say “It was the same with the moon landings” when Margaret chimed in again.

“Which one is it you’re after?”

“It is called A Roman Triumph. It is a procession…”

“…with the elephants? And the lions and stuff?”

“Yes that sounds right.”

“Well why didn’t you say so. Room 18. Through this door here, down to the end, turn left and keep going.”

I thanked them both and began to move off.

“Why do you want to see that one in particular?” asked Judy who had been a touch sidelined by Margaret’s instant and efficient placement of the Rubens.

I stopped and wondered about how I should reply.

Pride or Humility?

“Oh erm family reasons I suppose….We used to own it.”

 

THE CHAMPERNOWNES OF DEEPEST DEVON

The Champernowne coat of arms at the time Sir Arthur moved the family into Dartington

When I say my family used to own the Rubens, or  Titian or Domenichino for that matter, I don’t mean the Spenders. They never had the wherewithal to scour the palaces and galleries of Europe and nor, I suspect, did they have the inclination to lay out the family capital on works of art.

The Spenders were about business; from tavern owners in Bradford-on-Avon to doctors and newspapermen. My great grandfather Edward Spender set up the Western Morning News in Plymouth; his nephew JA became a highly influential editor of the Westminster Gazette. JA’s brother Harold was a less distinguished journalist although his son Stephen would go on to establish the Spender name in the literary sphere.

But no. We are not talking about Spenders here; we are talking about the Champernowne family and that is because on April 26, 1906, Arthur Edmund Spender, who was also a newspaperman, married Helen Frances Champernowne. My grandparents.

According to my great aunt Bessie, who wrote a mighty tome on the family history, Burke (as in Burke’s Peerage) “introduced, the pedigree of Champernowne with the fanfare; “The family of Champernowne which, in splendour of descent, yields to few in the West of England…”

She continues: “And yet it is remarkable that in spite of their erstwhile vast possessions, they never seem to have aspired to any higher title than that of Knight, and we do not find them standing out in the pageantry of English History but continually identified with local interests and activities and thus forming part of the background “behind the scenes” of English history and local government, on which our country has been built up.”

Coming from Normandy – Thomas de Cambernon had lined up against Harold at the Battle of Hastings – they only established themselves in England after 1120 when Jordan de Cambernon of UmberIeigh married Mabira, the illegitimate daughter of Robert FitzRoy, the 1st Earl of Gloucester, himself the illegitimate son of Henry I.

The Champernownes were not all bastards though.

Arthur Champernowne, art collector and great great great grandfather of the author. Painted by William Brockedon, an artist he championed and pattronised.

They set up shop in Devon; in 1554 Sir Arthur Champernowne acquired Dartington Hall, where they proceeded to live the landed life quite happily. They married into all of the local nobility so the likes of Sir Walter Ralegh, Sir Humphrey Gilbert and, later, Sir Redvers Buller all pop up in the family tree.

So, fast forward to the late 18th century when a snot-nosed seven-year old called Arthur took over as lord of the manor.

This involved a little legal sleight of hand as his predecessor Rawlin had died without leaving an heir. Young Arthur was actually the son of the Reverend Richard Harington, the rector of Powderham Castle, but as his mother was Rawlin’s sister Jane, there was nothing that deed poll couldn’t fix.

In accordance with the will of his grandfather, he took the name and arms of Champernowne on May 3, 1774.

As Arthur grew up he became a sympathetic landlord and for a while represented the area in Parliament as the MP for Saltash. But his passion was art. He had a big estate in Devon and he wanted to use it to build one of the finest collections in Europe.

And he did.

I defer once again to my great aunt Bessie, known more formally as Elizabeth.

“Arthur Champernowne’s great interest lay in pictures and prints, his travels abroad, his drawings and sketch books, and also in his collection of minerals.

When seventeen years old he went on a tour with a companion whose name is not given; and in his diary he describes his visits to Stourhead, Fonthill, Wardour Castle, Wilton House and Longford Castle.

He mentions the Chinese or Roman temples in the gardens, describes the rooms with their dimensions, and lists all the splendid pictures.  Then on to Cambridge and South Wales; after which they crossed to Calais, and passing through Arras, Cambrai, Lille, Rheims, Strasburg and many other places which he describes, they came to Heidelberg and Frankfurt.

At Karlsruhe they introduced themselves at Court and dined with the Margrave, his Princess and the Princes.  The Margrave spoke English like an Englishman, “was very affable and quoted lines from Pope”.

He spent considerable sums over a period of years on pictures, of which he bought a good many at the Orleans sale in 1798.  Although he notes in the diary in 1795 that he would bind himself to twenty-five pictures that he might not lay out so much money in forming a capital collection, he probably spent more than his income would justify.”

Noli mi Tangere by Titian (National Gallery)

Arthur didn’t stint himself. The records show a long list of great works spinning their way to Devon.

The Memoirs of Painting by the art dealer William Buchanan, published in 1824, gives a catalogue of the collection, the names of purchasers and the prices realised, and mentions several bought by Champernowne including Titian’s Noli me Tangere and the Repose in Egypt and two by Rubens, A Roman Triumph and Rainbow Landscape, which he had from Buchanan in exchange for Guido’s Lot and his Daughters.

He also imported Agostino Carracci’s Baptism of Christ in Jordan and several of the finest pictures by Andrea del Sarto.

This is just the tip of the iceberg. One look at the catalogue of paintings in the Christie’s sale of June 30, 1820 which came almost a year after Arthur died, shows a Celebrity Who’s Who of Old Masters.

Alongside Titian, Domenichino and Rubens, sit Rafael, Rembrandt and Reynolds; Guido and Gainsborough; Caravaggio, Correggio and Carracci; Poussin, Murillo, Bassano and Van Dyke.

There is even a Leonardo de Vinci. The painting is described in the catalogue as “Virgin and child, painted with much sweetness of expression”. It sold to the Piazetta for 52 pounds and 10 shillings.

As it was, collecting art was a costly business and when Arthur died in 1819, he left his widow and eight children, one of whom was born after his death, with debts of almost 25,000 pounds. Hence the auction.

The sale, though, was not a great success as a lot of the paintings went for less than expected. The sale raised just over 6,187 pounds; the remainder of the debt was raised by selling the family estates in Cornwall and the London townhouse in Montague Square. It was the start of the inexorable decline of Dartington Hall which would be sold off just over a century later.

Adoration of the Shepherds by Murillo (Wallace Collection)

At the top end of the sale came Domenichino’s St George slaying the Dragon, the one to be found today in the National Gallery, which fetched 431 pounds and ten shillings. Murillo’s Adoration of the Shepherds, currently in the Wallace Collection, and Andrea del Sarto’s A Holy Family (“an elegant and finely coloured chef d’oevre” according to the catalogue) both sold for a pound less that St George.

The poet Samuel Rogers bought two Rubens, paying 341 pounds for The Roman Triumph (which would sell for 1102 pounds in 1856 after his death) and The Horrors of War for 162 pounds. Another of Champernowne’s old Rubens, the Rainbow Landscape also ended up with Rogers. It would fetch  4,550 pounds in 1856.

Today they would fetch millions.

 

BACK IN THE GALLERY

Domenichino’s St George slaying the Dragon (National Gallery)

I know, I know. Pride won over Humility. Not attractive but it remained as I gazed on each of the three paintings.

I am not sure I was looking at them properly though, not as works of Titian, Domenichino and Rubens but rather as paintings that had once graced the walls of the family. These were paintings picked out and cherished by my great great great great grandfather, Arthur Champernowne.

I wondered about this man and his family whose blood I share. Would we also share the same values?

Had he looked deeply, as I did, into the luscious red folds of Mary Magdelene’s cloak? Or run his fingers, as I most definitely didn’t, down the frames? I wondered what had stopped his eye, what had raised a smile.

Hell, what is six generations and 200 years? For a few minutes the two of us had shared a moment.

And that, strangely, is quite humbling.

©Barney Spender 2018

The Uncomfortable Promise of Veganuary

Posted by barneyspender on January 14, 2018
Posted in: Dryathlon 2013, Vegan. Tagged: , , , , , . Leave a comment

VeganuaryA few years ago I took the pledge and did the Dryathlon in January. It seemed like a good idea unless you were a brewer or local café owner.

It wasn’t about faith or belief or ethics; it was just a way of giving up the grog for a while, allowing my body to flush out some of the toxins it had built up during the previous 12 months and my liver to begin its process of self-restoration. It helped me to start running again, losing a bit of weight in the process.

No arguments were involved; to be honest no one was remotely interested apart from myself.

That was then. Now, though, in 2018 the landscape appears to have changed.

It seems now that giving up the grog isn’t enough; you have to do Veganuary. This is actually the name of an organisation that promotes the benefits of going vegan; for the environment that you don’t threaten, for your body which you don’t harm for the animals that you don’t destroy. Three good reasons to do it.

If you go to the veganuary.com there is plenty of useful information about the merits of veganism, ie where do vegans get their protein? Answer: everywhere.

jamie-oliver-1001x640And it looks as though plenty of people are giving it a crack. According to veganfirst.com around 150,000 people have signed up while tv chef Jamie Oliver (pictured left) has been tweeting vegan meals to his 7m followers.

On the face of it this is a very exciting time for vegans. Instead of being laughed into a corner they are moving into the mainstream. The Spread Eagle in Homerton has just ruined many vegans’ Dryathlon by opening up as the first totally vegan pub in London. And in the suburbs outside Paris, vegan products are appearing on the supermarket shelves. Sacre bleu, this is France, the land of frogs’ legs, pigs’ trotters and all manner of spleen and gizzards drenched in a thick, creamy sauce. The times, they are certainly a’changin’.

But (and this is a “But” delivered with furrowed brow and uneasy hand on the keyboard) the hype around Veganuary makes me uncomfortable.

WHY ON EARTH ARE YOU CONCERNED? 

Well, when I did dry January I dreamt of February 1. I wasn’t giving up the booze to see if I could go tea-total, I was counting down the days until I could pull the ring on a tin of beer or uncork a half-decent bottle of red. It was a chore. A challenge. One that I knew was good for me but one which I resented.

My concern is that Veganuary will have the same effect on all the well-intentioned people who give it a go. Resentment.

They will grit their teeth to get through the month and then celebrate the end of the month by tucking into the biggest steak they can find. My rather unpleasant cynical self says they will then proceed to bore people over the years to come with the line: ”I went vegan for a month and their food is appalling”. Or words to that effect. Temporary convert equals lifelong expert.

Of course, I shouldn’t reduce everyone else to my low level. I am sure there are plenty of people out there for whom this will be the first step in the journey and I applaud them.

I just wonder, though, whether it could do more damage than good.

The point about veganism is that it is more than just a diet; it is a way of life. Some people connect with it instantly, for others it can take a little longer. I was vegetarian for 20 years before I became a vegan. I was lucky because my entire family had already made the move; I was the last to shake off the cheese addiction.

That family unity (we argue about pretty much everything else) led us all to examine different aspects of our daily lives. The fridge was the natural first stop. That meant longer in the shops checking the ingredients on various foods; bad news for the kids in the sweets aisle.

Then there was the wardrobe – out went wool and, obviously, leather – and the bathroom which involved lengthy searches for cruelty-free products. Remember that although some companies may claim to be cruelty-free in Europe all bathroom and beauty products sold into China have to be tested on animals. Hence a company like L’Oreal is not cruelty-free.

Vegan BaileysYou may even have to keep an eye on the booze cabinet:  for many vegans Christmas 2017 was a special time as they were able at last to nestle down in front of the fire with a bottle of Baileys Irish Cream – made with almond milk.

MORE THAN JUST A DIET

Going vegan really does become a mindset. Once you have made the intellectual decision to go down that route then there really isn’t any turning back; February 1 does not exist.

There is no hardship involved in this decision. It is just the way it is. Once I had learnt more about the abuse of the cow (and the male calf) in the cheese-making process, Stilton stopped tasting of Christmas. It tasted of death instead.

Yes there is the environment and the health of the individual human but – please forgive me if this is stating the obvious – veganism is first and foremost about animal welfare.

If a person isn’t interested in that then there is little chance they will ever want to adopt a vegan lifestyle. Why should they?

This is not to say that many omnivores don’t care about animals. Of course they do. Many people have cats and dogs and goldfish in their homes; others stable horses. And in spite of what a lot of vegans say there are farmers out there who care about the cows, sheep, pigs, chickens and turkeys that they tend – at least up until the point that they are put to death.

earthlingsFrom this group there will undoubtedly be a percentage who want to explore the full vegan lifestyle. And that is great. That is the future. That is the process by which we will continue to see a rise in veganism to the point that one day, yes, we will be able to lose certain farming abuses (beginning I hope with the truly despicable French “delicacy” foie gras).

It would be wonderful if the 150,000 people who signed up for Veganuary didn’t just eat vegan but actually learnt about the ethics of veganism. How about all of them taking 90 minutes out of their life to watch the Joaquim Phoenix-narrated documentary Earthlings?

I hope this doesn’t sound as though I am trying to turn people away from trying veganism. I am not.

I am just concerned that Veganuary is rather like Vegan Light. And if that is anything like any of the Light beers that I may have tasted over the years, then it won’t be very good. And it won’t last. And that will be a shame.

Not least for the animals.

©Barney Spender 2018

Living in the fast lanes of Le Mans

Posted by barneyspender on June 16, 2017
Posted in: France, Sport. Tagged: , , , , . Leave a comment
photo_pescarolo_2_510x791

Henri Pescarolo firsr raced at Le Mans in 1966; he would be ever-present as either driver or team owner until 2013

Speed is a drug. It is a high that gives you a sustained rush of adrenalin, takes you to the edge of mortality. Colours are clearer, sounds more intense, reflexes sharper than a crime writer’s quill. Like any drug, it is addictive.

It has certainly ruled Henri Pescarolo’s life. As a driver, as a team owner, as a man.

The 74-year-old Frenchman, a four-time winner of Le Mans, was just a kid in short trousers when he got his first hit. No really, just a kid.

“I always wanted to drive ever since I can remember,” he told me some years ago when I interviewed him for the French newspaper Connexion.

“I was, erm, eight when I first got behind the wheel of a car. It was my mother’s car. I had watched how it was done and decided to take it for a drive. It was easy as I had long legs.

“And when I could drive, I wanted to drive fast. My great ambition was to be Formula One world champion.”

That first outing behind the wheel was in 1950 when Juan Fangio was tearing up the tracks in a way that was never repeated until Michael Schumacher came along almost half a century later.

lemans84

Henri Pescarolo’s fourth and final Le Mans victory in 1984

In between times, Pescarolo made his name on the race circuits of the world. He didn’t make his name in Formula One – although he enjoyed some good moments during his 64 Grand Prix – but in the most famous race in the world, the 24 hours of Le Mans.

Pescarolo was not meant to be a racing driver. His father was a doctor and the son followed suit, heading off to medical school.

In his third year, however, the magazine Sport Auto announced a series of races for Lotus Sevens. Ten thousand drivers applied to race, 19 were chosen. Including Pescarolo.

He won the first race but with the likes of Johnny Servoz-Gavin, Patrick Depailler and Jimmy Mieusset also vying for the chequered flag, the competition was stiff.

Mieusset won the series but Pescarolo had seen enough and learnt enough to drop his studies and become a full-time driver. He moved in to Formula 3 with the Matra team and after seeing Servoz-Gavin win the title followed up in 1967 by winning it himself.

Matra was to be a key part of his racing life as he drove for the team in Formula 2 and Formula 1 as well as in the sports cars.

His first trip to Le Mans came in a Matra in 1966. He didn’t win but it left an indelible memory.

“The first time was truly impressive but terrifying as well,” he says.

“The speeds these cars were doing…I didn’t know the car that well which was a problem as was the fact we were driving at night and I didn’t know the circuit. We were going at crazy speeds, it was fast and dangerous.”

matra-640

The Matra 640: aerodynamic and almost fatal

Fast enough and dangerous enough to see Pescarolo go on to compete in the race 33 times, more than anyone else, his last race as a driver in 1999 at the age of 57.

“Le Mans is the most important race in the world, it is the greatest prize in motor racing,” says Pescarolo.

The first triumph didn’t come until 1972 by which stage he should probably have been dead.

The main problem with any drug, including speed, is the danger. Motor racing is a lot safer today than it has ever been but the list of drivers who died on the track reads like a roll of honour. And it wasn’t just the drivers. In 1955, more than 80 spectators died when Pierre Levegh ploughed through the fencing.

Pescarolo’s big scrape came in 1969 when he was testing the Matra 640 on a long stretch of straight road.

“The 640 was a very fine car but it had a small aerodynamic problem.

“There was a little bump in the road which meant many cars jump…we took off. We were going 240 or 250 kilometres an hour. That is the take-off speed for a Boeing 747 so a 600 kilo car can take off as well. We flew. It landed in the trees on edge of the circuit where it exploded.

Pescarolo accident

The remains of Pescarolo’s Matra

“After that it was just instinct for survival. I don’t know how I got out, I just found myself out if it.

“I have had a very lucky career. If I add up all the accidents I had then I should have been dead an awful long time ago.”

Pescarolo didn’t get away scot-free, though. Bones were broken, his face scarred by fire. Since then he has worn a beard to cover up, one of the few on the racing scene to do so.

pescarolo 24 h

Henri Pescarolo (right) and Graham Hill celebrate their Le Mans victory

His first victory at Le Mans came in 1972 at the wheel of a Matra Simca 670 and partnered by one of the sport’s biggest names, Graham Hill.

“He was already a hero of mine. He was a double Formula One world champion.

“But when he was proposed to me as a co-driver I was not so sure about him. Why did he want to do it? At Le Mans you often get fog or rain, you drive in the night…and I was not sure if he would be prepared to take risks.

“But I was wrong. He was extraordinary, a brilliant driver and he was also a wonderful man. Very down to earth, no airs and graces. He was a champion and I was a beginner but he was what the French call ‘un vrai seigneur’. I am very sorry that I ever doubted his motivation.”

Pescarolo then wrote his name into the Le Mans record books by winning the next two editions with Gerard Larrouse as his co-driver, becoming only the third man after Woolf Barnato (1928-30) and Olivier Gendebien (1960-62) to win three in a row.

For good measure he returned to the winner’s enclosure in 1984 as co-driver to Klaus Ludwig in the Porsche 956 of Joest Racing.

Pescarolo Monaco 70

On his way to 3rd place in the 1970 Monaco Grand Prix

Pescarolo’s career didn’t stop at Le Mans. On the F1 circuit he competed in 64 Grand Prix between 1968, when Hill was crowned champion, and 1976. The highlight was undoubtedly his third place in the Monaco Grand Prix of 1970.

He enjoyed 22 major victories in sports car racing including the Daytona 24 Hours in 1991.

After stepping down as a driver in 1999 at Le Mans he set up his own team which twice came second and once third before he finally retired from racing in 2013. In recent years he has leant his voice to the Eurosport commentary although this year, 51 years after his first race at the circuit, he won’t be there. Failing health means he has decided to stay away.

The pit lanes, the stands, the corridors simply won’t be the same.

LE MANS

McQueenThe 24 Hours of Le Mans started in 1923 on the streets of the French town of Le Mans, the idea being to see who could drive furthest in 24 hours. Because of the Second World War, there was no race in 1940 and it went quiet until 1949.

At that time the race still had its famous running start when the drivers had to charge for their cars on two legs before hopping in, starting up and setting off on four wheels.

That was stopped after a series of safety issues led to Jackie Ickx going on a one-man protest in 1969, walking to his car, fastening his safety belt, checking his mirrors, indicating and pulling away. Ok, so he didn’t have indicators but you get the idea. The Belgian was the last to get going but still came through to win the race at his first attempt. He went on to win another five times.

Ickx’s six wins, however, leaves him only second in the roll of Le Mans winners, chewing the dust of the remarkable Dane Tom Kristenson who chalked up nine victories between 1997 and 2013, including six in succession.

In past teams were made up of two drivers but these days it is three. The distance covered is over 5,000 kilometres.

In 1971, the race spawned a classic movie called Le Mans, starring Steve McQueen (above) whose character Michael Delaney comes over all Confucius when asked to explain the appeal of motor racing.

“Lotta people go through life doing things badly,” he says. “Racing’s important to men who do it well. When you’re racing, it’s life. Anything that happens before or after is just waiting.”

©Barney Spender 2017

Follow me on Twitter @bspender

A version of this article first appeared in Connexion in June 2011.

The Corbeil Crash of ’44

Posted by barneyspender on June 7, 2017
Posted in: France, History. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

Halifax CeremonyAt six o’clock in the evening on June 8, a small crowd gathers by a wall in the small French town of Corbeil-Essonnes.

It is a fairly non-descript town, once a giant of the paper industry, now largely a dormitory town for Paris. It can boast some aesthetic architecture and a pleasing situation, cradled as it is along the banks of two rivers, the Seine and Essonne, some 30 kilometres south-east of Paris.

As walls go this one, notwithstanding the plaque, is also pretty non-descript; about six feet high; a mix of stone and concrete; grey.

On one side of the wall is rue Gournay, a small road that leads from my own house about three minutes away to a main road which back in 1944, the year when this road pencilled its name into the footnotes of the history books, used to be the edge of town.

On the other side of the wall is a garden, abundant greenery.

A couple of weeks ago, when I was out running, I stopped to talk to the owner of the house as he was taking in his groceries.

“What is behind the wall?” I asked.

“Just the garden,” he replied.

“No crater? No sign of what happened?”

“Non. Just the garden.”

No hint of history apart from the plaque.

The small crowd, almost entirely made up of local people, gathers by the wall to pay tribute to a group of seven young men, Canadians and Britons who perished on this spot in the early hours of June 8, 1944.

 

THE PLAQUE

Halifax plaqueIf the wall is non-descript, then so to an extent is the plaque; a grey slab with a few lines etched in black. But in those lines lies a story of bravery and sorrow. It tells the story of an aeroplane shot down and seven families mourning their dead.

The plaque, which was positioned on the wall in 1984 to mark the 40th anniversary of the incident, marks just one of the many small stories that make-up the whole of the Second World War.

The lack of names lends an air of Everyman to the drama; these could have been anyone’s sons, brothers, boyfriends, fiancés, perhaps even fathers or uncles.

But what was the tale behind the plaque? Who were these seven men whose lives ended together in a desperate smokey spiral one summer’s night over 70 years ago?

Well, I am not going to lie to you: I don’t know. Not exactly. Not as much as I would like. But thanks to the help of a local historian and various notes from the local mairie, this is what I can tell you about the Corbeil crash.

 

HALIFAX MZ568 EY-E

Halifax MZ568 EY-E

Halifax MZ568 EY-E on its way to Juvisy on June 8 1944, just a few hours before it was shot down. (Copyright unknown)

The seven men were the crew of Halifax MZ568 EY-E, a four-engined heavy bomber which was a part of the RAF’s 78 Squadron.

The squadron had been formed in 1916 as a part of the Royal Flying Corps. The badge shows a rampant tiger and the motto: Nemo non paratus.

In English that means Nobody Unprepared and was an apt description for a squadron that was constantly being sent into the teeth of battle.

At the start of the war the peripatetic squadron (it seemed to move base every six months or so) was flying  Armstrong Whitworth Whitley night bombers.

In September 1941 they flew their first bombing raid over Berlin. The following March they switched to Handley Page Halifax bombers, contributing 22 planes to the first 1000 bomber raid on Cologne in May 1942.

Just over a year later, in June 1943, they moved from Linton-on-Ouse to Breighton in Yorkshire.

That was to be the makeshift home of the seven-man crew of MZ568 EY-E until the evening of June 7, 1944, the day they set off for France on Operation Record Book to bomb the key railway junctions at Massy and Juvisy, just south of Paris.

 

THE CREW

LeonardGold1

Flying Officer Leonard Gold (Picture: Canadian Jewish Network Heritage)

The crew was a mix of Empire. Two Canadians, a Scotsman and four Englishmen; two of them from Lancashire, one of the others from Lincolnshire.

The Canadians were in charge. Pilot John Cole and navigator Leonard Gold were both from the RCAF. Not much is known about Cole at the moment other than his identity number (J/25897) but we know that Gold came from a Jewish family and grew up in Edmonton, Alberta.

He enlisted in the air force in August 1942 and after training at Saskatoon, Dafoe and the No. 2 Air Observers School at Edmonton, went overseas in 1943.

His three brothers also enlisted; Harold joined the RCNVR. while Jack and Charles both went into the army.

As far as we know Leonard was one of the two men in the crew to be married. Perhaps Margaret Ellinor, seated on a picnic rug, looking up at her young husband,  took the photo above which shows him smiling down shyly. Was this their fond farewell?

Born on May 26, 1917, Gold turned 27 just two weeks before that final mission. His job was to get the Halifax to its target and then get the crew home again.

The other married man in the crew was 24 year-old Sergeant George Cribbin, the air bomber, who had tied the knot with Elizabeth Girvan. Cribbin is listed as coming from Ashton in Lancashire but whether that is Ashton-under-Lyne or Ashton in Makerfield is not entirely certain. His name doesn’t appear to be listed on the Ashton-under-Lyne war memorial.

Thomas Bisset

Flight Lieutenant Thomas Bisset (centre) with two of his brothers who also enlisted.

Flight-Lieutenant Thomas Bisset, who was the plane’s radio operator, was gazetted on May 1, 1942, one of three brothers to enlist.

This Bisset family is listed as coming from the Scottish harbour village of Cellardyke in Fifeshire but a couple of hundred years earlier they may have been settled in neighbouring Perthshire. No doubt young Thomas would have been schooled in the daring adventures of his 18th century namesake and very likely ancestor who was a close cadre of the explorer Captain Cook; indeed Thomas Bisset Snr was Master of Cook’s ship HMS Eagle. His son James went on to become a Rear-Admiral.

Anstruther_war_memorial

Anstruther War Memorial: Thomas Bisset is the first name on the RAF entries

Young Thomas’ parents Shepherd and Williamina, who may have insisted on her family name Watters being included in his forenames, are buried in Anstruther. Their tombstone carries an inscription for Thomas too. And his name appears on the Anstruther war memorial.

Sergeant Harry Tattler was the son of David and Libby and grew up in the mill town of Bolton in Lancashire, where he is remembered in two different churches: Saviour’s and Emmanuel. One of the gunners, he was just 20 when the Halifax came down in Corbeil.

The other gunner was 19 year-old Sergeant Terence Newman from Cleethorpes in Lincolnshire while Sergeant Dennis Balmforth, something of a mystery, makes up the crew. Balmforth was the mechanic, the man who would fly the plane if something had happened to the pilot Cole.

 

THE MISSION

Juvisy bombs

Aerial view of the bombing in Juvisy in April 1944 (Picture: Imperial War Museum)

Operation Record Book took place the day after D-Day. With Allied forces ramped up on the Normandy beaches, it was vital to cut off the German lines of supply and reinforcement. And that meant hitting the railways, notably the main junctions of Achères, Massy, Versailles and Juvisy-sur-Orge.

Just a couple of months before, Juvisy had seemingly been devastated by an RAF raid (see picture right) but the damage had largely been fixed and the trains needed to be stopped once more.

And so on the evening of Wednesday June 7, 1944, at 22:52 local time, John Cole took MZ568 EY-E down the runway at Breighton, one of 337 aircraft that set off from their different bases in Britain to attack the railway hubs. Of these there were 195 Halifaxes, 122 Lancasters and 20 Mosquitos.

It was about a two-hour flight from Breighton to the target. Unlike the previous evening, the night was clear. This was good for precise bombing but not so good in terms of becoming an easier target for enemy flak and the German night fighters who caused plenty of damage themselves that night, bringing down 17 Lancasters and 11 Halifaxes.

Just after midnight local time, the alarms sounded in Juvisy with the bombardment starting a few minutes later. The official report the following day says that the Paris-Orleans train line was cut while two major roads were destroyed in the neighbouring town of Athis-Mons where there were ten civilian deaths.

halifax 2

Taking off from Breighton for the last time

What happened that night within MZ568 EY-E and in the airspace around them will remain forever a matter of guesswork. That they dropped their payload is certain as there was no munitions explosion upon impact although whether this was over the target before they were hit or an emergency jettisoning after they were hit is conjecture.

Nor can we say for sure what it was that hit them. The Germans had just one anti aircraft defence set up in the region near the aerodrome of Orly so it is highly possible that Cole and his crew were caught in the sights of a night-fighter, perhaps that of Oberlieutenant Jakob Schaus who brought down two Allied bombers that night.

What we do know is that around half past midnight, MZ568 EY-E was hit and damaged severely. Was Cole still alive and desperately trying to keep the plane under control or had he been hit? Was Balmforth trying to take over?

With smoke billowing, they hurtled towards the ground. The situation of the crash site suggests that perhaps (so much conjecture in this story) they had followed the river Seine south from Juvisy and then cut inland slightly to attempt a crash landing in the fields which adjoined their eventual crash site.

 

THE CRASH

crash letter1

The first report on the crash claimed it was an American fighter and the pilot escaped (Pic: Ville de Corbeil-Essonnes)

This was no bellyflop of hope, though. The Halifax came spiralling nose down into the ground, destroying the house that stood at 2 rue Gournay, creating a massive crater and a fireball that would render the crew almost unrecognisable.

Fortunately, the occupants of the house had taken cover during the air raid in a shelter across the road. shaken for sure by the loss of their house but alive.

While the fire service tried to douse the flames, the Red Cross were kept back by German forces until the air raid had ended. The area was cordoned off as the Germans began a search for possible survivors, airmen who had parachuted to safety.

Once the site was secured and the flames put out, the search began in the crater itself which was several metres deep.

The damage to the plane was so severe that not only was it difficult to identify the bodies of the crew but the identity of the plane itself. The report the following day by Monsieur Louis (above), Corbeil’s director of civil defence says that the plane was an American fighter and that the pilot probably ejected.

At five o’clock on Thursday morning the first bodies were recovered, those of Cole and Balmforth, both decapitated, the bodies crushed against the control panels. Shortly afterwards two more bodies were pulled out and then two more. All of them were terribly mutilated, to the point that it was difficult to tell how many bodies there were.

rapport mairie Courances 1

The second report clarified the identity of the plane but points to just six bodies. (Pic: Ville de Corbeil-Essonnes)

The young team of civilian workers laid the bodies side by side and then began the macabre task of matching the parts.

At dawn the search was suspended and the corpses left under the watch of a German soldier. A second report from Monsieur Louis (right) clarified the situation explaining that six corpses had been taken from the wreckage.

The Germans took no chances. They didn’t want the crash site to become a memorial and they didn’t want the crew to become martyrs for the people of Corbeil. Hence, the six bodies that they had found – Cole, Balmforth, Bisset, Newman, Tattler and Cribbin – were taken to the cemetry in Courances, some 20 kilometres away, and buried with military honours.

It wasn’t until the Friday morning that the search began for the seventh member of the crew.

The local priest, Father Tourneur, was on his way back from the hospital where he had been celebrating Mass when he stopped by the crash site for a moment of prayer. As he stood there, he became aware of a peculiar smell and wondered if there was still a body inside the burned out shell.

IMG_0604[1]

Leonard Gold was laid to rest in a section of war graves in the Tartarets Cemetry in Corbeil-Essonnes (Pic: Barney Spender)

He called up the local Scouts and they began the search anew, first picking through the charred remains of the house and then in the debris of the plane.

And there they found Leonard Gold, the navigator from Edmonton, in position below the pilot, hidden deep in the crater.

Perhaps it was Father Tourneur who persuaded the Germans to allow Gold to be buried in Corbeil itself. He rests among many French servicemen and women in the cemetry of the Tartarets.

 

JUNE 8

The crowd gathers at the plaque. If we are lucky there will be no cars parked directly in front of the memorial. Words of tribute will be spoken and from a car sound system will be played the national anthems of France, Britain and Canada. There will be a minute’s silence.

Afterwards we repair to a neighbour’s garden for a glass of wine to remember the seven young men whose lives were extinguished in a non-descript corner of our non-descript town.

Merci messieurs. Reposez en paix.

IMG_0589[1]

Six of the crew lie together in the cemetry at Courances (Pic: Barney Spender)

The crew of MZ568 EY-E

Flying Officer John Arthur Cole (RCAF): Pilot ID: J/25897
Flying Officer Leonard Gold (RCAF): Navigator ID: J/6287
Flight Lieutenant Thomas Neish Watters Bisset: Wireless Operator ID: 121430
Sergeant Dennis Balmforth: Air Engineer ID: 1591013
Sergeant George Norman Cribbin: Air Bomber ID: 1474210
Sergeant Harry Tattler: Air Gunner ID: 2210154
Sergeant Terence Newman: Air Gunner ID: 2202209

©Barney Spender 2017

Follow me on Twitter @bspender

I am indebted to several sources for the information in this story, notably Michel Duparet who has made a large amount of material available including Un Halifax à Corbeil by Jacques Ganz and Jérome Leblanc. I would also like to thank the Mairie at Corbeil-Essonnes and the citizens of France who still honour not just these airmen every year but all of those from Britain and the Empire for the part they played in the Liberation of France. 

 

 

 

 

Dalkey Tale: My Mother and Michael Collins

Posted by barneyspender on February 18, 2017
Posted in: Dublin, History, Ireland, Spender. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , . 5 Comments
The baby born in battle: Veronica with her mother Dorothea. (Cookson family archive)

The baby born in battle: Veronica with her mother Dorothea. (Cookson family archive)

My mother was born in the middle of a gun battle. A cold January night at the height of the Irish Civil War; the republican knives forged in the furnace of the Easter Rising and dipped in the blood of Michael Collins himself.

According to family legend, Collins played his part in keeping my grandparents alive.

My grandfather Reginald Cookson had returned from the trenches of the Somme in October 1916 with one eye fewer than when he had set out.

His reward once he had recovered sufficiently from his wounds was a posting to Dublin. Second-lieutenant in the Royal West Kents when he was machine gunned in the heavy turnip fields of Warlencourt, he was now a Lieutenant in the Machine Gun Corps.

At the end of the First World War, he decided to stay in Dublin and train as a doctor at the Royal College of Surgeons. The wedding photographs of Reginald and his bride Dorothea Glen in October 1919 show him still in uniform. Undoubtedly he remained close to the army world. He would have heard about the appalling massacre at Croke Park in 1920 but he played no part.

His life now centred on learning how to save lives rather than take them.

Second Lieutenant RG Cookson in May 1916 (Spender family collection)

Second Lieutenant Reginald Cookson in May 1916 (Cookson family collection)

For the republicans this was a paradox. Another was his conversion to Catholicism, along with Dorothea, not long after they were married. This didn’t pose too many problems on Reginald’s English side of the family but for Dorothea it was a crisis.

Her father was the Church of Ireland vicar in Pomeroy, a protestant outpost in the largely Catholic county of Tyrone. The family wasn’t impressed although the fact that her sister Eileen was already married to RM Gwynn may have played a part in this tale.

Gwynn was a professor and future vice-provost of Trinity College, Dublin. And he was also key in setting up the Irish Citizen Army which would make their stand at the GPO at Easter 1916.

On the morning of 21 November, 1920 came the purge, as 14 British officers, suspected by the republicans of being intelligence or spies, were taken out in one swoop across the city.

The week before, Reginald and Dorothea had left their rented address in Merrion Square. It may have saved their lives.

sorrento-tceHe had found a residence in Dalkey, just outside Dublin; a handsome storied house which looked out across the Irish Sea. These days it is a much-sought after address, the preserve of rock stars and racing drivers. My grandparents moved in to 6 Sorrento Terrace (left).

The suspicions remained.

“It was all rather beastly,” said Veronica many years later as she recounted the tales told to her by Reginald and Dorothea.

“There would be this rat-a-tat-tat on the door and then they would shoot through the letter box. It was a lousy trick. Fortunately they never hit anybody. They were rotten shots.

“There was one time when they pushed a little coffin through the letter box.”

For Reginald, this was beyond the pale. Since getting married, they had already had one child Mary, born in 1921, and Dorothea was now expecting number two.

“Well it was rather annoying,” Veronica would explain in typical understatement. “So he thought he had better try and put a stop to it.”

cookson-wedding

Reginald and Dorothea on their wedding day (Cookson family archive)

And so Reginald made inquiries. As a young doctor he would often be summoned to make calls in the villages of County Dublin. He surreptitiously asked his patients if they knew how he could get a message to Michael Collins whom he trusted more than Eamonn de Valera.

It seems somebody whispered an address in his ear. Perhaps it was a patient, “Docker” Mullins maybe – that was what we were always led to believe – or perhaps it was Gwynn, the cultured Trinity man with the ear of Collins.

So, one Sunday morning after Mass he put on his bicycle clips and pedalled out to the Dublin mountains. There is no note of exactly where he went that day or how long it took him, but he kept on peddling, kept on climbing until he reached a certain whitewashed house. More of a cottage, really.

dublin-mountain

Into the Dublin mountains

The doors were closed, the windows shuttered, there was no smoke edging out of the chimney. He wondered first if he had got the right house and then if his patient had set him up for an ambush. He became concerned and banged on the door. There was no answer. He banged again, this time harder. Again, there was no response. Becoming increasingly concerned, he hammered the door with his fist one last time. It was locked and bolted.

He bent down and put on his clips and then made for his bike. As he was climbing on to the saddle, a shutter in an upstairs window creaked open and an elderly woman pushed her nose through. He couldn’t make her out as she had a shawl drawn over her head.

“What is it you’re after with all that banging?” she shouted down.

He hesitated as another window opened just a couple of inches. He couldn’t see a face but later he told Veronica that he thought he saw the barrel of a rifle.

He took a breath and turned back to the old woman.

“I just want to send a message to Michael Collins. Docker told me to come.”

“Docker Mullins is it?”

Reginald nodded.

“It is.”

A pause as the old lady’s nose disappeared for a moment.

“Well, you have wasted your time. There’s no Michael Collins here. Nor Parnell neither. So you can’t see him. Or Parnell.”

michael-collins

The Big Fella: Michael Collins

It was frustrating but Reginald wasn’t prepared to leave it at that. He hadn’t ridden all morning up into the mountains for nothing. His young family was at risk.

“I don’t need to see Mr Collins,” he said. “I just need to get a message to him. It’s important. My family is in danger and I need it to stop.”

Another pause as the old lady backed away again from the window into the shadows of the upstairs room.

Reginald began to weigh up his options once more, not just for the next five minutes but for the next five years; maybe longer. With thumb and forefinger he gently smoothed his moustache, felt rising stubble on his chin. To stay in Ireland, where Dorothea felt most at home, or take off for England? It was undoubtedly safer in England and there was also more chance he could land a good practice.

His thoughts, though, were interrupted as the old woman appeared again.

“What is it you’re after saying in this message of yours? I am not promising it will get delivered but if Mr Collins was here listening to you, what would you be telling him?”

Reginald told his story. Short and to the point. Yes, he had served with the British in the Somme, he explained, but that was over. He had had enough of war. He was a student doctor and wanted to help people, all people. He explained about his conversion to Catholicism, his young family, the coffin and the gunshots through the letter box.

“If Mr Collins were here I would ask him to do something to stop these unwarranted attacks.”

“And where is it you’re living?”

As he called out the Dalkey address, he noticed the second window, the one where he thought he had seen a gun, close. The woman looked down on him.

“Very well. I will see what we can do. But like I said, no promises. Now get off with you. It’s getting dark and you’ve a way to travel on that contraption. God bless you.”

And with that the window closed.

Reginald whispered thanks and this time climbed on to his bike and began to thread his way through the mountains, down the lanes and back to Dalkey. Had there been any point to the exercise? Would Collins get the message? And even if he did, what could he or would he do?

Who knows if the woman got the message to Collins himself; perhaps it was the Big Fella up there at the second window listening first-hand to Reginald’s story.

For sure, though, she got the message to someone with influence because from that night on, there was a guard posted on the gate of 6 Sorrento Terrace. He and Reginald spoke about the weather and the Gaelic Football but never directly about why the man was always close to the gate. Reginald had it on good information, though, that he was one of Collins’ men.

There were no more shootings through the letter box or sinister little coffins; young Dr Cookson was allowed to set about his practice in peace.

After the battle for the Four Courts, the building lay in total ruin. (National Library of Ireland)

After the battle for the Four Courts, the building lay in total ruin. (National Library of Ireland)

Except on the night of January 10, 1923.

Collins was dead by then; in favour of the peace treaty with London, he had been assassinated by fellow Irishmen in County Cork just a few months earlier. The Four Courts of Dublin lay in rubble.

Meanwhile, Dorothea was in labour; Reginald sent out for the midwife and then rolled up his sleeves. He was a doctor after all.

At which point a battle broke out at the end of the road…

I was always sceptical about this story because as the historian John Dorney points out, the nearest recorded skirmish to this date came over a week later on January 19 when a small IRA Second Dublin Brigade Column, five men led by Paddy O’Brennan and William Meaghan, attacked a National Army post at Dalkey Railway station.

Nothing official for January 10 or 11 so the eyebrow was certainly arched until I came across what might be corroborative evidence in the pages of Oliver St John Gogarty, another medical man who had, incidentally, performed the autopsy on his friend Michael Collins.

Gogarty describes how one night when he was in Dalkey, as battle broke out, he was lured to a car and kidnapped by anti-treaty forces. That night was January 10.

Again dipping into family folklore, the noise of gunfire on Sorrento Terrace got so tiresome that the midwife took matters into her own hands, throwing open the front door and marching down the path to the gate.

“Would you ever stop all of that,” she shouted to both sets of guns, each perched behind a wall.

“You should be ashamed of yourselves. Don’t you know there’s a baby trying to be born in here only it can’t because you are making too much off a rabble. Get off with you and do your stupid shooting somewhere else.”

The guns fell silent, the battle moved on; the baby was born.

Joan Veronica Amelia Cookson.

My mother. Born in a gunfight.

©Barney Spender 2017

Follow me on Twitter @bspender

 

veronica_portrait-001

Veronica Spender

(nee Cookson)

Born Dalkey, County Dublin, 11 January 1923

Died Yeovil, Somerset, 25 January 2017

 

Book Review – The Road to Sparta by Dean Karnazes

Posted by barneyspender on December 28, 2016
Posted in: Book reviews, Books, Greece, Running, Spartathlon, Sport. Tagged: , , , , , , . 2 Comments

51uhdiskhwlMy first encounter with Dean Karnazes came in the early summer of 2014. I was about to embark on my first documentary feature about the legendary Spartathlon, the 246-kilometre ultra-marathon between Athens and Sparta and was talking to my friend George Stephanopoulos, a film producer in New York.

“You should get in touch with a guy called Dean Karnazes. He is pretty well known over here,” said George.

“He has published some books and is the go-to guy for running. I don’t know if he is running Spartathlon but it would be worth reaching out to him.”

Five minutes after our call ended, an email landed with Dean’s contact details.

Before reaching out, I thought best to check him out. The name rang a bell but I really didn’t know anything about this man.

I learnt pretty quickly that Dean was one of the most influential runners in the world. His first book Ultramarathon Man had been an international best-seller and his appearances on talk shows in the US had made him one of Sport’s Illustrated most influential contemporary athletes. He had run and won plenty of tough races, including the Vermont Trail 100 and Badwater, but as far as I could see had never run Spartathlon.

This was slightly surprising. He was in his early 50s, a Greek-American, passionate about taking on the most difficult races in the world. And yet he had never run Spartathlon, one of the most brutal simply because of the relentless nature of the cut-off times.

karnazes nails

Dean Karnazes feeling the pain of the 2014 Spartathlon (Photo: Magda Goumis)

When I picked up the phone I wasn’t overly confident that he would want to be involved in the film. When I put the phone down 40 minutes later, I was elated. Not only did he like my ideas for the film, which included working in the story of Pheidippides and the Battle of Marathon, but he also revealed that he had decided to run it that year for the first time.

“It has been at the back of my mind for some time but my schedule has never allowed it,” he said.

“But I want to write a book about Pheidippides and the only way I can find out about him is to do what he did.”

Bingo! Not only was Dean going to run Spartathlon but he was going to do it on what became known as “The Pheidippides Diet”; cured ham, olives, a honey-sesame combination called pasteli. And water. As Dean would later say: “Gatorade didn’t exist 25 hundred years ago.”

And yes, following our conversation Dean also agreed to be one of the four runners who were to be the focus of my film which serendipitously shares its title with Dean’s subsequent book – The Road to Sparta.

I was surprised to read that Karnazes had spent so little time in Greece prior to running the Spartathlon. The early part of the book peels away layers of Americanness to reveal the Greek boy within.

He finds Silimna, the little village in the Peleponnese where his dad had grown up and the bell that used to summon him to dinner in the house that is now a ruin. Konstantinos (his full Greek name which has been reduced to Dean) then has a problem as he tries to reconcile the romance and beauty of one snapshot of rural Greece with the trash and chaos of another.

We say a road but, as anyone who has run any distance knows, this is a loose term, especially for those who run, walk and crawl from Athens to Sparta.

spartathlon-moodyThe road is at times a three-lane highway with trucks rumbling past at 120 kph, at other times a tight and steep mountain pass that has to be negotiated in the middle of the night with only the cicadas for company. One moment you are stepping through olive groves, the next you are winding your way around an oil terminal; the smell of noxious gases and the sight of dead dogs bloating by the roadside give way to the scent of the vineyards and the bucolic pastures of Pan’s own Arcadia.

“It was a very conflicted experience,” he says in the film when he looks back at his time on the road.

Spurred on by the classicist, Professor Paul Cartledge of Cambridge University, and the Pheidippides expert Pamela-Jane Shaw, Karnazes does a good job in tracking the events that led up to Pheidippides’ famous run in 490BC, the precursor to one of the greatest battles in western civilization. The Athenians needed support in taking on the Persians who had landed at the Bay of Marathon.

Pheidippides was a hemerodromos, a professional runner and messenger, a man with enough experience and authority to parlay with a king like Leonidas. He was dispatched to Sparta in a bid to bring back reinforcements and, according to Herodotus, the only half-reliable source on this stretch of history, he arrived in Sparta the day after leaving Athens.

It is that line that has been responsible for a bucketload of blisters since the Spartathlon started in 1983; the runners have to reach Sparta within 36 hours.

Not surprisingly Karnazes focuses plenty on the mental aspect of running such long distances.

“A warrior has confidence, yet he is not blinded by foolhardiness. He knows that victory is never assured, regardless of one’s abilities. Mastering the mind requires an intimate awareness of one’s weaknesses and shortcomings as well as the mindfulness to mitigate and overcome such vulnerabilities. A warrior is humble and unassuming, knowing that despite possessing great strength and discipline, triumph must be earned every day.”

dean1His own quest to reach the finish line is a tough one. Apart from the usual challenges of the distance and the pace, he has to deal with a diet which lends him no favours. Figs can have a distractingly unpleasant and swift effect on the digestive system, the lack of modern runners’ food like gels and electrolyte drinks saw his system start to shut down. The pain is just as real as the option of giving up.

He is also constantly being waylaid by well-wishers, autograph-hunters (“I have a certain notoriety in the running community”) and pesky film crews, especially at the Corinth stop 80 kilometres into the race.

“A large crowd had assembled awaiting my arrival. People were holding books, posters, magazines and mementos for me to sign. It was concurrently heartwarming and horrific. There were a number of reporters there, along with TV crews and newscasters. All I wanted was a few peaceful moments to address my foot and choke down some pasteli, yet all I was seeing in front of me was a sea of adoring fans and followers…The reporters cut a swathe through the masses and demanded that I conduct interviews with their stations first …The deafening noise and commotion was disorienting and I just stood there in a daze like a puppet…All I wanted was to run the Spartathlon and suddenly I had media obligations. I’d never signed up for any of this.”

the-road-to-sparta-poster-35x50Well, apart from agreeing to work with me on my documentary, which he did without complaint.

Karnazes associates himself with Pheidippides to the point that he describes himself running to save democracy. And he is humbled and awe-struck by the performance of his ancient Greek forerunner. With all respect to the classicists, Karnazes gets Pheidippides better than any of them. That simple understanding of the pain and demands that such a run makes on a runner is worth its weight in figs on the history front too.

Does he make it all the way to Sparta? Well, no spoilers here; you will have to read the book or see the film for the answer to that one.

The Road to Sparta is published by Rodale Books

©Barney Spender 2016

Follow me on Twitter @bspender