Category Archives: History Undusted

February 28, 2024 · 6:26 AM

History Undusted: Memories of Hawaii

It’s hard to imagine, but the Hawaiian islands a generation ago were not a hotspot of tourism and a bustling modern culture; most people lived simple lives with few amenities. It’s also hard to imagine a time when exotic fruits were not found in your local store year round – exotic being bananas, kiwi fruit, avocadoes or papayas. My Swiss mother-in-law remembers when bananas came to Switzerland, and they were exotic and expensive; in her house, they were only bought for her brother, who was very sick at the time, as a source of energy; that was during World War 2.  Once, she confessed to stealing some money from her brother’s piggy bank to buy herself a banana.

By clicking here, you can watch a ~10-minute video of a series of short video clips from the 1920’s of Hawaii, interspersed with silent-film-era title cards.  Not only is it an interesting glimpse into a simpler time on the islands, but it’s also an insight into what the rest of America “knew” about the islands, foods and customs.   Back then, the world in general also knew very little about strange activities such as “surf riding” (surfing), and the footage of surfers is utterly tame compared to the monster wave-riding considered “for surfers” today!  Volcanic activity also seems to have been a fascination; such footage may well have been the first time anyone had seen such a thing outside of volcanic regions; it still had to be described in colours, however, such as “cherry red” for the lava, as the footage was, obviously, in black and white.

The image below is of King’s Mansion, in Kealakekua, Hawaii, on the Big Island.  As a student, I lived there in 1986 (my dorm window was the left bay window at the front).  We had avocado trees in the back garden, and our neighbour’s horses, across a stone wall, would come trotting to the wall when they saw us in the garden, hoping for an avocado; we’d feed them, entertained as they carefully chewed away the flesh around the pit (reminding me of an old man chewing tobacco!), and then skillfully spit the seed out.  At the bottom of our front garden stood a huge banyan tree [if you were standing on the covered lanai (porch) at the front of the house, it would be to your left – not shown]; it was a favourite tree to climb. At the bottom of our terraced garden was a volleyball court; it was popular, though we could also hike up the next hill over to the local school, where we could use their tennis courts. If you hit the ball over the high fence, you’d be hiking through the jungle to bring the ball back! Maybe the local students got tired of the same problem, as the jungle eventually gave way to a baseball diamond.

On 8 July, we were asleep in our dorm bunk beds; at around 2:30 a.m., I was awakened by what I first thought was my restless bunkmate – but which turned out to be an earthquake. The San Andreas Fault had slipped, and what had taken me 9 hours to fly took the earthquake 9 minutes to travel, hitting the Big Island. It kicked off a chain event of volcanic eruptions, aftershocks, and strange weather conditions: The heat of the volcanic air and the cool ocean created thick, milky white clouds at the level of our house (at the top of a hill) that rolled over our lanai and into the open classroom – soaking our books and the carpet the first time; after that, we got smart and put our books on our laps whenever the thick cloud rolled in. It also made gorgeous “sunsets” mid-day, as the volcanic ash dimmed the sun. I don’t know if they were connected, but soon after the volcanic eruption, Hurricane Estelle hit the islands; as King’s Mansion is up in the hills, we mainly felt the tropical storms, wind and rain, though it was creating 15 to 20-foot waves at one point, which we could see from our vantage point. I grew up in the heart of Tornado Alley and chased tornadoes for the fun of it as a teenager, so I took the earthquakes and storms in my stride.

One person deserves a special place in such memories: Gran’pa Joe Cho. He was a retired Hawaiian neighbour who enjoyed spoiling us rotten. He’d bring us treats and take us girls out on the town. He would admonish the boys to treat women right and then show them how to do it! One memorable evening, Joe Cho had taken a group of us girls out to get Kona Mud Pie, then to Manta Ray Point (aka the Kona Surf Hotel’s surf zone – the rays would swim around the underwater lights near the shore, catching the plankton attracted by the lights), and then we stretched out on a green of the Kona Country Club golf course, right on the edge of a rocky cliff, to watch the stars; we saw a meteor shoot so brightly that its reflection could be seen on the ocean waves.

It was a lifetime ago, but they will always be grand memories…

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February 21, 2024 · 4:11 PM

10 Everyday Phrases with Nautical Origins #3

Some of today’s nautical idioms are well known, such as to be on board with a proposal or suggestion or learning the ropes in a new job or position, while others, such as three sheets to the wind are less common (unless you happen to work in a bar – then it may come in quite handy). Either way, enjoy these, matey!

Be On Board: As part of a crew, a sailor bore their part of the responsibilities. In today’s terms, it means to accept or agree with a proposal or a way of doing something and go along with it.

Rats Deserting a Sinking Ship: Rats and mice were common aboard ships, often in the bulkhead (lowest section of a ship, where the grains were stored (the weightier things being stored low and balanced to keep the ship sturdy in rough seas). If the ship began to take on water, the rats would go up the deck ladders to stay away from the water; if they started jumping overboard, sailors wouldn’t stand much better of a chance (most sailors could not swim). It’s a vividly grim picture of life aboard. Now, it’s an idiom describing people abandoning a failing activity or situation.

Close/Tight Quarters: Tightly packed (e.g. people in a small space). Space was at a premium, especially on the lower decks of a ship of sail. Men slept in hammocks close together and shared the space with stowed ship equipment and their own storage chests. Even today on submarines, bunks are shared by those who are off-duty and those on-duty to save sleeping quarter space.

Run a Tight Ship: Manage and organization strictly, efficiently, and effectively. A ship, especially in times of war, was run tightly to avoid unnecessary dangers and/or deaths, and to maintain discipline that would be needed to succeed in crucial moments.

Learn the Ropes: Sails were raised and lowered with ropes, and knowing how to control the sails allowed a ship to take full advantage of the wind and sail safely. There were miles of ropes on a ship, each with an important and specific function. Learning the ropes was essential for everyone aboard – it would keep others out of danger and oneself alive! Today, one learns the way things are done in a given setting or situation.

Broadside: The broadside was the side of the ship which sat above the waterline; cannons were arranged on several decks, and when ships sat broadsides facing, firing simultaneously, it was known as broadsiding. Today, it refers to being taken off guard or being surprised by something unpleasant.

 Broad in the Beam: Describes the width of the beam or mast on a larger ship. It denotes a person who’s wide across the hips and buttocks.

Keel Over: To collapse, to die. If the keel of a boat were to rise out of the water, the ship would be in danger of capsizing; this might happen due to a storm or damage by an enemy attack.

To Keelhaul: To rebuke harshly. It was a punishment meted out in extreme cases by dragging someone, ankles weighted, by ropes beneath the ship along or over the keel (the backbone of wood along the bottom of the ship). As these were usually covered with barnacles, clothes and skin would be shredded by the barnacle shells, and if the salt water of the ocean didn’t disinfect the wounds on the way up, it could be a death sentence. How much it was actually practised is difficult to say, as written records are sparse (perhaps a cruel captain didn’t want it on record, or perhaps it was not as widely practised as we think); the most concrete records of the punishment come from the Dutch. It was banned by the British Royal Navy around 1720, and by the Dutch around 1750. That bans were necessary tells its own tale…

Three Sheets to the Wind: Implies an unsteady, drunk person. The sheet referred to the ropes (lines) used to control the trim (the advantageous angle of the sails in relation to the wind) of the sail. If the sheets are loose, the sails will flap in the wind which causes the ship to lurch about like a drunken sailor. There are variations of the number of sheets in the idiom: 1 would be tipsy, 3 would be staggering drunk!

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February 14, 2024 · 2:04 AM

History Undusted: The Westray Dons

My past two articles have been about everyday phrases with maritime roots; not only is a language affected by sailors, but sometimes entire populations.

Around the British Isles, there have been countless shipwrecks. The waters can be treacherous, with islets and rocky outcrops just under the waves – splinters of divided continents worn down by the power of the sea until they become hidden snares. My husband and I were once on holiday on St Mary’s, Scilly Islands; with every tide, flotsam fragments of shipwrecks (nearly 1,000 known so far) from the 16th through the 19th centuries wash ashore, and I gathered a handful of beach pottery and glass, not knowing at the time that the worn but still decorated pieces could be centuries old. Buried beneath the sand, they’d retained their colourful glazing until washed ashore.

That’s the goods and plates aboard; but what of the people? Many sailors of past centuries couldn’t swim; if their ships foundered too far from shore, they sank to Davy Jones’s Locker. Those who were fortunate enough to make it ashore were not guaranteed a safe sojourn; if the island had scant supplies, it could get ugly – as it did for Spanish sailors on Fair Isle (more on that in a moment). But first, a brief background on the situation that led to the Spanish Armada being in British waters, and their shipwrecks:

The reasons the Armada moved to attack England are complex; let’s just say that Philip II, heir apparent to the Spanish throne, had married (in a political manoeuvre) Bloody Mary, the Catholic queen of England, who’d had her Protestant half-sister, Elizabeth, placed under house arrest to prevent any political ambitions from growing in the Protestant faction. When Mary died childless, Philip (King of Spain and Portugal, as well as of Ireland and England through marriage and until Mary’s death in 1558) returned to his own kingdom in Spain, and Queen Elizabeth I ascended to the throne of England. But being the daughter of King Henry VIII and his second wife, Anne Boleyn (whom he’d had executed when Elizabeth was two years old), Elizabeth was illegitimate in the eyes of many Catholics, as her parents’ marriage had been annulled two days before her mother’s execution. Ironically, confinement hadn’t taught Elizabeth any compassion; she had her Catholic cousin, Mary, Queen of Scots, imprisoned for nineteen years, and eventually executed in February of 1587. Mary had been Spain’s Catholic ally, and her death was the final straw for Philip II of Spain, as the religious tensions had been mounting between England and Spain. Philip prepared his Armada, sailing out of Lisbon in 1588.

If you look at a map of Europe, you will see that Spain is southwest of the British Isles; they had to sail through the Bay of Biscay, and then either west of England through the waters between England and Ireland, or east through the English Channel and French waters (and the French were usually at war with everyone) to reach the east coast of England.

Sir Francis Drake’s Revenge, with Armada ships in the background. Credit, Wikipedia

The battle ensued; the English ships had superior long-range cannon, with which they harried the Spanish fleet. Weather and prevailing winds interfered; battle lines were redrawn, only to be scuppered again. In August 1588, the Spanish fleet had been defeated by Sir Francis Drake’s command of the English ships, and the remnants of the fleet retreated into the North Sea. By early September, seventeen ships had been lost to storms. Many of the ships not sunk by the British navy or taken out by the sea were blown onto the rocky shores of Ireland and Scotland; of the 150 ships that set out from Lisbon, only 65 returned.

Replica of the 16th century Spanish Galeón Andalucía. Photo credit, Fundacion Nao Victoria. Click on the image to see details about the ship.

Three of the ships were separated in the storm from the rest of the fleet: The Barca de Amburgo foundered off of Fair Isle, but the crew was rescued by the El Gran Grifón and the Trinidad Valencera. With the extra crew aboard, the El Gran Grifón tried to anchor to make repairs but was wrecked on the rocks of Stroms Hellier, Fair Isles (a steep, rocky outcrop of land halfway between Shetland to the north and Orkney to the south). According to historian Sir Robert Sibbald (1641-1722), the crew was on the island for two months (~August-September 1588); though they paid for their supplies, tensions were high with locals as food stores were meagre and “Spanish money doesn’t fill hungry bellies”. The island itself has never supported more than 400 inhabitants (today’s population is 65); the Spanish shipwreck brought 300 to shore. 50 of the crew either starved to death or were killed when the locals turned on them: Any Spaniard found alone was tossed over a cliff; when that wasn’t efficient enough, the islanders deliberately collapsed a flagstone roof over the sleeping crew.

The survivors fled; some to Shetland, and some to Orkney. Enter that dusty bit of history, the Westray Dons.

Westray is the northernmost island of the Orkney archipelago, a group of 70 islands*, 16 of which are inhabited (*or more, depending on who you ask – skerries or uninhabited islets may or may not count). They not only welcomed the Spaniards but intermarried with them. The men remained on the island, and their descendants became known as the Westry Dons. Spanish heritage is still seen in the Orcadian population today, though the Dons are no longer a separate community; Orkney has a higher percentage of dark-haired, dark-eyed inhabitants than any other Scandinavian-heritage region. Orcadian oral tradition, according to the Sanday folklorist Walter Traill Dennison, says that the Dons were exceptional seamen, many of whose descendants went on to become sailors and sea captains. The Dons largely adopted Orcadian surnames, the most common (but not exclusively) being Petrie, Hewison, and Reid.

I hope you enjoyed this quick dive; if you’d like to read and hear a Scottish song about the Dons, just click here (warning: It’s in thick Scottish brogue!).

To see a timeline of the Spanish Armada battle, just click on the image below.

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February 9, 2024 · 4:13 AM

10 Everyday Phrases with Nautical Origins #2

Today’s everyday phrases can come in handy when you’re in a tight spot, avoiding danger, or reaching your goal (land ho!) Chockablock came in handy for me last week, as it described how I felt after having been sick for nearly two months (Covid into bronchitis, joy), and then catching up with all those little things in our household that had gone undone. Anyone who’s been married for any length of time will know that spouses tend to take over specific jobs – whether that’s carrying out the rubbish or doing the laundry, cleaning drains or watering plants. I’ll let you guess which jobs are whose. Catching up with those undone jobs stemmed the tide of accumulating chores, and helped me get our home back to shipshape and in Bristol fashion! So enjoy these phrases, and please share in the comments which ones apply to your life!

Chockablock: Jam-packed; overcrowded; completely filled, stuffed, or jammed tightly together. You may have heard the term block and tackle; This refers to a system in which a rope, chain or cable (= tackle) is passed over pulleys enclosed in two or more blocks, one fixed and one attached to a load (see image). When these blocks are pulled so close together that no further movement is possible, this is known as being chockablock (this is the usual spelling, which illustrates its meaning perfectly – no space, not even a dash between words!).

Stem the Tide: Try to prevent a situation from becoming worse than it already is. Nautically, it means to tack (steer) against the tide or oncoming storm to avoid being blown off course or capsized.

To be Shanghaied: A city in China, Shanghai implied a long voyage (just as Switzerland today implies neutrality in the collective conscious). When landsmen were impressed (volunteered against their will) into the British or American navies in the days of wooden ships of sail, to be Shanghaied meant to be impressed and sent away from home for a long time or extended voyage (not necessarily to China!).

Limey: Shortened slang for “lime juicer”, referring to the English naval ships and the practice of carrying barrels of limes or lime juice to ward off scurvy on long voyages. As the British navy was a dominant force on the seas, the term gradually came to mean British.

Shipshape (and in Bristol Fashion): Everything is okay and in good order. Bristol was, at one point, Britain’s main west coast port; the idiom was used to describe everything being in order with cargo and at the port.

Give a Wide Berth: Leave space for, veer around. Even when a ship is at anchor, it will move with the tide and wind, so the berth, or a docking space, for a ship needs to be ample for a safe mooring. The modern phrase still denotes the danger of steering too close to an unpredictable situation.

Loose Cannon: Unpredictable danger (can be said of a person or situation). When a cannon or a cannonball broke free from its mooring, it created a hazardous situation as it rolled around or across the deck during a storm or in battle.

Port, Starboard: This simple explanation is that these are left and right, respectively, on any ship or airplane. But simple is a bit boring! Buckle up: In the past, as today, the majority of people were right-handed; ships of sail had rudders centred on the stern (back of the ship), but the steering oar came up onto the quarter deck through the right side of the stern. This leads us to the term starboard: Old English steorbord literally meant steer-board, the side on which a vessel was steered.

When pulling into a port, as the steering oar was on the right side, they would anchor starboard out, port in. The port, the left side of the ship as seen from the stern facing forward toward the bow, was formerly known as larboard, from Middle English ladde-borde, meaning loading board (side); it was eventually renamed as the similarity to starboard was confusing in the loud life aboard.

Most airplanes follow this tradition today, with boarding being on the left (port) side. In fact, jet bridges are designed to match the left side of the plane, so unless you are climbing into a grasshopper flight on a remote island, you will board port side!

Ahoy: Used to hail a ship, a boat or a person, or to attract attention. Used today as a humorous warning of impending danger or inconvenience.

Land Ho: To call out “Land ho!” was to let the crew know that land had been spotted. It is a way to let everyone know that the end of a voyage is imminent.

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January 24, 2024 · 4:43 PM

10 Everyday Phrases with Nautical Origins #I

A phrase I use often is to “batten down the hatches” – meaning “put things away in preparation for (leaving on holidays, guests arriving, or the next project)”. I know that it originates from ship jargon, where it means preparing for rough seas or as a precaution to some other danger. That set me thinking about how many other phrases and idioms we use regularly in English that have their roots in nautical history. I’ve written on this topic before, highlighting the phrases of cathead, to swing a cat, down the hatch or break the ice, and even toe the line vs tow the line. Here are 10 more to get you thinking, with more to come!

Long Shot: A situation needing a good deal of luck. The guns aboard ships of sail were often inaccurate, or the decks would be too high for close-range accuracy. If a cannon successfully struck its target from a “long shot”, it was considered extraordinarily good luck.

Flotsam and Jetsam: A collection of miscellaneous items of little importance; odds bods, odds and ends. Flotsam refers to items unintentionally cast adrift or washed ashore, while Jetsam describes items intentionally cast overboard, such as when lightening the load for buoyancy.  They are almost always a paired idiom.

Taken Aback: Suddenly or unexpectedly checked or disappointed; startled or surprised.  It comes from the situation when a ship’s square sails were flattened against the masts by a sudden change of wind, stopping the forward motion.

In the Doldrums: Listless, depressed. Doldrums, aka the Intertropical Convergence Zone (ITCZ), is an area of the ocean near the equator where calms, squalls, and light, baffling winds are common. Sailing ships would often hit the Doldrums and be stranded until the wind could pick up their sails and empower the ship to move on. Large ships of sail had the disadvantage of having no ability to be oared forward.

The Cut of One’s Jib: One’s general appearance. The jib was the large, triangular foresail of a ship. When someone on the watch spotted a vessel on the horizon, they would look at the cut of the sails to determine whether they were friend or foe. A modern equivalent would be plane spotters, who can determine the make of an airplane by the shape of its hull and wings.

Show One’s True Colours: Being honest, open. Though the cut of the jib would determine a ship’s origin, it became more complicated as ships were captured by an enemy and repurposed for their own use. Because of that, ships of sail would hoist their colours – flags – to proclaim their current nationality. To show one’s true colours meant being honest, because enemy vessels might fly false colours until within firing range and then switch flags, declaring their true intentions at the last minute.

Pipe Down: Imperative – be quiet. Aboard a ship, the bo’sun’s pipe whistle would signal various activities.  To “pipe down” was the signal given to dismiss the crew from duty.

Landlubber: This word has a long history, though it eventually became known as a derogatory nautical term for people who struggle with being at sea or who get seasick and therefore dislike boats, or what the sailor considered a lazy person preferring life ashore. The term lubber goes much further back: In the mid-fourteenth century, it meant a clumsy, stupid person who lives in idleness. An earlier form, Lobi, meaning lazy lout, may have Scandinavian roots; it may also derive from the Old French term lobeor, meaning swindler, parasite. Any way you slice it, being called a Landlubber was basically an insult – or an accurate description of your character, depending on whether you were on the receiving or giving end of the word…

Bottoms Up: Known today as a drinking cheer to encourage people to finish off their drink, it has a much darker past. During the days of sail, the British navy would press men into service. If you volunteered, you were given “the King’s shilling” as first payment. Scrupulous press gangs would slip a shilling into a man’s drink, and if he finished off the drink, he was considered as having accepted the payment and was hauled off to sea. Innkeepers became wise to their tactics and began serving drinks in glass beer mugs rather than earthenware mugs, encouraging their patrons to check “bottoms up” to make sure there wasn’t a coin in the glass.

Scuttlebutt: The Butt was a cask with a capacity of between 110 to 140 imperial gallons of liquid (see my article about it here).  Scuttle was an opening in the ship’s deck, and as a verb, it meant to intentionally sink a ship by either putting a hole in it or leaving the portholes open with the intention of making a vessel unusable by an enemy. The barrels aboard ships were usually laid on their sides within braces, and a scuttle was a hole in the side for a cup or scoop to be inserted. The drinking hole became a popular gathering place, and the term “drinking hole” also became synonymous with the office drinking fountain or the local pub – a place to gather and have a drink together. To scuttlebutt means to idly chatter, start rumours, or gossip.

Which of these phrases are new to you? How many do you use, and if you use them, how frequently? I’d love to hear about it in the comments!

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January 17, 2024 · 7:16 PM

History Undusted: Keys

Some people collect things like stamps, postcards, or coins. I’m drawn to unique doors, locks, and keys.

Keys are something everyone has; whether it’s a house key, a car key, or an inner door key. Modern keys come in several forms: Lever (usually used in padlocks or furniture), pin tumbler, dimple, computerized laser (often used in cars), Nutech, cross, skeleton, barrel, transponder, cards, Abloy, and many more.

We tend to think of skeleton keys as antiquated, but here in Switzerland, even modern room doors within a home have skeleton keys for their locks (though we use dimple keys on main doors). Even though they’re still used, skeleton keys are one of the oldest forms of keys in history. The Romans had elaborate keys that were nearly as wide as they were long, but they already had the typical ringed head we think of when we think of a skeleton key; it made it easy to slip in a finger and pull the key out of the lock.

Roman Key Latch as old as 1st Century AD – Metmuseum

The oldest key found was in the ruins of Ninevah (the capital of ancient Assyria), going back to around 4,000 BC. It was a simple wooden prodder inserted into a hole in a door to lift pegs within a wooden bar used to hold the door securely from the inside; it could only be secured from the inside and was easy to open with any pegged stick. This type of wooden pin lock was common in ancient Egypt, but they’ve also been found in places like Japan and Scandinavia. It is alluded to in the Bible in such passages as Nehemiah 3:3,6,13-15 or Isaiah 22:22-23.

Ancient wooden peg key lock

The Romans improved on the idea and began making brass and iron keys with the ground-breaking technology of projections (wards) inside the lock that required a specific combination to be opened, thus requiring a specific key. The warded key outlasted the Roman Empire itself by more than a thousand years. Though these locks were easy to pick, no major advancements were made in the design until the late 18th century, when Robert Barron invented a new locking mechanism that we essentially recognize as the tumbler lock. Joseph Bramah improved further on the design a few years later, using a cylindrical key with patterned notches that aligned with the metal slides within the lock. The Bramah lock is still used and sold today (after finishing this article, take a moment on Google Images to search “Bramah lock” – you’ll see a wide range of old and new examples).  In 1818, Jeremiah Chubb improved the design by adding a retaining spring that held back a tumbler when shifted by the turn of the wrong key; this prevented not only the bolt from being lifted but indicated that someone had tried to pick the lock; they were known as detector locks.

Over time, many more improvements and refinements followed, until today’s key styles are so varied that a comprehensive list would be lengthy – there are variations within categories of keys; some cars today no longer even require a key to start. But to adapt the old adage of “where there are horses there are horse thieves”, where there is a lock there will be a lock pick. Even keyless cars are not theft-proof.

How many keys do you use daily? How have key styles changed in your lifetime?

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January 5, 2024 · 2:51 PM

Insatiable Fascination

Throughout history, people have always been fascinated by thinking beyond their own known world; before widespread writing and reading, ancient cultures thought about their own mortality (which, in some ages, wasn’t that far off) and the afterlife. Various cultures prepared for the afterlife in their own ways: The Egyptians removed organs and embalmed the rest, making sure to send on the heart & co. in separate jars (except the brain – who’d need that in the next world?), then sent them on their way with an army of servants (killed for the occasion); the Vikings buried their most honoured dead within a ship with their favourite animals and servants (ditto). Other cultures built pyres to send their loved ones up in smoke.

When writing came along, at first it was used to capture the past and the natural world, ala Pliny the Elder; poems, sagas, verbal tales and folklore began to be recorded; we have such writings still with us today: The Greek Epic Cycle, the Orkneyinga Sagas, the Heimskringla, the Poetic Edda.

The first novel came along only 1,000 years ago: The Japanese epic The Tale of Genji was written by a woman, Murasaki Shikibu; novels were, for several centuries more, considered on the bottom rung of the literary hierarchy ladder, far behind “serious works” like history. Ironically, Mark Twain referred to history as “fluid prejudice”; it was nearly always recorded by powerful (white) men – hardly ever by a commoner, a member of an ethnic minority, or a woman. The interpretation of events was firmly in the hands of the conquerors. Because of that fact, for instance, we know more about Rome’s version of ancient Britons (Picts, Celts) than we do from their own artefacts; most Celtic and Pictish art is found outside of the UK – many carried off by the Vikings, but that’s another tale. Hollywood has helped perpetuate some of those ancient Roman notions (think of a blue-faced Mel Gibson in Braveheart).

In fact, we don’t even know what the Picts called themselves – the term derives from the Latin Picti, first seen in the writings of Eumenius in AD 297. It can be interpreted (dangerous words) as “to paint” – but there is no evidence that any people groups in northern Britannia painted themselves. Picts is simply a generic term for any people living north of the Forth-Clyde isthmus who fought the Roman Empire’s advancements into their territories. Again, the ink of history flowed from a Roman stylus.

Even Jane Austen herself didn’t begin publishing her novels under her own name. She was a single young woman – for shame that she would dare stain the male-hallowed ground of literature. The saga of how she got published speaks to her tenacity and the support of her family. But she got the last laugh, becoming famous within her (short) lifetime, and she is far better known today than any of the stuffy old men who wrote “proper” books of her day.

The insatiable fascination with other perspectives than our own explains why novels are so popular today. They take us into another time, place and situation, leading us through a story that, if written well, we can relate to and perhaps learn something from. In 1726, Jonathan Swift gave us Gulliver’s Travels. Though he originally wrote it as political satire, to “vex the world rather than divert it”, we know it still today. The fascination with someone being a giant in one land and a miniature in the next grabs our imagination; he travels to floating kingdoms, to an island of immortals, a la Death Becomes Her, and a land of talking horses.

Book Nook (Instagram repeat)

In the age of internet, visual arts have expanded as far as the global imagination can span: Not only paintings or drawings, but even crafts take us into another perspective. I recently saw a series of images in which people have taken the humble walnut shell and turned them into tiny worlds with bookshelves, ladders, lamps, beds and creatures. Book nooks are popular, too: A tiny village, street, or room within the space of a book on a shelf. Science fiction art takes us off-planet.

Films are visual perspectives that take us into other worlds, times and places: When George Lucas showed us a “commonplace” bar scene on Tatooine in the Mos Eisley Cantina in Star Wars, he blew our minds and kicked off a new era of visual storytelling. Avatar took us to another planet and another perception of reality, all the while being an allegorical tale of ecological care vs. abuse. Somewhere along the way, sometime in your life, I’ll bet you’ve been fascinated by a different perspective, whether presented to you through a book, a documentary, a sermon, a play, a film or a conversation.  What did you learn from that encounter? How did it change you, or help shape your perspective? And what is your favourite “escape”: Films, books, visual arts, or music? Please comment below!

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November 24, 2023 · 11:19 PM

History Undusted: Jumièges Abbey

Jumièges Abbey is one of the oldest Benedictine monasteries in Normandy; to dive into its history is akin to diving down Alice’s rabbit hole. For instance, I could say that the abbey was sponsored by the Frankish Queen Balthild, as she persuaded her husband, King Clovis II, to donate land to the Frankish nobleman Filibertus in order to found an abbey. But to know who she was, ah, that is where the intrigue begins.

Who and where were the Franks, when were they a thing, and what are they to us today?

Who, where and when: They were a Western European people who began as a Germanic people along the lower Rhine (which flows from Bonn, Germany, and ends up in the North Sea at the southwestern corner of the Netherlands), along the northern frontier of the Roman Empire. During the Middle Ages, they expanded their scope of rule as the Western Roman Empire began to collapse, and they imposed their power over many post-Roman kingdoms and beyond. That’s the crux of the matter though, as with any political history, it’s far more complex than that. The Franks are distinguished into two main groups by historians: The Salian Franks, to the west, and the Rhineland Franks, to the east.

In the mid-5th century, The Salian king, Childeric I, was a commander of Roman forces against the Gauls, most of whom Childeric and his son, Clovis I, conquered in the 6th century. Clovis was the first king of the Franks to unite the Frankish tribes under one ruler, and he founded the Merovingian dynasty – which ruled the Frankish tribes for 2 centuries. Clovis, in essence, is known as the first king of what would become France. As a side note, the Frankish name of Clovis is at the root of the French name of Louis, borne by eighteen kings of France.

Now, back to Queen Balthild (AD 626 – 680): Sold into slavery as a young girl, she was beautiful and intelligent. She served in the household of Erchinoald, the mayor of the palace of Neustria to Clovis II. Her master, a widower, wanted to marry her, but she hid herself from his sight until he married someone else (apparently the household of servants was numerous enough to enable her to avoid her unwanted suitor). Perhaps through Erchinoald’s notice of her, she came to the attention of Clovis II, who proposed to her and was accepted; hiding herself away may have been a political tactic to gain a higher rank with the king than with the mayor; According to the Vita Sancti Wilfrithi by Stephen of Ripon (written around AD 710), Bathild was a ruthless ruler, in conflict with the bishops and perhaps responsible for several assassinations. Some historians interpret Queen Balthild’s association with founding monasteries as a way of balancing or neutralizing aristocratic opposition to her rule. By installing her own bishops and donating lands for abbeys, she strengthened her own power as ruler (she was regent during the minority of her son). To put that in proper perspective, she was no different than most male counterparts of her day. [I could go off on a tangent about how adjectives differ when applied to the male or female state of affairs (a man is ambitious; a woman is pushy or ruthless), but I won’t. Yet.] From most accounts, however, she was pious and humble. Whichever way you butter that croissant, in ca. 860 she was canonized, thereafter to be referred to as Saint Balthild…

In 654, Balthild gave a parcel of royal land to Philibert, or Filibertus, on which he founded the Notre Dame de Jumièges. His main spiritual influence was that of the Irish monk, Columbanus (who founded several monasteries in the Frankish and Lombardi kingdoms).  The abbey flourished until the Viking invasions of 841 (Remember Rolf Ganger?), which caused disruptions to its first momentum, but it soon began to prosper again. The church itself was rebuilt between 1040 and 1066; it was dedicated on 1 July 1067, with none other present than William the Conqueror, Duke of Normandy and King of England (1066 and all that). The patronage of such a nobleman ensured the abbey’s success.

Jumièges Abbey was, like any abbey of its time, a veritable town. The church was only the heart of the community; there was a 14-acre enclosed park, terraced gardens, the abbatial manor, a bakery, landscaping to evoke biblical scenes, a hostelry, the 14th century “Charles VII” walkway (a covered walkway between the Notre Dame and St Peter’s church, named after the fact that Charles VII and his favourite mistress visited the monastery), and the cloister.

The next major disruption was from 1415, when the monks were forced to regularly seek refuge in Rouen as the English occupied Normandy during the Hundred Years’ War. The abbey eventually recovered and began to flourish again, until the whole province was plunged into the chaos of the Wars of Religion (1562-1598), resulting in the population’s decimation and famine. In 1649, the abbey was taken over by a Benedictine congregation, when some of its former glory was revitalized. Having survived all of that, its ruin came at the hands of the French Revolution, when it was sold as a “national property” and turned into a stone quarry (seen only as a source of ready-cut stones). At last, its historical value was recognized in the 19th century, putting an end to its wanton deconstruction.

When we visited the abbey last summer, its grandeur, although only ruins today, is still evident; when it was at its height of prosperity, it must have been an awesome sight to behold! In the photos below, which I took during our visit, you can see evidence of the various phases of destruction and reconstruction. Enjoy!

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November 15, 2023 · 4:21 AM

History Undusted: Rolf Ganger, Viking Outlaw and Founder of Normandy

How does a rabble-rousing Viking end up causing a war centuries after his death (as if stirring up trouble during his lifetime wasn’t enough fun and gigs)? Read on… this is going to be a quick, deep dive into history, so buckle up!

Firstly, let’s start with Rolf Ganger, aka Rollo, Rolloun, Rollon, or Hrôlfr – depending on which language you read. On his tomb, the Latin version of his name is Rollonis (see image).

Tomb of Rollonis (Rolf) Ganger, the first ruler of Normandy, in Rouen Cathedral (He’d probably roll in his grave to find himself so simperingly portrayed…!)

The Heimskringla is a collection of ancient Norwegian sagas about Norwegian kings and rulers, written by Snorri Sturluson (great name, by the way) around AD 1230. It tells us that Rolf was the oldest legitimate son of Earl Ragnvald, best friend of King Harald Harfager (“Fair Hair” – a nickname given to him by the Earl due to Harald’s thick, fair hair), who was the first king of Norway, reigning from ca. AD 872 to 930. It tells us that Rolf was so hefty that no horse could carry his weight; thus, he had no choice but to walk everywhere, from which Ganger, his second name derives (I cannot find a direct translation of the meaning of the name, but Germanic languages have similar words: In German, “gehen” means go or walk; “gangart” means gait, or way of walking).

Harald Harfagre, First King of Norway – Statue in Haugusund, Norway

He was rowdy, even by Viking standards. Heimskringla records that he plundered most of the East Sea (likely referring to what is now the region around the Baltic Sea). Then, “One summer, as he was coming from the east on a Viking’s expedition to the coast of Viken*, he landed there and made a cattle foray. As King Harald happened, just at that time, to be in Viken, he heard of it, and was in a great rage; for he had forbid, by the greatest punishment, the plundering within the bounds of the country. The king assembled a Thing**, and had Rolf declared an outlaw over all Norway.”

*Viken was a region that lay over the modern border between Norway and Sweden.

**To assemble a Thing means to gather a council or general assembly. These still take place in some parts of Switzerland, as well as on the Isle of Man and in Scotland; the Icelandic Althing is considered the oldest active, surviving parliament in the world, dating back to the AD 900s. The first detailed description of such a Thing was made by Tacitus, a Roman historian and senator, in AD 98; the oldest reference to a Thing is inscribed on a stone near Hadrian’s Wall, dated as early as AD 43.

According to the Heimskringla, Rolf, now banished from Norway, headed toward the Hebrides, and from there to “Valland” [In Norse legend, Valland is the name of the part of Europe which is inhabited by Celtic and Romance peoples, and Snorri Sturluson mentions it several times as the Old Norse name for Gaul, which was a region of Western Europe first clearly described by the Romans, encompassing present-day France, Belgium, Luxembourg, and parts of Switzerland, the Netherlands, Germany, and Northern Italy, and covering an area of around 494,000 km2.].

Arriving in Gaul, he did what he did best – went a-Viking, plundering and pillaging and “subduing for himself a great earldom”. He populated it with his own best rabble of Norsemen, which the French called Normanz, literally “north men” which quickly led to the Anglicized term Normans (similar to the word for the people group and language, Norse).

One of the places known to have been invaded by the Vikings in AD 841 is the Jumièges Abbey, which is along the Seine River on its way to Rouen, which they also ransacked. At some point (around AD 885), Rolf also raided Bayeux, carrying off a woman, Popa (whose lineage is unverified – later historians for the duke may have sanitized her parentage to legitimize their son’s noble lineage, as she was married “more danico”). She gave birth to his heir, William Longsword. When Rolf and his gang were all done hacking their way through towns and villages along the Seine, they eventually made their way back to Rouen, where he established the Duchy of Normandy in AD 912.

So, how did Rolf cause a war centuries later? Well, his son, William Longsword, fathered a son, Richard the Fearless (who became ruler of Normandy at the age of 10 when his father died). Richard’s son was called Richard the Good, and he became the father of Robert the Magnificent and grandfather to the illegitimate William the Bastard, who became known as William the Conqueror (a sword seems to have cleared up his illegitimacy quite neatly) – from whom all the subsequent English kings descended. Now to the crux of the matter: William, descendent of Rolf Ganger, fathered English kings, who thus claimed their right to the Norman throne by connection, birth, rank… in short, any excuse for raiding was still in their blood. Rouen was one of the largest and most prosperous cities of medieval Europe, and (as mentioned in my last post) was made wealthy through textiles and trade along the Seine River and beyond. Rouen became the focal point of the Hundred Years’ War (1337-1453) because of that pesky connection. So now ya know!

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November 8, 2023 · 10:40 PM

History Undusted: The Great Clock of Rouen, France

Last summer, my husband and I rented a privately-owned motorhome in Caen, France, and travelled around Normandy for 10 weather-perfect days. One of the places we had on our short list to see was the city of Rouen, a region with a long and rich history. One icon of the city is a clock. Not just any clock. The Great Clock of Rouen.

Rouen was a pivotal location in the Hundred Years’ War (1337-1453 – calling it the “Hundred-and-Sixteen Years’ War” is more accurate but not as catchy, though the name is likely based on the fact that there were periods of fragile truces); the central conflict was the English claim to the French throne. In the context of this war, Joan of Arc became a victim of male chauvinism and political expediency. But that’s another story.

The mechanism of this clock was built in 1389. Let’s put that into perspective: That’s over 100 years before Columbus set out to discover a western passage to the East Indies and inadvertently discovered America; Richard II took over as king of England; it was made during the Hundred Years’ War; Joan of Arc would have seen this clock on her way to her execution (by burning at the stake). It was made more than 190 years before our modern Gregorian calendar replaced the Julian calendar, in 1582.

The mechanism deserved not only a grand position, but a grand façade: The Rouennais aldermen decided that the town needed a clock, and the construction of a tower to house the clock took 9 years; the architect was Jehan de Bayeux, though the tower was completed by his son in 1398. The original designer of the clock’s facades, Jordan Delettre, was no more (whether he died or was removed is unknown), and it was completed by Jean de Felain, who became the first “governor of the clock”, maintaining it in exchange for a home in the clock’s tower. Towers and wars came and went, and the clock survived; it was moved to its current location in 1410, now housed astride an ornately carved stone archway.

The clock faces (on both sides of a stone archway and connected to a central mechanism shared by both) are 2.5 metres (over 8 feet) in diameter, and each has only a single hand, tipped with the depiction of a lamb, which shows the hour; moon phases are indicated in the 30 cm oculus above the clock face, which makes a full rotation every 29 days. The face depicts 24 rays of the sun surrounded by a dark blue starry frame. A hand which shows the day of the week is located in an opening at the base of the dial, with each day represented by a different Greek god: Diane as the moon (Monday), Mars (Tuesday), Mercury (Wednesday), Jupiter (Thursday), Venus (Friday), Saturn (Saturday) and Apollo (Sunday).

Although the mechanism of the clock still works, it has been powered by electricity since 1928, and the tower itself was renovated in the late 1990s.

Underneath the clock in the centre of the archway, the coat of arms of Rouen can be seen: It depicts the Paschal lamb on a red background (the official colour of Rouen); it is held by two angels (if you look closely at the angel on the right, you’ll notice that its head is on wrong; it is thought to be due to disgruntled construction workers – obviously an age-old problem…). Beneath the arch are elaborate bas-reliefs of Jesus as the Good Shepherd caring for his flocks; the clock’s hand, the coat of arms and the reliefs all echo the importance of textile and wool trade to the city. One clock face alone has at least 15 sheep (zoom in on the picture of the clock and see if you can spot them all!). Next to the clock is a Gothic belfry tower built in the 14th and 15th centuries which houses the bells connected to the clock, which ring on the quarter-hour.

Rouen is a survivor: It has outlasted Viking raids that travelled up the Seine River, the Hundred Years’ War, the Religion Wars of the Renaissance period, the Franco-Prussian War of 1870, the French Revolution, and even World War 2; the latter damaged nearly half the city, and shrapnel and bullet scars can still be seen in façades. The cathedral’s stained-glass windows were shattered by a WW2 bomb and were subsequently reconstructed using the fragments, creating jumbled images that reflect its history and its survival.

For me, the clock must really be seen within its context to truly appreciate it; it’s surrounded by wonky Medieval buildings which are three or four stories tall and built when plumb lines and uniformity were still futuristic concepts. They were built out of timber, as there is abundant forest nearby but no stone quarries.

The clock adorns the arch over the Rue du Gros-Horloge (“Street of the Great Clock”), which runs between the Gothic cathedral, made famous by Claude Monet (who painted over 30 canvases centred on the cathedral), and the old market square, where Joan of Arc was burned at the stake. Perhaps ironically in light of the latter event, the street just off of the clock’s archway is called Rue Massacre…

Though I do not speak French, I know that in French, clocks today are referred to in the feminine form, la horloge; but prior to the 18th century, clocks were masculine; so, the great clock of Rouen, in French, is still Le Gros-Horloge.

Below are a few of our holiday photos: They include the cathedral’s jumbled windows and the clock from various angles, as well as a few of the wonky buildings. Enjoy!

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