Godiva Carnival Procession 2010

The Godiva Festival is something that Coventry can be well and truly proud of. I always look forward to the procession ( nowadays known as the Godiva Carnival Procession ) which has its roots in the old Godiva procession's dating back hundreds of years.

As Coventry has changed so has the procession. In my younger days the floats were from the factories of the city. Nowadays we don't have any left so the talented bods from Imagineer Productions are instrumental in the modern displays. This years main theme concerned caring for our planet (before it is too late) and contrasted the globalisation fat cats and their greed with the destruction of wildlife and the environment. The addition of more marching bands certainly improved the parade this year. A big well done to all concerned.

For God, Harry & St George!

St George was born in Coventry. Honest. Caludon Castle. Okay, like a certain tale about a naked lady riding on horseback through Coventry it's a bit of a tall story, but what the heck! In 1996 when football (almost) 'came home' we all decided we were English first and British second, and all the devolved assemblies and parliaments for the other component parts of the United Kingdom has just added fuel to the fire, igniting "Englishness" on a rampant scale and calls for a public holiday on April 23rd so George can be properly celebrated. It would be a big crowd pleaser for sure and I for one think fears of white extremists hijacking the day are unfounded. A few drunks rambling on about not surrendering to the I.R.A. hardly justifies the paranoia. Anyway, on the day itself Coventry put on various events in the city centre. One of which was a performance of "George the dragon slayer" by local kids. I would have loved to have seen the dragon breathing fire but it was a good show all the same and well done to all concerned.

Coventry as it was before the Cycle Era.

By Isabel Marks

TIME - the early part of the present century. Place - Hertford Street in Coventry town.

The sun shines brightly upon a group of loiterers who, at the corner of Hertford Street, watch with eager gaze the cloud of dust that heralds the arrival of the daily mail, not the popular paper of that name, but the stage coach that brings news and passengers from the distant capital.

Merrily sounds the horn of the guard as the coachman tools his team down the hill and pulls up with well-calculated precision. The dusty traveller descends from his perch in the rumble; the horses are stabled, the bystanders disperse - the event of the day is over.

Then the town resumes the even tenor of its peaceful way, and when the wayfarer re-emerges from the inn refreshed and invigorated, he is struck by the cheerful serenity that reigns around him. He sees the thick brick walls of well-built houses lying snugly ensconced within the leafy luxuriance of their large gardens, and he notes the neat little cottages of the workmen, the many tokens of quiet industry that prevail.

The tower of St. Michael, standing clear and distinct against the clear blue of the radiant summer sky, attracts his attention, and he wends his way hither through quaint thoroughfares to admire its beautiful tracery, its carved figures, the fine old trees that rustle and wave above the last resting place of many a stalwart citizen of old, who shrank not in the hour of need from doffing the livery of his trade and donning breast-plate and head-piece in defence of his liberty and of his town.

As he stands by the venerable stone building of St. Mary’s Hall, in which the pikes of the city guard occupy a place of honour beneath the Minstrels’ Gallery, the ghosts of the past arise from the adjacent narrow streets with their old English timber built houses, whose overhanging upper stories and gabled roofs slope gently forward darkening the light of day to the dwellers below. He sees, as in a dream, the mad onslaught of the men-at-arms, the desperate defence of the burghers, he hears the din and turmoil of the fratricidal wars of the Roses, when brother warred against brother, father against son.

Poor unhappy Mary, Queen of Scots, victim of a cruel destiny and of her own loveliness, issues from her turret chamber and passes by on her way to the Bull Inn, whither she is led for greater security, the hearts of the multitude being inflamed within them at the recital of her woes and a rescue appearing imminent.

From the dungeons, whose groined roofs charm him by their beauty, and whose dark, noisome recesses fill him with pity for the suffering captives who languished within their narrow limits, he ascends the time-worn steps to the banqueting hall, with its carved ceiling and old stained-glass windows. He notes with appreciative eye the well preserved woven tapestry that lines the base of the large window and the fine portraits of our kings and queens which adorn its walls, whilst a brass tablet informs him that the Duke of Northumberland and the Earl of Leicester, his son, gave and bequeathed a vast tract of land to the people of this town that they might not to all eternity lack pasture for their cattle.

Nearby are the ruins of the priory erected in 1043 by Leofric, Earl of Mercia, and his Countess, the Lady Godiva.

Ford’s Hospital, which was founded in 1529 for the benefit of five old men and one woman, who were granted fivepence a week for maintenance, pleases him greatly with its ornamental work and gables with richly carved large boards and pendants.

As the sun declines towards the west he finds his way to the ruins of Cheylesmore Manor, and long does he gaze at the stone entrance to the tilting yard, under whose arched gateway had passed many a gallant knight to do battle in his lady’s honour, or to throw the gage of defiance in some hated rival’s face.

He then turns his steps to the few remaining portions of the old city wall built by Edward III and originally three yards thick and six yards high, and marks with keen regret that but two of the gates still survive the general wreck.

Of much interest to him are the ruined cloisters and chapel of the Greyfriars; the monastery of the Carthusians, their erstwhile rival, he notes, sharing the same mournful fate.

As he passes through the more modern part of the town he sees the weavers busy at their looms, and notes the gentle mien of the women spinning at the wheel. He remembers that Coventry was at one time the home of many manufacturers, and was celebrated for its religious pageants originated by the guilds, but he seeks in vain for any traces of the girdlers, the lard-makers, the pinners and needlers; the guilds still extant existing apparently only for social purposes.

And thus, from our traveller’s recollections we gather that Coventry was very prosperous then in a quiet easy way. We know that in 1844 the population numbered but 25,000, that the town was for some long time after innocent of any drainage scheme, that its water supply was principally drawn from wells sunk in cellar floors or in underground kitchens, that its burial-grounds were becoming overfull, that no municipal improvements were made, and that few houses were added to those already existing. The manufacture of silks, ribbons and watches was busily carried on for some time, and the town enjoyed a pleasant easy-going prosperity.

But presently a change came o’er the spirit of the scene. The duty was taken off French silks and ribbons, there was a sudden influx into England of these foreign commodities, which being more artistic than those manufactured at home captivated the popular taste.

The Coventry weavers could not be brought to see the errors of their ways and disaster fell upon the town. Work was no longer to be had, men stood about the streets in miserable idleness, wives and mothers watched the faces of those dear to them grow thin and haggard, little children wailed aloud for bread and could not be comforted. Distress and starvation waxed even greater and greater, darkening the lives of the dwellers in this once prosperous town.

Then indeed did the men of Coventry give the lie to the opinion which good Queen Bess expressed of them. With willing hand and generous hearts the wealthier citizens helped those incapable of helping themselves, they fed the hungry and clothed the naked. Soup kitchens were established and every means taken to help their poorer neighbours.

One enlightened man, however, James Marriott by name, foresaw that these remedies were but palliatives, the remedy lay in a totally different procedure. He offered, therefore, to give 500/. to start a new industry - that of sewing machines, which were then just coming into vogue - and so provide work for the willing hands that had so vainly sought it. Accordingly he and other kindred spirits started this business, which was carried on under the name of the Coventry Machinists’ Company.

The venture was unfortunately not successful and they then turned their attention to the construction of the earlier type of cycle, the redoubtable Bone-shaker. Their courage met with its due meed of reward, and the business they then started still flourishes and grows apace, and in its train came renewed prosperity and work for the starving people. To these enterprising men is due the origin of the cycling trade, and to them numberless riders raise the pæan of praise.

Time has, in its flight, indeed, brought many changes to Coventry which will not fail to be noted by our traveller should he chance to re-visit the City of the Three Spires in this year of grace. He will travel thither by means of the iron horse and may, perhaps, arrive at the dinner hour. Then will he see steam from factories innumerable, whose tall chimneys dwarf their humbler neighbours, endless crowds of men, women, girls, and boys. Chattering and laughing they overflow the narrow pavements, blocking roads already congested with traffic, almost preventing the ordinary pedestrian from continuing on his way, and taking with perfect equanimity the thrust of the wheel with which some cyclist, impatient of delay, seeks to clear a path for himself and his machine. To them a bicycle is a privileged thing, for to it they owe those good wages which enable them to take life right royally and to treat “the missus” to a trip to the seaside when, like her superiors in station, her nerves suffer from the monotony of her existence and she pines for fresh fields and pastures new wherein to display that last new bonnet her “old ‘un” gave her.

Gone is all peaceful serenity; elbow-room is of the past. Of houses there is a great lack, and industrious sons of toil have been known to be, perforce, obliged to seek the shelter of the workhouse for want of a better roof. Court lies enfolded within court as densely populated as any London warren, and still the cry arises for more bricks and mortar.

Fine old houses rub shoulders with factories, are surrounded by little shops and tenement let to weekly lodgers; encompassed by unworthy neighbours they and their inmates bear this reversal of fortune with what fortitude they may. New buildings arise it is true, but at a rate quite inadequate to cope with the demand, and people of the better class are obliged to seek refuge in hamlets nearby.

Great is the demand for workers, and high the wage; well are the hands treated, very prosperous and healthy do they look on the whole. In some of the large factories a room is provided where breakfast or dinner can be cooked, tea or coffee heated; in others seats are provided for the women, female labour being much in demand. Although the lot of the factory-girl is not entirely a happy one, yet single women much prefer this life to that of the domestic servant, and bitterly do the housewives of Coventry complain of the lack of that necessary individual. Observant people are also apt to compare somewhat unfavourably the pert, noisy factory-girl of the period with her quieter sister of the loom, who, they affirm, drew from the more refined character of her work and the harmonious tints of her weaving a certain pleasing gentleness of demeanour and of disposition.

In the streets run electric trams; the water supply of the town is now stored in an underground reservoir whose domed chambers shine in resplendent cleanliness; a new cemetery, picturesquely planted, stands in the London Road; streets are being widened and new municipal buildings erected. The character of the population, which has risen from 25,000 to 70,000, has not been improved by the admixture of Birmingham roughs, and a strong force of police is required to keep order.

The watch trade has followed in the wake of the ribbon-making and is a-dying. Whether the use of stamping machinery, which cuts out watches by the score, or the superior wage the cyclist-workman draws is to blame is a matter of opinion, but as a matter of fact, the cycling trade reigns supreme in Coventry. It penetrates the whole atmosphere of the place, and large vans filled with the precious merchandise drive at all hours of the day to that station on the hill, whose principal business is apparently the transport of machines to distant climes and to many lands, and whose station would look desolate and forlorn without a friendly cycle leaning affectionately against its brick walls.

Everywhere machines swarm, workmen forced from want of proper accommodation to live some miles from the scene of their daily toil ride in of a morning, girls and boys of tender years negotiate the congested traffic with an ease born of much experience and not a little audacity, ladies from outlying districts come in to do their shopping, father and mother meander along in the manner appropriate to a somewhat abundant development of adipose tissue, young men and maidens mount and ride away in the subdued light of a clear May evening, to hear the sweet-voiced nightingale discourse to his love amongst the leafy trees that line the pretty road leading to Kenilworth’s deserted castle.

Close to the orchard or gardens, sole relics of the vast tract of land that was to be ever free to the good folks of Coventry and their cattle, still stands the old entrance to Cheylesmore’s tilting ground, but it is now hemmed in by mean cottages and blackened by factory smoke.

The stones that once formed part of the city walls, behind whose sheltering arms the burghers left all that was dearest to them on earth when they sallied forth against the invader, stones worn with the scars of time, are now separated by a few yards of narrow road from the hum and the war of a large motor factory. Paupers dine in the cloisters where once paced the meditative grey friars, and the Carthusian monastery looks with mild surprise at the cemetery wherein a crematorium is shortly to be erected. But although much has altered, above all still stretches the same blue vault of Heaven, the birds sing as sweetly as of yore, the pulse of life beats as freely as in our veins, and if the old order changeth it giveth place to a new and perhaps a better one.

------

With thanks to Rob Orland for the use of some of his images.

http://www.historiccoventry.co.uk/

The Weaver's House

Weaving is deeply entwined in the history of Coventry. It is woven into the very fabric of the city. Okay, I'll give up with the flowery weaving puns, but if you know you're history then you will know just how important weaving once was to Coventry. You will also know that the famous saying "True Blue" is probably derived from "True as Coventry Blue". On Saturday A.C. and I paid a visit to Black Swan Terrace - 119-123 Upper Spon Street and went inside The Weaver's House for the first time. It dates back to 1455 and has been restored by the The Spon End Building Preservation Trust. Saturday was an open day and the volunteers of the trust were out in force showing visitors around and working hard in the garden. It really is a cracking project and I was most impressed. Not much of "Old Coventry" has survived the ravages of our town planners so this is a must see. They have regular open days and the website for the trust is here:

http://www.sebpt.org.uk/

Our James

Remembrance Day is always sad. This year's commemoration in Coventry last month was even more poignant with the recent deaths of local soldiers because of the war in Afghanistan. James Fullarton, Shaun Bush, Simon Valentine and Louis Carter were all remembered by name during the service and James' parents were in attendance at the War Memorial Park. Peter and Jan Fullarton bravely laid a poppy wreath on the cenotaph on behalf of the Royal Regiment of Fusiliers. A different kind of bravery to what their son showed but bravery all the same when they are still in mourning and things must be so raw for them.

As a child I found 'war' a fascinating thing. I'm not sure what triggered this - possibly the annual Air Show with its aircraft from WW2, possibly a school trip to the Cathedral ruins where I first learned of its destruction by the Luftwaffe or possibly the countless war films that used to be on TV. The nearby air raid shelters and pill-box at Chrysler / Talbot certainly were an influence. Whatever the reasons were, at a fairly young age I had read a weighty tome about the epic First World War naval Battle of Jutland and a not so weighty but very powerful one describing the destruction of the German city of Dresden in the Second. One Christmas I received two copies of Coventry at war by Alton Douglas, which still remains the best pictorial record of the city during the Second World War. In addition to reading I had hundreds of Airfix and Matchbox 1:32 scale plastic soldiers, die-cast metal aircraft including a Spitfire, a training grenade picked up at Birmingham market, a British tin-helmet with webbing, some sort of German medal, (Iron or Knight's Cross, I'm not sure which) a metal model of the German battleship Scharnhorst and various berets and badges brought from army surplus stores. On a holiday to Tunisia in 1981 we saw remnants of the battle fought between the Desert Rats and the Afrika Korps. We also visited a Commonwealth War Cemetery which was incredibly sad. Row after row of white crosses which marked the passing of so many young lives so far from home. The graves of four young South African's who died when their aircraft was shot down is permanently etched in my memory. Granddad Peter was a cook in the army and served in North Africa. He died years ago but always played soldiers with me when I took them round. I sometimes wonder now what memories, if any, it brought back for him.

I've grown up now and the childhood fascination has been replaced by the grim recognition of the reality of war. It's horrific. I am so glad to have lived in a time free of another global conflagration. Britain of course has been involved in conflicts in every decade since WW2 ended but none have resulted in conscription. It seems a little odd to me that with the end of the cold war some time ago and relative peace in Northern Ireland that we should still be engaged in conflicts in or against nations that often appear to pose no threat to our national security. For some reason when America says 'jump' the UK replies 'how high?' and as a result the brave men and women of our armed forces have their lives put on the line. I fully support our soldiers but don't believe their lives should be wasted in futile wars that cannot be won such as Afghanistan. Bob the Muppet says that Britain's streets are safer because of our involvement in Afghanistan. No one in their right mind seriously believes this do they? If anything our streets are far more dangerous! On the news the other night the police said they had foiled a plot by Algerian terrorists. Will we be invading Algeria next then? Probably not unless some Algerian's carry out a terror attack on the good old US of A.

The parade to the War Memorial Park and the service of remembrance that followed was as dignified as ever. Well done to all concerned and Lest We Forget.

For The Fallen

With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.
Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres.
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.
They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old;
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
They mingle not with laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam.
But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;
As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain,
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.

Herbert’s Musical Magic

Stuffed animals. That's my overriding childhood memory of the Herbert Art Gallery & Museum. Today's Herbert has a lot more on offer. In a city littered with architectural nightmares, the recent extension is a welcome positive. And moving the local studies library to its History Centre was a smart move too.

Nowadays there is much more than stuffed animals to see. A good glimpse of Coventry's history can be viewed, not surprisingly, in the History Gallery, while the Peace & Reconciliation gallery contains reminders of the devastating air raids on Coventry. Excellent images of representations of Lady Godiva from down the years are on display in the Discover Godiva gallery.

The permanent galleries described above are complimented by visiting and temporary exhibitions. Some are excellent, some are so-so and some of the audio visual stuff I've seen there is just plain bizarre - and that's putting it kindly! But that's art for you. Something for everyone and you're never going to please everybody all of the time.

A cracking exhibition on at the moment is MORE THAN TWO TONES which brings to life Coventry's immense contribution to the world of popular music. Thanks to the hard work of the bods at the museum and local music expert Pete Chambers, a great collection of memorabilia has been assembled.

I was fortunate to attend the VIP opening night with my old mate Scouser. After checking out the latest 2tone trail plaque at the nearby Uni, it was off to the Herbert where the early part of the evening was spent milling around waiting for the action to begin. Pete Chambers gave a speech (which I couldn't really hear to be honest) and then the exhibition opened. There was a little loss of crowd control initially so the gallery was pretty packed as we made our way round slowly. By this time we had joined the Lieutenant Pigeon entourage where we both got to meet Rob Woodward for the first time. We've both known Nigel Fletcher (The drummer and famous/infamous for growling "Mouldy Old Dough" on their No 1 smash hit of the same name) for years so it was nice to meet the other half of the driving force behind this unique Coventry band. Scouser's old man had spun him some yarn about being a 2^nd cousin of Mr Woodward but when questioned on this Rob didn't recognise any family connection, leaving Scouser to curse the Jackanory story telling qualities of his dad.

After having a look at the exhibition we headed downstairs to the cafe area for some live music. Both of us were especially looking forward to the re-union performance of The Primitives. Can't say I was a massive fan during their glory days but I did like the hit single Crash so was curious to see how good they would be. Before they took to the stage some filler music was provided by much hyped local lass Kristy Gallacher. Scouser was not impressed at all. I personally thought she was okay but could have performed something a bit edgier.

The Primitives didn't disappoint and put in a storming performance. For such a diminutive person, lead singer Tracy Tracy has a commanding stage presence and voice to match. By the end of the set I was standing next to Horace Panter from The Specials who was tapping his feet away and totally engrossed by the gig. As we left he was congratulating the band profusely. What a top bloke!

I've since been back to the exhibition with my better half to have a proper look and it just confirmed my initial impressions from the opening night. Gold discs, stage outfits, handwritten lyrics, Blue Peter props, Ivor Novello awards and loads of posters are just a small sample of what can be viewed. It runs until 3 January 2010 so if you haven't already been get yourself down to the Herbert before it closes.

Meet the Masons

In September Ava and I managed to visit a few of the usually closed buildings that opened their doors to the public for the Heritage Open Days weekend. This was the first time I've done this and it was an enjoyable experience.

First off we went to the ruins of St. Michael's. The usually closed Capper's Chapel was open. In here one of the many pro-active Cathedral guides explained that some of the stained glass windows ( or 'painted glass' as he termed it ) were thought to be the work of John Thornton. This Coventry born master glazier is most famous for the Great East Window at York Minster. We were informed that bulbous noses are his signature piece:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Thornton_(glass_painter)

After signing a health and safety disclaimer I then climbed what remains of a spiral staircase to the upstairs part of the Chapel. It's hard to imagine an 'upstairs' in the ruins. The room itself is nothing special but the fact it survived the blitz is remarkable. It also makes you think about the power that guilds once wielded in Coventry.

Back in the ruins I rejoined Ava who was in conversation with another guide. We briefly discussed the destruction of the Cathedral and Britain's military involvement in Afghanistan before moving on to the Blitz museum a few yards away. The last time I was in this part of the Cathedral I'm pretty sure it was a coffee shop. It's small but houses a good collection of war time items which give visitors a good feel for what life was like back then.

We then went inside the 'new' Cathedral and headed downstairs to the archive area. I was interested to see the memorabilia associated with H.M.S. Coventry which was sunk in 1942 off the coast of North Africa. I acquired an interesting book last year about the war time service of the ship which was written by George Sims who served on her at the time. In the book there is a photograph of Petty Officer Alfred Sephton who was killed in action and posthumously awarded the Victoria Cross, Britain's highest award for gallantry. The same photograph is in the glass cabinet at the Cathedral along with his medal. Sephton grew up in Wolverhampton and met his demise directing the ships guns against Stuka dive bombers which were trying to sink the hospital ship Aba on 18^th May 1941. Early in the attack he was critically wounded by an air-cannon bullet.

The book also records the reaction onboard to the Coventry Blitz:

This news of success, [Operation Judgement - an attack on Taranto Harbour] and the safe arrival of our convoy in Alexandria, was somewhat spoiled by our hearing that the City of Coventry had been attacked by the Luftwaffe, and it's Cathedral destroyed. A pack of Brownies from Coventry had earlier sent gifts to cheer up "Coventry" ship's company. Now it was our turn to help the people of the town. A collection was made on board, and when the boxing team was competing at the Fleet Club, a further collection was made. Collection proceeds, with the addition of a grant from the ship's canteen fund, produced over a hundred pounds for helping Luftwaffe victims of Coventry.

On leaving the Cathedral we popped into The Herbert to view the local history fair. The Willenhall and Whitley history groups both had 'stalls' and some interesting photographs on display. As we were on our way out we passed the legendary John Russell, who I appeared with on BBC C&W earlier in the year. Much as I would have loved to have said 'hullo!' to John time was pressing so I gave it a miss. Anyone who has met John will know that he can talk for England when it comes to discussing the history of Coventry!

The Police Museum was next on the agenda. This was the venue I was most looking forward to visiting as I'd heard so much about it down the years. Also known as the Black Museum, it is home to some grizzly exhibits relating to the darker side of life in Coventry. After queuing for a while, we joined ten others and were the last visitors of the day. A somewhat tired female led us down some stairs into a small basement beneath Little Park Street police station. The room is split into two sections, one being for the over-15's only. It was not surprising to see why this was once we starting nosing around. Pictures of abused babies, murder victims, weapons that killed people are all on display. For me though, the main attraction was the remains of the bicycle used in the I.R.A. bombing of Broadgate in 1939. It was a very poignant and sad moment gazing at something that was instrumental in bringing such carnage and loss of innocent life in the heart of our city. It has no handlebars or front wheel but other than that looks brand new with the Halfords logo clearly visible on the frame. Of course it was new back then. I kind of imagined it would be scratched and dented. Only this week I was in touch with a relative of one of the victims who had read my article on the Historic Coventry website. He, like all decent people, is baffled by the lack of a public memorial to the dead. It really is shameful that the civic leaders haven't sorted this issue out.

The trip to the cop shop concluded our adventures for Saturday. On Sunday we made the short journey to the Masonic Hall on Warwick Road. Here we met the Freemasons and were given a tour of the building. A very nice Mason basically told us they are a group of people with higher 'values' than most. He added that anyone can join so long as they believe in a 'supreme being' and that Freemasons donate £millions to charity. The charity angle was reinforced with display boards and tables covered in press releases detailing the beneficiaries and amounts. It was also emphasised that they are not a secret society but do have secrecy regarding their rituals.

It was interesting. When I got home I looked up the Wikipedia entry for the Freemasons and it soon became apparent that our guide had memorised this almost verbatim. I don't have any axe to grind against them but clearly there has to be some kind of benefit to becoming one. Just having a higher set of 'values' and wanting to give money to charity are surely not reason enough for joining? Whatever the case it was nice that they opened their doors. I don't think I'll be joining up any time soon though!