The Day The Oil Flowed Uphill

Once upon a time there were well-staffed, well-equipped day centres for people with disabilities, offering them the chance to meet with their friends and carers, have fun and practise new skills and hobbies. Then successive Tory governments capped local government spending and lo, the centres were closed because they were too expensive to run. This cost-cutting exercise was presented as a chance for disabled people to choose how they spent their time and (reduced) funding, by employing support workers and receiving some money (Direct Payments) towards expenses, whether that be occasional petrol, accommodation and food costs incurred in the pursuit of hobbies or social activities, or materials to do crafts, learn an instrument, etc - anything, really, as long as it was part of their care plan.  

But now, with another Tory administration and further shrinking of the state, disabled people are no longer allowed to enjoy themselves and the funding for Direct Payments has been slashed.  (Serves them right  for making all those ill-advised loans to flighty foreign countries, eh?) The hatchet fell on my son's funding back in the spring, with his social activities deemed by some local government manager 'what any mother would do for her son' - something that really doesn't wash when he's 24 and you have more than one son and can contrast and compare.  Still, we scrimped enough to be able to afford the one last trip we'd already booked to the Robot Wars World Championships in Colchester - a chance for my son to say goodbye to his friends who travel all over the country to cheer on their favourite teams.  

Robot Wars doesn't really do it for me, so while he was cheering himself hoarse, I'd planned a trip to three nearby churches in Essex to see their mediaeval wall paintings.  I also intended to see the three hares glass in the church at Long Melford, and the half-timbered higgledy-pigglediness of Lavenham, having never been to Suffolk. 

The early morning mist had burnt off by the time we passed Reading and all was set fair for our weekend, when the traffic came to a standstill on the M25.  We caterpillared our way around, still making progress, when I noticed that the the tarmac was getting really bumpy.  Rumble strips? I thought. On the motorway?  But despite switching lanes and surfaces, the juddering continued.  Then an orange light started to flash on the dashboard. To pull in on the hard shoulder or limp on 15 miles to South Mimms Services and safety, with the possibility of risking further damage to the engine? One look at my travelling companion and how scarily busy and noisy the traffic was and I opted for the latter.

There was a further alarming moment when I ended my call to the breakdown people, opened the driver's door and saw a huge oil stain on the ground.  Argh!  Except that weirdly, it seemed to have pooled uphill.  I was still puzzling over this when the repair man turned up and informed me that the area I'd parked in, just inside the entrance and to one side, under some shady trees, was notorious for breakdowns.  Someone else's disaster in the adjoining bay, then. 

As for my poorly car, it was a misfire in cylinder 4. I've no idea what that means except that it's common in Vauxhalls apparently. But that's little consolation when it comes down to a wasted hotel reservation, tickets and petrol costs for a final road trip that didn't happen.

We did get home safely, however, and I'm thankful for that.  

Apotropaios: Soul Outlines

Last week came the partial unravelling of a mystery that has foxed me ever since May 2011, when Dru and I visited St Michael's, Dundry, which, as its dedication suggests, perches high on Dundry Hill overlooking Bristol.

This is Dru's photo of an altar tomb dating from the 1730s in the churchyard. If you look to the right hand side you can see that there are outlines of shoes - or rather, soles - on the slab.  But why, dammit, why?

We pondered long and hard. Perhaps a lover had cut them while he was waiting for his sweetheart to emerge from evensong.  Except he'd have opted for a heart and initials, wouldn't he? 

Maybe it's a dancing lesson, Dru said. It's interrupted when father comes home from the quarry - there's his hobmail boot on the threshold, see?  

No, it's the footprints of a mother and her children dancing on Father's grave, I concluded.  And I wrote a rather poor poem and Dru drew a picture for a putative illustrated book of local poems that never got any further than that.  

I did make sporadic, rather lethargic attempts to find out a little more. 'Was it a cement top to the tomb?' asked David Williams, a then inhabitant of the village. 'Could they be prints rather than carvings?' But no, it was definitely the local yellow oolitic limestone that goes by the name of Dundry stone.  

And that was that until some desultory browsing on Facebook last week uncovered this photo taken in the porch of St Gile's Church, Bredon in Worcestershire in a group called Apotropaios.

Well, I knew about the practice of concealing (mainly well-worn) shoes in buildings since at least the early modern period, as magic charms to ward off evil and/or fertility charms, but I hadn't associated this with carved outlines or even realised that the examples at Dundry were anything more than an isolated phenomenon. 

There was more. A friend of Dru's, Philip Watson, posted these from the roof of St Peter and St Paul at Mucheleney, with the hasty postscript that he hadn't been up there for nefarious purposes.  

I tried a spot more googling.  June Swan, former keeper of the shoe and boot collection at Northampton Museum, writes 'Shoe and sole outlines may be found scratched on buildings and other structures, which confirms the significance of the shoe shape' but offers no further information or explanation.  

I found further examples in the form of an outline of  what looks like a matching pair of shoes carved into the lead on the roof of St Michael and All Angels in Edmondthorpe in Leicestershire.  Also in the graveyard at St Stephen's Chapel, which forms part of the ruins of Bordesley Abbey, Redditch, where the Curator believes them to be either acts of vandalism or an indication of profession, such as cobbler. Meanwhile the blogger who posted the photos suggests that they might be connected with the custom of giving clothes shoes to the poor by the monks - although this wouldn't account for other examples elsewhere, and in a non-monasterial setting.  

All of which poses more questions than it answers - for example, are they always associated with religious buildings? - and leaves me more intrigued than ever by these vestiges of lost souls.  

20th August 2015

Dru Marland has drawn another example to my attention, at St Melangell's Church in Welshpool. Again, locals seem to be blaming cobblers! 

5th March 2016

A shoe at St Mary's in Trostan, Suffolk, together with the head of a demon.

26th August 2016

Spotted these at the back of the redundant Church of St James of Compostela in Cameley. The guide to the Church merely describes these as 'three pieces of lead from the roof, where presumably those who laid or repaired it autographed it with their footprints and the dates 1733, 1757 and 1795.'