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.  

A Tale of Paycocke's (After 'Black Beauty') and Coggeshall Grange Barn

I lived in Essex for a time 20-odd years ago and I hated it.  There are all sorts of reasons for this, but the fact that it was in Romford and I didn't have a car probably contributed to my antipathy.  Anyhow, further north towards the Suffolk border, it's actually very nice. 

On Sunday I happened to find myself in Coggeshall, which is just east of Colchester.  One of my colleagues who is from those parts told me that the phrase 'a Coggeshall job' means any poor or pointless bit of work, after the reputed stupidity of the villagers.  This seems a bit harsh. 

One of the things I like most about it is the vernacular style of building, so different from anywhere you will find in the South West. Clapboarding, for example.  We just don't do this.

Another style they employ and we, for the most part, don't is pargeting, of which Coggeshall has some modest but very pleasing examples.

The 15th century Woolpack Inn (see, over the window?) was bought by the Rev T Lowrey after he was ejected from the Church of England following the Restoration, and was subsequently licensed as a place of worship for some years. 

It would be a crime, whilst in Coggeshall, not to visit their most celebrated buildings.  So, first stop was Paycocke's, built circa 1500 for Thomas Paycocke, who had made his fortune manufacturing woollen cloth.  

Paycocke is old English for peacock, and the grandeur of Thomas's house does show off his fine feathers.  (So this really is A Peacock's Tail.) 

In the late 16th century, ownership of Paycocke's passed to the Buxton family, until 1746 when it was sold to its tenant, one Robert Ludgater.

As Coggeshall's industry declined, so did the fortunes of the house, which had been divided into three small cottages by the end of the 19th century.  (This is beginning to sound a bit like Black Beauty - I think we're at the point where Beauty has become a cab horse called Jack in the care of Jerry Barker.)  

In 1885 treasure hunters threatened to strip the house of its carvings and use them to adorn a distant mansion (enter Mr Nicholas Skinner, the brutal owner of several shabby cabs who works his horses to death) but this plan was thwarted by protesters and a buyer called Mr Pudney, a self-employed removal man who continued to use the house as domestic and business premises, before selling it back, in a much altered state, to members of the Buxton family.  ('It must be 'Black Beauty'! Beauty! Beauty! do you know me? - little Joe Green that almost killed you!')

Lord Noel Buxton, a direct descendant of the earlier owners of Paycocke's, embarked upon a 20 year project to restore Paycocke's to 'what he believed was its original state' (according to the National Trust), taking down partition walls, uncovering carvings, demolishing outbuildings, and patting and patting [me] as if he were quite overjoyed. 

In 1923, the famous composer Gustav Holst spent a summer at Paycocke's with his family, and his daughter, Imogen, said 'I shall certainly write to Mrs. Gordon, and tell her that her favourite house has come to us. How pleased she will be!'

The other must-visit building in Coggeshall is Coggeshall Grange Barn, if only to give thanks for it still being there at all.  As late as the 1970s, after decades of neglect and, latterly, wanton destruction at the hands of its owner, who deemed it unsuitable for modern day farming practices, the barn was in a ruinous state and on the brink of being demolished ...

... which, when you consider that it had stood on ground formerly belonging to Coggeshall Abbey since possibly the 12th century, and certainly the 13th, is nothing less than disrespectful.  

Enter local concern, which, affronted by the potential loss of such an important local building, formed the Grange Barn Trust.  Subsequently the barn was compulsorily purchased by the local council and the two-year restoration began.  As many of the original timbers as possible were used, and where new were needed, they are clearly visible.

The Barn was transferred to the National Trust in 1989, thus securing its future.  

It's a bit of a cliché to describe these ancient mediaeval barns as cathedrals, but they are stunning in much the same way as soaring Norman naves can be. Though, Coggeshall Grange Barn has its picturesque moments too.

The only slight disappointment for me was the decision to weatherboard and tile it, as originally it would have had a wattle and daub infill and a thatched roof.  I'm not sure of the reasons why this was done - financial, perhaps?  Anyhow, clapboard is very much in the local vernacular.