JIT – Journey In Time (Part 1 of 4)

 JIT – Journey In Time (Part 1 of 4)

By John Abbott

Jonathon Thomas Vincent - November 1990

As I stood there on that joyous November morning in the imperial city of Rothenburg ob der Tauber, having flown from London via Nuremburg, it became extremely hard to guide my thoughts across the clouded years that stood between my long-lost relative and me. Situated near to the river Tauber and its peaceful valley was the old walled imperial free city. Here I was amongst its houses with tall pointy roofs, turrets and beams, old signs overhanging the streets, its old fountains alive with scarlet geraniums. Although I had been heavily impressed with the famous winged high altar in the great parish church; it had actually been painted by Hans Herlin in 1466 (over 500 years ago), nothing could have quite prepared me for what I was to find.

 

I could only marvel at the startling journal in front of my eyes. To have found such a jewel amongst this haystack was nothing short of miraculous. And to think that upon being told of this particular collection, my initial thoughts were almost blasphemous. I remember them clearly." Bloody waste of time! What's the point?”

 

Some strange compulsion to find the truth led me to continue. I had been in correspondence with quite a lot of people in Germany and Holland for some time concerning various aspects of my family's heritage, when a friend in Germany mentioned for the first time, the personal library of the Beadle of Rothenburg. In the next few weeks, it became obvious that although this collection was enormous and had been scoured in the past by numerous authorities on German history, a large proportion of the manuscripts contained therein were still unread, (obviously, none of this had been held electronically).

 

After many discussions and much heart-searching with Mansfeld, my closest friend, I decided it would be best to travel to Rothenburg and leave poor old Mansfeld behind. I left him in the care of dear old Mrs Stambridge. She would look after him; she liked dogs.

Imagine the scene from the past, on the eleventh of August, in the year of our Lord 1650, in the imperial free city of Rothenburg, an immense celebration of peace and thanksgiving had taken place. Now that the Swedish soldiers had departed, the populace fully believed the war to be over.

 

The schoolchildren of Rothenburg, the majority of them carrying bouquets and wearing wreaths, with a lavish accompaniment of musicians were assembling in the broad marketplace of the city, where it seemed as if the entire population was present.

Some nineteen years earlier in 1631, their parents and grandparents had knelt in this same square, praying and begging the dreaded General Tilly to spare their city from the fate of Magdeburg. Still to this day, the city holds a festival that commemorates the drinking feat that had saved it from destruction in 1631. General Tilly, who had conquered the city had initially ordered that it be burnt to the ground. Legend has it that he then offered to save the city on condition that one of it's councilors empty, with a single draught, a three pint mug of wine. The old mayor, Nusch by name, took up the challenge. He succeeded in draining this somewhat sizeable container and behold, the city was saved. The city of Rothenburg had been a focus of military activity for two decades at least; the children, both boys and girls who gathered that morning in 1650 had hitherto known only war. Peace was now at hand, the children marched in a slow and solemn fashion from the marketplace to the large parish church, where hymns of thanksgiving were sung before the city's populace and they heard a sincere and earnest sermon by Pastor Johann Dummler. 

Similar scenes were being enacted in cities, towns and villages all over Germany it seems. Rothenburg itself had ruled over some four hundred square kilometres of south-western Franconia back then, and as the church bells tolled over this, the northernmost region of Bavaria, sermons of thanksgiving were heard in village churches across the territory. But not everywhere: not, for example, in Linden.

 

This is where our story really begins: I have attempted to eliminate any linguistic anachronisms from the manuscript that my relative has recorded. I do hope that you appreciate my efforts. For my own sake, I am glad that he chose to record his tale in English and not in the customary Latin.

 

Jonathon Thomas Vincent - January 1634 

It is the year of our Lord 1634 and I have little idea of the underlying reasons for my attempt to record these events, but, nonetheless, I feel compelled to do so. Whether I am writing this as a record of historical events or simply to preserve my dignity and to purify myself I do not know. Only God can make the final judgment. I have convinced myself that what has happened, what I have witnessed and been a part of here in Linden is a monstrous perversity, a truly terrible act of impiety.

 

I came here almost by chance; alas, my inherent honesty requires me to accept that I had a choice. Oh, how much I regret that fated choice.

I could easily have stayed in Briel and maintained a reasonable existence alongside the English regiment residing there. But no, I was finding my stay a little tedious, to say the least. The constant stream of correspondence back to England, the many letters that, no doubt, were still unwritten, and the confusion that passed for the regimental accounts. All were boring me, a callow youth of twenty summers. I desired more. Why, why!!? - such impetuosity, such folly.

My original thoughts were crisp and clear enough when the opportunity presented itself. A messenger was required for a long journey into Franconia. The task seemed simple enough; deliver various documents to a Swedish Colonel Stalhaus and await a response. It seemed at once a golden opportunity to become involved in this war. After all, I told myself, that was why I had entered into this endeavour at the outset; the possible excitement and the constant danger of military service abroad, the chance of gold and glory beyond compare - all this and more I had hoped. I was sure that I had little concern for the defense of the Protestant faith.

 

I shall not dwell at any length upon the journey that brought me to the outskirts of this hell, except to describe the method and route taken.

I joined a small group of merchants who were taking a large sailing barge up the Rhine to Mainz, which was indeed a journey of tortuous length. During calm weather, the barge was drawn upstream by a team of eight horses and riders, with a spare team towed behind on a raft, together with a small rowing boat which was used for the acquisition of provisions. Whilst aboard the barge, few signs, if any, of the much-talked about war were readily apparent to me. The occasional drift of grey-black smoke in the distance, small groups of wretched souls who were given very short shrift by the merchants leading this trip, and, significantly, only once, an array of well-armed horsemen passing a tiny burned out village, heading for some unknown destination. There was little obvious suggestion of the calamitous events that had happened around this river in the recent years; mighty clashes of armies and the death of the Swedish King Gustavus Adolphus at Luton in Saxony.

 

From Mainz, I managed to find a smaller vessel which was traveling up the River Main to Frankfurt, where, with God's help, I hoped to find Colonel Stalhaus. It took very little effort indeed to find Colonel Stalhaus, for Frankfurt, it seemed, was alive with the arrival of the Swedes. Everybody was talking about how much longer they would stay, certainly in the southern suburbs that I now found myself in.

 

I asked a few simple questions at the beadle’s residence, and within two days I had arranged an audience with the Colonel.

 

When I arrived for my audience with Colonel Stalhaus, which had been assigned to an ungodly early hour of Wednesday morning. I was somewhat surprised to find such hustle and bustle, clerks and soldiers alike, all carrying boxes to and fro. The reason, I discovered, was that the colonels staff were to move South across the River Main later that day.

 

I must admit to a little nervousness as I entered the drawing room within the sumptuous residence of the beadle. There he was, Colonel Stalhaus, not, as I had imagined, surrounded by servants or guards, but alone.

 

He turned slowly and cast his gaze upon me. He was a stout-looking man, tall - over six feet, with broad shoulders that seemed built for bearing large burdens. His hair was long and fair, but thinning, and his face, although weathered, seemed a touch youthful. As I approached him cautiously, I then realized that this youthfulness belied the truth: his deep-socketed brown eyes were a colour similar to that of an oak barrel, and for all the world appeared to shout the word despair. His apparel was simple and workmanlike. His voluminous breeches were of grey, and he wore a sleeveless waistcoat of a similar dark colour over his white linen shirt, which, although having a collar that was very plainly cut indeed, both wrists showed a touch of lace. He also wore a large red sash diagonally across his breast from his left shoulder, which ended in a large bow almost hiding the hilt of his rapier from view.

The most surprising aspect of him was his shrill voice.

"You have the documents, young man!"

I had expected a gruff bark of a voice, but it was quite the opposite, high-pitched and sweet sounding, not at all authoritative. The English he spoke was clear, but still sounded unnatural. Had I heard it without seeing him, I would immediately have guessed that he was a foreigner.

I replied calmly."Yes, I have them. I hope you understand why I did not mention them to your clerks."

He replied carefully," of course... very commendable.  If only more of my own staff were as careful."

I tried to apologize "Sorry, I did not mean to belittle your st..."

The Colonel broke in sharply "No matter, the documents are bound for Wurzburg anyway."

I decided upon playing my trump card "Colonel, is it possible that I may continue the journey to Wurzburg?"

"I have a letter of introduction from Sir Edward Conway," I quickly added.

"Perhaps ... ummmh ... " his face showed a dour quizzical smile.

He stared resolutely at me. I hoped my expression told him what he wanted to know, that I desperately wanted the task.

"Have you enlisted," he asked?

As it trailed off, I heard the faint whispering echo of his words...

“You young pups, so eager to die."

"Talk to my Captain outside, show him your letter. If you have one."

I remember the moment well; my heart leapt a somersault of joy. What a mistake not to recognize this wise mans words for what they were: a salutary lesson in caution.

 

(To be Continued)

 

Copyright John Abbott

A note to all parents

A note to all parents

By Barbara Thomas

  I would like to share this with all parents, especially mothers, whose offspring have stopped communicating often with no reason. Apparently it’s called “Ghosting”, ignoring phone calls, texts, and letters as if we do not exist.

 This is my story, for 53 years I have never missed sending a birthday card to my only daughter. But for several years I have never received any response from her. This year was different, it began at Easter time I had posted an Easter tide card and in the envelope I sent her a stamped addressed enveloped with the hope that she would contact me as she had just become a grandmother for the first time and I also became a great grandmother for the first time, something to celebrate or so I thought. I waited and time passed, nothing came.

 So now I have come to the conclusion at last, how long do I keep hurting myself. So this month being her 53rd birthday, and as l said I had never missed sending a card. This time was different, I decided not to send her a card, or wish her happy birthday on Facebook. It was time to stop holding her hand, theoretically, she would now be on her own. Although I will never stop loving her, I am not prepared to play these mind games. So for all you parents especially Mothers who are still suffering and playing out their children’s mind games, let go of their hands and walk away.

Then we can only pray that the shock of the parent letting go just may bring them to the conclusion that something very dear is missing from their lives. GOOD LUCK…..

Copyright Barbara Thomas

 

SandCastleS

 SandCastleS

By Chris Mathews    

        The first time I saw the sea I thought I was standing on the very edge of the world. I asked my dad, “does it go on forever, or just tumble over the rim in a great waterfall far away?”

“No, but somewhere over there is another land, thousands of miles away. They speak a strange language and it’s so hot some of them don’t were clothes.”

“But why is the sky so big, it’s much bigger here than in London.” My dad turned away with a chuckle and set up the deck chairs. I had only just turned six and this was my first holiday, the first time out of London. I loved the train ride down to the seaside, the whole world flashed by like a film seen through the windows of our carriage. It’s a shame they don’t have steam trains anymore.

Thundering, great waves crashed onto the beach. Warm soft sand squelched between my toes, like stepping into warm boots on a cold snowy day. There I stood, looking out over a vast expanse of gold, wriggling my toes, enjoying the sensation.

My older brother ran ahead, leaping for joy and shouting excitedly. With a cricket stump, he wrote his name in the sand in giant letters. He looked up at an aeroplane miles above us and shouted, “It’s me - Stephen - I’m on holiday - in Littlehampton!” But the plane just ignored him, and flew on. He ran into the breaking surf without bothering to change into his trunks. Turning back to me he shouted,

“Come and splash in the waves it’s wonderful!” Mum shouted something about changing into swimming trunks… but the rest was lost in the wind, anyway, he was having too much fun to listen. I stood there amazed at the sight.  Stephen was almost nine, he had seen the sea before, but to me it was astonishing. Andrew was only four and still just a baby!

Back home, we sometimes sailed pond yachts on the Round Pond in Kensington Gardens, but, compared to this, that seems like a puddle. Staring at the vast blue ocean, I asked of no one in particular,

“Where did all that water come from.” Dad laughed and said,

“That’s where all the rain goes, silly.”

Finally, Stephen’s infectious joy overtook my amazement, and I too ran out into the sea, but only up to my ankles. It was freezing! I drew back quickly as a cold wave rushed at me splashing my knees. I fell over. Funny how you can’t keep your balance when the water is moving beneath you.

Dad set up the wind brakes, umbrellas, towels and a tablecloth. Mum laid out a thermos, sandwiches and little cakes. Dad tied the corners of his handkerchief to make a sort of sun hat, we all laughed at him, but he didn’t care. He just sat back in his deckchair smiling at the sun, and eating a sandwich. Mum handed me a bucket and spade, but my older brother was already building a sandcastle. I dropped to my hands and knees, which plunged deep into the warm soft sand. It was like the golden-brown sugar my mum used for baking. I was allowed to help in the kitchen sometimes. Andrew tried a mouthful of sand, pulled an ugly face and spat it out.  Stephen built a big mound like a hill.

“All castles have to be built on a hill, because the invading army gets tired out climbing it, and then they can’t fight!” He made a flat top by pounding the mound with his spade.

I too began to build. Soon, six round towers and a wall around enclosed the space inside. Stephen said, “we need a portcullis, and a drawbridge to keep invaders out!”

My dad called out, “you’ve got to have a mote; every castle needs one to defend itself against invasion.” So, we dug a trench all the way around, which slowly began to fill with water.

“Perfect, it looks like a real castle now!”

After eating sandy sandwiches and drinking too much Tizer and Ginger Beer, Dad made some flags out of lolly sticks and sweet wrappers.

Two boys from further up the beach came to join in, one said, “we can be the Saracens - I’m Suliman the Magnificent and this is a Templar fortress. You three can be medieval knights. We are going to build Trebuchet’s to break down your castle.”

“What’s a trebuchet?” I asked.

“Big wooden siege engines” Said one with a mouthful of cake mum gave him. “The Saracens used them to throw big rocks to smash the castles walls.” These boys were much older than me.

My dad solemnly said, “kneel, Sir Stephen.” And placed the red and white bucket on Stephen’s head, he knighted him there on the sand with his spade. “Take this mighty sword and with your fellow knights defend my kingdom.” Andrew sat inside and was given the title, “Keeper of the Kings Castle.”

Soon, some of the towers began to collapse, my brother shouted,

“Quick, repair the south turret, reinforced the drawbridge, rebuild the walls!” We all pattered down the wet sand to compact it. But the incoming tide did more damage than the tiny stones those boys flicked from their lolly stick trebuchets. The tide was coming nearer.

Dad said, “you need to build a dam against the waves.” We all worked franticly to save the castle. But the sea lapped into out feeble mote, and undermined the towers, which slumped back into the sand. Mum shouted above the sound of the surf, “quick dad, get your camera and take a picture.” But eventually the inevitable happened, as waves washed away our childhood.

Finally, dad said looking at the remains, “sorry boys, you can’t stop the tide. Just ask King Canute, he should know. Remember your Sunday School lessons, the wise man builds his house upon the rock, but the fool builds his house upon the sand.”

Running down to the beach the next day I saw that, nothing beside remains round the decay of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare but the lone and level sands stretch far away. Only a few lolly stick flags were left sticking up out of the sand.

Looking at this grainy black-and-white photograph now, three proud little boys stare grinning back at me, I try hard to remember who they were. On the back was written Littlehampton 1962. I wonder where those boys are now.

 

© Christopher Mathews, May 2026

ADDICTS

 ADDICTS  (Spaced out) 

Peter Woodgate 

Wandering through

Decaying cities of the universe

Lost souls sift in vain

Each empty building reverberates

And crumbles with their pain.

They search for elusive paradise

Within the fix of dreams

But stare into an endless void

Without corners or of seams.

Each molecule within their frame

Forms the galaxy of despair

Where atoms explode

Within their heads

And stars light up their hair.

They slide into the orb of darkness

That black hole in the sky

Where visions are lost

And gravity

Stifles every cry.

Legs and arms and hands and feet

Become detached

And then they meet

As the souls rejoice

Without a choice

And oblivious

Of devastation.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

WINDERMERE REMINISCED

 WINDERMERE REMINISCED

Peter Woodgate 

Blues and whites and pinks are seen

From houses on the mountain green

That circumvents the lake and sky

A scene that visits you and I

These mornings as I open wide

The shutters, now securely tied

To greet the warm and gentle breeze

That drifts across my face, I sneeze,

Then look back at the bed and you

And see you have awoken too.

Then, softly, I caress your face

You turn around and we embrace,

I whisper that I love you, then,

We hear the chiming of Big Ben.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 

OUR LATE QUEEN

 OUR LATE QUEEN

By Barbara Thomas

 Our beloved Queen Elizabeth would have been 100 years old on the 21st April 2026. When the Lord made her, he made an Angel in disguise. As many people know she was not born to be a Queen, but my God she stood up to the challenge. We should always remember her Consort, Phillip, the Duke of Edinburgh. During her reign she stood steadfast and true, to the end of her day’s. So thank you Ma’am.

 We remember with a smile the day the Queen and Daniel Craig acted out a Bond scene, the Queen as “M” and Daniel as “007”. Everybody watched as they both walked along the corridors of the Palace, even ended up with being parachuted over London. Fiction: Another memory, and looking back, the last time we would be seeing her great humour. No one can forget the Queen’s playful scene with Paddington Bear where the Bear offered her majesty tea and a marmalade sandwich, the response was with a twinkle in her Majesty’s eye.

 “No thank you I had a sandwich in my bag”. What a moment never to be forgotten. We will miss her charming smile, and wonderful clothes but most of all, the woman behind the Crown.

Barbara Thomas

WHEN

 WHEN (TRIBUTE TO RUDYARD KIPLING)

By Peter Woodgate

WHEN YOU HAVE BEEN TRANSMUTED

FROM THE ESSENCE OF TIME

YET FIND YOURSELF JUST ONE AMONGST THE MANY

 

WHEN YOU HAVE EXISTED

FOR 5000 MILLION YEARS

AND WILL CONTINUE

FOR 5000 MILLION MORE

 

WHEN YOU CAN TAKE THE CHEMICAL ELEMENTS

AND BAKE THEM INTO THE MOST EXOTIC OF DISHES

AND STILL PRODUCE A SURPRISE FOR DESSERT

 

WHEN YOU CAN SHINE MORE BRIGHTLY

THAN THE BRIGHTEST OF, MOST PRECIOUS JEWELS

AND YET BE NO MORE THOUGHT OF

THAN THE AIR WE BREATHE

 

WHEN YOU CAN FEED THE MULTI-MILLION LIFEFORMS

THAT CO-EXIST IN ORGANISED CONFUSION

AND STILL HAVE HEART ENOUGH TO WARM THEM TOO

 

WHEN YOU HAVE DONE ALL THIS

WITH NO MORE GUIDANCE SAVE FOR NATURES PLAN

THEN YOU DESERVE A LITTLE PRAISE AT LEAST

 

AND WHICH IS MORE YOU WILL BE A SUN MY MAN.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate