Sensational Developments – Newsworthy Victorian Photographers No1

Whilst working from home this last year, one of my tasks was to rebuild a basic spreadsheet of Welsh Photographers (1850 -1920) – names, addresses, dates.  In all honesty this became a little tedious, so I started doing a little research. Every now and then I’d have a quick search on Google, which didn’t produce too many results. Then I started using online newspaper sources, searching specific names, as well as the simplest search term -“Photographer”. 

Much of what I found were simply advertisements or notices of bankruptcy, quite a lot of bankruptcy actually! But of course, to be really newsworthy the stories had to have a sensational flavour and I found tragedy, assault, theft, accusations of indecent behaviour, drunkenness and fraud!  I will visit some of these stories in future writings, but I thought I’d start with an interesting occurrence in the Police Court at Milford Haven, Pembrokeshire on 20th October 1897.

John  Martin Powell of Milford Haven, photographer, artist and lay preacher, aged around 60, had been summoned to court by his wife of 32 years who wanted “..Separation and maintenance on the grounds of cruelty,”, something which Mr. Powell, of course, denied. His wife had been living with her daughter for some time and with the help of her sister, had brought the case to court.

The proceedings were progressing, albeit with some vocal outbursts from Powell, when suddenly, “… The court was startled by an hysterical scream from Mrs Powell, who was shrinking horrified away from where her husband was standing. Simultaneously there was a scuffle, and it was seen that Powell was pointing a revolver at his wife.”

Powell was still advancing towards his cowering wife when he was surrounded by half a dozen people, one of whom was his own son-in-law, and the revolver was ripped from his grip by  Police Sergeant Brinn.  “…It was a question for a moment whether the defendant would be preserved from violence..” as the crowd went into uproar with shouts of “Lynch Him!”, and people tried clambering towards the bench. Mrs. Powell had been ushered from the room and one of the Magistrates, Dr.Griffiths, stood on a chair and “…Appealed to the public to suppress their feelings, threatening to place under arrest anyone who incited a riot. He assured them the magistrates would do their duty by this man, and urged them not to say another word…”

Once calm had be restored, Powell, now handcuffed, stood before the Magistrates and was charged with the attempted murder of his wife and remanded in custody.

On 10th November Powell was brought to Carmarthen Assizes to be tried by Judge and Jury, and you’d think it was a fairly open and shut case. But, no, there was some question as to whether the trigger had actually been pulled. No one could say for certain that they saw Powell’s finger actually on the trigger. Some said they had heard a click, others heard nothing, but on examination the cartridge in the chamber of the gun had indentations as though the hammer had struck but not fired.

The jury retired for fifty minutes, and on their return announced that they had not reached an agreement.

“Then why have you returned?” asked the Judge.

“We wanted our dinner,” A juror said, to much laughter from the the crowd, “I don’t think we can agree, as we are eight to four”.

“I have known eight to convert four. I’m afraid I cannot discharge you,” replied the Judge, then adding, to more laughter, “Not withstanding the fact that you want your dinner.”

“I’m very sorry for that,” the Juror said, ”For I shall never be converted.”

To the sound of more laughter the jury was ordered to retire once more, and in quarter of an hour they returned.

“We find the prisoner not guilty of pulling the trigger, but of presenting the revolver for the purpose of intimidating his wife.”

The Judge had to concede that this amounted to a verdict of not guilty and before he discharged Powell he warned that any further cruelty to his wife would result in serious punishment.

Ten days later a settlement between Powell and his wife was reached with maintenance of ten shillings a week to be paid.  Powell continued in business until 1901.

Sources: South Wales Echo 21st October 1897.

               South Wales Daily Post 10th November 1897

               Cardiff Times 13th November 1897

               South Wales Daily News 19th November 1897 

               Carmarthen Weekly Reporter 12th November 1897

MM & MF Go Camping

The 14th Century Church Of The Holy Cross (Eglwys Y Grog) Mwnt (MFV Lobb Collection. NLW)

It’s been a while since I got around to writing on the subject of the Mary Lobb Collection discovered at The National Library of Wales some five years ago now. For those that are new to this story you can catch up by reading my article in the Library Journal HERE, and maybe some of my earlier blogs on the subject. 

Last year, 2017, I helped curate an exhibition at Kelmscott Manor. While this was running I was invited to a meeting called by researcher and author Jan Marsh who had recently been in receipt of an interesting little collection.The purpose of the meeting being to look over the materials and discuss where the archive should end up being housed.  I’m never that keen on the train journey from Aberystwyth to London, but obviously I accepted the invitation!

Around the table in a small meeting room at The National Portrait Gallery, there were, aside from myself, several interested parties from other museums, archives and galleries. With all introductions made, we all delved in to the little box of treasures. Out came bundles of letters, some from May to her mother and sister dated 1913, photographs and postcards from various places including many from Iceland, and 14 hardback sketchbooks in which May had written accounts of the travels she and Mary Lobb had undertaken.

A first look at the new discoveries.

The texts are written in diary form, an entry for every day, illustrated, here and there, with little sketches and watercolours. May’s descriptions are detailed and full of atmosphere and humour. In places she has written out conversations between her and Mary in script form using MM to denote herself and MF (for Mary Frances) for her companion, and some of these make very amusing reading. 

I was drawn to the journals relating to the trips to Wales, one of my aims being to see if we could connect any of the material in MF’s collection at NLW with the narratives, but it was to be some time before I could read any of them in their entirety. The final decision was that the journals, photographs and postcard would be housed with The Society of Antiquaries of London who own Kelmscott Manor, and for now they are held at the society’s offices at Burlington House in London. At present they are being worked on by Dr. Kathy Haslam who, with the kind permission of S.A.L., allowed me to have a read of the first of the journals to be transcribed.

As it happens, the earliest journal relates the ladies’ very first camping expedition, which was to a little cove on the west Wales coast near Cardigan, in the summer of 1919. The two arrived at Cardigan, by train on July 29th. After spending one night in the town of Cardigan the ladies were taken, by horse and cart, along the coast to Mwnt. Much of their gear had been sent in advance, though the main tent pole had somehow never made it! A replacement was soon acquired and then, “ Up to the farm-road, then down to the cliff, and there we are, at liberty to pitch our tent where we please…” 

They had come well equipped. Two stoves, one, which had been given to them by MF’s mother was a roaring Primus which, to May was, “An unholy terror.” She was much happier with her own little oil stove named Beatrice. Several of the implements have friendly names, including “Brownie”, an enamelled saucepan, and “Kruger” a useful lidded jug. They dined well on local produce –  fish, lobster, rabbit, and vegetables from local farms, mushrooms picked from the fields around them and salted bacon which they had brought with them. MF was responsible for most of the cooking using “Primus The Terrible”, but May was fond of sitting and making girdle cakes around her smoky driftwood fire.  

Their bedding consisted mainly of sacks filled with straw and led to the first night being, “a night of agony” until they had been re-organised. The second night wasn’t much better with the tent leaking in some squally Welsh weather. The wind battered the tent on a number of occasions  and, “The thing flapped and thundered, our oilskins, hung on shoulder hangers attached to the pole bobbed and swing like ghostly mad things…” Though the weather was kinder some of the time, often allowing them to take their morning bathe, “..Undisturbed, lying on the fine sand and letting the waves ripple over us.”

They weren’t as secluded as they had hoped, with locals and holiday makers alike, flocking to enjoy the last of the summer weather at the beach. At one point MF considers making a few pence by boiling kettles on Primus for picnickers at 2d a go! At the end of one day May says, “I’ll have to take a stick and collect all the paper ‘the people’ have left and burn it. The place looks squalid with their remains.” How she would have hated the amount of plastic found on so many beaches these days.

The month was spent exploring the area, cycling or walking miles up and down the coast to Aberporth, Tresaith, St Dogmaels and Gwbert. There was a day trip, by car, up to Aberystwyth, stopping along the way in Aberaeron and making a detour to Devil’s Bridge. May describes Aberaeron quite favourably, not so with Aberystwyth, which she describes as  “…Unspeakable – crowds of aimless holiday-folk, each one looking more bored than the last.” 

Looking across Poppit Sands from Gwbert (MFV Lobb Collection. NLW)

They spent time with the families in the nearby farms, Fynnongrog, Clôs y Graig and Crûg and had many visitors to the camp, curious no doubt about the strange English ladies. Youngsters from the farms, would sometimes bring gifts of mushrooms, milk, honey and other produce with them and then stay to talk over girdle cakes, sweets, cigarettes and Turkish coffee – May had brought along her coffee making kit!  Some of those youngsters would have gone away buzzing!!

Clôs y Graig from Foel y Mwnt (MFV Lobb Collection. NLW)

One day, Joshua Evans from Clôs Y Graig,  having heard that the ladies “knew about machinery”, turned up at the camp asking for help with his Fordson tractor, which was pretty hi-tech for the time. May explained that she really couldn’t tell one end of a tractor from the other and it would be “the other lady” he’d be wanting!  Up to the farm they went and MF worked her mechanical magic. Before long Mr Evans, who had lost an arm in an accident when he was younger, “…Was careering on the Fordson down the slope at a pace that made me gasp, as it looked as tho’ he were making straight for the deep.”

Of course, camping always has its stressful moments and there were a few tiffs between the two. May recounts one example of her “Peppery Welsh temperament” being aroused after MF, in a grumpy mood, makes disparaging comments about her driftwood fire, ending in May angrily throwing a saucepan full of vegetables into the bush, as MF stomps off in silence. Another example is presented in script form and concerns MF’s use of various crockery to keep her precious sea shells:

Scene: Outside the tent. MM touching up a sketch, MF seated in a camp chair with her back to MM.

MM  What are you doing M?

MF    Oh Nothing

MM cranes her neck and looks. (disgusted) Oh those smelly old shells! Why must you spend so much time over them?

MF growls You go and make your smokey fire and leave me alone, can’t you? My shells don’t harm anyone.

MM I looked for that bowl everywhere last night! Besides, they smell.

MF  Well you’re not leeward of me now anyway…

Then to May’s continued annoyance, MF proceeds to fill another large bowl with hot water and more shells!

Mwnt has always been a popular spot. The little 14th century church has been a favourite subject for many an artist over the years. It was May’s painting which first alerted me to the fact that she had spent time there. I’d suspected that other paintings in the collection were also painted around the same stretch of coast, so a trip to Mwnt was in order.

One thing I wanted to do was to see if we could find the actual location of the campsite. Unlike a lot of their later expeditions, they don’t seem to have brought a camera with them so there is no photo of the tent. We have May’s descriptions – “…up a pleasant valley, decked with a musical stream..”  She often mentions how the tent is on a slight slope, and there are various other references which led me to suspect a certain area. Also, although we have no photos, there is, on the reverse of a small watercolour of the church, a very rough sketch of the tent in its surroundings. Along with May’s descriptions, this made it possible to pinpoint the very spot.

The place is very much overgrown, making it somewhat difficult to fight through the wet bracken and brambles, but overall very little has changed. We’re fairly certain that just to the left of where Kathleen is standing was where the tent was. The little stream is hidden by the undergrowth but still babbles its way down to the beach. The buildings in the photo are modern, built by The National Trust.

Cliffs just around the corner from the campsite at Mwnt. (MFV Lobb Collection. NLW)

This is Crûg farm.  “The old house stands enclosed L shaped, making a pleasant square inside the stock-yard – old gray slates and the nice dormer windows…” May mentions sketching it and returning later to paint it, while the children of the family there played with MF “.. as though she were a friendly Troll.”

Crûg farm (MFV Lobb Collection. NLW)

This was the first in many camping expeditions. We know May returned to the area again, though as yet, I have seen no evidence that they camped at Mwnt again. With all the sleepless nights due to vicious weather, fear of snakes, “…all the Daddy-long-legs and startly-boos and snails…” invading the tent, and other wildlife making off with their dinners, its a wonder they ventured out again, most other women of the time certainly wouldn’t. But these two were no ordinary ladies.

Quotes from May Morris’ journals by kind permission of The Society Of Antiquaries Of London.

Kids Eh?!

Having just taken delivery of a nice new lens, I set off to give it a test run. My random route around town brought me to the castle. I often find myself passing through the ruins and today it was quite crowded. There were several groups of youngsters, mostly aged around 12-13, possibly a bit older, I’m not known for my accuracy when it comes to guessing ages!  

One or two of the lads were taking large rocks and slamming them against the walls in an attempt, I think, to impress the gaggle of girls standing nearby. They climbed and jumped, shouting insults at each other and were being generally boisterous. They were being kids.  A mother with a toddler passed me, looked at the frantic activity, then looked at me, then back at the kids again and I wondered if she thought I should be saying something, or if I was in some way connected. I just smiled.

I have to admit that somewhere in the back if my mind, the grumpy old man voice was muttering something about telling them to be careful where they were throwing things and to have a bit of respect for other people who might want a bit of peace and quiet. But then the other voice spoke up and reminded me of what I was up to at that age….there was the time that……oh yes and THAT time…..Probably a lot worse than I was witnessing in front of me, and I suspect I could have ended up with several ASBO’s! They were just being kids, and as long as I perceived no actual threat to life and limb to themselves or others, I wasn’t going to get involved. The mood was not generally aggressive, and I found it quite encouraging to see kids this age being active rather than sitting down staring at a screen. They weren’t there for that long anyway, and soon headed off.

Later, I encountered another group, older this time, the BMX crew. I’ve often seen this varying sized group racing about town, along pavements, nipping the wrong way up one way streets, doing wheelies and jumps whenever the terrain allows it. I’m sure I show my age by how amusing I find it to see large teenagers riding bikes that seem several sizes too small for them, but I suspect its considered quite “cool” ( or whatever word they’ve currently usurped to express that concept!). I had a couple of close calls, near misses, as they appeared suddenly around a corner, though it has to be said that I got an apology every time.

“Whoa! Sorry mate!”, was the usual offering, quite polite really.

As much as I might smile and just think “Kids will be kids”, they were a bit rowdy, possibly a danger to some and there are plenty less tolerant than me, so I kept expecting, at some point, to see at least one of these groups having a talking to by a Community Support Officer. Maybe they did and I missed it, if so it hadn’t deterred them any. Then I saw something else. 

Now, I can’t be entirely sure what had happened. However, the only person I saw being approached by the police was one young black man in a hoodie. He was not part of the other groups, and as far as I could tell, he’d been riding his bike on the pavement. He was stopped, asked to show his face and produce ID.

Figures produced last year show that black people are still much more likely to be stopped, questioned or searched than any other group ( just one of many articles on this subject can be seen HERE ).  As far as I could see, this lad had done nothing wrong because he was allowed to go on his way after the CSO had examined his ID. So, was it really necessary? I never want to believe these statistics, surely it can’t be that bad, but on just one day, in quiet little Aberystwyth I had witnessed something that seemed, in my experience at least, to suggest that it is indeed the case.

Lurking Around The Station

I’ve been lurking around the train station in Aberystwyth a lot lately. I’ve always liked the atmosphere in train stations. Airports and bus terminals too, have a similar feel. Its humanity on the move.

With Aber being a University town, its population fluctuates in accordance with term times, and the beaches bring the seasonal migrations of holidaymakers. Compared to main line stations in the cities, this one is tiny, but the single remaining platform of the Victorian station is often a busy place.

 

Sometimes there’s the quiet chatting of the local, regular travellers, or the boisterous banter of students, clustered together as they set out on some new adventure together. Next to them, in stark contrast, could be the silent couple, staring into each others eyes, contemplating a reluctant, painful farewell. The angst hanging, tangibly over them.

Mothers and fathers struggle with the family baggage while attempting to rein in excited children or placate exhausted, crying babes. A lone traveller sits apart from the crowd, staring at their feet, and there’s often a bright eyed young woman, fidgeting and throwing desperate glances down the track, impatiently awaiting the train that will bring her lover home. Some bury their heads in a newspaper or book, while others, the youngsters in particular, stand, thumbs a blur over the screens of smart phones, texting wildly as music buzzes in their earphones.

“The train now arriving….”, rattles out of speakers overhead, and the train rumbles up to the platform. The crowd shifts and takes on a new shape. Those embarking, position themselves for boarding, the others hold back, trying to peer in through the windows to catch sight of their returning friends or family. The doors open with an hydraulic hiss allowing a torrent of weary passengers, luggage in hand, to tumble out. For a few minutes those embarking mix and mingle with those arriving in a chaotic exchange of position, punctuated with hugs, kisses, handshakes and the occasional joyous shouts.

The general murmur of voices is replaced by the monotone drone of the idling diesel engine. The few people left, scattered along the platform, are waiting to deliver their final farewells through the grime blurred windows. Some silently mouthing words, and some, communicating by phone, like a scene from some prison drama. A few latecomers wearing vexed expressions jog up to the train hoping they might still be in time to secure a seat, and then the platform is all but empty.

The platform is rarely completely devoid of people, many come to snack under the shelter it provides and it’s often used as a short cut on the route to shops and car parks, but even when empty the station holds a certain fascination. There is still a feeling of anticipation there, as though the old walls have somehow been infused with the amalgam of emotions emitted by the constant flow of people over the last 150 years or so. I’m no believer in ghosts, but I do think that places somehow acquire what almost amounts to personality.

Despite the various alterations and additions to the building, it’s retained enough of its original features to remain fairly inoffensive to the eye. The sunlight can create some pleasing shadows as it plays around the wrought iron structure, and at night, the electric lights make their own patterns.

                                                                         

          
Next time you’re sitting in a train, or waiting at the track’s edge, and you spot that strange chap with a camera, it’s probably me. I mean no offence. I often wonder, as I bring the camera to my eye, if there’s someone observing me. Someone else “people watching”. We all do it. I try to record just a little of what I see.

AberStation on Flickr 

The Oldest Cyclist In Town?

I see a lot of cyclists around Aber these days. Perhaps it’s always been that way, and I’ve just started noticing them more.  Darting through my line of sight, meandering towards me on the pavement, careering around corners or looming suddenly out of the darkness on winter evenings.

You have the serious, lycra-clad enthusiasts, peddling frantically on their hi-tech, lightweight bikes that cost as much as a small car. There are the parents and kids, often trying to cross busy roads, which can be a bit like watching a mother duck leading her ducklings to safe waters. Then there are the people who seem to spend a lot of time stopped, or pushing the bike along while having a good chat.

Youngsters are often seen parked up on what seem, to me at least, like rather undersized BMX’s, usually engrossed in a mobile phone.

Some time ago I had spotted an old chap, on a mountain bike, carrier bags full of shopping hanging from the handlebars. I had thought about trying to get a shot of him, but he stopped to chat with another chap whom he clearly knew. As I passed, I thought I heard the cyclist say that he was, “..Over 80 now, so I’m slowing down a bit..”. Yesterday, I spotted the octogenarian again and tried to get myself placed for a good shot. But it was a busy day, difficult to get a clear, candid shot. I stood in front of the station and tried to get a shot as he crossed the road towards me, but it was no good. I turned to walk on ahead, but then thought that maybe I should just go for a direct approach, and turned back to face him.
“Excuse me,” I started, ” but did I once overhear you telling someone that you were 80?”
“83,” he smiled
“And you still ride all the time?”
“Well, do you know, ” he began, speaking in a crisp, clear English accent, ” It’s the only thing that keeps me moving. Keeps me alive. Gets me out and about. You see, I don’t have any friends now really, they’re all dead – all my peer group,”
“That must be difficult, a bit strange…”
“No,” he said, smiling with his eyebrows,” Not really.” He seems a happy man.
I reached for my camera and asked if I could take his photo.
“With the greatest of pleasure,” he said.

“So, how do you rate these modern bikes then?” I asked, as I took a couple of shots.
“Oh marvelous! Look at these tyres, ” he waved his hand at the wheels of his sturdy mountain bike, “I can crash up and down kerbs with these. Chunky, look at them. Not like those thin, flimsy old things. I still end up buying a new one every couple of years though. Well, I do 20 or 30 miles a day”
“Really?”
“Oh, it’s all on the flat though…”

If I’m just half what this man is when I’m 83, I’ll be very happy indeed.