Housewife 1947: Invalid Kitchens

A fascinating story from Housewife magazine, 1947, and a glimpse of post-war social history in London during the rebuilding not just of bricks and mortar, but of society.

Housewife 1947: Invalid Kitchens

A valuable service which enables many people who would otherwise be unfit for work to live a normal life

By Barbara Banks

WHEN I discovered that the Invalid Kitchens had been in existence for over forty years I decided to investigate what sounded an interesting and unusual service. I telephoned the secretary of the nearest Kitchen to inquire if I might go along and see it. She said she had eighty invalid dinners to help prepare and all the shopping to do, so would I come tomorrow. Eighty dinners, and all the shopping! I assured the cheerful voice at the other end of the line that tomorrow would suit me equally well. The Kitchen had a light, pleasant dining-room with a serving-hatch to the kitchen.

‘What kind of people come here?’ I asked the secretary. ‘

‘Anyone needing a special diet. They must bring a doctor’s certificate or one from the hospital. We get T.B. cases, people suffering from all types of gastric trouble, diabetes, duodenal ulcers and many others. Naturally we work in co-operation with the local medical authorities.’

‘However do you know what to give all these different cases?’

Miss Ames smiled. ‘It certainly isn’t merely a question of a little steamed fish. We have an organising dietician at our headquarters .so all the meals are scientifically and correctly balanced. Some folk seem to have the idea that we are just a glorified soup-kitchen. But, of course, that isn’t our purpose at all. We do feel the work is important and when we see how wonderfully different patients respond to correct diet it makes all our efforts worthwhile. We had one man suffering badly from gastric trouble. His wife was very debilitated after her confinement but struggling to feed the baby. She was unable to go out shopping and he was too weak. Our van took them their dinners. In a very short time she was stronger and in consequence the baby was better, and he was able to return to work. He finds that by coming here for his dinner and continuing to have proper dieting he keeps quite fit.’

‘What do you mean by the van? I thought everyone came to the Kitchen.’

‘Oh, no. Each Kitchen has its delivery service and meals are taken to invalids who are too ill to come and old people who are bed-ridden. Come out to the kitchen and see the dinners put up.’

Piles of deep metal plates were on the table. After the hot food was put in them they were stacked tightly on top of each other, placed inside a thick, round metal cylinder, the lid firmly fixed, and away went the driver on the first round.

‘Five of those go to a factory,’ explained Miss Amen ‘We used to send to a number of factories, but now their own canteens are doing more themselves. Our dietician is always pleased to advise factory canteens about special diets.’

I volunteered to do some potatoes while I waited for the dining-room to open.

‘All the meat has to be minced,’ explained Miss Ames. ‘Vegetables are either minced or thoroughly mashed. When we serve fruit it must be sieved. I could not give patients whole prunes; they are made into a purée.’

 

By the time the driver and his helper had taken away the twenty-seven dinners for delivery it was 12 o’clock and the first people were arriving in the dining-room. I left my potato-peeling and followed Miss Ames to her desk near the entrance. The maximum charge is 1s. 6d., but many pay less than that. Old Age Pensioners pay 8d. each and some pay as little as 6d. I noticed a large bowl of Bemax stood by the hatch so that anyone who liked could take some with their pudding.

‘How do you manage to pay your way?’ I inquired.

‘We are supported by voluntary contributions,’ replied Miss Ames. ‘And we certainly do want a lot more financial help. Apart from the existing Kitchens (we have eight in different parts of London) there is such a need for them in other districts. More money would enable us to extend the service.’

‘Tell me about some of the people. What is the matter with that man who has just come in?”

‘He was a very bad gastric case. He has been coming for six or seven weeks and has gained a stone in weight. The little woman over there is a diabetic; she has her own dinner here and then takes one home to her invalid husband. We have several young ex-service men with a war legacy of gastric trouble. By proper dieting they are able to carry on with their work. But without this help many of them would be unfit for normal duties.’

The whole place had an air of quiet friendliness. When I remarked on it Miss Ames said, ‘Well, I take a personal interest in each patient. The diets are important, but their beneficial effects can be increased when they are eaten in happy congenial surroundings.’ She looked regretfully round the room. ‘And I do like to have flowers on the tables, but they are far too expensive just now.’

As we ate our own dinners I wanted to know more about the delivery service... ‘It is, of course, a very important part of our work,’ said Miss Ames. ‘Although from a financial point of view it is expensive. But this is an instance where the end really does justify the uneconomic means! For some of the bed-ridden old people the visit of the van is the high light of their long, lonely day. One old woman is ninety-five, but she thoroughly enjoys her hot dinner and a word with the helper who takes it.’

‘Do you need helpers?’

‘People who are really reliable and good drivers for the vans are always welcome. Otherwise we have to pay someone to do it. And as you know our funds are really inadequate to meet the demands on them.’

As I went home I reflected on the very valuable service these hard-working people were rendering the community. Surely if others knew of the need, more financial and practical help would gladly be given. After years of destruction and laying waste we now face the task of building up again. The invalid Kitchens of London are doing a very vital part in that building-up process.

More Short Stories: A Life Examined at Sunset

This is the story I have written about Robert Grant, in Dapoorie, July 1838, which I set shortly before his death, with his hymn "O Worship the King" moving like a distant chorale beneath the narrative. The hymn was published posthumously.

A Life Examined at Sunset

The gentle glow of the setting sun was gone. Now the monsoon clouds had gathered early that evening over the Governor’s country residence at Dapoorie, their deep thunderheads rolling like the very chariots of wrath Sir Robert Grant once described in his hymn. In the distance, the rugged, dramatic outline of the Western Ghats mountain range provided a striking backdrop, as the monsoon shrouded the peaks in rolling storm clouds and dense mist. But this, too, was part of God’s glory and might, both the light and the dark.

O tell of his might and sing of his grace,
whose robe is the light, whose canopy space.
His chariots of wrath the deep thunderclouds form,
and dark is his path on the wings of the storm.

The weather had been hot and dry before the coming rains. He could see across the river to the open, expansive tablelands of the Deccan plateau in the distance. Strong, hot winds swept across the plains, picking up loose topsoil. The air was constantly filled with a fine, blinding dust that coated everything inside the bungalows. The hymn he had written decades earlier seemed to mirror that of humanity in this unforgiving heat, frail children of dust, and feeble as frail. Only faith kept alive the promises of God’s care, and now the coming monsoon would bring his mercy to this harsh climate

Frail children of dust, and feeble as frail,
in you do we trust, nor find you to fail.
Your mercies, how tender, how firm to the end,
our Maker, Defender, Redeemer, and Friend!

He smiled at the line. It had been his father’s creed before it was his own: that all humanity stood equal before the Ancient of Days. His father Charles Grant had thundered against the East India Company’s greed, insisting that empire without conscience was merely a machine for suffering. His father’s famous tract of 1792 argued that they were purely exploiting India for revenue and ignoring the welfare of the people. Robert had carried that conviction across oceans, into Parliament, into India, and into the very marrow of his governance.

India was a land of poverty, and he remembered how he had aggressively pushed for higher education as Governor of Bombay. He believed that educating young Indians in Western sciences and arts was the most effective way to eliminate poverty, advance society, and cultivate a highly capable local professional class.

And he had set in place vast road-building projects. For surely building efficient transport networks across the rugged terrain of the Deccan plateau was crucial to mitigating local famines, improving food supplies, and allowing rural farmers to easily bring goods to market. If a drought hit the Deccan plateau, grain couldn't be moved fast enough on bullock carts via muddy tracks to save starving villages. He remembered the brutal journey of 120 miles between Bombay (Mumbai) and Poonah (Pune). It had been physically exhausting journey that took anywhere from 4 to 7 days. Things had to change and get better.

Like his father, Charles Grant, Robert believed Britain had been granted power over India by Providence for a specific purpose: to introduce the treasures of the Empire -science, and governance. He firmly believed that if the British military abandoned its positions or failed to expand, the region would collapse back into factional warfare, undoing all educational and medical progress. The British rulers were meant to be the instruments of God's peace, a shield and defender against the local warlords. The annexation of Aden was needed to preserve the trade routes for India.

O worship the King all-glorious above,
O gratefully sing his power and his love:
our shield and defender, the Ancient of Days,
pavilioned in splendor and girded with praise.

He breathed slowly, feeling the weight of his 58 years. His once ruddy face had paled, his hair now a pure white crown. Yet his voice, when he spoke, remained musical, perfectly controlled, as if shaped by the same grace that guided his pen.

A servant approached, offering water. Robert thanked him gently. He had insisted, always, that the people of India deserved education, medicine, dignity. Not charity but dignity. He had been horrified by the lack of scientific medical care available to the native population. In 1835, he forced the government’s attention toward creating an institution specifically to train Indian students in European medicine. He established the Medical and Physical Society of Bombay to drive scientific inquiry.

He watched the rain begin to fall, sweetly distilling in the dusk like the hymn’s dew. The hills beyond Dapoorie blurred into soft silhouettes. He remembered his father standing in the House of Commons years earlier, arguing that slavery was not merely an economic sin but a theological obscenity. How could one worship the King all‑glorious above while denying His image in another human being? His father had taught him that abolition was not politics, it was obedience. He himself had carried that same fire into that very chamber, arguing fiercely that British Jews should have equal civil rights as he championed his Civil Disabilities Removal Bill.

Robert whispered the hymn’s opening line under his breath. Not singing, but remembering. The words had come to him in a moment of clarity, a moment when he understood that worship was not flattery but alignment: aligning one’s life with mercy, justice, and the refusal to exploit the vulnerable.

He thought of the officials who had mocked his reforms. They had wanted profit, not progress. They had wanted obedience, not education. Yet he had pressed on, encouraging Indian scholars. He had not always succeeded. But he had tried.

The storm thickened. Lightning flickered across the horizon like a divine signature. Robert felt a faint ache in his chest, familiar now, insistent. He leaned back, letting the monsoon wind cool his face.

Your bountiful care, what tongue can recite?
It breathes in the air, it shines in the light;
it streams from the hills, it descends to the plain,
and sweetly distills in the dew and the rain.

A life worth living, he reflected, was not measured in titles or victories. It was measured in whether one had stood, however imperfectly, on the side of the frail children of dust. Whether one had used power to shield rather than to wound. Whether one had remembered that the robe of the true King was light, not dominion.

He closed his eyes. The hymn’s final verse rose in him like a benediction: O measureless Might, unchangeable Love… He had written those words in faith, but now they felt like a homecoming.

The storm broke fully then, rain sweeping across the plains in silver sheets. Robert Grant exhaled, peaceful, grateful. His life had not been flawless, but it had been faithful. And as the thunder rolled over Dapoorie, he felt himself carried, girded with praise, into the mercy he had spent his life defending.

O measureless Might, unchangeable Love,
whom angels delight to worship above!
Your ransomed creation, with glory ablaze,
in true adoration shall sing to your praise!

Historical Addendum:

Sir Robert Grant suffered an attack of apoplexy (stroke) following a severe fever brought on by exposure to heavy monsoon rains. Because of the intense humidity and lack of refrigeration, bodies had to be interred almost immediately. His retinue had to quickly transport his body from the rural Dapoorie residence across the swollen streams to central Poonah, where he was buried at St. Mary's Church the very next day. This tragic event is precisely why his colleagues immediately pushed to establish the Grant Medical College. They wanted to ensure that future generations in the presidency had access to scientific medical advancements to fight the very tropical fevers that killed him.

Light Encircled

This poem was written with rhyming couplets mostly with iambic tetrameters designed to mirror the steady rotation of the lighthouse beam that forms the poem’s central image. It's from my back catalogue from 22nd July 2004.

Light Encircled

The darkness moved over restless sea
The motion was alive with vibrancy
The rocky crags were sharp and clear
Upon them stood the watching Seer
The light swept circling round the bay
To warn off the ships, to stay away
Picks out white flecks upon the waves
Shines deep within the nearby caves
Then round once more, and out so far
Meeting with light from distant star
The Seer is serene, sees not the motion
But the master pattern behind the ocean
Movement in harmony, in time’s embrace
Where wind and sea make calming place.

A History of The States ofJersey Fire Service - Part 1

A History of The States of Jersey Fire Service - Part 1

From Jersey Life, 1967

By C.E. Perry

The STATES OF JERSEY Fire Service, under that name, first came into being in 1938 when the States, faced with the threat of war, took over the St. Helier Fire Brigade. Curiously enough it was a telephone manager from the National Telephone Company in England, Mr. Eady, who had come here in the telephone service, who started the St. Helier Brigade in September, 1901.

Up to that time there had, as far as parish records go, been no official fire fighting body in the town. For many years from the early 1800s insurance companies established in the Island had provided their own fire fighting equipment; but each company only attended fires at premises which they had insured and which bore the company's plaque. One of these is preserved at the museum having been taken from premises in Museum Street which were demolished some years ago. Prior to the insurance companies 'fire brigades', in ancient times it was the duty of the Seigneurs of the various fiefs to protect their vassals and tenants and to that end they are believed to have provided men-at-arms with buckets to attend to fires; later this became a parochial responsibility but it must have been a somewhat haphazard service to say the least until the insurance companies provided manual pumps, hoses and escape ladders. The garrison troops, of course, had their own fire fighting equipment and doubtless lent a hand if requested to do so, in fact I remember a serious fire in the early 1920s when the fire picquet from Fort Regent, then garrisoned by the 2nd East Surreys, turned out and helped to keep the crowd back. I remember that very clearly for I had a slight argument with an enthusiastic youngster who nearly stuck his bayonet in my eye.

But to come back to 1901. Mr. Eady had been connected with the Fire Brigade in Bournemouth and when he came here as manager of the National Telephone Company he felt that he could make a valuable contribution to the well-being of his new home by establishing a fire brigade; the St. Helier authorities were very co-operative and in September of that year the Brigade was duly formed and trained; it consisted of the Chief Officer, a Second Officer, Foreman and 12 firemen, all volunteers. Their equipment consisted of a horse cart, a hand wheeled manually operated escape and two hose manual systems, provided water was available, could throw a jet of water 50 feet with ten men a side operating the handles of the pump. The 20 men operated the pump for 20 minutes and were then replaced by another 20 volunteers while the firemen manned the hoses and escape. Firemen were paid 2/6d. for the first hour and one shilling an hour for subsequent hours they attended a fire. These sums were paid by the parish. The volunteer pumpers got the same rate of pay and it is stated that the insurance companies provided beer for their men when they were in operation.




In 1902, on January 1st, the St. Helier Fire Brigade was housed at the Town Hall and remained there until after World War I; the engine was housed in part of the building next to what is now a jewellers' shop. The first appliance was a horse drawn manual and during that first year 23 fire calls were dealt with. In 1905 in July, the manual was replaced by a Shand Mason steamer named Lord St. Helier and bought by the parish.


In 1912 a contract was signed between the parish and Mr. F. J. Laurens, a well known carting contractor of the time whose premises were known as the Don Stables, for the hire of horses for the use of the fire brigade. If used in St. Helier the contractor was paid 15/- per run for his horses but if anywhere else in the Island the fee was £2. If horses were called out but not hitched up by reason of a stop call, a fee of 5/- was payable. The steamer's working pressure was 120 lbs. per square inch and this pressure was raised in seven to twenty minutes. It was usual to light the boiler fire 11 miles from the scene of the fire and the engine was capable of delivering 250 gallons of water per minute. That was if water was readily available, in the country districts this was not always the case and many a time, right up to very recent years, the unfortunate men had to use liquid manure cisterns. The results can be imagined. The steamer made a gallant sight as the horses cantered along, the brass of the engine's funnel and the firemen's helmets gleaming and, as often as not, sparks streaming from the funnel and from the horses' hooves as they clattered over the paving stones of the town streets.

Mr. Eady continued as Chief Officer until 1915 when he was succeeded by Mr. Gale who was in charge until 1924 being succeeded by Mr. `Joe' Remphry.

One of the very early calls of the 1901 brigade was to a hotel fire at Greve de Lecq; the firemen arrived at the bay which is 71 miles from the Royal Square within 45 minutes. The following quote from The Evening Post is preserved in fire service records. 'This morning's turn out was practically the first that the newly formed St. Helier Fire Brigade has had to respond to and the smartness with which they mustered and performed their duties make it evident that we have at least in St. Helier an efficient fire brigade'.





The year 1923 saw a reorganisation; the room at the Town Hall was required for other purposes and motor vehicles having been acquired, the brigade moved to what had been the Town Arsenal in Nelson Street behind what is now the Odeon Cinema. Here under 'Joe' Remphry the vehicle strength grew to a Dennis 20 h.p. 350 gallon per minute pump and a Chevrolet tender and trailer pump; a Merryweather pump with wheeled escape was added in 1933. Between 1924 and 1936 there were several serious fires, notably Les Riches in Colomberie and Normans, Commercial Buildings in the '20s and St. Aubin's Railway Station in 1936. In 1938 the St. Helier Brigade were called out to the first air disaster at the airport where a Jersey Airways plane had crashed near the airfield with the loss of all its passengers and crew.

In 1938, the States of Jersey took over the service from the Parish and the firemen were equipped with another Dennis 500 gallon per minute appliance and also six trailer pumps, and an auxiliary fire service was formed in view of the threat of war. The brigade, however, continued to function with Chief Officer Remphry in charge with W. J. `Toby' Lock as his Second Officer. They had many tasks during the war years many of them serious, such as the fire at St. Ouen's Manor which destroyed one wing of the building, another in New Street which destroyed Messrs. A. De Gruchy's restaurant, that at the Palace Hotel and many others in places occupied by German troops whose carelessness, where fire risks were concerned, became proverbial.

What Might G.K. Chesterton say about scrapping the minimum wage?

Jersey’s minimum wage has sparked fresh debate after Economic Development Minister Gerald Voisin publicly questioned whether it should remain in place. In a letter to the editor, he argued that the current £13.59 hourly rate is holding back businesses, fuelling inflation, and limiting opportunities for people to take on additional work. His comments follow similar calls from columnist Douglas Kruger of Value Jersey, who labelled the wage floor a political showpiece. Voisin previously endorsed Value Jersey during June’s election.

What Might G.K. Chesterton say about scrapping the minimum wage?

It is a curious thing, how modern reformers will stride into the marketplace like prophets, waving their arms and declaring that the ancient and ordinary protections of the poor are suddenly the engines of national ruin. One might imagine, listening to such pronouncements, that the minimum wage were not a modest fence around the labourer’s dignity, but a monstrous idol demanding sacrifices of prosperity. Yet the truth is simpler, and far more human. The wage floor is not a chain around the ankle of enterprise; it is a reminder that civilisation begins with the recognition that a man’s labour is not a trinket to be bartered at the lowest possible price, but a participation in the common good.

The notion that abolishing the minimum wage would unleash some golden age of thrift and industry is one of those bright, brittle ideas that shatter the moment they touch the earth. It imagines the economy as a machine, humming along in perfect efficiency, if only we would remove the “obstructions” of fairness. But economies are not machines; they are parades of people, each with a face, a family, and a hope. To argue that wages must fall so that prices may rise more gently is to suggest that the poor should be made poorer so that the rich may be less inconvenienced. It is the sort of logic that would have made Dickens reach for his pen.

And as for the claim that the minimum wage “denies people second jobs”, it is a marvel of modern rhetoric: the idea that the cure for hardship is not a living wage, but the liberty to work oneself into exhaustion. The medieval serf, at least, was spared the indignity of being told that his bondage was a privilege. A society that congratulates itself for offering its citizens the freedom to toil endlessly is not a society that has discovered liberty; it is one that has forgotten leisure, charity, and the Sabbath.

The minimum wage may not be perfect. No human institution is. But to abolish it in the name of economic purity is to mistake the purpose of an economy altogether. The object of production is not profit, but people. And any civilisation that forgets this will soon find that it has produced everything except happiness.

Looking around Guernsey 1972 – Part 5

Looking around Guernsey 1972 – Part 5

Castle Cornet

STANDING like a lone sentinel overlooking the harbour mouth is Castle Cornet, an ancient fortress that has played an important and exciting part in Guernsey's turbulent history. Built, according to some authorities, in the reign of King Stephen, Castle Cornet has been the scene of numerous hard-fought battles, and on several occasions during the continuous strife with France, its steps have echoed to the tread of the invading French army.

During the Civil War in the reign of Charles I the island supported Cromwell, but the Royalist Governor, Sir Peter Osborne, withdrew with a handful of the King's men to Castle Cornet, which they held for the King for nine years. Indeed, the Castle was the last Royalist stronghold to surrender to the forces of Parliament (December 15th; 1651).

In 1940, the Germans took over Castle Cornet, although it was hardly adaptable to the needs of modern warfare. As an example of military architecture it is remarkable because it has borne the influences of succeeding armies from Norman times right up to the fortifications installed by the Nazis.

The Castle was the property of the War Office until 1948, when it was presented to the States by the British Government. It is maintained as an ancient monument and is full of romance and historic charm.

Thousands of people visit it each year, and many take advantage of the conducted tour which begins every day at 10.45 a.m. and ends about 11.30 a.m. Actual hours of opening are:— weekdays (except Saturday afternoons) — 10.30 a.m. to 12.30 p.m. and 2.30 p.m. to 6.00 p.m., and Sundays — 10.30 a.m. to 12.30 p.m.

The Castle also contains the Royal Guernsey Militia Museum, the Maritime Museum, the Armoury — showing former uniforms, models and weapons —and an Occupation Museum. More peaceful is a collection of water colours by the 19th-century local artist, Major Peter Le Lievre, a Guernsey Militiaman who has charmingly depicted island scenes and people of over a century ago.

Women visitors, particularly, enjoy the gardens at Castle Cornet, which are very fine in late spring and summer and are looked after by the head keeper and his assistants.

Victor Hugo's House

HAUTEVILLE HOUSE, the home in exile of the famous 19th-century French writer Victor Hugo, is one of the most interesting houses in Guernsey, and every year thousands of British and French people make their way up the steep Hauteville road on the south side of St. Peter Port to visit it.

Hugo lived in Guernsey from 1855 until 1870, when the Second Empire fell. His home now belongs to the City of Paris, and has been preserved as a memorial. Here, you can see all his personal belongings and furniture, just as Hugo left them.

From the high window of his study you can look out over the sea as he did, and on a fine day, pick out the coast line of his native land. Standing in his study, Hugo penned his famous book, The Toilers of the Sea, written about and dedicated to the sturdy island folk among whom he had made his home and also gave much for the poor children of Guernsey and it is as much for his charitable work as his writings that he was affectionately revered in the island.

His statue stands in Candie Gardens, and shows him striding forth in flowing cloak — just as he used to do on his marathon walks around Guernsey. In his last year of exile, the poet planted an oak tree at Hauteville, predicting that by the time it was full grown there would be a united Europe.

Hugo's oak has become a symbol of European unity, and sprigs from it tended in a Guernsey nursery have been planted in many Continental countries. In 1970, delegates from several European centres came to Guernsey to celebrate the centenary of the oak tree's planting, and take part in a ceremony held below Hugo's statue.

Candie Gardens lie just above St. Peter Port. These miniature botanic gardens contain a variety of sub-tropical plants, trees and shrubs grown in the open — including a lemon tree bearing fruit that frequently ripens.

Guernsey's colourful past



FOR so small an island, Guernsey is rich in evidence of a colourful past in the form of ancient dolmens, castles and forts. It is a quality that has come to be recognised nowadays as historical depth, and many visitors are fascinated by its abundance in the island. Although the States of Guernsey has a very limited budget in comparison to the UK government they are doing what they can to preserve and restore the most significant of these ancient monuments.

 

There are quite a number of dolmens — tombs of prehistoric tribes — in Guernsey. Probably the most interesting is the 3,000-year-old Delius Dolmen near the yacht marina in the Vale. It has been described as one of the finest examples of a passage grave in Western Europe. Electric light has been laid on there, so you will be able to see the marvellously preserved prehistoric rock carving known as "The Guardian of the Tomb".

Also interesting are the La Varde dolmen at the Pembroke end of L'Ancresse Common, and Le Creux as Faies at L'Eree. But Le Catioroc dolmen, standing on a mound overlooking Perelle Bay, has the weirdest history of all. The west coast is still considered "witches' country" by many local people, and Le Catioroc was one of the chief meeting places for the Guernsey witches' "sabbat". At this Friday-night orgy they hurled insults at the Chapel of the Holy Virgin on Lihou island, chanting, "Que Hou Hou Marie Lihou". According to local antiquarian Mr. J. Stevens Cox, "Hou" is the name of an ancient Breton god.

At one time witches appear to have got a good grip on Guernsey; island folk-lore is full of them, while the Royal Court holds records of actual witch trials that have taken place.

A pagan but more harmless lady, affectionately known as "La Grand'Mere du Chimquiere", stands at the gate of St. Martin's Church. An authority from the British Museum dates the sculpture at around 700 B.C. Poor Grand'Mere still bears a scar near her skirted shin-bones where a former church warden, affronted at the presence of a heretic so near to the church, tried unsuccessfully to hack her down.

One of the island's most ancient fortresses is Ivy Castle, near Le Bouet, said to be a Norman stronghold older than any in England, because it was built before the Conquest by William the Conqueror's father, Robert the Devil. The real name of the fortress is "Le Chateau des Marais", and Guernsey's Ancient Monuments Committee are working on its restoration, which may take some years. The size and layout of Ivy Castle, with its inner and outer baileys and its moat, could really be appreciated best from the air. From the outer circle of defence wall, sturdy Guernseymen of old are said to have hurled arrows, stones and other missiles at marauding pirates creeping towards them over the marshlands of the Vale.

 

Vale Castle at St. Sampson's is also very old, but its origins are lost in time. From afar, it gives an illusion of the strong fortification it was at one time, but you will see as you approach that it is really a ruin. Round about 1805, a Russian garrison was stationed at Vale Castle. Gentle to children and kindly enough when sober, they turned into wild ruffians under the influence of liquor and no woman was said to be safe from them. They terrorised St. Sampson's to such an extent that one Guernsey family actually emigrated to America because of them!

At key points in Guernsey you will see old fortifications that are links in a chain of defence covering centuries. Fort Pezerie, Rocquaine Castle (also known as Fort Grey and "The Cup and Saucer") Fort Saumarez — all have a place in the island's history, as do the many Martello towers.

Fort George, which has now been developed as a luxury housing estate for wealthy settlers, was a British garrison from 1780 until the outbreak of World War II, and English redcoats once swam in Soldiers' Bay.

Feudalism survives in Guernsey today in its fiefs — parcels of land owned and ruled over by seigneurs or lords of the manor. The seigneur still has special privileges, such as conge, which entitles him to two per cent of the selling price of any property sold within his fief as long as it does not change hands more than once a year.

Some of the ancient fiefs have seigneurs who are lords of the manor by right of purchase, but the most splendid example of a hereditary seigneurie is perhaps Sausmarez Manor in St. Martin's — a stately home that has belonged to the de Sausmarez family for over 600 years. It is open to the public in the summer and is well worth a visit. You will see here the old Tudor Court House, where members of the fief and their seigneur still hold feudal court once a year.

Several Guernsey churches are very old and St. Saviour's is the most untouched by the centuries, and stands at the roadside almost exactly as it was when it was built in 1394. The Vicar of St. Saviour's has launched a scheme to restore St. Appoline, which is to be rededicated afterwards as a Chapel of Christian Unity. Restoration of what a UK expert _ has said are fine examples of mediaeval frescos will probably be one of the most costly items, and may take several years to achieve.

Hitler's Legacy

IN 1940, Hitler invaded the Channel Islands, which the Germans occupied for five dreary years. To turn Guernsey into an island fortress, vast quantities of concrete and steel were poured into it and thousands of slave workers were brought from all over Europe.

It is surprising how few signs there are now in this peaceful holiday island of Nazi Germany, considering there was scarcely an acre of open space that was not used as a gun emplacement, strongpoint, observation post or ammunition store. The concrete fortifications you will see on the cliffs — particularly along the west coast — have been left because they would have been too costly to demolish, but a number of structures have been filled in, covered over or blocked to make the cliffs and commons safer and more sightly. Some of Hitler's relics such as tunnels and bunkers have been turned to peaceful uses —for storage, cow-sheds, garages and even converted into houses!

The vast underground hospital at St. Andrew's —the largest German structure in the Channel Islands —was reopened years ago as a tourist attraction. Another spectacular fortification was the "Mirus" battery near the west coast.

The Germans mounted 12-inch guns here on huge circular emplacements that you can still see. Each gun was camouflaged by a dummy cottage that traversed with it, and a network of underground quarters and store-rooms adjoined the sites.

The Occupation Museum at the Forest contains hundreds of interesting relics, set out in such a way that visitors are given a fascinating glimpse into life in Guernsey under the German jackboot.

A fictional 1984‑style passage about minimum wage

A short note first: this is fiction, written in the style of Nineteen Eighty‑Four.

A fictional 1984‑style passage about minimum wage

In the grey corridors of the Ministry of Prosperity, the new decree was posted without ceremony. A single sheet, stamped with the red insignia of the Party, announced that the Minimum Wage—long described in official broadcasts as a “historic burden upon productivity”—had been abolished for the good of all. Citizens were told that true economic freedom meant accepting whatever remuneration the Market, now elevated to a quasi‑sacred entity, deemed appropriate. To do that each would be a model citizen and a good neighbour to others.

The telescreens repeated the slogan hourly: “LOWER WAGES, HIGHER FREEDOM.” Winston heard it echoing through the canteen as workers queued for their diluted Victory Coffee. No one spoke. To question the decree was to question Prosperity itself, and such doubts were now classified as Economic Thoughtcrime.

A presenter on the screen explained that guaranteed pay had “strangled enterprise” and “denied citizens the patriotic opportunity of additional labour.” Winston watched her smile as she declared that the abolition of wage protections would “liberate the industrious from the tyranny of comfort.” The words were smooth, rehearsed, and hollow.

Later, in the Records Department, Winston saw the revisions already underway. Old reports describing poverty were replaced with triumphant accounts of “voluntary multi‑employment.” Historical documents now claimed that citizens had begged the Party to remove wage floors so they could “contribute more fully to national greatness.” The past, as always, was rewritten to justify the present.

Syme, hunched over his desk, whispered without looking up: “They say we’re free now. Free to work twice as long for half as much. And for a pittance, not the gold krugerrands for the bosses” His voice carried the faintest trace of irony—dangerous, even fatal.

Winston said nothing. The telescreen above them crackled to life: “ECONOMIC UNITY IS STRENGTH.” The room fell silent. In the new prosperity, hunger was patriotic, exhaustion was noble, and questioning either was treason.

The Minimum Grain Allowance on Animal Farm

A short note first: this is fiction, written in the style of Animal Farm

The Minimum Grain Allowance on Animal Farm

On a blustery evening, the animals gathered in the barn to hear Squealer’s latest announcement. He stood atop a crate, tail twitching with rehearsed enthusiasm. “Comrades,” he began, “it has been discovered that the Minimum Grain Allowance is strangling the farm’s prosperity. Our dear leader Napoleon has decreed that true freedom means allowing every animal to work for whatever reward the market—yes, the glorious market—decides.”

A murmur ran through the crowd. Clover frowned. “But Squealer,” she said slowly, “wasn’t the allowance created so that no animal would go hungry?”

Squealer’s eyes gleamed. “Ah, Clover, you misunderstand. The allowance has turbocharged inflation. It has denied animals second jobs. Why, Boxer could be working twice as hard if only he were free from the tyranny of guaranteed grain!”

Boxer, who had been standing quietly, blinked. “I thought the allowance was to make sure we didn’t starve,” he said. “If I must take two jobs, when will I rest?”

“Rest?” Squealer cried. “Rest is a bourgeois luxury! The true patriot works until the lanterns burn out. Besides, without the allowance, the hens will be able to sell their eggs for whatever price the market chooses. Isn’t that splendid?”

The hens looked at one another. They remembered the winter when the market had chosen no price at all.

Benjamin the donkey finally spoke. “It seems to me,” he said, “that whenever the pigs say something is for our benefit, it ends with us working more and eating less.”

Squealer puffed out his chest. “Cynicism, Benjamin, is the enemy of progress. The farm will flourish once we remove these outdated protections. Napoleon himself has endorsed this bold new policy.”

The animals shuffled out of the barn, uneasy. Boxer whispered to Clover, “I will work harder.” But even he sounded unsure.

Benjamin watched them go. “The commandments change,” he muttered, “but the hunger stays the same.”