Monday, 1 July 2019
Despite the grey clouds that disguise this is the beginning of July, summer must be here. This is the season of barbecues, cool white wine, and walks on the beach followed by real Italian ice cream.
After Sunday’s barbecue in the Rectory in Askeaton, I travelled to Dublin late in the afternoon for another barbecue in the grounds of Christ Church Cathedral to mark the end of term for the cathedral choir and the imminent move of the organist and director of music, Ian Keatley, to Southwark Cathedral.
If the weather was not as warm and sunny as you might expect at this time of the year, then there was more than adequate compensation in the warmth of the welcome back to the cathedral, where I had been a canon for ten years.
If the sun was still not providing evidence this afternoon that summer had truly arrived, their was evidence of its arrival in Bray where mothers were taking children to the seashore, with beach equipment in tow, although it looked like it might never be used; a sailing class was going through its manoeuvres outside the harbour; and young Italian students here on English-language summer courses were queueing up outside the ice cream parlours for real Italian ice cream.
Bray has gone through many changes over the decades. When the railway line from Dublin opened in the 19th century, Bray developed as a sedate and very proper bathing resort at Co Wicklow’s nearest point to Co Dublin, complete with its own Victorian Turkish baths.
By the middle of the 20th century, things were beginning to change. After they married at the end of World War II, my parents lived briefly at the south end of Bray, and my mother’s cousin ran a small hotel on the seafront.
By the 1950s and 1960s, long before package holidays gained popularity, Bray had become a popular seaside resort for middle-class English tourists, especially for families from Liverpool, who found Bray accessible because of the short crossing on the Irish Sea.
It is said that in those days, Bray’s very English-looking bandstand on the seafront regularly hosted performances by an act known as Sergeant Pepper’s Big Brass Band during the summer season.
Some people in Bray like to say that these holidaymakers brought their memories and the name of Sergeant Pepper’s Big Brass Band back to Liverpool, and that their tales inspired the name of the Beatles’ best-known album, Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, released in the summer of 1967.
The title track of Sergeant Pepper starts with 10 seconds of the combined sounds of a pit orchestra warming up and an audience waiting for a concert, creating the illusion of a live performance. The use of a brass ensemble with distorted electric guitars is an early example of rock fusion, and may also be a concession to the memory of the seafront band in Bray that once entertained holidaymakers from Liverpool in decades that had passed.
Sergeant Pepper may just be a fictional character that the Beatles built a narrative around. Indeed, it may just be local storytelling and mythmaking that the Bray bandstand house band partially inspired the best-known album of all time. But why not? After all, the legendary circus owner Pablo Fanque, who is named in one of the album tracks, ‘Being for the Benefit of Mr Kite!’, performed nearby in Dún Laoghaire for one week in 1850.
Two of us had lunch in the early afternoon in Carpe Diem on Albert Avenue, where the food and the wines are authentically Italian.
Although, sadly, some of the neighbouring restaurants have closed in recent months, this remains Bray’s own Italian quarter, with a smattering of Italian restaurants, vinoteche, enoteche and gelateria, all within a short distance of Albert Avenue.
Nobody knows quite why this Little Italy developed when and where it did, but it adds a taste of summer sunshine to Bray at any time of the year.
After a short walk on the beach, we sat down to ice creams at Gelateria on the seafront for another taste of real Italian delights. Even if the sun had not come to the east coast today, the Mediterranean had come to Bray.
I was in search of a photograph last week that would illustrate the story of the 70 in next Sunday’s Gospel reading (Luke 10: 1-11, 16-20), sent out in mission by Christ ahead of his journey on the road to Jerusalem.
I could find no speed signs for 70 kph on roads in Ireland or 70 mph in England – perhaps there are none, although they might have been suitable for a story about setting out on the road.
Perhaps then, I thought, I might find a number 70 on a house or a shop on the streets of Cambridge on Monday morning or on Wednesday morning, before and after this year’s conference of the Anglican mission agency USPG (United Society Partners in the Gospel) at High Leigh in Hoddesdon.
It was hard to figure out where No 70 Sidney Street was in Victorian Cambridge. The older houses and shops have gone, and they have been replaced with an arcade of shops that includes Boots.
It would have suited my purpose if the former No 70 stood at the place where two plaques mark Charles Darwin’s lodgings on Sidney Street for his first year as an undergraduate at Christ’s College. But nothing was clear about the numbering on this part of Sidney Street, and I had to press on.
But then, as I made my from Saint John’s College and the Round Church along Bridge Street towards the corner of Jesus Lane and Sidney Street and Sidney Sussex College, I came across Lindum House on 70 Bridge Street … a single doorway that I might have missed if I did not have this purpose in mind.
Discreetly located on the south-west side of Bridge Street, between 69 and 71 Bridge Street, the entrance archway to No 70 has with a good early 19th century Gothic door. In the yard behind, No 70 was once he Flying Stag, a former public house, built in 1842 of brick, but incorporating a timber framed 17th century cell and 18th century fragments.
The door was firmly closed, and had the look of not being opened for years. But I understand this is a three-storey and three-storey building with and attic ranges, sashes with glazing bars, and a tiled roof on an early lower build.
The architectural historian Sir Nikolaus Pevsner notes that this is an 18th century building. In 1959, the Survey of Cambridge by the Royal Commission on Historical Monuments described this as a mainly early 19th century building incorporating part of an 18th century structure.
The house was formerly the ‘Freemasons’ Tavern. Until recent decades, the name and ‘Livery Baiting Stables’ was painted on the passage to it from Bridge Street.
George Edmund Lister (69), the master of the choir school at Saint John’s College, was living there in 1911 with his wife Susanna Elizabeth (71). Two years later, Sam Senior, the choir schoolmaster at Saint John’s College, was living there in 1911.
Next door, and an integral part of this range, Lilac Rose is part of the group formed by Numbers 71 to 73. This is a shop that has been part of the Cambridge shopping landscape since 2010.
But No 71 has gone through many different functions. Charles Frederick Searle (28), a Cambridge-born medical practitioner, was here in 1911. Two years later, in 1913, he shared the premises with Moore’s Athletic Stores and Sports Depot, and a hairdresser’s and perfumer’s shop. By 1962, the shopfront was the premises of Coulson Horace and Sons, opticians.
Bridge Street runs between Magdalene Street at the junction with Thompson’s Lane at the north-west and Sidney Street at the junction with Jesus Lane at the south-east. Bridge Street once continued over the Great Bridge on the River Cam, which explains its name. But that part is now known as Magdalene Street after Magdalene College, which fronts onto the street.
The Holy Sepulchre, commonly known as the Round Church, is on the corner of Bridge Street and Round Church Street, opposite Saint John's Street College. It was built around 1130, inspired by the original church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem.
So, perhaps, in my own strange way, I had found the number 70 on the way to Jerusalem.