“It has been written since the beginning of time, ever unto these ancient stones, that evil supernatural creatures exist in a world of darkness, and it is also said; man using the magical power of the ancient runic symbols can call forth these forces of darkness… The Demons of Hell”
The opening lines against the backdrop of Stonehenge is the setting for ‘Night of The Demon’ by Sabre Film Productions from an original story by Montague R. James. Made in 1957, it still has the force to give me a good scare! It’s an all British production featuring American actor Dana Andrews and British star Peggy Cummins, but the real star of the show is Irish actor Niall MacGinnis, known for his exacting role in ’Jason and the Argonauts’ Niall was an actor that could be wasted in supporting roles, but given the few leading roles in his career… he was overly magnificient.
The ruins of this once imposing manor house lay testament to a frightening and strange tale known as ‘The Mistletoe Bough’
One Christmas many, many years ago the house enjoyed the wedding of young William Lovell, eldest son of the Lovall family, and his attractive young bride. Everyone danced throughout the evening and as it became late and no-one yet wanted to retire, it was suggested that they all play a game of ‘Hide and Seek’
William’s bride offered to hide first, and dared William to find her before the others. Well, time passed and she could not be found. They searched all through the night and into the next day, but without any luck. For a further one week they searched, but never found her. William did not recover from his great loss and died just a few years later from despondency.
It was soon after when a servant found an old oak chest that had lay hidden in the attic from some years before, and when he raised the lid he stared in disbelief… For inside were the remains of a body dressed in a bridal gown.
For in her excitement… William’s young bride had climbed into the chest to hide from the others, and as she did so the lid closed behind her, locking her short life inside forever!
Nanteos House is now a hotel and mansion house. This 1738 Georgian house, built by William Powell, was once the home of The Holy Grail.
The Holy Grail is the wooden cup that Jesus and his Disciples drank from during The Last Supper. The cup was brought back from The Holy Land by Joseph of Arimathea in AD63. The cup remained at Glastonbury Monastery until 1539 when King Henry chased out the monks. In time The Holy Grail passed to Nanteos House and the Powell family, and when the family line finished the cup was deposited in a national Bank vault.
There are a number of Ghosts that roam the rooms of Nanteos House, such as the ‘Jewel Lady’ who left her death bed to hide her jewels, and now her spirit searches for them! And in the dark cold cellars there is the observed spectre of a monk, further, there is a report in The Western Mail of the 19th of June 1984 that tells of a male ghost in a black cloak.
High upon the lonely Northumberland moors of England, just a few miles from Elsdon, stands the Gibbet of the murderer William Winter.
William Winter murdered an old lady by the name of Margaret Crozier who lived at Raw Pele, her home a few miles outside Elsdon. She ran a retail business from her home, and because she was a thrifty woman, it was rumoured that she kept vast sums of money in the house.
When she was found with her throat cut Winter was immediatly arrested on suspicion and later admitted the robbery, but not to the murder of the old woman. However, evidence from a local farm boy soon put a noose around Winter’s neck and he was hanged at Newcastle. His body was then hung in chains on a gibbet and left to the mercy of the crows!
A model of his head still hangs today on the gibbet, and it is said… on a moonlit night the fearsome figure of William Winter can be seen leaving the old woman’s home with a bloodstained knife held in his hand.
To the south of Kensington Gardens, high above the watchful, glittering towers of the grand Imperial Institute, wholesome breezes fell upon the narrow arboreal road leading to the quiet respectable villas of Dorset Square… Further to the south, the River Thames shone silvery, like the path of a passing snail, in the lowering moonlight… Black of night.
She was late. It had gone eleven. Her daughter was never this late. In the basement kitchen of number 10, Mrs Mansell – The Llewellyn’s cook, fussed over her single seed like a preventive hen. Her eyes darted angrily once more to the small window that looked out over the small stairwell running to the street above. She would know her daughter’s footsteps – she would know them well. She tied the leg of Canterbury Lamb for the tenth time, mindful in one last pull, and looked at the slowness of her mantle clock. It’s tick thundered in the emptiness of a kitchen hung high with large copper pots and wiped her hands in routine on a messy dark apron that clung tightly to her aging thighs. Her beloved was never this late… Never this inconsiderate… Never this… No good! Irene should never be out so late… It was now well past eleven! People could not be trusted in this new age – hungry-found freedoms in young men, were for the best part destructive. Since the war people were different, irresponsible and blameless… And some were damaged goods. Then she heard those hurried footsteps, chattering and clattering down the worn stone steps, and the recognizable spell of cotton cloth that wisped the blade of window light and framed a thankful evidence. A tiny smile crossed the widow’s face, fractioned only for second or two, and then turned itself down deep into the crevices of her private thoughts. She was replenished, relief was her’s, it governed her once more, and lifted her again into the plateau of satisfied endeavor. At last, she was here… This girl was here!
The door opened slowly into the kitchen with a heavy wincing creak. Her daughter stood framed for a moment in the half light, its pale golden reflection touching and running tiny fingers through the swirls and curls of her chestnut hair. She stepped into the kitchen, her fine body before her… A roll of confidence in her manner. She was a child who was finding her womanhood.
The opening lines from ‘The World of Irene Mansell’ by Patrick Callaghan.
Barney Westlake hadn’t expected to walk into another relationship quite so soon, in fact, his presence in Scotland and particularly his arrival in Largs was to forget Madeleine. That was some hell of an affair. He was sure to this day the woman was mad! Well, it certainly had felt like it. She had terrorized him and made his life an absolute misery with her unjustified jealousy and insane tantrums. To get away from her domination of him and her possession of his mind became his prime objective. Their relationship had become intolerable and near boarded on violence.
From ‘The Truth about Madeleine’ by Patrick Callaghan
Until the 20th of February 2011 at the Victoria and Albert Museum in South Kensington London this exhibition presents the work of five international contemporary artists – Floris Neususs, Pierre Cordier, Susan Derges, Gary Fabian Miller and Adam Fuss – who work without a camera. Instead, they create images on photographic paper by casting shadows and manipulating light, or by chemically treating the surface of the paper. Encountered as fragments, traces, signs, memories or dreams, these unique images leave room for the imagination, transforming the world of objects into a world of visions.
The V&A is online at: www.vam.ac.uk/exhibitions
Enid Stamp Taylor was born on Sunday the 12th of June 1904 in the agreeable, late Victorian, seaside town of Whitley Bay in the North East corner of England. She was the only daughter of Army Major George Stamp Taylor and his wife Agnes. Some years later they had a son and named him Robin Geoffrey. But tragically, he died at the very young age of only ten years whilst away from home and at boarding school.
Regretfully, the distraught parents separated in 1918, and Enid and her mother moved to London in order to stay with friends. It was here, that Enid’s interest in the stage began to blossom. She had reluctantly entered a beauty contest and then won the first prize of a part in the chorus line of a top West End show. The quality of her voice and exacting diction soon led her to stage training under Rosina Filippi, and in 1923 she toured in the ‘The Lady of the Rose’. During the thirties and forties, along with her agent Al Parker, she successfully built a powerful film and stage persona. In 1929 she married the prosperous businessman Sidney Colton, and in 1934 they had their beautiful daughter Robin Anne’. However, two years later the marriage was over and consolation came in the form of another businessman by the name of Louis Jackson, and for a while they lived happily at Catherine Place, Westminster; close to Buckingham Palace.
Sadly, Enid died alone, and during the bitter cold winter that followed the summer of 1945. She had collapsed from a cerebral hemorrhage in the bathroom of her Park Lane address and was found by the maid in the early hours of that subsequent terrible Monday morning.
Some of the photographs included from time to time on my weblog pages -because this site is dedicated to words and pictures, a picture is worth a thousand words… come from Robin Anne’s own private collection. They are… those treasured memories that we like to keep as images of a near forgotten world. And now, she sleeps so prettily, beside the little picturesque church of St. Nicholas in the quiet and charming Surrey village of Alfold, and where now and then… I refresh a single red rose to her memory.
18 Dec 2010 – 10 Apr 2011
Commemorate the 100 year anniversary of the siege of Sidney Street and Houndsditch Murders at the Museum of London Docklands. In partnership with the Jewish East End Celebration Society, the new display explores the historical and social context of the murders, immigration at the time and the role of the then Home Secretary Winston Churchill.
Found in the basement cellar of a shop in Blackburn Lancashire England were over 800 short films of Edwardian life in the North of England. They were made by the partnership of Sagar Mitchell and James Kenyon and the films they shot were of local people and events. It is a remarkable glimpse into history. They made the films to be shown at the Music Hall, Town Hall, or Fairgrounds. They were made for commercial reasons with the sole intention of putting ‘bums on seats’ after all, for people to see themselves on a projected screen was something new and quite wonderful!
Between 1897 and 1913 Mitchell and Kenyon made hundreds of short films depicting the everyday lives of ordinary people, and when the business closed its doors in the nineteen twenties their original negative film stock was left hidden away in the basement of the shop. Here it lay for years simply collecting dust until 1994 when a building contractor found three large metal drums containing hundreds of Mitchell and Kenyon films. The films were passed to a local film historian who in turn gave them to the British Film Institute Archives in Hertfordshire.
The film stock was nitrate, very delicate, and highly flammable, although the coolness of the basement must have helped to preserve the material from utter decay. The films were brittle, but the originals were painstakingly re-photographed onto modern film stock, a process that took around three years. They now form one of the largest collections of early non-fiction films in the world.
Kenyon had originally made penny slot-machines, and Mitchell had been a stills photographer. At the time they set-up in business together the moving image was the hi-tec of its time. Many of their films show people leaving work and putting as many faces on the screen as possible was their aim, after all, this was a paying public! They could watch themselves in showings at the Music Hall, Town Hall, or local Fairground. Mitchell and Kenyon would hand out lealets telling of the showing times and where, and saying “See Yourselves As Others See You”
Mitchell and Kenyon did also show the prosperous side of Edwardian life in visiting other larger towns and cities with their camera and they also made a number of rather stilted dramas that were less accepted by the public who really loved their ‘local’ films.
‘A Tram Ride from Forster Square in 1902′ - See my Mitchell and Kenyon blog 20th of November 2010.
