A Somerset Lad

There was one of those Christmas quiz shows on television.  The quizmaster was Richard Osman, the man who used to be on Pointless but who then became a bestselling crime writer (a case of verification of the Biblical maxim, to he who has shall be given, like Cillian Murphy having a music programme on BBC Radio 6).

The contestants were being asked for numbers to answer arbitrary questions.  One question was on how many beefeaters there had been in the Tower of London.  Given that the tradition has existed for five and half centuries any number given might have been credible.

There was one answer that seemed unlikely, the question was how many breeding pairs of robins are there in Britain.  The answers were given in tens and hundreds of thousands.  The actual answer was 7,350,000. It seemed a very unlikely figure. ‘Second only to the wren’, said Mr Osman. That seemed even more unlikely.

The numbers seemed so large that Google was called upon for verification.  Sure enough, the number of breeding pairs of robins was cited as 7.4 millions.  That gives a total population of 14.8 millions.  The figure for the pairs of wrens was a million more, which means there are nearly 17 million wrens in Britain.

Where are they?

Robins still seem such notable visitors that some people suggest they are the soul of a departed loved one (a tradition that I only discovered in conversation with First Year students during the past year.

Fourteen million seems such a large number that it seems almost odd that robins still occasion comment.

And the wrens?

Like the robins, the appearance of a ‘jenny wren’ was something to prompt comment.

Perhaps it is just in our corner of England that the largest bird populations are not as obvious as their figures would suggest.  Even so, the combined total is more than thirty millions and I do not believe either species has been visible in the garden during the past week.

It was a surprise that the robins and the wrens outnumbered the sparrows, which seemed ever present in our garden.

Perhaps the notion that sparrows were a plurality arose from the Gospel teaching of Jesus on God’s concern for the small and insignificant, ‘not a sparrow shall fall.’ Maybe in First Century Palestine, the plurality lay with the sparrows.

‘Not a robin shall fall,’ would seem a much more graphic image, but would have lacked a feeling of the commonplace.  As numerous as they may be, the robins retain a special place.

Christmas Eve meant visiting the forebears, placing Christmas wreaths upon their graves

Pitney first. A small neat, medieval church tucked into the side of the hill. Clem Hill and his wife Ella, Clem dead in 1972, Ella seven years later. Ella was my grandfather’s sister, a homrly, welcoming lady, who provided massive teas to visiting family members. Clem had survived service in the Great War, carrying shrapnel in his lungs until his dying day.

Aller next.  My great grandparents, Albert Luxton and Emily Lock. Both were from families whose roots in the parish were deep. The Luxtons had originated on the borders of Somerset and North Devon before their move to the lowlands of Aller.  Albert and Emily are seventy years dead, both gone five years before I was born.

Huish Episcopi is the most familiar territory, the home parish for generations of my mother’s family.  The round of the graves meant bringing seven wreaths, five of which were intended for Huish Episcopi.

The wreath-laying at Huish follows a clockwise sequence.  Through the lych gate then left to the grave of Jack Martin and Augusta Crossman, dead fifty years ago.  Close by lies the grave of Stanley Crossman, brother of my grandfather, Ella and Augusta, a man whose life was cut short by respiratory problems but whose hard work built up the family farm.

Passing the west end of the church, my grandparents’ grave is at the north side of the churchyard. Dying in 1991 and 2007, they remain fresh and lively in my memory.

The circuit of the graveyard continues to the south-east corner where Albion George Crossman and Emily Cox were buried after their deaths in the mid-1940s.

One grave was still to be found, George Martin was the son of Jack and Augusta, my mother’s cousin. My mother had worked in the shop that George kept on the edge of Somerton and my mother was anxious that his grave be visited.

The problem lay in knowing the location of George’s grave, it was said to be close to the grave of his parents. Repeated searches of the area of the churchyard around the Martin grave were fruitless. Perhaps I was mistaken.

Returning home, my mother and an uncle who was visiting were convinced George had been cremated and the ashes buried in the area where I had searched and a memorial plaque had been placed at the spot.  One of my sisters returned to Huish with me, in the last light of Christmas eve afternoon we searched – without success.

A blessing of the crib had taken place in the church and the congregation was leaving.  A priest stood at the door and I asked if I might speak to the church warden.

The church warden was someone from a storybook, a perfect man for the role, avuncular, knowledgeable and patient with this stranger who was taking up his time on Christmas Eve.  The burial registers were recent, they did not extend back to the time of George’s death. The written details were unnecessary, the church warden had been in charge of the churchyard for twenty years and suggested he might have been aware of the burial.

The mystery remained. Perhaps the ashes had been unofficially interred and perhaps no memorial plaque had been placed.

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