#Highgate ladies' pond

[zot3-flopped]

Did any of the PR haters and London experts notice that Olivia just posted a photo of the Highgate Ladies' pond on Hampstead Heath?

[wellthatwasaletdown]

Last month I visited a friend who lives in Highgate and we walked down to the Ladies' Pond for a swim. It was one of the worst experiences of my life! I expected freezing water but the water was also dark green and opaque. There was tons of long weed in the pond and it was 9 foot deep and you couldn't touch the bottom anywhere. I lasted about ten minutes and felt cold for hours afterwards. It wasn't invigorating at all. Harry must have a pain kink!

.

[lindsaywesker]

Good morning! I hope you slept well and feel rested? Currently sitting at my desk, in my study, attired only in my blue towelling robe, enjoying my first cuppa of the day. Welcome to Throwback Thursday!

Many thanks to everyone that contributed to WEDNESDAY WORDS yesterday. Every week, it just gets better! An amazing selection of lyrics, poems, words of wisdom and great lines from films. One of The Trouble’s top friends is making a special 60th birthday present for her. I’m not totally sure what it is but I look forward to seeing it. The friend asked me to ask The Trouble what her favourite Paulette and Claudette song was, and The Trouble said, ‘Watching You’, which is a song on the second album, written by me! The Trouble’s friend wanted the lyrics, so I think my words are about to be part of that birthday present.

On this page, ‘Throwback Thursday’ is about memories. So, what do you remember? If I was to say the word RUN, what immediately comes to mind?

My mind immediately goes back to my final sports day at primary school. I had just had a major growth spurt and I was a foot taller than all my classmates. I was entered for the 100 yard dash (on a stretch of grass sloping slightly downwards) at our sports ground on Aylmer Road. The race begins, I’m galloping down the field and there is no one around me. Maybe there’s been a false start? I look to the left, no one, I look to the right, no one, I veer into another lane and the kid in that lane runs into me. I fly arse-over-tit and lie, motionless, on the ground, wondering what the hell has just happened? I just lay there, half-dazed, half-embarrassed, until a teacher shouted down the course and told me to get up quickly because the next race was starting! Oh, the shame! If only I’d kept focused on the finish line.

The word RUN also reminds me of this cool period in my life when I was running from our house in Highgate up to the pond at Hampstead Heath and back. I think it’s the healthiest I’ve ever been in my life. It enabled me to do cross country running at my secondary school and even deliver a respectable time. For a fat boy, this was a major achievement. If I could run 200 yards now, I’d be a happy bunny!

So, on this Throwback Thursday, what kind of memories does the word RUN conjure up for you?

Our nephew Jonatan (Yung Lean) is in London to film a new promotional video, so we had a major family dinner at our house last night. He lives your normal rock star life (writing, recording, touring, playing live gigs, filming videos and repeat) but, when he’s in London, he wants his Auntie Claudette’s home cooking and just to shoot the breeze with his cousins. When he was a kid and I was working at MTV, I used to give him piles of CDs by US and UK rappers and, just like his clever parents, he has forged a solid career for himself.

In amongst all the prepping, teaching and marking, in coming weeks, we’ve got lots to look forward to. ‘The A-Z Of Mi-Soul Music’ is coming live from Summer Soulstice this Saturday (June 24), there’s a jazzy, live music birthday party on June 25th, we have a yummy BBQ on July 1st, I’ll be doing Mi-Soul’s ‘Concert At The Castle’ event in Windsor on July 9th, it’s the Margate Soul Festival on the weekend of August 4th, then I’m looking forward to going back to Stevenage on Bank Holiday Sunday, August 27th for ‘Let The Music Play’. And, of course, we’ll be back and forth to Hove regularly to see Lady Wesker.

Have a throbbing and thrusting Thursday (with hopefully a few thrills through your thoroughfare?) I love you all.

[camdensedimenta]

Culture Decanted?

By Karla Le Pond Antoinette

Hampstead Village Voice - SEPTEMBER 2019

At The Pond.  Swimming at the Hampstead Ladies Pond. Contributors: Esther Freud. Deborah Moggach. Margaret Drabble. Jessica J.Lee et al Published in June 2019 by Daunt Books £9.99.

Daunt's anthology is mercifully free of the puff and pretension often poured upon our swimming ponds - usually known as The Highgate Ponds. (Phrases like “nihilistic velocity” by Hannah Jane Parkinson in The Guardian 2019, and “existential singularity” in 'The Ponds' film by Laser Guided Prods. 2019, are cases in point)

This is a delightfully easy and engrossing read judiciously peppered with poetry and erudition. The array of authors encompasses both century classic and nouveau vintages. Perhaps too much youth, say some regular swimmers who also questioned why Daunt Books only offered a £100 bookshop voucher instead of actual prize money for their competition to include an unpublished author. Other misgivings noted that none of the published writers amongst the pond’s swimming fanatics except Esther Freud and Jessica Lee were involved.

The solidarity forged and alliances expressed at the Ladies' are referenced only obliquely and with cool detachment. Yet so much politik-ing has been harnessed to keep the pond open and free these past forty years. But maybe that's another book.

For all women who visit, as well documented here, the Ladies' Pond is a rite of passage no matter what age one starts, even eighty! (Sadly, not for my Hampstead mother - she couldn't bear the cold.)  But passage to what? The word 'magical' appears predictably frequently yet only rarely is an attendant cosmology or mythology even alluded to as in Sharlene Teo's piece 'Echolocation' with her observation of 'matrilineal kinship' amongst the swimmers or in So Mayer's 'swimming is a dip in ritual time' and with Nina Mingya Powles' declaration, 'I have reached a place that is a sacred part of many women's lives'.

Though there are telling tales of courtship and bisexual lust, abortion and pregnant lifeguards, body consciousness and its' discontents, addiction and of course gossip, any anthology is notable not only for what it includes but excludes. One such omission, an obscure short story called 'The Pond' by Jill Cheung in Quim magazine (Issue 4, 1992, London, published by Belliveau & Moorcock) with its' jaw-droppingly explicit lesbian sex would, in truth, somewhat jar with the other material which mainly luxuriates in English loveliness.

Thanks to Google Maps and the infuriatingly incessant, non-permitted Instagramming, our pond is no longer the hidden bucolic idyll it once was. Women's space is necessarily sacred and as such should remain secluded. Let's hope this book, albeit an absorbing and beautiful addition to the swimming prose oeuvre, is the last of any such publicity for a generation.

Anyway, the best stories are told quietly by mischievous lifeguards on a cold wintry day when hardly anyone's about.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The Kenwood Ladies’ Pond Association's forty year archive will be deposited with The Bishopsgate Institute in London later in 2019. Includes letters from Glenda Jackson, Roger Deakin, Jeremy Corbyn, & Diane Abbot. Open to all.

[wordacrosstime]

David Copperfield

[The Personal History, Adventures, Experience and Observation of David Copperfield the Younger of Blunderstone Rookery (Which He Never Meant to Publish on Any Account), by Charles Dickens. With Illustrations by HK Browne. First Edition Published by Bradbury & Evans, London, 1850. 624 pp]

'Well, well!' said my aunt, 'the child is right to stand by those who have stood by him – Janet! Donkeys!'

Just opposite the pond where a pioneering Francis Bacon tried to stuff a chicken with snow (an early experiment in refrigeration, as a result of which he died) is where Coleridge stayed when he was trying to get off Laudanum. The chemist he used to supply his needs (just around the corner) apparently had a secret door so that he could pick up supplies discreetly.

This was all a bit earlier than Charles Dickens’s semi-autobiographical novel David Copperfield, in which the hero stays with the Steerforth family, in the same street, in their imposing house on Highgate Hill, where he revels in the view across London. It does, though, set a tone.

Go to Highgate today and you can still take in the views, across Hampstead Heath and to the landmark hungry city beyond. You’ll see interesting looking delicatessens and bakeries and estate agents in whose windows are advertised average-looking properties with eye-watering prices. Cyclists and runners come here for the challenge. (That climb up West Hill must be traumatic, and so must the one past Highgate Cemetery where Karl Marx lies quiescent). What you won’t see is any trace (apart from a blue plaque) of that Dickensian hero who was to all intents and purposes, Dickens himself.

When I first went to Grammar School (some time before the flood), our teacher of English, a redoubtable Scots lady, set us to work reading Robbie Burns, most of which I still find unreadable to this day: (“First he ate the black puddens, and then he ate the white” if memory serves. What was all that stuff about?). But then, having, I suppose given up on us ever adopting Scotland as a second nation, started us reading David Copperfield.

There was a lot of early humour. She had us read passages from the book, and one of my classmates had the misfortune to take on a section in which, according to him, “workmen were warming their hands round a brassiere.” (Brazier was the word he was searching for, but an unpleasant nickname pursued him for years afterwards). We couldn’t get why Brooks of Sheffield would be listening in to awkward conversations about David’s destiny, let alone why David should be the someone who was “sharp”, or why Barkis, the carrier, should be ‘willin’.

Steerforth of course is both David’s boyhood hero and nemesis, eventually betraying in the most callous manner David’s adolescent friend Little Emily, so it is ironic that his family home sits high on a hill where you might have thought all manner of approaching disasters might be foreseen. You look at that house and contemplate how Mrs Steerforth lived there, alone and destroyed by the revelation that her son had been the least moral of individuals, with an inherent streak of cruelty.

What no one likes about David Copperfield in particular and Dickens in general is how good all the children (a lot of the adult characters too) actually are. You know, and I know, that children and adults too, just aren’t like that. His characters are noble, responsible, uniquely loving and should they ever commit a single irresponsible act, they suffer for it (usually in silent prayer) over a good number of pages. This is a feeling you can’t get over, but perhaps as the pages go on you learn to ignore a little in the face of mounting eccentricity.

The mentally troubled Mr Dick and his fixation with kites and Charles I helps you do this, so too does Mr Wilkins Micawber who continually totters on the brink of the debtors’ prison (like Dickens’s own father) while continually fathering children and remaining optimistic that ‘something will turn up’.

But while the good do seem impossibly good, the bad are really bad too, though believably so. David’s own mother perhaps doesn’t mean to be bad. (She just falls in love with the wrong man). But David’s schoolmasters are disconcertingly sadistic. Steerforth, the schoolboy role model shapes up to be a hero, but is gradually revealed to be a snob without decency or morals. And then there’s Uriah Heep, the character for whom the word ‘oily’ was created, the beast who corrupts all about him and whose desires – for both heiress and position in society – are so grotesque, yet so nearly come true.

David Copperfield is not a fairy tale. Instead it is a whole collection of them, in which every variety of fairy tale outcome from cruel disaster to shining achievement takes its place within its pages. Most varieties of mythical beast are there too, together with a few, often vulnerable, often understated, heroes. The best novels always answer ‘what if?’ questions. So many what ifs arise in David Copperfield that it is virtually a philosophy course. There’s a muted plea for social justice too, which is no bad thing, even now.

There are a lot of reasons not to read it. (Too long, too sentimental, too much else to do). But ever since my dour Scots teacher encouraged us to open its pages, it has become one of those books I go back to, time after time.

Top/Middle: Two photographs thanks to Quintessential Rare Books, LLC, Laguna Hills, CA, USA & to Abe Books. Bottom: Sketch of Dickens in 1842 during American Tour; thanks to Bonhams.

Michael Spring

wordsacrosstime

1 February 2021

[ramblingrybo]

                                         Come into the Garden, Kev

Kevin, the pheasant, has been with us now for seven weeks. To honour his continued presence we have taken to calling him Kev which, unfortunately, has coincided with the sad disappearance of his tail feathers owing to a cat attack. Consequently, we now have a pheasant with a short name and a short body. The lack of tail feathers, however, has not curtailed his daily behaviour. Despite looking like a stubbed-out cigar butt, he still crakes like a band-saw and struts about the garden, nodding to the worms. When he needs a rest, he stands on one leg underneath the bird feeders and blinks, innocently. 

Kev’s lack of tail feathers brings to mind an incident from my past in which a pheasant featured strongly. I had better keep my voice down because it ended tragically. Think of me whispering the next bit. i was twelve and I was bush-beating at a December shoot in Swineshead, near Boston. We were just finishing our last drive of the morning. The guns had stopped firing and we were walking to the end of the field. Directly in front of me, however, twitching in the furrow, was a cock pheasant with a broken wing. It had congealed blood on its chest. Now, there is an unspoken rule in game-shoots that if you come across an injured bird directly in your path then it is your responsibility to finish it off. I stopped and gulped. I knew what I had to do. Reluctantly, I picked up the bird, its head cupped in my hand. The technique was to spin the body round, then jerk it to a stop, thus snapping the neck and putting the bird out of its misery. Unfortunately, I was a little too energetic in my attempt. Having closed my eyes, I spun the body then jerked, only to hear the bird’s body fly through the air and land in front of me. Opening my eyes, I could see the body bounce then roll to a standstill, the tail feathers flapping violently against the ground. However, my fist was still clenched, squeezing something hard like a golf ball. Through squinting eyes, I peeled back my fingers one by one. Nestling in the cup of my hand, a pheasant’s head, vividly green, white and red like the Italian flag. I froze. But then it winked at me. Flinging the head behind me, I jigged on the spot, flailing the air to rid me of the horror. In the end, I had to be held fast by my friend, Mick, and force-fed a Mars Bar to counter the shock. Naturally, I suffered nightmares for weeks afterwards.

But that is enough about decapitated pheasants. Let us get back to the garden. For the last three days, I have been involved in a concerted bout of weed destruction and cutting back. With Kev’s dissonant crakes to keep me company, I have de-mossed the pantiles on the study roof with a hoe, fought a fierce battle with a Mermaid rose, scraped ivy from three walls and savaged yet more ground elder, this time from the edge of our new wild bit of garden. In the process, I have been able to appreciate some of the wild flowers which we or the birds have planted in the last few years. And I am going to tell you about four of them. Now, before you start yawning and saying things like, ‘Wild flowers? That’s about as interesting as poetry’, let me reassure you that you can forage for all of them in our country lanes and that all four are edible. Even better, one can ward off the plague and two are noted aphrodisiacs. Interested now? Yes, I thought you might be.

Right, let’s start with Bistort which we have growing in our pond. It has pink spikes and heart shaped leaves and it is also known as Snake Weed, Pudding Dock or Passion Dock. These last two names refer to its use in Easter Ledger Pudding which is a favourite in the Lake District and Yorkshire. The young leaves can be boiled and made into a puree which is then added to butter, chopped boiled eggs and boiled barley before being pressed. It looks like stuffing and is served with roast lamb. There, that’s something for you to try at home.

Much more common, however, is Garlic Mustard aka Jack-by-the-Hedge, Poor Man’s Mustard, Sauce-Alone or Penny Hedge. It has small white flowers and heart-shaped, tooth-edged leaves. This can be found on most roadside verges at this time of the year. The edible leaves which taste of garlic can be used in a salad. Furthermore, the flowers can be steamed like broccoli as a vegetable and the root makes an excellent substitute for horse-radish. ‘Wow,’ I can hear you purring, ‘that is some larder-filling plant.’ ‘I know,’ is my reply, ‘but that’s not all...’ It is also the major food plant for caterpillars of the orange-tip and green-veined butterflies and, when mashed up, can provide a disinfecting poultice. 

Still with me? Good, because we now come to a couple of racier individuals. The first is Sweet Woodruff aka Kiss-Me-Quick, Ladies In The Hay or Wild Baby’s Breath. It is a ground-hugging, shade-loving plant with rich green leaves and flowers like small bright white stars. The whole plant is vanilla scented and when dried the leaves smell like new mown hay. In the past, it was strewn on floors or stuffed in pillows or mattresses. Nowadays, it is steeped in Rhine wine in Germany to make their Maibowle or Maybowl. It is also considered slightly aphrodisiac. 

More potent still is Sweet Cicely which is related to Cow Parsley but has creamier, denser flower heads and delicate, fern-like leaves. It is also known as Garden Myrrh or Sweet Chervil. The whole plant smells and tastes of aniseed. The strongest flavour comes from the root which in the past has been used to ward off plague, given as a tonic to drooping teenagers and chomped on a daily basis to increase the lust of old people. Sounds like a plant for these desperate times, don’t you think? As well as its reinvigorating properties, the leaf of Sweet Cicely can be used in a salad or cooked with sour fruit, like rhubarb, to get rid of the tartness. But this is a plant which keeps on giving because later in the year the large brown seeds can be used as a spice or sucked like a sweet as an alternative to an aniseed ball. I think you’ll agree, this is certainly one multi-purpose plant and perhaps the most versatile of all of them. 

So, happy foraging. But before I go, I have some breaking news. The first swifts are back which means that Kev will soon have to compete with groups of them screaming in their death-defying races around the rooftops and treetops of Tealby. I’m sure he will give as good as he gets. 

Finally, happy birthday to my youngest daughter, Hannah, all those miles away in Lockdown Highgate. Have a great day.

[ancientbooshartifacts]

It's Only A Paper Moon

Author: Life_Downsized

Year: 2012

Rating: PG-13

Pairing: Dennis/The Moon

When Dennis finally told his friends about his new partner, it was at the Shaman Council Office Christmas bash. They were sitting, as they usually did, in the middle of Epping Forest, but due to the unexpected snowfall the landscape was a lot more cold and wet than usual, like Narnia gone wrong. Dennis had been perfectly happy to sit on his seat nursing a whiskey as the party got steadily wilder, but suddenly he had been roped into confessing all by an inebriated Tony Harrison.

  “Go on,” the bladder urged. “Have a couple of poppers – your wife ain’t round to scold you, is she?”

  “I’m straight-edged, Tony. You know this,” Dennis sighed. “Ever since that night in Moscow. And don’t speak of Methuselah. She and I are through, as you well know.”

  “Oh, lighten up, Dennis, you bumbag,” said Saboo, taking a sip of his White Russian. “Otherwise where are you going to be when it comes to the crunch?”

  “Which crunch are we talking about?”

  Saboo nodded sagely. “The sexual crunch.”

  “Oh.”

  “You’ll never meet anyone the way you are now,” Saboo smirked.

  It might have been the way the trees were casting a magical shadow onto the soft snow, or the desire to shut Saboo up, or it might well have been the fumes from whatever concoction Kirk had passed out smoking, but Dennis’ mind seemed a little warmer and fuzzier than it had at the beginning of the evening. It was thus that he shrugged his cloak tighter around his shoulders and said: “If you must know, I have already met someone.”

  “Dennis, you dog!” cried Tony Harrison with a wide, shit-eating grin. “Why didn’t you tell us? Three cheers, everyone. I’m off my tits!”

  Dennis smiled in embarrassment as the group of Shaman toasted his new-found romantic life. “Well, I mean…”

  “So go on, Dennis, who’s this lucky lady?” Diane interrupted.

  “Erm…well, actually, he’s a man.”

  Saboo quirked an eyebrow, now completely composed. “He? Dear God, it’s Naboo, isn’t it?”

  “No!” Dennis protested.

  “Well, go on, squire!” yelled the inebriated Tony.

  “Actually, I…we decided we’d keep it on the low-down for a bit and…”

  Dennis trailed off as he registered the looks on the faces of the group, and realised he’d dug himself into a bigger hole than he was in before. Why couldn’t he have just said he was still single? Now he actually had to admit it, or else they’d pour Bacardi down his throat until he did.

  He sighed deeply and jumped headfirst into the metaphorical shark-infested pond: “Issamun.”

  “Speak up, you onion.”

  “It’s…the Moon, I’m going out with the Moon.”

  The forest fell silent, punctuated only by the sound of Saboo choking on his White Russian. Dennis coughed awkwardly, and mumbled: “Thought you should…know.”

  “This is an outrage!” cried Tony Harrison. “He’s on the rebound!”

  “I’m not!” Dennis protested hotly. “We’re very much in love.”

  “But…the Moon?” Saboo squawked. “He’s an alabaster retard. He’s a pleb, he’s a pillock-”

  “He’s my partner. And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t talk about him that way. Everybody has their faults.”

  “I mean, how did you even meet?”

  Dennis shrugged self-consciously. “I was in Highgate Park a couple of nights after Methuselah and I divorced. I was trying to do a spell that required the light of the full Moon and, well, we got chatting. He was very sympathetic. One thing led to another…”

  “Oh, God!” Saboo grimaced. “Is that even possible?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Good. I didn’t need to hear about your crater-play.”

  “Ours is a relationship built on respect, trust and mutual interests. Methuselah was all about the sex: ‘Dennis, put this lump of coal in your mouth,’ ‘Dennis, pretend I’m a meerkat’, ‘Dennis, lick these raw parsnip shavings off my body.’ With the Moon…it’s different. I can be my own man. We don’t need to succumb to base pleasures to enjoy each other’s company.”

  Saboo shook his head. “With all due respect, sire, you’ve gone wrong. I mean, what mutual interests could you possibly have?”

  “Lots,” Dennis replied quickly, but then when he asked his brain for answers it merely shrugged back at him. “Like…avant-garde cinema, and…garden gnomes?”

  Saboo smirked. “Case closed.”

  “Look, if none of you can accept my new relationship-”

  “Dennis, you mushroom,” said Tony Harrison, attempting a wise tone but sounding more pissed than ever. “This isn’t a healthy union!”

  “Why can’t you all just be happy for me?” Dennis kicked the snow like a petulant child. “You all hated Methuselah, and now I’ve got someone who really brings joy to my life and you’re all acting like I’m some kind of idiot.”

  “It’s not that we think you’re an idiot, Dennis,” Diane soothed, shooting a motherly glare at Saboo and Tony Harrison. “We just don’t want you to rush into something that’ll make you unhappy, that’s all.”

  In the corner, Kirk giggled and mumbled something about a cougar from the future.

  “I’m not unhappy,” Dennis said, but it sounded unconvincing even to his own ears. “I mean, I’m not getting younger any time soon. It’s a good thing to settle down, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, my word!” Tony cried. “He’s having an age crisis!”

  “I am not having an age crisis!”

  “The Moon’s a billion years old, Dennis,” smirked Saboo. “You’re his toyboy. That’s definitely a sign of an age crisis.”

  “It’s not! Is it?”

  “Without a doubt.”

  Dennis sighed deeply, and put his head in his hands. “Do you all think I should break it off, then?”

  Around the forest came a chorus of affirmatives, apart from Tony who had drunkenly fallen off the desk and landed in a thick pile of snow.

  “Right,” Dennis huffed. “Thanks a lot, guys.”

  Up in the night sky, the Moon looked down at the scene and sniffed. “I thought we had somethin’ special. I’m the Moon. I’m not good with long-distance relationships.”

[loretranscripts]

Lore Episode 17: Broken Fingernails (Transcript) - 12th October 2015

tw: death, corpses, misogyny (18th century-typical), infant death, hanging, being buried alive, ghosts

Disclaimer: This transcript is entirely non-profit and fan-made. All credit for this content goes to Aaron Mahnke, creator of Lore podcast. It is by a fan, for fans, and meant to make the content of the podcast more accessible to all. Also, there may be mistakes, despite rigorous re-reading on my part. Feel free to point them out, but please be nice!

For many cultures, the funeral is the last goodbye, it’s the final chance to say what needs said, or do what needs done, in order to honour the ones we’ve lost. But while the methods and purpose behind these rituals can vary drastically from one culture to the next, one thing is common among the vast majority: the burial. We bury our dead – we’ve done it for an incredibly long time, and we’ve gotten very good at it. Every year, archaeologists open new tombs that date back millennia, each one teaching us something new about the cultures that time has caused us to forget, and central to each of these discoveries is the burial itself - the techniques, the beliefs, the ritual. But it’s not just about the dead. The practice of honouring and burying our loved ones is just as much about our own feelings of loss and grief as it as about our responsibility to care for those who’ve passed away. No place personifies the act of burial more than the local cemetery. With their green lawns and neat rows of pale stones, graveyards are unique among urban constructions; they are respectfully avoided by some and obsessed over by others. But whatever beliefs you might hold, or opinions you might have about them, graveyards are a special place. Stephen King explored the allure and power of the graveyard in his novel Pet Semetary. In the story, the cemetery is a portal between our world and another, it’s a place of transformation, of transition, and of mystery, and while we might not be digging shallow graves for our pets in hopes that they’ll return to us in the night, we’ve never lost our fascination with those places. Cemeteries have always been seen as the end of the journey. Whether you believe in a heaven or not, the graveyard is where most of us will go when our time is up. For some, however, the story doesn’t always end there. Some things, it seems, can’t be buried. I’m Aaron Mahnke, and this is Lore.

For a very long time, burial in Europe was limited to church yards. It made sense - with a vast majority of Europeans holding to the Christian faith, all of them wanted to be buried close to their place of worship. But politics held sway even in these quiet, humble places of burial. Throughout Europe, it was common to find cemeteries that separated Protestant and Catholic graves. There’s a touching example of this near the Dutch town of Roermond, where a couple was buried in the late 1800s. The husband had been Protestant, while the wife had held to the Catholic faith. Despite strict rules regarding their burial, the couple managed to cheat the system by picking graves on opposite sides of the dividing wall. Their tall headstones reached above the wall and included carved hands that reached out to touch each other. Economic status played a part in burial as well – those wealthy enough could purchase space inside the church itself, while the less well-off had settle for graves outside the church walls, and even then, social status determined where in the yard a person might be buried. The higher the status, the closer to the chapel, but no one wanted to find themselves in the north corner. That was where people of uncertain birth, strangers from out of town and stillborn infants were buried. Regardless, churches filled up fast, as did the yards around them. As the population of Europe swelled, space began to disappear at an alarming rate. At first, graves were simply moved closer together, like the parking lot at your local mall – smaller spaces meant more occupants, and that was good for business, but it only worked for a while. Next, coffins were stacked one atop the next, opting for the vertical approach, but this meant that church yards were rising as earth was filled in between the growing graves, sometimes as high as 20ft. Greyfriars Cemetery in Edinburgh, Scotland is a horrific example of this problem. It used to be a depression in the ground, but overtime, it’s become more of a hill. With more than half a million recorded burials, the elevation has literally risen over 15ft, introducing problems that are unique to a graveyard so old and so full. According to reports, there’s such a high concentration of human remains that on especially rainy days, remains that aren’t sealed within a casket have a tendency to float to the surface, bursting through the mud like white teeth. All of this left cities in need of some seriously creative thinking.

In some places, the solution they chose was a drastic one. In France, for example, the government actually had to step in. Church yards had gotten so full that they would often collapse outward, spilling soil and human remains onto the streets. Walls were built around them; they rarely worked. The dead was getting out of hand, so to speak. In 1786, they removed all the bodies from Holy Innocence Cemetery in Paris and moved them to a series of unused stone quarries which became known as the Catacombs. It’s estimated that the Catacombs hold close to six million bodies. Sometimes it wasn’t a lack of space that ruined a cemetery, though, but a lack of popularity. That’s the fate that awaited the cemetery built on the former property of Sir William Ashurst in the north end of London. Named for the small, hilltop community that once existed there, Highgate Cemetery was established on the grounds of the old manor house, which had been demolished and replaced with a church in 1839. At first, the cemetery was popular: Karl Marx is buried there, as are many relatives of Charles Dickens and Dante Rosetti. But when the owners lost money and fell on hard times, the graveyard was left to the elements. Monuments and crypts became overgrown with vegetation, and sometimes trees would sprout up right through the graves themselves. Highgate is a wonderful example of what we all imagine a haunted cemetery might look like. Filmmakers and authors have been drawn to it for decades, tapping into its arresting visual atmosphere to create works of Gothic horror and fantasy. It was even the inspiration behind Neil Gaiman’s beautiful novel The Graveyard Book. But while there are plenty of stories about the history of graveyards throughout Europe and America, cemeteries have always been known for something darker, something less tangible than what we can see above ground. Perhaps it’s all those neat rows of bone-white headstones, or the notion that hundreds of bodies lay waiting beneath our feet. Whatever the reason, its in the local graveyard, more than any other place, that we find rumours of the otherworldly and unexplainable. Inside those walls, between the pale stones and dark trees, almost everyone has heard tales of those who refuse to stay in the grave. Buried or not, sometimes the past is too traumatic to leave us.

Just south of Chicago, between the curving arms of I-80 and I-294, is a graveyard known for a level of activity unusual in a place of the dead. Bachelor’s Grove Cemetery isn’t big – there are only 82 plots there and many of those have never been used, but that hasn’t stopped the stories. It’s said that the famous gangster Al Capone once used the pond nearby as a dumping place for the bodies of those he killed. Other rumours make reference to Satanic rituals and meetings that have taken place in the graveyard over the years. But there are those who swear they have seen unusual things there. The most famous sighting has been called “The White Lady”, the ghostly image of a woman that was said to appear only during the full moon. In 1991, the Sun-Times actually featured a photo of the White Lady on the front cover, taken by a researcher on one of her visits. The woman appears to be semi-transparent, sitting on a tombstone near the trees, and dressed in white. Other visitors have seen glowing orbs and apparitions, and even vehicles and a farmhouse that seem to fade in and out of existence. The site is off-limit to visitors now, but it’s remained a favourite haunt (no pun intended) of ghost hunters across the country. In 1863, an outbreak of smallpox moved through a Civil War POW camp in Columbus, Ohio. The camp held close to 10,000 confederate soldiers, and thousands of them died from the epidemic. As a result, the Camp Chase Confederate Cemetery was formed, an unusual sight so far north into Union territory. Miles away, in New Madrid, Missouri, a Confederate sympathiser sent his young daughter north to avoid the destruction of the war. Louisiana Briggs settled into Ohio and eventually married a Union veteran, but she apparently never lost touch with her southern roots. It was said that later in life, she would often visit the Camp Chase Cemetery, where she would place flowers on various graves there. She wore a white veil each time she went, in an effort to hide her face. Nevertheless, she acquired a reputation around town as the “Grey Lady” and was known for her passion for the old burial ground. She passed away in 1950, but flowers would still appear regularly on the graves there. Visitors to Camp Chase have heard the sounds of a woman weeping quietly, while others have seen the figure of a woman in a veil. Something drew Louisiana Briggs to that location, that much is clear. According to the stories, though, she never left.

Across the country in Connecticut, yet another graveyard plays host to a mysterious story. Mary Hart was born in New Haven in 1824, and lived a very modest life there. She was a corset maker and machine stitcher by trade, working hard to support her family. On October 15th, 1872, Mary fell into a death-like state from unknown causes. She was only 47, young even for the late 19th century, and this tragedy rocked her family to the core. By midnight, Mary had expired, and her grieving family set about to arrange for a quick and immediate burial. There was a lot of pain, I can imagine, and they simply wanted to move on. It’s said that Mary’s spirit still wonders Evergreen Cemetery, close to the site of her home on Winthrop Avenue. More than one story has been told about drivers pulling over to pick up a hitchhiking woman, only to have her disappear. Others say Mary was a witch, although you didn’t have to look far in the late 1800s to find a woman who had been accused of something like that. According to the stories, local college students have frequently visited Mary’s grave, which is said to be cursed. Anyone who visits her grave at midnight, according to legend, will meet a horrible fate. As a result, most people refer to her today as “Midnight Mary”. There are no records of New Haven college students who’ve died after visiting Mary’s gravesite, but whether or not the stories are rooted in fact, it hasn’t stopped them from spreading. Mary still has one foot in our world, it seems. It’s just not clear who’s keeping her here.

South Cemetery in Portsmouth, New Hampshire is really a collection of many smaller graveyards. It’s the site of the oldest burial ground in town, dating back to the 1600s, and it’s a wonderful mixture of styles and centuries. Together, the Auburn Cemetery, the Proprietors’ Burial Ground, Sagamore Cemetery and Harmony Hill all combine to showcase everything from an Egyptian-style sarcophagus, to winged skulls and Victorian funerary imagery. It’s a peaceful place, and much of the grounds have been planted with flowering trees, creating a park-like atmosphere, but that wasn’t always the case. In the 1700s, South Cemetery served double duty as both a graveyard, and the site of several public executions. All of them were hangings, and more than a few of them were women, and the reasons were often tragic. The early 18th century was a very different era from our own, and the lawbooks were filled with rules that might seem barbaric or cruel by today’s standards. Provincial laws at the time required capital punishment for a wide assortment of crimes – close to 600 of them, in fact, including murder, rape, abortion, bestiality, burglary, treason and counterfeiting. Another capital crime, though, was known as “concealment”. If a woman found herself pregnant outside of marriage in the mid-1700s, her life was effectively over. Social stigma, loss of employment, fines and even physical punishment were all expected to follow upon discovery of adultery, and the possible resulting bastard birth. And so, to avoid this fate, it had become common for women in that situation to hide their pregnancy, and then abandon the baby to die of neglect and exposure. This was concealment, and it was the situation that a woman from South Hampton, New Hampshire found herself in, in the spring of 1768.

Ruth Blay was just 25 and split her time between teaching in the nearby towns and working as a seamstress. She was single and poor, but she did her best to hide the pregnancy for as long as she could. No one knows when she gave birth to the child. We don’t know if she laboured alone, with no hand to hold or companion to help her through it. All history remembers is the baby, but even then, there are still questions. According to Ruth, the baby had been stillborn. That didn’t erase her crime of adultery, of course, or the stigma that was sure to follow, but it did mean that she didn’t kill the child. She had been afraid, and so she buried the tiny body beneath the floorboards of a local barn, most likely the site of one of her travelling classrooms. And that, she thought, was the end of it. But what Ruth didn’t know was that some of her local students had watched her – they didn’t see the birth itself, they didn’t feel her pain, loss, fear and hopelessness. All they saw was a young woman placing a body in the small space beneath a loose board. They saw a crime, and so the reported it. Ruth was soon arrested by Isaac Brown, the local constable, and was quickly brought to trial. A jury of 16 was formed, all men, of course, and they soon ruled that the child had died by violent birth. Ruth, they said, was a liar and a murderer. Ruth was held at the constable’s home until she could be transported to the jail in Portsmouth, but she was still recovering from the birth, and so she remained there for over a month while her body healed. By July 19th, she had formerly been accused, and two weeks later she was brought before the provincial court. She pleaded innocent, of course, but no one listened. Her final trial date was set for nearly two months later, for the end of September. I can’t imagine how lonely she must have felt, how hopeless. Ruth didn’t have a chance. I think it’s safe to assume she knew that – society wasn’t kind to women in her position, and when you added in the dead infant, well… Ruth was pretty sure how it was going to end. The trial began on the afternoon of September 21st, 1768, and a little over 12 hours later, a 12-man jury handed down the verdict: guilty. She was, according to their instructions, to hang by her neck until dead. But not just yet. No, the royal governor of New Hampshire, a man named John Wentworth, issued three consecutive reprieves, postponing her execution. He said it was to give her time to prepare herself for death, but I can’t help but wonder if it was really just one more punishment. Rather than walking to the gallows before the end of September, Ruth would have to wait three long months. Just before noon, on December 30th, over 1000 people gathered at Gallows Hill in South Cemetery. It had snowed earlier that day, and now a cold, freezing rain was covering everything in a layer of ice. Sheriff Packer, the man presiding over the execution, had Ruth placed atop the back of a wagon, a rope draped over her head. Parents stood with their arms around their children – children who craned their necks to catch a glimpse of the woman about to die. There are rumours that a pardon was on its way from the governor, that Sheriff Packer was in a hurry to eat his lunch, and so he rushed the execution rather than waiting for the governor’s letter to arrive. At noon, the horses pulling the wagon were driven away from the tree, and Ruth Blay fell off the back, where her body swung slowly at the end of a noose. She died moments later. Those same rumours say the governor’s stay of execution did arrive, just moments after Ruth’s body stopped moving, but there’s no record of a pardon. Instead of freedom, Ruth was given an unmarked grave, about 300ft north of the small pond in the middle of the cemetery. Today, visitors to the pond report anomalies in their photographs – ghostly images, orbs and indefinable shapes. Some say that their cameras stop working altogether when there. According to local legend, a pair of glowing lights has been seen there, and some think its Ruth and her infant child.

Between life and death, between the places most familiar to us and that vast expanse of the unknown, sits the graveyard. It has represented the beginning of a journey for countless cultures across the history of mankind. From the Egyptians to the Khans, from ancient Europe to modern America, the cemetery is a constant thread, tying us all together. All philosophy aside, these are places born out of loss and filled with deep emotion. And so, it’s no wonder that so many stories exist of the ones who refuse to stay buried. Maybe ghosts are real after all, or maybe we just wish they were, or perhaps it’s both. One final note: Midnight Mary, the New Haven corset maker who fell into a coma at the age of 47, was buried the following day, on October 16th, 1872. That night, after the funeral was over and her extended family had travelled back to their homes, Mary’s aunt had a horrible nightmare. In her dream, she saw Mary still alive in her coffin, scratching at the lining in an effort to get out. She was screaming and moaning with desperation, and the image of that stayed with Mary’s aunt long after she awoke - so much so that she managed to convince both her family and the authorities to exhume Mary’s grave. After the coffin was removed from the earth, the men opened it. What they found inside would haunt them for the rest of their lives. Mary’s corpse had moved. Her hands were covered in blood, and many of her fingernails were broken. The reason was clear after examining the coffin’s lid: the cloth lining had been shredded. Apparently, Mary had finally awoken from her coma, and in her panic, she had tried to claw her way out.

This episode of Lore was produced by me, Aaron Mahnke. You can learn more about me, this show, episode transcripts, Patreon member benefits and more over at lorepodcast.com, and be sure to follow along on Twitter, Facebook and Instagram, @lorepodcast. This episode of Lore was made possible by you, [Insert ad break]. And as always, thanks for listening.

[ccagalleries]

Prints to warm your heart!

Art is one of the most personal, thoughtful and fun things you can give someone. We've hand-picked some of our favourite prints for you this St. Valentine's Day. Show them you care by giving the gift of Art!

A Rose, is a Rose, is a Rose Peter Blake Silkscreen with glazes Image size: 350 x 350mm Paper size: 450 x 460mm Edition size: 100 BUY HERE  

Call the office on 01252 797 201 today to place your order

Consisting of three stunning silkscreen prints with glazes, each print takes on the subject of a rose in a different direction exerting Blake's signatures watercolour, collage and pop art styles. All three prints are beautifully presented together in a rich petrol blue archival box with title page and colophon.

A Rose, is a Rose, is a Rose Peter Blake Silkscreen with glazes Image size: 350 x 350mm Paper size: 450 x 460mm Edition size: 100 BUY HERE The sentence 'Rose is a rose is a rose' was written by Gertrude Stein as part of the 1913 poem 'Sacred Emily', which appeared in the 1922 book 'Geography and Plays'. In the poem, it references that the first 'Rose' is the name of a person. As one of her most famous quotations, Stein later used variations of the quote in her other writing and it is often interpreted as a means to say 'things are what they are'

A Rose, is a Rose, is a Rose Peter Blake Silkscreen with glazes Image size: 350 x 350mm Paper size: 450 x 460mm Edition size: 100 BUY HERE 

Winter Walk, Highgate Ponds Lucy Farley Silkscreen with collage and pastel Image size: 34 x 23cm Paper size: 41.7 x 31.4cm Edition size: 50 BUY HERE A personal piece for Lucy, this edition embodies her love for a particular person and landscape, whilst celebrating a relationship she has had with Hampstead Heath ever since she first started walking there while studying at the at the Royal College of Art. Inspired by winter bathing in the Highgate Ponds, a tradition she has kept up since she first visited the Ladies Pond, and a tradition she now shares with her boyfriend who is pictured here, making his way to the Men's pond with his dog. 

Blue Love Tree Terry Frost Silkscreen with collage elements Image size: 61 x 100cm Paper size: 61 x 100cm Edition size: 85 BUY HERE  

A vibrant and playful silkscreen print with collage elements. Frost's 'Love tree' designs have proved to be some of his most popular. One of Sir Terry's final designs, Blue Love Tree was made in a very small edition of 85, making it rare and very collectible.

I Love You Peter Blake Digital print on canvas Image size: 119.7 x 84.2cm Paper size: 119.7 x 84.2cm Edition size: 50 BUY HERE

This exuberant and joyful image is Peter Blake at his classic best. Bold pop design, brilliant colours and an uplifting and simple message of love. The geometric design is reminiscent of his iconic 1960s pieces including Got a Girl and Babe Rainbow.

Valentine Donald Hamilton Fraser Silkscreen Image size: 41 x 57cm Paper size: 58.5 x 75cm Edition size: 150 BUY HERE

This beautiful image has a very special story. Before his death Fraser has been very keen to contribute to the Mending Broken Hearts Appeal, but sadly was unable to complete any work. With this in mind Fraser's wife kindly suggested and gave permission for a silkscreen to be made from a valentines card that Fraser had once painted for her, as she felt that the image was highly appropriate. Fraser created a valentines card for his wife every year of their sixty year marriage.

Created especially to raise awareness and funds for the British Heart Foundation. All profits go to the BHF.

Craigie's Canary Peter Blake Etching with hand-coloured chine collé Image size: 24.5 x 29.5cm Paper size: 38 x 46cm Edition size: 50 BUY HERE

Craigie’s Canary is a celebration of British artist Craigie Aitchison’s (1926-2009) life and work as well as a tribute from his friend and admirer Peter Blake. This hand-painted etching’s minimalism is an echo of Aitchison’s precise and simple compositions, its splash of colour reminiscent of the jewel-bright colours Aitchison loved to use. Aitchison kept canaries, they would fly about in his studio; as well as being a recurring motif throughout his work, the canary is a symbol of joy, illumination and innocence- and here it represents Craigie himself; a touching tribute to a dear friend.  

Horse at Water Nic Fiddian-Green Silkscreen Image size: 55 x 95cm Paper size: 60 x 100cm Edition size: 50 BUY HERE For the equine lover in your life, this signed limited edition silkscreen print by world renowned sculptor Nic Fiddian-Green demonstrates the dramatic elegance of his iconic horse's head.

I Love You Very Much Peter Blake Silkscreen and mixed media with collaged wood veneer, 3D wooden hand-painted elements,  LED lights, embossing, diamond dust, gold leaf  and glazes. Image size: 100 x 35.8cm Paper size: 100 x 35.8cm Edition size: 25 BUY HERE "‘Love’ and ‘I Love You Very Much’ are an attempt to make print editions that include ‘real’ elements. Some of the letters are lit up like fairground signs, some are made with wood, I’ve also used wood veneer, diamond dust and embossing, it’s amazing the effects you can achieve in printmaking.” - Peter Blake 

Victorian Postcard Series 4 Peter Blake Archival inkjet with silkscreen glaze Image size: 28 x 44cm Paper size: 38 x 55.5cm Edition size: 95 BUY HERE From a set of five prints, The Victorian Postcard series reflects Blake's interest in and admiration for Victorian art and paraphernalia. Call the office on 01252 797 201 today to place your order

To see the full range of all of our artists visit our website at

www.ccagalleries.com

Please note all works are subject to availability and price changes

[tessies-hope]

Gilbert and George - the gay duck duo by A-T-E-L

Lovingly anthropomorphised by our aesthete lifeguards, these two little darlings bring male homo pair-bonding in to real life at the women’s pond, Hampstead. Will they still be there when we return in May after reconstruction? Or will the hardhatted, arse-cracked, macho, monster, bulldozing builders put them off? Maybe they’ll just go Village People on us, instead. A quacked version of YMCA, if we’re lucky.

Further reading on queer monogamy in birds and other non-humans:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/guides/zsv9qty?intc_type=singletheme&intc_location=homepage&intc_campaign=iwonder&intc_linkname=guide_monogamousanimals_contentcard8

[zot3-flopped]

I noticed where Olivia took that photo and I expected it to have made a ripple tbh. Of course she’s probably just gone to a nice place on a nice evening, but you can bet I’m interested in seeing if there are any more crumbs. There was a niche theory out there that she and Harry had put things on hold but only to pacify Jason and to give the children a bit more stability - Harry’s tour being the obvious and practical excuse. Ok he made out with Emrata and he’s been hanging out with Taylor Russell but everything else (YanYan, Candice, a mystery brunette) has been Deuxmoi levels of nonsense and she’s really got no channels to his life. I’m 90% sure there’s nothing in it and he and Olivia have split for good but I love the 10% that’s enough to rile up those mad accounts. The tattoo has sent them wild!

The Highgate Ladies' Pond photo is from 2022 as we haven't really had any hot weather this summer. But she must be feeling nostalgic to have posted it.

[camdensedimenta]

The UK in lock-down, ponds in lock-out while Mother Earth enjoys a long overdue lock-in.

By Karla La Pond Antoinette Published Hampstead Village Voice Spring Edition March/April 2020

UNEDITED VERSION

Last year, this swimmer overheard surveyors airily announcing to lifeguards they would blow another £30k on tweeking (yet again) the ventilation in the Ladies' pond mouldy shower room. To that end, amongst other additions, a heater was installed. Guess what. Within 2 months it blew up! Thus runs the typical sorry storyline of every City of London Corporation's (CoLC) jerry-built construction. I have a list. £100,000s has been squandered since 2015 on such works. Now, pond swimmers of the Heath find themselves engaged, for the umpteenth time since the 1980's, combatting the hyper-wealthy CoLC's ravenous need for cash and threats of closure.

To impose entry fees is deplorable bordering on treachery. The City knew the responsibilities when they took on the Heath. Health and Safety are cited as key drivers of the move. To mine eye, CoLC are responsible for many omissions on that score. Another one of my lists.

Chain lock protest, Ladies Pond, Hampstead - February 2020.

So, the Town Clerk and Chief Executive of The Corporation (subgroup of The City), John Barradell insists that Bob Warnock, his Heath Superintendent, must railroad through a system of enforced charging by March 11th, with necessary exclusions and, bless them, a hardship fund for those who cannot afford a season ticket. But this isn't famine-ridden Ireland circa 1846. It's no hardship not to swim and who wants to be on that list anyway. Bob claims the consultation process began in October, much to the bafflement of swimming user groups who only heard about it in January and were not in full possession of the various proposals until February 24th. Barely a day's worth of 'process' has so far happened - mere lip service, it seems.

Several savvy swimmers have publicly demolished CoLC’s accounting figures (where available), concluding that the Heath subsidy is down, but income up; from flashy film shoots, mega athletic events etc. And that's with much of the voluntary cash contributions going AWOL or getting nicked. But CoLC claim cuts are due to sustainability measures (hello, where? definitely not at the Ladies, the newest build) As one swimmer says, “CoLC are not stewards but occupying vandals dressed up as philanthropists”.

What are the key issues? Not money, clearly. CoLC’s balance sheet is reportedly £2.7 billion. Politics is at the core. Enclosure, as we know from the saddest chapters in history, is a slippery slope - civil disobedience could explode. The fees, a kind of indirect taxation, are to prove the burdensome, overcrowded ponds profitable so they may be flipped to privateers. Staff hours and protections will surely suffer.

It seems unlikely at this stage that we can shaft the mercurial CoLC as managers, that is Parliament's prerogative. Where are the exit clauses in the 1871 (1989) Heath Act, anyway? People power must therefore prevail where all the legal arguments will pivot on what is determined to be 'fair' and 'reasonable'.

The women's pond for me is half way between where I grew up in Hampstead and the family plot of my final interment. My aqueous transit lounge. Yes, that's a privileged position but truth is, everyone who visits feels similarly, on their long, often arduous, journey from cradle to grave. The all encompassing appeal of the ponds is their gracious power to absorb everyone's energies, even, let's hope, the misplaced posturing of CoL's avaricious clerks.

[camdensedimenta]

#PondsSoWhite

by Karla La Pond Antoinette

Hampstead Village Voice submission APRIL 2019 (unpublished & unabridged)

This New Year, a phenomenal surge of new winter swimmers unexpectedly followed the launch of 'The Ponds' film (2019), aided no doubt by that weirdly atypical February heatwave. Whatever the arguable merits and demerits of this popular feature length documentary, it's Oh-So-White profiling of all three Hampstead Heath swimming ponds, is an inescapable complexion which director Patrick McLelland cannot deny, try as he does. A local Indian woman approached him to interview her informal swimming group of NW5 habituees, the self-styled 'Kenwood Slappers'. All had their voices heard except she, the only B.A.M.E member.

The film makers' repeated defence that the Kenwood Ladies' Pond Association (KLPA) only sanctioned limited filming access does not embolden their argument. Our segment conveyed a sufficient sense of women's spiritual and playful political solidarity (excluding that nonsensical trans joke) with just four days' worth of footage. Yet our pond is a terrific tapestry of London's variously-melanated females.

To my knowledge, in 30 years, race has never overtly provoked anyone there. Class, gender, sex and even sexual activity, certainly have - though rarely. Swimsuits, for the most part, are a great leveller.

Photographer Ruth Corney being interviewed for The Ponds film (2019) ­Laser Guided Prods Ltd.

This film portrays the swimmers as mostly middle aged, middle class and oh-so-white. That may play in to a romanticised image of Hampstead and Highgate as an olde worlde Anglo-Saxon idyll replete with charming home county types, yet Blacks, Indians and Jews have lived locally for generations even at Kenwood House. For women, the pond is a refugia. A theatre of their sanctity - bodily, spiritual and sexual. The coalitions are sensed inwardly, while the men's are more outwardly. Many feel the Ladies' Pond should remain hidden and inaccessible to preserve its' power. The photography ban at our pond primarily protects religious women's privacy (Jewish and Muslim). But in truth, the rest of us feel like Gwyneth Paltrow's daughter these days. Instagram be damned! Lately, unwanted male ingressions both adult and little boys with their entitled mothers are an increasing annoyance. A sign of the impolite times? Or the felling of former tree cover by The City for their damned Dams Project in 2016? Too much publicity whatever. Dunno what happens at the mixed - apart from two hetero lifeguards meeting and marrying there last year. Lovely.

RELATED LOCAL EVENTS

Until mid-August Burgh House has a wonderful exhibition of the bathing ponds through history; includes vintage home photography, articles, books and stills from the film. www.burghhouse.org.u

On June 20th 2019, Daunt Books launch an anthology of women's pond stories by established writers such as Esther Freud, Margaret Drabble & Deborah Moggach. Our review out in the next issue.

June 2019 - 'City Swimmers' (2006) KLPA's film made with Margaret Dickinson will be re-screened at Highgate's 'Fair on the Square' in tandem with 'The Ponds' film. It documents swimmers' protest against The City's then threat to shut all ponds.  www.klpa.uk

Summer 2019, KLPA's material heritage (photos, articles, artwork & letters from Jeremy Corbyn, Glenda Jackson, Roger Deakin et al) will go to The City Of London's Bishopsgate Archive for all to access.

Visitor at Burgh House's 'Bathing Ponds of Hampstead' exhibition 2019

Addendum:

The film does work on several levels albeit bland ones.

The title is: 'Hampstead Heath: 350 hectares of forest and parkland.' Error number 1. Geologically, it is, in fact, ancient heathland with a managed woodland. Since Saxon times until the 1950's it was an agro-industrial landscape. My father, born locally in 1926 was once a Hampstead Councillor. He remembered walking idly amongst the dozy sheep and I'm not referring to his electorate - at least not knowingly!

There were female breasts on display in the film but no male butts for balance - unless one includes out of focus shots in the background at the nude sunbathing area in the men's changing rooms. No mention of gays at the ladies yet there was at the mens - mostly by straight guys, it seemed. That trans joke was idiotic and shouldn't have been included. (N.B. The BBC TV edit did cut it)

Why did no salaried female lifeguards want to be filmed - they know better.

Also, the music was ghastly. This is Camden! We have a reputation.

[camdensedimenta]

The City of London Corporation which manages Hampstead Heath in North London is proposing 5 options to the future running of the historic swimming ponds. Most are completely unacceptable. Hideously rushed process - swimmer groups were given only days to digest and discuss before the all important meetings next week on March 9th & 11th. There are thousands of people locally who need consulting.

The City also offer a Hardship Fund for those who can’t afford the enforced charging of £4 p/d. This is patronising, divisive and will of course be limited. Their balance sheet is a minimum £2.7 billion at the moment and they increased their revenue last year by £58m which is enough to cover the running costs of the Heath for 10 years.

They are using the unavoidable death at the men’s last year and the madness at the lido on that very hot day in July as a pretext for forcing through charges and fully financialising the swimming ponds - their decades long ambition. The occasional overcrowding Is a separate issue to the money and would not be resolved by having barriers. In fact, management of the crowds would be far harder especially at the women’s. This year post-swim idlers were asked by staff to leave to let others queuing outside in to swim. They did so willingly precisely because they had not paid. It all worked really well. Lifeguards have told the Corporation they do not want barriers.

There are so many issues but it all boils down to politics not money. The City are nothing if not rent extractors.

The whole beauty of the ponds and particularly the women’s is that they provide an equal opportunity and a safe haven for all because they are free at the point of access. Many pay for a season ticket and many more would in order to stop enforced charging if only the system was easier to use. Also, the paying machines are shoddily maintained and often broken in to. Lots of money collected as cash by hand at the mixed pond last summer went missing. (No one was forewarned of this system).

There are convenants protecting free access to the ponds at the Heath in the Heath Act of 1871. Lord Iveagh of Kenwood House bequeathed the ponds for future generations to enjoy free swimming. Already it was a huge concession on the part of swimmers groups to permit voluntary payments back in 2005.

The City is riding rough shod over land law and treating users with contempt. We all know they’ve wanted to privatise the ponds for years. Staff hours and protections will suffer. Far fewer people will swim as they are already squeezed by ever increasing rents and generally expensive London living. Many will fling their overheated bodies in to the unregulated non-swimming ponds which is hazardous.

Please support THE PROTESTS:

6.15pm March 9th at Parliament Hill Yard by the cafe, tennis courts and staff building.

3.30pm March 11th at the Guildhall near Bank tube station.

KEEP THE SWIMMING PONDS OPEN TO ALL!!

Follow twitter: #pondsforswimmers #lovetheponds

Join some swimming user groups for updates.

KENWOOD LADIES POND ASSOCIATION

HIGHGATE MENS POND

MIXED POND

[tessies-hope]

At the women’s pond closing party, Hampstead Heath. Sunday afternoon, January 31st, 2016

Ceremonial scarf unfurling

Women swimmers (their friends and mothers) spent 3 weeks knitting a 300 foot ‘peace and protest’ scarf for when the pond would be forcibly closed for the building works of dubious necessity.

At our high-octane closing party, we unfurl the scarf and wrap it protectively around our beloved pond to insulate her from the Corporation of London’s over-zealous concrete and wire dams redevelopment. The women’s pond is, in effect, unconsecrated Holy Ground. Many swimmers’ ashes have been, over multiple decades, sacramentally scattered amongst her herbaceous borders and across her muddy green waters. Some form of exorcism may need to take place on our return in May (probably June) 2016, to banish the bad energy created by the monstrous disruption and burial disturbances.

For blog polemics on the Hampstead Heath Dams Project horror show read: http://www.tessies-hope.tumblr.com December 2015 entries onward.

A tale where capitalist corporate imperatives tragically trump ecological necessity.

Low quality interim video on Youtube. Vimeo hi-end quality due next

[tessies-hope]

Ceremonial scarf stretching by A-T-E-L Closing party. Women’s pond. 31st Jan, 2016.

Picture gallery of day's event now online. Click on image to access.

Video of all 300 feet of scarf coming soon.