Plymouth's Female Smugglers and a Personal Ballad

I am fairly lucky with my family history in that a great deal of information has been passed to me through various generations of my relations who have lived in Plymouth, south Devon and Cornwall since the 1700s. The following poem was written in tribute to a few girls in 1813 in Plymouth and is based on recorded fact ....

THE BALLAD OF PEGGY RIDER

Of course she was a Devon maid, from Plymouth town we're sure,

no contraband slipped Peggy's hands between the sea and moor.

From Cockside to Frankfort Gate, her patch was worth pure gold,

when the French became unstuck at night, Peggy sold their soul.

Where would the heart of Plymouth be without a Peggy Rider?

When watchmen melt into the darkness, that's enough to hide her.

Not that just the girl is hid, but sixty gallons of rum;

and with a few accomplices, distribution's done.

Look out for the Revenue men, from the Custom's House they'll hail,

every Janner is a suspect now but few end up in jail.

Turn a blind eye to the pilot boats moored up in Whitsand Bay,

It's European free trade, styled in a different way.

Farmer George, our wondrous king, is keen on enterprise,

so when Peggy Rider steps out, it's usually in disguise.

Now some snitch has written to the Mayor of Plymouth town,

our generous fiscal trading terms have been scaled right down.

Chase the French from Plymouth Sound but keep their brandy here,

Peggy is our saviour; we'll drink to her in beer.

Sing this to Napolean: va te faire foutre! each dusk,

as Peggy's girls can lift and shift a stash of elephants tusks.

Now who were Peggy's smugglers?  Let us know their names:

Mrs Weirs, Mrs Charks and Mrs Mary James.

Mary lived on Higher Street, overlooking Sutton's water,

I'm pleased to say, here today, I'm her three times great-grand-daughter.

(c)  Ruth Snell

Laira, Plymouth, 2016

So, where did this come from?  My grandmother, Rosetta James married my grandfather, Ernest Snell in St Matthias Church, North Hill, Plymouth in July 1920.  (She always told me her people were of the Charles Church parish 'back into time' and she wasn't far wrong with St Matthias being a sister church of Charles Church). On researching the James family tree I found John James, my great-great-great grandfather who was a Blacksmith on Higher Street (now part of Exeter Street) in 1813.  I discovered his wife was called Mary when I found the birth of their son (my great-great grandfather), also called John, who was baptised in Charles Church in 1813 by the infamous Rev. Hawker.  I found a few documents in the Plymouth & West Devon Record Office which describe more events of the age and then I discover more about my ancestors.  Mary in particular appears to have assisted a local female smuggler called Peggy Rider who was moving everything from ' ... sixty barrels of rum, tea, coffey, silk shawls, baccy and 'elefants teeth'.  Yeez ....... my granny carrying elephants tusks up Exeter Street .... shiver me timbers!!

Mary then appears in nearby Cawsand, Cornwall (a village famous for smuggling) in 1822.  It seems Edmund Lockyer, Mayor of Plymouth at that time, showed her leniency and was very kind to her so she wrote and thanked him.  Mmmmm .... was he involved too???  Apparently smuggling was, to the gentlemen (wealthier toffs of the era) an investment, just like stocks and shares.  I smile with such links to a wondrous Plymouth story. 

The above ballad was read out compliments of Wonder Zoo with Black Books and The Word at The China House in Sutton (where else?) Plymouth, on 30 March 2016. Thanks to Derek Shaw in Berkshire for taking my verse and putting it to music.  More to follow on the melody ...

Ruth

N.B.  A translation of va te faire foutre! is well .... 'Kiss my ass' ..... the sort of thing an English smuggler might have said to Napoleon and his French associates in 1813.

The River Plym in Early November

I live close to the River Plym; an area of contrasts with the busy Embankment Road, railway line and yet calm, unbridled views over Saltram park.  Occasionally when time permits (and usually at weekends), I take a very early walk close to the river to watch the sun rise.  Now the night's are drawing in and the morning's have a tardy start of light, the moment to catch the sun coming up is later than I would like but on a morning such as we had today, it is beautiful.  The weather was exceptional - just like high summer or Midsummer's Day.  The hills looking up beyond Plympton were shaded in soft violets, mauves and apricots with a chiffon white mist rising in front of the boat house at Saltram Point.  A wide range of birds from Oyster-Catchers, to Plovers to Warblers swept and swung over the high tide which gently lapped the shore.  Rare species often gather here to the delight of Ornithologists.

At that point I was brought to mind of a typical November day.  Grey, wet, windy, cold and dank.  Yet today was none of these.  My late father (Bernard Snell, who was born in November 1922) was a sun worshipper by nature and hated the winter.  He could never bear the long dark cold days and often referred to November as 'Suicide Month'.  He felt trudging out to work in the dark and wet, returning home in the same conditions and spending much of his time jammed in the hull of a ship (he was a Ships' Welder), meant day light and sunshine were hugely important to him.  Additionally his awful experiences of being in Plymouth throughout the Blitz meant that darkness could mean death.

Below is an extract of Novembrists from the wonderful collection of poems by
Sean O'Brien called November.

Reactionary elements combining in the dark
To undermine the decent light of trade
With futile knowledge of the spirit's appetite
For somewhere in between this world
And its discarded shadows.  O Novembrists!
At the year's death walking to no purpose
But to walk among the rutted leaves
And dripping hawthorns, in behind
The sleeping yards and the flooded lawns
And air-raid shelters piled with mattresses and comics,
Now I see it is my parents that I walk beside, ..........

If my father were alive today, he would have smiled at the irony.

Ruth

Pseudonyms

Is a pseudonym - or several pseudonyms worthwhile?  In my view yes, it is.  The reasons are various but many writer's like to feel their work stands alone from the day job.  For those fortunate enough not to have to work, a pseudonym is often still worthwhile as it allows an escape hatch into their ideas. 

At a Writer's Convention in Bristol, sat amongst other writer's I was surprised at how many people wrote under fictitious names.  The lady sat on my left hand side was a well known writer of romantic novels.  In the course of conversation it turned out she was also a fully qualified accountant working from home and her husband was a GP.  Living in a rural village in Cambridgeshire (I'll give no more away here!) she didn't want to be the focus of local gossip or bothered by people asking endless questions about her next book or plot.  She wanted to get on with her main day job (Accountant), her domestic life (wife to a GP and mother to two teenagers) and - oh - of course - a Writer too!

Behind me another lady - in a most resplendent hat - was a highly successful historical novelist.  Again, her 'writing' name was also a pseudonym and she is lucky enough to have a holiday cottage in Devon where she goes to write.  Her real home is several counties away.

Lots of writer's and poets adopt another name to free them up from any expectations.  After all, Jean Plaidy, Victoria Holt and Philippa Carr were one and the same person.  William Trevor is really William Trevor Cox.  Even Elena Ferrante is another author by another name but nobody knows who.  She (or he) has created a modern Italian mystery by hiding their real identity.

Am I Ruth Snell?  In some ways yes, although several of you will know me as someone else.

Creative Writing Workshop at Whitleigh Words Festival

A sincere thank you to everyone who came along to the Japanese Poetry Workshop on Saturday 4 July 2015 as part of the Whitleigh Words Festival.  A group of people who barely knew each other were blended and revitalized by studying some of the methods of Haiku, Tanka, Haibun and Renga.  This was just a brief introduction into the mysteries of Japanese poetry but one which was enjoyed by all.  We also took time to explore and discuss the history of Japanese literature and the ancient culture which supports it.  It is a complex subject and not one which can be fully analysed in a couple of hours but I trust the handouts helped.

Sincere thanks to Sandy Wager, Organizer of the Whitleigh Words Festival for her succinct administration of this event and other activities going on in Whitleigh.   Don't forget folks that Whitleigh has been a thriving suburb of Plymouth for 65 years.  In fact the key reason for the Festival was to celebrate that era of time from when the first foundation stones were laid.  Prior to that, Whitleigh was sprawling farmland consisting of many green acres and traditional farm buildings.

Sadly Whitleigh Hall was knocked down just after the war which is a pity because like most manor houses in Plymouth, it would have enhanced the currently desired City of Culture status very well. But in those immediate post-war years, like all the Plymouth based manors, it was seen as a sign of capitalist living and not emblematic of socialism, so down it came.  And now the Council want to apply for City of Culture status ... when the backbone of its history was wilfully destroyed .... by the .... Council ... while they keep the grotty Civic Centre Council House (circa late 1950s) standing as a listed building.  You couldn't make it up if you tried.

P.S.  I'm glad they don't work for me.

Magna Carta and Inspeximus .... the Link

We now, in 2015, stand on the threshold of the 800th anniversary of the Magna Carta.  A document signed by King John in 1215 after pressure from the Barons - not to mention the church - speaks of freedom and liberty.  King John was a very unpopular King and was eventually pushed into a tight corner at Runnymede where he was encouraged to sign the document we recognize today.  As a legal document, the Magna Carta has never been revoked and English law is founded on its beliefs.

The word 'Inspeximus' means literally in Latin = 'We have inspected' and comes from the right of land owners to show that what they have is legally theirs.  At Domesday, a record was taken of all land holdings (manors) and what they consisted of; from people to livestock and woodland.  In later years, a re-visitation took place and in 1381 when King Richard II was on the throne, an Inspeximus grant of Walkhampton manor took place to certify ownership.  Walkhampton was a Royal Manor and the premier lead manor of The Roborough Hundred.  Plymouth barely existed and was just a small fishing village called Sutton. 

Time has moved on and much has changed.  However, to hold the 1381 Inspeximus grant in the Plymouth and West Devon Record Office was quite a special feeling.  So much can be learnt from our surroundings.  We just need to know how to look.

Lee Furneaux Books of Tavistock now stocking copies of Inspeximus

Lee Furneaux Books of Tavistock in Devon is now stocking copies of Inspeximus: Poetry from the Manors of The Roborough Hundred.

Inspeximus: Poetry from the Manors of The Roborough Hundred by Ruth Snell

Inspeximus:  Poetry from the Manors of The Roborough Hundred by Ruth Snell.  ISBN: 978-1-78132-302-1. Published by Silverwood Books of Bristol with a release date of 6 October 2014.

... Re-examines an area in south west Devon where the bustling community around Buckland Monachorum was once more heavily populated than any of the Plymouth manors.  Moving from the Anglo-Saxon period to the Norman Conquest and beyond, the unusual genre of weaving poetry from manorial and local history seeks to peer into the past through a searching tangent of the imagination.  Each manor had its own story to tell and was occupied and worked by colourful personalities.

Here in the early 21st century with so much destroyed by either war or development, a stop to pause and look by physically visiting former manorial sites and envisaging how people would have lived, offers a tangible breath of the past.