What About Ronald?

Horses have been our companions through the centuries. We’ve used their services for work, pleasure, ceremonial, sporting and military purposes. Some achieve almost mythical fame, for many and various reasons, due to their association with a particular event or circumstance. Some are fictional like Anna Sewell’s Black Beauty, or Toy Story’s Bullseye. Then there’s Silver, real, yet enhancing the reputation of the fictional Lone Ranger, or Trigger who accompanied the clean-cut ever-singing cowboy character Roy Rogers. Pegasus sprouted wings, Champion was a streak of lightnin’ flashin’ ‘cross the sky and Red Rum won the National. Then there are the forgotten ‘hero’s’. For example, very few people remember the name of Tonto’s horse Scout and what about Ronald? Yes: Ronald. Born and raised on a country estate at Deene, near Corby, Ronald, chestnut in colour with white socks and standing 15.2 hands-high, along with his master, were destined for great things. Here was a horse known to millions throughout modern history as the dashing steed that entered the gates of hell and returned carrying his master back to safety. Ronald, along with Lieutenant General James Thomas Brudenell, the 7th Earl of Cardigan, led the ill-feted attack during the Balaclava campaign that swiftly entered legend as the Charge of the Light Brigade. Lord Cardigan, having received his orders, had warned his superior officer in the field of battle that to charge into the valley would put his entire brigade at great risk. “Certainly, sir” He’d said, then added “but allow me to point out to you that the Russians have a battery in the valley to our front, and batteries and riflemen on each flank”. He was told that there was no choice and that the action was necessary. The Earl turned Ronald to take up their position on the front line. The charge began at a trot as the brigade of 673 men and horses moved to the enemy line. The light brigade was soon being bombarded from three sides as the Earl had predicted. The Russians let loose on the cavalry. One shot narrowly missed Ronald which spurred Cardigan to lead a full charge through the Russian troops after which the Earl and Ronald turned and led what was left of the brigade back along the valley to safety. Following the charge only 195 men and horses survived, including Cardigan and Ronald. When finally the pair returned to Deene Park they found that their exploits in the Crimea had made them both hero’s of the people, greeted by cheering crowds who would reach out to try and pull little pieces of Ronald’s hair as a memento. When the Earl finally died it was Ronald who followed the funeral cortege, outliving his master for a further four years. When Ronald finally passed away, the Brudenell family preserved his head and tail, to be kept and displayed at his Northamptonshire home. What a shame that Alfred, Lord Tennyson didn’t think to mention the true unwitting hero’s of Balaclava: the horses like Ronald.

An envelope signed 'Brudenell' Monday 24th October 1831. Commander of the Light Brigade ofthe British Army during the Crimean War and member of Parliament for Fowey 1830–1832. 'Fowey' is written on the reverse.

Ronald, the Charger of Lord Cardigan - A Circlet of Tail Hair, fixed with bands of silver wire bordering a silver plated roundel engraved "Part of the tail of `Ronald' Lord Cardigan's Charger which jumped the Russian Guns at Balaclava October 25th 1854", all set into a walnut plaque with leaf carved ebony border, displayed in a glazed frame, 46cm by 38cm overall.

…But When You Talk About Destruction

Don’t you know that you can count me out!!!

The last ten days have been memorable for several reasons. England officially became the best in the world after beating India at cricket. A new football season kicked off with the eyes of the world once again focussed on, what I believe to be, the best set of leagues in the world. The countdown began to the start of the 2012 Olympic Games with the London organisers getting fine praise for their work in putting together what promises to be an event of immense proportions, easily equalling those of Beijing, Athens or Sydney. All of this, on top of one of the finest few summer months of warm sunny weather in a very long time. Yet when we look back at the week beginning Saturday 6th August 2011, it will be for entirely different, disturbing, frightening conflicting and controversial reasons. The previous Thursday Mark Duggan had been killed by a firearms officer. Then on the Saturday night about 50 relatives and friends protested outside the Tottenham police station. This was genuine, non-violent democratic protest; something afforded to us all in a free society. Then the situation was hijacked by an unconnected mob. Journalists around the world have been struggling to find the right words to describe the orgy of wanton destruction that then followed on a massive scale. Homes were literally destroyed; businesses burned to the ground, indeed, one building in particular, the Reeves store that had survived the terror of London blitz, was burned to the ground. What the Nazi’s couldn’t achieve in a time of terrifying war a mob of rioting criminals in the so called ‘modern’ world could. I like millions of others watched the images on our screens filled with a gamut of emotions ranging from the extremes of anger to the deepest of the deep of despair. City after city, town after town, it seemed as if the proverbial lunatics really had taken over the asylum. Our emasculated police force became virtual onlookers in the early part of the week having been stripped of their right-to-respect by consecutive governments over the past thirty years. I genuinely tried to find reasons for what was happening. There wasn’t one. This was purely a domino-effect roller coaster of vandalism, arson, looting and even murder, the likes of which we’d never seen. What I don’t understand is the view of some that tell me that it was the culmination of frustration made manifest by an ‘underclass’ who find themselves in a rut of poverty, unemployment and deprivation. Some of those charged after the event included a millionaire’s daughter, a teaching assistant and a lifeguard which simply compounds the view of most law abiding citizens that this was nothing more than opportunist criminality which only served to highlight the ineffectual clout of the authorities to lay claim to the streets of our country. So what are the solutions? Anti-social behaviour orders? Community service? Tagging? Fines? Well, suddenly I find all of the above somewhat laughable, ineffectual and grossly left wanting.

Abbey Road Re-visited

30th October 1971 & 13th August 2011

See original publication at http://kenwoodlennon.blogspot.com/2011/08/abbey-road-or-is-it.html#comments

To Share or Not To Share?

This week I found myself somewhat compromised: in a quandary. A colleague had unilaterally decided that I should be privy to some rather personal information, the details of which could have serious implications and consequences within a working environment. On the one hand I was somewhat flattered that this person should share this personal news with me yet on the other I was genuinely vexed as to motive. That sounds cold, I know, but over the years I’ve learned never to be an eager or willing conduit for other people’s bad or distressing news. This can often exacerbate a situation, even back-firing or turning into the proverbial Chinese whispers. Put simply, I dislike sharing other people’s secrets. Ironically, that being said, I’ve spent the best part of my life keeping secrets, all kinds of secrets, concerning the private lives of some very famous or not so famous people, some of which would make ones hair curl yet are destined to go with me to the grave. Plainly put, I can’t afford to be a ‘gossip’. I even know things about people for whom I don’t particularly care, but that in itself would be no reason for breaking a confidence. This particular person was rambling in their outpouring text: ‘I have to tell someone and I thought of you’. After a great deal of contemplation it seemed I was in the unique position of putting things right albeit risky. Without telling my distressed colleague I approached a higher authority with a determination to have this matter resolved in a calm, adult and professional manner. My colleague was convinced that this couldn’t be done hence their lack of direct action. There was a fear that to challenge authority within the working environment may aggravate matters further, yet it was my belief that this whole matter could be satisfactorily resolved given a bit of light intervention by me. I took a deep breath and went straight to the top: a visit to the lair of the ‘Grande Fromage’. As is so often the case in such matters it transpired that it wasn’t the first time that such a concern had been raised in the office by others. I was assured that if my colleague were to broach the matter directly that they would have a more than sympathetic ear. ‘Brilliant’ I thought as I left the lofty heights of the ‘untouchables’. I was then troubled by the thought of having to tell my colleague that not only had I broken their confidence but that I’d broken it in the most spectacular way at the highest level. I sent an email to this effect. Then waited. I’d waited for what seemed like an eternity when the reply arrived. One could almost taste the relief pouring from the computer screen as they thanked me for my intervention. I can’t, of course, recommend such action for every situation, indeed it’s not something that happens every day, but in this instance my instinct was just about right.

Like A Circle in a Spiral

From the time we’re born we begin to remember and download information at an astounding rate. From that day to this the uman memory is remarkably better than any computer hard-drive with millions of tiny connections, inter connections, sections, sub-sections, even chunks of data we’d rather remain hidden although, like most computers, even when we try to erase these they remain hidden somewhere on the hard drive. Yet there are some memories that even when retrieved from a dusty old file at the back of floor 62 level 9 in building 87 of our sub conscious can not be shared, forwarded or blind copied to anyone. You see, these are the memories that one had shared with people that are no longer with us which makes their relevance immensely private yet at the same time overpoweringly frustrating. Moments in time shared with another person: a discussion, a view, a situation, a journey, the list is endless and yet cannot be shared with a single other living soul purely because they ‘just weren’t there’. My first day at school was sometime during September 1960. My only recollection as a five year old from that morning was walking hand in hand with my mum past the hall of Rockingham Road Church of England primary school in Corby between it and the fence which formed the boundary between the school and the main road. I’ve often wondered if my mum and dad had any great expectations from me, their fourth child. I’ll never know. It was an ordinary school for ordinary people. There were no moving staircases, grand halls with ghosts of John Cleese or dragons, though we did have the odd Draco Malfoy or two. My eldest brother was already eighteen years old and had predictably consigned his life to the steelworks gates. From the time that I was born he and I were forever destined to know truly nothing of each others far removed generations or attitudes to life. If I had that one illusive thing called a regret in life it would be that we never chose, either of us, to be as close as we could, or should have been. This is one of the reasons that I quickly discovered the importance of having close friends in the school environment, one in particular that would last for the next thirty years. Yet this presents itself with its own problem. The loss of shared memory in the event of separation or tragedy. In our case it was sadly the latter that intervened when Roy passed away in the early 90’s. Those thirty years represented some of the finest, childish, happiest, silliest, random and thought provoking days of my life, yet without the input from the others memory to share or even reminisce verbally, those thoughts have to stay truly locked away, re emerging from time to time as a mere unchallenged, unspoken recollection.

Richard Oliff & Roy Garlick

There was one occasion for example, when Roy came with me to visit an Aunt of mine who at that time was living in Crawford Grove, Corby. Auntie Joan would indulge the young folk in the family when perhaps others might consider their antics to be too childish to care. “So, where do you live?” she asked Roy. “Woodlands Avenue Mrs. Nimmo” said Roy. “Though my parents originally came from Kettering”. “What’s your sir name again?” “Garlick” he replied. “Garlick? What a coincidence” she said, looking at me. “That was my name before I married your uncle Jack”. I had never known Auntie Joan’s maiden name before: It had just never occurred to me to ask. It then transpired that Roy’s Dad Johnny and my Auntie Joan were distantly related through marriage via his Grand Father. There was a brief silence as the three of us realised that in a quirky twist of fate my best friend and I were consequently, albeit very distantly, related. The silence was broken by three people laughing until they cried. I can still hear those laughs today, but only as an echo my mind.