Windsor’s famous Crooked House is now the home of Jersey Pearl – and it’s a great place to visit.
ONCE AGAIN WEDNESDAY: FASHIONS FOR 1815
What you’d be Wearing 200 years ago!
zine must have raced to find a suitable dress to commemorate the battle, something in the colors of mourning for the dead, yet expressive of the victorious celebration throughout the nation. Do you think they succeeded?
The description below is particularly amusing, referring to ease of shedding the dress while in the bathing machine (see background drawing) ready to be ‘plunged.’
LISTEN TO THE WATERLOO BUGLE BEING SOUNDED
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Copyright Waterloo 200/Household Cavalry Museum |
It is impossible to imagine the field at the Battle of Waterloo without calling the senses into play. The sights: soldiers clashing swords, horses rearing, men forming squares, columns of smoke from cannon fire. The smells: wet earth, sweat, wet horse and wet leather, cordite and black powder. The sounds: musket fire, swords singing metal on metal, horses neighing, men shouting and, perhaps most identifiable to us in the present day, bugles and trumpets sounding the calls. Amazingly, a few of the instruments that were played on the field of Battle at Waterloo have been preserved and are occasionally still played, like the trumpet above in the collection of the Household Cavalry Museum, which was played by John Edwards on the battlefield.
From the Waterloo200 website:
For more on Martin Lanfried, visit the Lives of the Light Brigade site.
Want more Waterloo? You’ll have the opportunity to walk the key sites connected to the Waterloo Battlefield with guide Ian Fletcher on Number One London’s 1815: London to Waterloo Tour in June, 2017. In addition to the headquarters of both Wellington and Napoleon, we’ll be visiting La Hay Sainte, Quatre Bras, Ligny, Hougoumont, the Lion’s Mound, the newly remodeled Visitor’s Centre and, of course, the Battlefield itself. At every stop, Ian will describe the events that took place there and explain their significance in the Allied victory. This is an opportunity you won’t want to miss.
ONCE AGAIN WEDNESDAY: MUDLARKING ON THE RIVER THAMES
Since there has been so much interest in my recent mudlarking adventures with my pal, author Sue Ellen Welfonder this past September, I thought I’d re-run my very first post on the subject, originally published July 1, 2010:
Many, many (many) years ago, when I first began doing research into London history, I was intrigued to learn about the Mudlarks of London, people from the poorer classes, typically children and the elderly, who scavenged along the banks of the River Thames at low tide looking for anything remotely valuable – clothing, coal, coins, pottery, items that had fallen off of ships and barges, etc etc. – that they could turn around and sell to the rag and bone man in order to earn enough for a meal. Mudlarking was considered to be lowest rung on the scavenger’s ladder, so it was with great surprise, and a lot of pleasure, that I found myself actually mudlarking during my jaunt in London.
Having roamed the streets and gardens of London proper and venturing as far north as Hampstead and as far west as Windsor, my daughter, Brooke, and I turned our attention one day to the area of London south of the River – to Southwark, that once desperate area known for being the den of drunken sailors, thieves, prostitutes, cut throats and the Clink Prison – now a really tacky tourist trap.
As we were walking along the River on the Queen’s Walk, a pedestrian promenade located on the South Bank of the River between Lambeth Bridge and Tower Bridge, we came upon stone steps leading down to the River. The tide was out, exposing what appeared to be a rocky beach of sorts. We made our way down and, uncertain as to whether or not we were actually allowed down there, tentatively began to walk towards the shore.
‘s a photo of the sign above the bridge we were scavenging beneath –
Leaving the sand and returning to the streets of Southwark, Brooke and I came upon a pub called . . . The Mudlark (4 Montague Close, Southwark, London SE1 9DA). I later found out that today there’s a London-based Society of Thames Mudlarks, who are granted a special license by the Port of London to excavate the beach and who must turn over finds of historic importance to the Museum of London, whose holdings include the Cheapside Hoard, an eye-popping collection of 400 pieces of Elizabethan and Jacobean jewelry, dating back to between 1560 and 1630. The hoard was probably buried in the early 17th century and discovered in 1912, by workmen digging in a cellar in the neighborhood of Cheapside. Which is why there are now lots of regulations surrounding mudlarking about which Brooke and I were blissfully unaware.
It seems that journalist Nick Curtis took to the sand by the Thames himself and wrote about his own mudlarking adventure in the London Evening Standard. Here’s a portion of his article:
My day begins with the early morning low tide, in the mud of the foreshore near Custom House on the north bank near the Tower of London. Here, with commuters trudging above, I meet Ian Smith, a leading member of London’s loose community of mudlarks. Ian deals in antiques but he’s been combing the banks of the Thames for fun since the 1970s. When we meet, he’s hip deep in a muddy hole.
Anyone can wander down to the foreshore and pick up objects from the surface, but you need a licence from the Port of London Authority to dig or to sift. “Treasure” is the property of the Crown, although, as Ian says, no one would ever deliberately conceal valuables on a silty tidal foreshore. Plus, things don’t wash up from the river, they wash out from the land. Finds of historic interest are shown to the Port Antiquities Scheme’s finds liaison officer and archaeologist Kate Sumnall and, ideally, donated or sold to the collection of the Museum of London, where she works. Ian once found a hoard of counterfeit George II coins, and has donated several exquisite medieval pewter badges — lucky charms or pilgrims’ tokens — to the museum.
Even at first glance, there is tons of stuff on the shore. Victorian spikes, nails and barrel hoops, huge oyster shells and blackened animal bones and teeth. Once I’ve got my eye in, I also spot hundreds of clay pipe fragments. The smallest are the oldest, and were given away free in the 16th century with a tiny amount of the new and expensive import, tobacco. After just over an hour I’ve also found an ornate key, a stamped lead token, a pewter button and an iron flint striker for kindling fires.
Most of these are probably 17th or 18th century, but fragments of stoneware Bellarmine jars showing a bearded face — supposedly mocking an abstinent cardinal — might be from the 13th century. I’d love to search longer but time, and the Thames tide, wait for no mudlark.
Speaking of tides, Brooke and I stumbled upon the stairs at low tide, but if you want to plan your day around mudlarking, here’s a link to the Thames Tides Table.
THE BRIGHTON PAVILION – CAREME'S KITCHEN
The Great Kitchen at the Pavilion was built especially for the Prince’s chefs who kept him and his minions well fed and produced brilliant banquets for his royal guests.
The Prince Regent was obsessed with all things French: architecture, décor, furniture, china, fashion, and “above all” French food. Once Great Britain had driven out Napoleon, the Prince Regent had to have a French Chef to prepare his meals and banquets in London at Carlton House and at his Brighton home, the Royal Pavilion. He sent his household Clerk Controller to Paris to find a chef. Even the Prince was surprised when the celebrated Antonin Carême agreed to come, probably for the offer of a very high salary. Carême had prepared elaborate meals for the notables of Napoleonic France, particularly the diplomat Talleyrand and the Emperor himself – Carême was the first “celebrity chef.”

Distinguished British writer and actor Ian Kelly is the author of Carême’s biography. You can read more about Ian and his books here. A chapter is devoted to Carême’s brief but notable career in England. He arrived in July 1816, having left his wife and child in Paris. Carême certainly impressed the Prince’s guests with his dishes, particularly with his elaborate, even ostentatious, confections, up to four feet tall.
Before Carême arrived, the Prince was already grossly overweight. Supposedly the Prince said that the temptations of his new chef’s cooking would be the death of him. Carême replied, “Your highness, my concern is to tempt your appetite; yours is to curb it.” Touché!
Kelly had access to the records in the Royal Archive which include bills and notes from Careme’s time. When he arrived from France, Carême altered the usual method of disposing of the extra food not eaten at the royal table. Previously, the staff could sell leftovers, plus such things as candles, and share the profits. Carême kept for himself the right to dispose of items from the kitchens. Thus he was quite unpopular with the staff. Kelly tells some wonderful stories about the conflicts. In late 1817, Carême returned to France.
The kitchen as it appears today is only a part of the many rooms that were once used as bakeries, for supplies, preparation, sculleries, and so forth. Kelly found records showing in 1817, in one month, the kitchens took supply of 428 bunches of radishes, 153 Savoy Cabbages, 7 dozen Cos lettuces, and spent over £250 on 1,854 pounds of beef and similar amounts of mutton and veal.
For a 360-degree view of the kitchen, click here.
The Great Kitchen was built as part of the remodeling of the Marine Pavilion by architect John Nash. Intended to be a model of innovation, the kitchen had running water, steam heating and special ventilation through the high windows. The oriental theme used in varied versions throughout the palace is also found in the kitchen. Tall pillars supporting the ceiling are adorned with copper palm fronds.
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