City to Shire Chapter 1 ~ Perspective

From City Boy to Shire Lad

The Old Windsor Street Days

Chapter 1

Perspective

WßD ~ Part I

Over the past ten years, it has been a privilege to work through my family’s history. My family comprises two branches, the paternal Webb and the maternal Marshall. From these branches have shot forth newer branches. The Webb branch of this much larger tree ends with me.

Part of Windsor Street Days (WßD) comprised six chapters written by my father, Desmond Webb, for his twin granddaughters’ school projects and which I discovered in typescript in a briefcase in his study shortly after he died in early 2012.

The family consented to me transcribing our father’s manuscript and adding photographs and other facts from photograph albums and diaries, including those elusive recollections. That was a moving experience.

My father has a very different, formal writing style to mine, yet as I transcribed it, I could recall his voice.

When I practised law, I learned the skill of accurate audio dictation. As my hands began the long, albeit painless, battle with Dupytrens Contracture, so too, commenced the hands’ argument with the Qwerty keyboard.

Aha! Methinks. The dictaphone doth summons me!

I decided it would be good to get back into audio dictation, which I had always loved when in practise. It started well, until it came to my father’s actual manuscript. Hearing his voice again, with the same inflections was a tad too close, a heart-wrench, so I reverted to the keyboard.

The family story over two hundred years is of no particular note. A sheet written by my father’s cousin traces the maternal family line of Budd. He had found ancestral Budds in the same village of Upper Boddington, Northamptonshire, before the church was built. But Desmond, the church was built before the Norman Conquest which church was registered in the Domesday 1086. My cousin thus deduced that the family had a tentative reach back of some 1,000 years because, his note reports, the church was built before the Norman Conquest of 1066.

For me, the remarkable fact is that my ancestors, the Budd branch, lived in the small village of Boddington right up until 1939. And whilst I can easily deduce that an excursion to, say, the small town of Evesham would have been an annual event, at most, my great grandfather Albert Budd served in the Indian Army as a breaker of horse, and of some repute his daughter used to remind me regularly up until her departure in January 1966.

Those anecdotes coupled with the wonderful photograph of her husband on horseback in 1916 in France during the First World War quietly put in place my own very natural desire to ride.

Skills are passed down by generation from our ancestors! It is for us to decide whether or not we take them up or let them die out.

Pte Horace Albert Webb, France 1916

Skills are passed down by generation from our

ancestors! It is for us to decide whether or not we take

them up or let them die out.

WßD ~ Part II

What is a family tree? Simply, it is a euphemism for the many branches of a family, a record of the history of descendants as they pass into ancestry.

During our lifetime there is often contention. We are angered by differing views and opinions, directions that branches of the tree take which do not follow our perceived normal pattern of growth. We love to watch TV soaps. We love to see families at war, telling ourselves that we are the exception, we are the norm. Then we recall that some parts of our family are not following ‘the norm’. But who established that norm? None of us. Normality is subjective. Normality is rarely objective. Objective normality is the antidote to war.

Yet we hold onto our image of the euphemistic family tree. That one branch, that tiny twig, is wayward, going off in its own direction! This is wrong. Out of step!

Erm!

Yet, when I look at any species of tree, no matter where I am, no matter in which country, I rejoice to see trees and I notice this one thing.

The myriad branches reach up to the sky from its trunk in search of light. Each branch follows its own direct route. Rarely, if ever, do I find the uppermost tips of those branches naturally conjoining. Those tips are each Branch Heads. Each branch head is independent, with its own stem into the root of the main trunk, and I see that the twigs will soon also become branch heads in their own right, also doing exactly the same. Reaching out for space to make their direct path to light, to the warmth of the Sun, to nourishment.

Here, in my euphemism, is reality.

I look at any TV soap and all soaps reflect this outward reach for light, for freedom, for independence, the right to do things “in my own way, our own way.” The trunk is solid. The family is solid. I cannot guarantee that my children will go in the direction that I would prefer. I set my own direction and it is not the direction that my parents would have chosen, or indeed their parents for them.

When I see the fairy-tale tree,
very quickly I see
where that fairy-tale needs to be placed.


And then I can rejoice
in the incredible richness of a tree – yes, a family tree – that moves upward and outward
in all directions.

“Normality is subjective.
Normality is rarely objective.
Objective normality is the antidote to war.”

— K.T.W.

WßD ~ Part III

I end with one piece of advice honed upon the anvil of argument and differing opinion. It is this. I write only from my personal perspective. Outwardly accepted, only time reveals that there might be contention, a different viewpoint ~ a different perspective.

If, for example, five people observe the same event simultaneously, the statements of evidence will be similar in many respects but wildly differ in other respects. There will be no meeting of the minds. No agreement. No consensus.

This wild differential, as I call it, is the devil’s card in your pack.

I lose count of the times I am informed by friends that they are writing their family history. Think carefully. It is not an easy route. From the moment you take the first step on that route, work quietly without a running commentary.

WßD ~ Part IV

In regard to the old Windsor Street Days I had not expected that my last visit to the manuscript would mark that turning of the key in the latch of that manuscript one final time. But it is not accompanied by sadness.

The Ken Webb writing this is not the Ken Webb who wrote its first chapter ten years ago.

In a phrase, I have gone full circle and found myself back in my city, Liverpool, with Liverpool’s outlook, Liverpool’s tolerance, and her acute sense of the importance of freedom and democracy. And this sense is not devoid of Liverpool’s tendency to rebelliousness.

I remember with great affection being reminded of the need to keep a new perspective when I arrived in May 2003. It was this.

“Oh no. Liverpool is not part of England. It is in England, yes. But it is separate from England. If you keep this in mind in your work up here, you won’t go far wrong.”

— A Liverpudlian to the author in May 2003.

That is wise advice, indeed.

ƒrom City Boy to Shire Lad

ƒCS ~ Part I

And so I arrive at this juncture. From City Boy to Shire Lad.

The world I wrote of in Windsor Street Days in the thirty-two chapters with ten additional draft chapters - mere frameworks of intent - give a glimpse of a world and lifestyle that is now so far removed from today, that they seem irrelevant. But they are not. Because I was, and still am, a part of that world as are millions of people.

We have great historians and archivists, writers and poets.

Back in Liverpool around 2011 - a black year, but made even blacker in January 2012 when my father died - an accountant remarked down the landline that my writing was of no account.

I’m sorry Ken, but how do I put this to you without hurting you…? I think you are delusional.

He was having something of an off-day.

After I'd put the phone down, I sat on the sofa in my lounge for a long time. I decided the man was niggled because I was his client giving him a ticking off.

But it was when the man said ‘Do you realise who I am? I could break you!’

That always brings the worst out in me.

I picked up my sword, namely my pen, and sat quietly, wrote a formal letter and then delivered it by hand to his reception five miles from the City that day.

The next day, all was well.

Within the week my tax affairs were sorted without charge and I wrote him a very friendly lawyer’s letter, again in fountain pen, and again hand-delivered, that day to his reception.

It pays to never cross swords with clients.

However, delusion stuck with me. I look at my prose and poetry writing, and I think, erm, that’s good, not bad, etc. Then I open a volume of professionally published writers and poets (not merely self-published, as I am) and think. Erm. No way could I write this. Know my limitations Webbey and just enjoy faffing around! Anything more is delusional.

ƒCS ~ Part II

Over the past ten years, many people in many countries have been popping in and out of Windsor Street Days. This following and interest means everything. Thank you, all.

Right. Now, have I got everything?

Wallet, notebook, iPhone, back door key, outhouse key, front door latch key.

Something’s missing… Ah, thanks.

A million fragmented memories make up the total of who I am and what I am.

Right.

I pause.

Hang on, what does Professor David Adetayo Olusoga OBE call it?

Ah, yes. A House Through Time.

For me, Windsor Street Days has been A House in My Time. My thoughts, my perspectives only.

I am also part of a rich and diverse world community. In some parts of the world we are outlawed. In some parts of hitherto liberal regimes that have been in the vanguard of the LGBTQI+ Worldwide Community there is evidence of back-tracking. Increasingly, a totalitarian state even today, Saturday 23 September 2023, rebukes the United Nations General Assembly with a harangue that is strident, insistent that all of us recognise that a New World Order is already here.

I do not like smelly old men - and women - who wreak of world order, of populism, of fascism, of the need to outlaw communities.

I am who I am - Ich bin war ich bin
I am what I am - Ich bin was ich bin

The End - Das Ende

Now I write afresh as City Boy to Shire Lad

ƒCS ~ Part III

It is now Saturday, 28 October and Part III is that very happy addendum to Chapter 1. My nieces, twins, have sent delightful e-mails. As I write, Caroline and Suzie are having a Hen Night at some secret location organised by Suzie. Both give a very positive comment. A perfect “touching of the rudder”.

I mention the fairy-tale tree, only to discover that there is a real fairy-tale tree at Bembridge on the Isle of Wight.

Suzie writes,

Hi Uncle Ken

Thank you for sending this over, I read it at 4am while Theo was nursing (he’s never been a good sleeper - first slept through the night a month ago and that was a one off!) - anyway, he is teething so most nights I’m up with matchsticks in my eyelids so gave me the chance to have a read (he also doesn’t nap well in the day, so grabbing 20 mins to myself is rare!)

Don’t apologise for many words, I love reading your messages. And it’s nice as I’m all too often spending my days at work trying to limit words in emails etc to keep actions to the point, at Heathrow I was getting 150 emails a day sometimes so sifting what was important /required became a necessity!

The opening chapter is excellent, I love the analogy of our family ‘tree’ and it reminds me of a ‘fairy tree’ at Bembridge Harbour on the Isle of Wight, which is decorated by families each year with trinkets and keepsakes. It stands proud at what was one of our favourite spots to visit on Flying High - pic attached.

I also look forward to teaching Theo many of the skills and learnings from our family that you highlight, including one day (when he’s old enough to understand the history) visiting the memorial in Germany I’m sure. I have put the family tree print out into his record book already, which documents his first year and family etc.

The end phrase ‘I am who I am’ is just perfect.

Have a great weekend. Caroline is currently on route from Newcastle as we’ve her Hen Do (a civilised one!) celebrations.

Sending lots of love xx

Suzie with Theo, Poppy and Jason (on tother side of Lens) at The Fairy Tree at Bembridge Harbour on the Isle of White.

Caroline writes,

Dear Uncle Ken, I’ve just read this through! 

Firstly I never realised the Budds traced back over 1000 years 😳 And, secondly I remember that school project vividly, and with Grandma, like Grandad telling us her story. I’m sure Mum has kept the folders we made with them. 

I’ve never thought of a family tree like that until you said it and now it’s glaringly obvious. The strong family unit but each bringing a new bud and twig - and in two weeks a new bud will grow. 

On the note of ‘being delusional’ - a little delusion never hurt anyone, and brings about innovation and creation :) If I’d not been a little deluded, I wouldn’t have set up my business! 

I’ve just arrived down to Suzie’s - I spent the day driving down south ready to celebrate with my hens tomorrow :) I have no idea what we are doing.. Suzie has kept a very good secret whatever it is! 

I hope you have a lovely weekend

Caroline xxx 

Caroline ~ a new bud and twig - and in two weeks a new bud will grow. 

So, rest assured reader, my nephew and my nieces keep me on track, and have a nack of turning a negative into a positive, especially when Unk is getting negative!’

And what a splendid tree at Bembridge, and what a wonderful thing that it gives to all, a home for trinkets and keepsakes. Now THIS is what family life is all about. And I’ll end this chapter with a glimpse of the portraits that have featured often on the websites, and which I’ve always called Life is Good, Kenneth Webb Senior in 1941, and his younger brother our father and grandfather Desmond Budd Webb around 42 years on also affirming that Life is Good.

Desmond Budd Webb 1983-4

Life is Good

Kenneth Ernest Webb 1941

Life is Good

17 April 2024
All Rights Reserved

LIVERPOOL

© 2023 Kenneth Thomas Webb

Digital Artwork by © 2024 KTW © 2024 IBM unless otherwise credited
Photographs are from the family archive

With La Roche on Aggs Hill 1973 on my way to the Gallops on Cleeve Hill, the sister Gallops to my other delight, the Rides of Worcestershire. © 1973 KTW