Help at hand

Sarah drove in on Christmas Eve, the car full of good things, but itself in a bad way. Today, Matt, the AA man, came and towed it home to her local garage in Hampshire.

Reader's digest

Our eldest grandchild has his solitary moments, letting the other two play together. He's a great reader, thank goodness. Sarah gave him this one.

Over presented?

Thomas, back from Lisbon for a week, has climbed the step ladder to put the star on top of the Christmas tree, which Caroline fetched from Winstone on Thursday last.

We shall be eleven for dinner tomorrow. Nevertheless, when you look at the number of presents already under the tree, you might think we were expecting twice that number. I seem to say this every year. Decades ago, Sarah invited a Polish teacher, Barbara to spend Christmas with us at our family home, the Coach House, Arrow. Upon being asked to sum up her impressions of the day, she volunteered: "I think you are over presented."

Trebetherick

We are in Cornwall for four nights. The journey seemed easier for a lunch detour: we left the M5 at Taunton, heading roughly South to Cricket St Thomas. Kilima Farm, though not on top of a mountain, is well situated overlooking Crinkley Bottom: my Goddaughter and family are now in residence with her mum, who looked after us hospitably. Then on to Honiton Station, to collect Sarah, arms strapped following her fall on the tennis court, from her train, and two hours later we were here.

The large white holiday house, which members of our friend Caroline's family have been coming to for 60 or so years, was built with servants in mind: it's a long walk round from dining-room to kitchen when you've forgotten to put something by the hatch. The house name, Beniguet, means "blessed" in Cornish, no doubt because of its position. Now it's dark, there's just one light over the other side of the Camel river - reminding us of  looking out from Agios Stephanos in Corfu towards a dark Albania opposite. In daylight, we can see, as well as the Estuary, Brae Hill, Padstow, Hawker's Cove and Stepper Point: as fine and wide a view as one could wish for, especially when there's a sunset like tonight's.

Before then, Caroline's immediate family, down for a long weekend, had driven off back to Hampshire, the youngest at 12 months old already shows signs of having inherited her grandfather's right-wing views.

Winterreise

Sarah kindly gave me an iPod Shuffle lookalike for Christmas. I took it with me on the bus today, and listened to Die Winterreise: I have the Werner Güra/Christoph Berner recording on CD, the first music I've transferred to my new gizmo. Descending (from the bus) at the Cockleford turn on a dull day, I crossed the swollen River Churn at the start of a mini-Winter's journey through the flooded woodlands en route towards Cowley.

Mindful of "O unbarmherz'ge Schenke, doch weisest du mich ab?" I had booked a table for lunch at the Green Dragon.

Bryter Layter

This morning started cold, dark and foggy, but the sun emerged in time for me to walk down to the shops (and so warm up).

The other bright spot is our kitchen, its ceiling newly-fitted out with LED bulbs. They make a big difference.

Nick Drake - "Bryter Layter" was his second album - was the son of friends of my parents: at one of his first schools he and Sarah were contemporaries. The web is alive with old photographs many of which I find I recognise.

Swindon, hub of the universe

Thomas was over from Lisbon, Agnes and Ida have now immigrated (from Wales), Sarah has been in Scotland, William and Laurie in France, and Edmund all the way across to the Isle of Wight - oh, and we are just off to Italy. So where more natural for us to meet for a family reunion than downtown Swindon?

"The Sense of an Ending"

Julian Barnes' Booker Prize-winning novella was on my Christmas list, as it's the current read for our book group. My sister Sarah kindly came up with it, and I've now read it (in what is - for me - record time).

It's a sad story, but intriguing, unfolding as it does right up to the penultimate page. Barnes is at his best writing about recollection of the past. "My memory," his narrator sighs at one point, "has increasingly become a mechanism which reiterates apparently truthful data with little variation." My feelings precisely.

OAE at NSF

Last October, I photographed Zoe Shevlin, bassoonist, playing at Tetbury with the Academy of Ancient Music. Last night, she popped up in an enlarged Orchestra of the Age of Enlightenment for the final concert in this year's Newbury Spring Festival. We were invited by Sarah as a joint birthday present.

On paper, the programme looked unchallenging, symphonies by Mozart and Schubert and Beethoven's 4th Piano Concerto with Artur Pizarro; but in the way Paul Daniel and the OAE tackled it, fresh sounds seemed to spring out all the time. In particular, the slow movement of the concerto came across as more sublime than ever.

It is always a pleasure to be allowed to join in such a friendly festival as Newbury's, church pews notwithstanding. The cavernous St Nicholas' in Newbury was of course packed. Sun streamed in through Hardman glass ("not good" in Pevsner's judgment), and there was still light in the sky as we drove homewards later along the M4.

Two: much joy

After a hectic weekend (we spent time with friends in Quenington, Coleshill, Greenwich, Hackney and Oxford), finally we reached Hampshire in time for Laurie's 2nd birthday celebrations this afternoon. Claire prepared a delicious tea (with Great-Aunt Sarah's birthday cake to top it all) for a grand family and Godparental gathering, even though it was a mere six days since they'd moved into their new home.

A rare group

Not often do all the Davises get together, but - with one exception - Saturday last was just such an occasion, for Sarah's 60th birthday lunch. She gave us all a lovely party, with the help of friends who live down her road, who offered their garden for the afternoon. The sun shone, and Edmund made a speech - short and to the point. We saw people - non-family - we hadn't met for ages, and all ate and drank probably rather too much of Sarah's delicious food and wine: a perfect way to celebrate.

The absentee was the most recent Davis, namely Mini, who was looking after her parents, uncle and aunt, over here for a fortnight from Osaka.

Be and queue

My sister Sarah is staying with us for the Literature Festival: she is keen to see as many events as possible, whereas we (old hands) are feeling rather semi-detached about the whole shebang, as I foretold when the brochure first came out. (The local paper published that ill-humoured blogpost in the form of a letter to the editor, attracting some supportive comment; but will they listen?)

Long queues snake round the tented village in Imperial Gardens, for the events themselves - often three or four starting simultaneously - and also for book signings. I wonder how many of the books bought in the vast Waterstones' tent will be read.

Why are people so restless in a queue? On Friday evening I was manning the stall which the Friends of the Festival put up each year inside the Town Hall, to help raise funds towards sponsorship of future Festival events. For this cause, a wide range of cards is on display - including a basket of my own photogaphic cards - but not many people were in the least interested: either the place was deserted (during the events) or punters were stationary in a distracted queue which waited for the doors to open, and completely ignored my presence alongside it. Perhaps the atmosphere will be different when I am on the stall for another stint this evening.

The Bull

This oil painting by an unknown artist hangs in my sister Sarah Davis’s house, in Kingsclere, Hampshire: Caroline, Agnes, Ida and I had lunch with her in the garden there on a warm and sunny Friday: we took The Bull outside too, to be photographed - not easy, because the oil paint is shiny.

The painting was restored by Pippa Jeffries in 2004, at which time its handsome gilt frame was mended also. On the front of the picture are the words 1st prize 15L [fifteen pounds sterling] & silver medal to the breeder, Birmingham 1865. On the back is written P. Davis, Bickmarsh.

Little is known about the Davis family’s origins. Peter was born in 1812 at Dean Park, just outside Burford in the very South of Shropshire - just North of Tenbury Wells, which is in Worcestershire. He was the son of a farmer, Samuel Davis, and of his wife Elizabeth née Reynolds. The 1851 census records the village of his birth, but the Burford Parish registers do not list his baptism.

Peter had two elder brothers: William (born 1805) carried on farming at Dean Park on his father's death, as did his son (another Peter) after him – until he lost his money, having invested it in South American silver mining shares. Our Buckinghamshire cousin Mike Davis is that Peter's grandson.

The second brother, Samuel, baptized at Burford on 2nd January 1910, went up to Cambridge University. Following ordination, he lived most of his life in Devon, as Vicar of Burrington. He was said to be of simple, sweet disposition and fine presence, much revered in the neighbourhood. He married three times having met all his wives on the same day (the second being the sister of the author of Lorna Doone, R.D. Blackmore).

The brothers had two sisters, Carolina, who died young, and Eliza, who married twice: she had four children, but I have no knowledge of any living descendants.

On 8th June 1835, Peter set out on a journey from his home, “Park” - to Edinburgh. The round trip lasted till 22nd June. I have a copy of his diary of this journey, transcribed by his granddaughter Edith Howard Freer in 1898. [Later: now published!]

At the time of his father's death in 1837, Peter was living at Burford Rectory. By 7th June 1841, the date of that year's Census, he had moved to The Lodge, Broncroft Farm, Diddlebury, where he was head of the household, aged 29, a farmer, and living with his sister Eliza (then Mrs Trumper - but widowed), two female servants and two agricultural labourers.

In 1842, Peter, or possibly someone else in his family, won the Tredegar prize for the best two-year-old Hereford heifer. The prize, in the form of a silver cup, was passed down to my father, and is now in Sarah's ownership along with The Bull portrait.

On 30th January 1845, Peter (then 34) was married by licence to a girl from a well-established local family, 14 years his junior. Jane Jeffries' and Peter's wedding took place at Pembridge Church, Herefordshire, Peter being described as a Gentleman, a bachelor living at Milton in Pembridge parish. It is strange that all the witnesses to the marriage seem to be from the bride’s extended family. Milton was a farm of about 600 acres, Peter Davis being the tenant.

On 21st November 1845, Jane gave birth to the first of her ten children, a son John Jeffries Davis. 21 months later, a daughter, Gertrude Louisa was born. Laura Jane Meredith Davis (Meredith was Jane Davis’s mother’s maiden name) was born on 15th March 1850. After this, the family moved from Milton Farm, as in the 1851 census they are shown as living at Bromfield, in South Shropshire, near the Herefordshire border. In Bagshaw’s 1851 Directory of Shropshire, Peter's address is King’s Head Farm, which is on the West of the village.

In 1852, my great-grandfather Arthur Henry was born in Bromfield: in 1855, Agnes (known as Lil) arrived, and then Georgina Reynolds ("Reynolds" after her paternal grandmother), known as Ina, was born in 1857. Eliza Augusta was born in 1858, and Constance Alathea (Alathea being a name found amongst members of the Cheese family, from which the Jeffries were descended) on 25th March 1860.

At Michaelmas 1860, Peter took over as tenant of the Bickmarsh Hall estate, Warwickshire, some 45 miles South-East of Bromfield. Why he went so far out of his country is a mystery: perhaps he couldn't find a big enough farm to suit his ambitions anywhere nearer to home. In the 1861 census, he is said to be a farmer of 1,270 acres at Bickmarsh, employing 29 men and five boys. Also living with the family were a house servant and a shepherd.

Another daughter, Flora May ("Floo") was born on 5th May 1862, and baptized with her elder sister Constance Alathea at Bickmarsh on 13th January 1863. Floo and her husband took off for Australia after their marriage - as did a descendant of Constance Alathea, but not till the 1950s: between them we know of nearly 200 altogether, about ten times those of my great-grandfather. (The only other descendants of Peter we know of are via John Jeffries Davis - nearing 100, including Bruce Coates from New Brunswick, and his family.)

There was an annual cattle show at Bingley Hall, Birmingham, very near to where Symphony Hall now stands. The catalogue for the 1865 exhibition (2nd – 7th December) confirms that Peter Davis of Bickmarsh was the winning breeder in the Fat Cattle class for Hereford Oxen or Steers exceeding three years and three months old. The Bull was then three years and eleven months, and had been fed on hay, grass, barley and bean meal, oil cakes, swedes and mangolds.

A William Aldworth, of Frilford, Abingdon, had exhibited The Bull, so the catalogue said. From the 1861/71 Censuses, it appears Mr Aldworth was born about 1809, and owned and farmed 550 acres at Frilford – with a staff of 47! The church in the background of the picture is the parish church of Abingdon. Round Hill (121 metres), one of the Wittenham Clumps, is in the background.

Alice Marian Davis, the youngest child born to Jane, arrived on 8th March 1866, and was baptized at Bickmarsh on 8th April that year.

Peter Davis died at Bickmarsh on 3rd October 1873, aged 62, and was buried in nearby Dorsington churchyard. The local paper described him as One of the leading agriculturalists in this district. His imposing gravestone (highly polished red granite) is engraved: This tomb was erected by many friends as a memorial of their esteem and affection. Peter left no will: the grant of letters of administration says that his effects were worth "under £8,000". When his wife Jane eventually died on 18th June 1891, she was buried in the same grave, and a further inscription was added.

So there we are.