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The Guardian
3 days ago
- General
- The Guardian
‘It's thrilling': almost three centuries of the Belfast News Letter go online
There was a packed news agenda on 3 October 1738. The father of the notorious highwayman Dick Turpin had been arrested after being found with a stolen horse. Cannon fire rang out in St Petersburg to mark a Russian victory over the Ottoman Empire. In America, four families had been killed in Virginia in clashes with Native Americans. Meanwhile, a horse fell in the Thames at Westminster, nearly causing a drowning. Welcome to the pages of the Belfast News Letter, where updates on the French Revolution run alongside adverts for brandy and the American Declaration of Independence was reported as a contemporary event. The 3 October copy has a special place in newspaper history – it stakes a claim as the oldest surviving edition of the world's longest continuously published English language daily newspaper. In fact, the paper is so old that it predates the UK's switch to the Gregorian calendar. The edition would have been published on 14 October according to modern dating. For the first time, the News Letter's coverage of the most momentous events of the past three centuries can now be accessed free by anyone with a library pass or an online subscription, after the completion of a project to digitise its surviving editions. Everything from the Crimean war to the Troubles in Northern Ireland are covered, thanks to the joint project between the Northern Ireland Office, the British Library and online platform, Findmypast. While the earliest editions are austere in appearance, Ben Lowry, the Belfast News Letter's current editor, said they had many of the ingredients of the modern-day newspaper. 'They look so severe that they're like a reminder of an almost ancient age of poverty and hangings,' he said. 'But actually, you see the genesis of newspapers in them. They're full of fun. They have gossip. They have salacious stories.' The first edition was probably published in 1737, some 60 years before the Act of Union and 175 years before the sinking of the Titanic, a major news event for a paper published in the city where the doomed liner was built. The American Declaration of Independence, reproduced in its 27 August 1776 edition, featured alongside adverts for books, an appeal for a lost watch and a reward for finding a stolen horse – one guinea for finding it, or three for delivering the horse and thief. Adverts were the only items featuring illustrations at the time. Theft was denoted by woodcut prints of the devil. It was once thought that its publication of the declaration was a Europe-wide scoop. The editor sneaked a peek at the document as it travelled to London via Northern Ireland – or so the story goes. Like other journalistic stories of triumph, it appears the tale may have grown in the telling. In truth, two London papers, the St James Chronicle and the General Evening Post, had already printed the historic text a week earlier. While the paper was dominated by world events, even the oldest editions have examples of unusual yarns too good to leave out. The 20 April 1739 edition carried a lengthy piece about a marriage near Dunluce, County Antrim, at which the bride was so drunk she demanded to go to bed the moment the ceremony had been completed, only to fall and break her nose. She was later spotted in bed with a man who was not the groom. The oldest surviving edition recounts the dramatic tale of an Italian woman who stabbed and killed a man who had been harassing her for 18 months. The earliest copies ran across just two pages and were largely made up of letters from around the world, or material relayed from other sources. 'There was a lot more censorship during this early period,' said Beth Gaskell, lead curator of news and moving image at the British Library. 'There's a bigger focus on international news and a lot of verbatim reporting of events. There's less opinion because it was dangerous. But that doesn't mean that you don't get these kinds of really interesting stories.' From 1789, the paper was dominated by the French Revolution, but the news could be a little on the slow side. In the days that followed the storming of the Bastille, an edition stated: 'The French mails, which arrived this morning, brought little of consequence.' However, accounts of the tumultuous events in Paris appeared later that month, including how 'armed burghers paraded the city, attended by drums, beating to arms', before giving accounts of the storming itself. It described the Bastille's governor 'holding out a white flag and opening one of the gates' before a party entered and were fired upon. It states the governor was later beheaded. On Thursday 11 April 1912, the paper ran an enthusiastic if lowkey piece on the Titanic's maiden voyage. 'The departure yesterday from Southampton of the newest ocean giant, the Titanic, of the White Star Line, was an event that marks the last note of progress in modern shipbuilding,' it stated. 'A large concourse of people had gathered to speed the vessel on her maiden voyage and she made an impressive picture as she quietly glided in brilliant sunshine.' Just five days later, it ran what looked like a modern-day headline, albeit on page seven. 'The Titanic sunk. Collision with iceberg,' it declared. '1,500 lives lost.' In a sign of the printing timeframes, the front page of the same edition ran an advert for White Star Line and its 'triple screw' steamers, including the Titanic. The Belfast News Letter was founded by Francis Joy, a lawyer and notary. His death was recorded in the paper in 1790, but he had the misfortune to die just as the paper carried a lengthy obituary of Benjamin Franklin, one of America's founding fathers. Joy's passing was given a single sentence. Lowry said he had not 'given up hope' that more of the oldest editions would be located, but said the new digital archive would open up the existing back catalogue to anyone wanting a glimpse into the past over their morning coffee. 'It is thrilling,' he said. 'It's very important history, but above all, it's very readable and enjoyable history.'
Daily Mirror
17-05-2025
- Daily Mirror
Residents in 'lovely' village giggle at name that's been ridiculed for decades
Despite its unfortunate name, residents in Pratt's Bottom, near the Kent border, say it's a 'lovely' place to live - and it even has a link to infamous highwayman Dick Turpin Locals have always had a good chuckle over the name of their village, Pratt's Bottom, a spot that carries on amusing even after years of residence. Settled near Kent's border and just to the south of Chelsfield within the Bromley borough, this village's peculiar name certainly hasn't gone unnoticed. James Horgan, a 64-year-old business owner from the area, has been running his kitchen servicing venture for over 40 years. Having moved his business from Farnborough to Pratt's Bottom two decades ago, he recognises that the village often pops up in lists featuring Britain's most hilarious place names, rubbing shoulders with the likes Badgers Mount and Locksbottom. Delving into the local history, Mr Horgan shared: "The name is derived from a farmer called Pratts, who was the original farmer that owned the land, and this is Pratts Farm bottom, because we're at the bottom of the hill." He affirmed that for those who live there it's just part of daily life saying: "Local people just accept it." Sharing a common experience, he said: "It always raises a laugh when they ask for your address. When you give it and spell it out you notice some people can't quite get to grips with it." Christen Lock, 55, residing at Pratt's Bottom for 20 years now, also reminisced about her lifelong connection with Bromley borough. She mentioned that most locals would probably trace back some connection to the Pratts family if they examined their property deeds. Ms Lock mused on local legends, saying: "People say Dick Turpin used Pratt's Bottom pub as his haunt. Pear Tree Cottage used to have some tunnel from the pub to the cottage and he used to escape there." She added: "It's a lovely area. Everyone in the village is so friendly and people look out for each other. It's really nice, you often see children outside playing on their bikes." Ms Lock also shared that she still finds humour in the name of the area, noting its frequent mentions in television and radio media, reports Kent Live. Tony Lavelle, a resident of Pratt's Bottom for over 20 years, delved into the history of his home, tracing it back to its farmhouse beginnings in the late 15th century. He said: "Pratt's Bottom was part of Chelsfield until the 1960s. "Then as Green Street Green developed for housing, that was combined with Pratt's Bottom to form a different parish." He continued: "In the late 15th century, a lot of farmhouses were built as the region was becoming more prosperous. After the Black Death, the population started to grow again. This would probably have been the only house in the valley." Mr Lavelle, who has researched and written about the area's history, recalled how radio legend Terry Wogan would often joke about Pratt's Bottom and mentioned past efforts to change the village's name. He said: "There was a property developer in the early 1900s called George Osgood and he actually used to own the post office around the corner. There are various roads named after him as well. "As a property developer, he didn't like the name Pratt's Bottom. He thought it would put people off, it was too down market. So he called it Chelsfield Valley, he tried to change the name in an effort to improve the area."
The Guardian
17-04-2025
- The Guardian
A walk with Romans and ghosts on the Great North Road
After a while it is clear that someone, or something, is following us. A figure, some distance back. But here's the thing: it doesn't appear to draw any closer, or get further away. It seems to remain, matching our pace, just at the edge of vision – at the edge of the dusk now descending over the grand Lincolnshire parkland surrounding Burghley House. When we stop, the figure vanishes. When we set off again, it returns. A shrouded shape; a shadow stalking our steps. Perhaps it shouldn't be a surprise. The old Roman highway we've been intermittently tracing from Water Newton to Stamford is a nine-mile track layered with history. Now overgrown and concealed, it was once a bustling leg of a great north-south thoroughfare that has run, in some form or another, like a backbone through the body of Britain for at least 2,000 years. A unique assemblage of ancient trackway, Roman road, medieval path, pilgrim route, coach road and motorway. Today, hereabouts, its modern incarnation – the A1 – loops west, leaving, as it does in many places, forgotten, discontinued ghost highways to their own devices. My fascination with the road connecting London and Edinburgh was sparked years ago. Joining an archaeological dig beside the A1 in North Yorkshire, I found myself unearthing the body of a man laid alongside an antecedent of the highway, perhaps 18 centuries earlier. Kneeling by that grave, a stretch of Roman road newly exposed to one side, the torrent-rush of the motorway to the other, the footings of future overbridges being hammered into the ground behind, I'd felt sharply aware of time – of past, present and future all meeting in that moment. The feeling stayed with me. Obsessive investigations over the months that followed coincided with the discovery of photographs hinting at my family's own connections to this highway, and I started to see it as far more than just a road. Rather, a timeline through this land; a repository of collective memory. I wondered what else was out there and began exploring its 400 miles whenever I could, walking and re-walking its howling carriageways and tangles of tributaries, up and down the country. Ten years of research culminated in my new book: The North Road. Blending non-fiction, memoir and short-story, it is part road movie, part novel; part history and part personal journey that braids a universal story of people and place through time. So the leg to Stamford is a revisiting on my part. The idea of a friend and writer who lives nearby and wants to feel something of the aura of the road himself. We meet outside the Bell Inn in Stilton, on a museum-piece high street, bypassed now by the A1 and a world away from its previous life as a stop on the old highway. In the 1830s, 42 coaches and mails surged down Stilton's high street every 24 hours. Their destinations persist, tattooed into the stone of the inn's arch – as do the ubiquitous (and inevitably false) coaching inn rumours of Dick Turpin escapades. Inside, menus skew towards the Bell's most renowned export: stilton. Made miles from here in Leicestershire, the cheese became a hit in the Bell's dining room. Soon it was being sold from Stilton to every passing coach. The name stuck. Lunchtime rarebits devoured, we drive up the A1 to Water Newton, six miles north. Its only thoroughfare ('Old North Road') like a fibre worked loose from the thick rope of dual carriageway veering west to avoid the River Nene. Another preserved village emerges: drowsy stone houses, dewy lawns, willows. Rooks cawing. A snapshot England cut from a vintage motoring annual. It takes imagination to picture the huge Roman walled town and transport hub, Durobrivae, that once existed three fields to the east. The travellers, livestock, wagons, soldiers; the stink, smoke and fire; the warehouses, potteries, kilns and villas. And running through it, that wide Roman road north that came to be christened Ermine Street. To join Ermine Street, we cross the glaze-green River Nene near the Norman church of St Remigius where a slab to a native son, Edward Edwards, reveals him to be the captain of HMS Pandora – the ill-fated frigate tasked with hunting down the mutineers from the Bounty in 1790. From here, the Hereward Way footpath tracking the Nene is the best route, joining up with Ermine Street further on, although highway purists like me may prefer to try a bit of rough walking along more of its laser-line straightness. For while reduced and buried, the Roman road still uncannily declares itself via a long ridge under earth, like an arm thrust under a duvet. Fields, woods. Early skylarks over dwarf pasture. The entire afternoon is swallowed in open-stride walking, with the odd diversion down roads and tracks where necessary. Pausing for water, we find the base of a Saxon cross – Sutton Cross – in the undergrowth. Such relics of history are testament to the fact that there is no virgin earth anywhere in England. Later, approaching the parkland of Burghley House, the track becomes a footpath through green baize, spotted with stately oaks. We are tracing this along the vast estate wall, evening just beginning to fall, when we notice the figure following us. Burghley was built by William Cecil, chief adviser to Elizabeth I, but the area is also profoundly connected to John Clare – the rural labourer and nature poet who was a gardener at the big house in his youth. In 1806, Clare jumped over this same estate wall on his way home from Stamford to read a book of poems. It was a Damascene moment that changed everything. Writing, fame and, eventually, fits of delusion, madness and internment followed, with Clare conducting his own last, epic foot journey up the north road in 1841, fleeing from an asylum and trying to get home. We are discussing this when the figure emerges. I suggest we quicken our pace to reach the estate gate where the path joins the old Great North Road. When we do, we turn to find the figure has gone. But as we set off down the pavement, we both see it shuffling ahead of us, turning the corner towards Stamford, before disappearing into the dark. Described by Sir Walter Scott as ''the finest sight on the road between Edinburgh and London', Stamford's clusters of churches, mazy passageways and twisting thoroughfare give it the air of a condensed Oxford or Cambridge transposed to a leafy fold in Lincolnshire. The George, close to the point where the road bridges the River Welland, is its ancient coaching inn and is still doing great business. It's less a place than a portal to be moved through – a feeling amplified as you pass under its 18th-century 'gallows' sign, once doubling as welcome or warning to travellers. Cromwell is rumoured to have overnighted. Charles I was also a guest, and his last evening of freedom was spent in the town. A century after, the 'bloody' Duke of Cumberland, Butcher of Culloden, took dinner in the same panelled dining room we're pulling up chairs in, after routing Charles I's greatgrandson Bonnie Prince Charlie on a Scottish moor. Over well-earned pints, we relive the dizzying depths of history experienced in a single afternoon's walking along the highway. My friend brings up the figure again – the sheer strangeness of it. He shakes his head. But this is something you come to accept. Old roads lead to uncanny places. Time does stand still. The enormous past often possesses the present. The North Road by Rob Cowen is published by Cornerstone (£22). 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Yahoo
28-01-2025
- Yahoo
Flats to be built next to Dick Turpin's grave
A former working men's club next to the final resting place of infamous highwayman Dick Turpin is to be replaced by an apartment block. Plans approved by York councillors will see the vacant Tramways Club on Mill Street demolished with 35 flats built on the site. Developer Oakgate City Living said it would provide "much-needed" homes in one of York's most sustainable locations. But York Central Labour MP Rachael Maskell raised concerns along with 12 objectors, saying there was "not an urgency to develop more luxury accommodation in the area". The flats would be built alongside St George's Churchyard, where Turpin's grave is located - although its authenticity is disputed by some historians. Highwayman and horse thief Turpin - otherwise known as John Palmer - was hanged at York's Knavesmire in 1739. Listen to highlights from North Yorkshire on BBC Sounds, catch up with the latest episode of Look North or tell us a story you think we should be covering here. City of York Council
