The Elephant in the Beer Garden

There are people who will tell you that nothing much has ever happened in Ceredigion. A trawl through historic local newspapers will confirm that aside from shipwrecks, poisonings, the starving Irish dying in the ditches, there was nothing of much consequence to report in the 1840’s. Of course, what was considered ‘nothing much’ then would now be viewed quite differently. The present only becomes interesting once it has passed.

Tregaron is located in the upper Teifi Valley alongside the River Brennig in Ceredigion, West Wales. For hundreds of years cattlemen drove their herds through the town, and its twelve pubs and fourteen brothels kept the local clergy very busy in their perpetual war against vice. In many respects the town could have been mistaken for the Wild West but to the local inhabitants, of course, nothing much ever happened.

The Talbot Hotel - photo Janey Stevens

So, when on the evening of the first Friday in July, 1848 the outlying leafy lanes and villages were suddenly filled with the brash glamour of Batty’s Travelling Menagerie, the people streamed from their houses to witness it, and the church officials tightened their belts and braced themselves for trouble.

Tregaron Square circa 1885 courtesy of NLW

Accustomed only to cattle, sheep and the odd flock of geese, the local populace watched in glee as the procession of caravans, horses, bears and, most startling of all, elephants, rolled into town.

Many were so caught up in the excitement that they skipped church, preferring to witness instead the ‘wonderful spectacle’ of the travelling show. An angry cleric, reporting to the Carmarthen Journal, denounced the troupe as a ‘shocking outrage’ and a ‘desecration of the Lord’s Day.’ A judgement that, for many, possibly served to increase the show’s appeal.

There are several different versions as to what happened next but the following Friday the pages of the Carmarthen Journal carried a more sombre story reporting the death in Tregaron of ‘no less illustrious a personage than one of Batty’s young elephants.’ (Carmarthen Journal 14/07/1848).

Some reports state that the elephant drank water contaminated by a lead mine and died shortly afterward. The travelling show moved on, leaving either a dying or dead elephant behind. To this day the local legend persists that the unfortunate elephant was buried by local people behind what is now the Talbot Hotel and, over a hundred and fifty years later, you will still find the story thriving.

Another Jumbo of similar fame who died in Ontario

Jwmbi, as the elephant is affectionately known, is not the only elephant to have visited West Wales, and he wasn’t the last, but something made this one special. The local inhabitants took him into their hearts and adopted him as their own. The real ‘truth’ of the matter has become blurred, leaving just a few facts to become embedded in local folklore. The details of the matter, the circumstances of his passing, the precise site of the burial remain unclear, the crux of the story is simply this: ‘We have an elephant buried behind our pub.’ 

Until, of course, someone decided to dig him up.

For the second time in two hundred years Jwmbi the elephant was causing a stir in Tregaron and, long before people were digging up kings in Leicestershire car parks, archaeologists were digging up a beer garden in Tregaron - looking for Jwmbi.

Press came from far and wide, and as the story spread, the reporting became tinged with disdain, the reporters speaking in slighting terms, as if it were the local people that were delusional, chasing rainbows. But it wasn't us, we knew the truth.

Of course, apart from some Victorian pottery and some sheep’s teeth, (there are a lot of sheep’s teeth in Wales) they didn’t find anything but that hasn’t dented local faith in the ‘truth’ of the elephant story.

What the ‘experts’ failed to see is that the actual bones aren’t important, digging for the ‘truth’ of the matter is irrelevant. The thing that matters is that local people ‘know’ the elephant is in the beer garden – end of. The joy of that long ago day when the travelling menagerie came to town, is relived every time someone tells the story. That is the important factor.

This frantic search for ‘historical truth’ is becoming more widespread lately, revisionist histories are springing up all the time, and as a historian, I do share that niggling need to discover ‘true facts’. But, sometimes I think we dig too deeply. We must take care. It is one thing to reconsider the personality/motives of a historic personage in an attempt to help us understand, but there are some things that are perhaps better left alone.

Society needs its legends and myths, we always have done, and when we pull out the bones of a legend and shine the crude light of the 21^st century upon them, what do we find? 

A heap of old bones, that is all.

As a child I loved the old tales of wicked kings, heroic knights, imprisoned damsels, helpless pawns – couldn’t we keep some of that? If we see all our legendary baddies as unfortunate, psychologically scarred victims, and our oppressed princesses as hard nosed social climbers – where is the romance?

Wasn’t it the romance that brought us all to love history in the first place? There will always be a place for ‘truth’ and a place for ‘romance’ but maybe we should be careful not to blur the two. For by uncovering the mystery we are in danger of stripping away the very enigmas that intrigued us in the first place. If we prove all our misconceptions to be nothing more than flights of fancy, there might be nothing left to love, which may result in fewer  newcomers becoming interested in history and, in turn, make the job of the historical fiction author obsolete. Fiction isn't about truth is it? The very definition of the word is 'Invention or fabrication as opposed to fact.'

The story of Tregaron’s elephant, and many other stories, is as true as it needs to be. The tale has become part of Welsh heritage and as such engages the present generation with their own past. It attracts visitors to the area who, although they may not be able to view a fully reconstructed pachyderm skeleton, will get a jolly good meal in the Talbot with a good yarn thrown in for free. People love tales of the past, we all do, and story tellers like to make them up. The thing that makes fiction great is its lack of truth.

And there are a lot more brilliant stories to be told in and around Tregaron, not just the elephant. There is the story of Twm Sion Cati – a local baddie of historic fame; there is the timeless scenery and wildlife of Tregaron Bog, the buzzards and red kites that soar above it …I could go on. The elephant is just a part of all that, part of what makes West Wales, West Wales ... and that is all the ‘truth’ we need to know.

With special thanks to Janey Stevens for her lovely photograph of the Talbot Hotel. More of her pictures and greeting cards can be found on her Face Book page: JaneyStevensPhotography

Judith Arnopp is a historical novelist. Her books include:

The Winchester Goose

The Song of Heledd

Dear Henry: Confessions of the Queens

Peaceweaver

The Forest Dwellers

You can find more information here: Judith Arnopp

and purchase her books here: amazon.co.uk

and here:amazon.com

Author to Author - Judith Arnopp chats with Maria Grace

Today we are joined  by Regency Romance Author, Maria Grace. Thank you for coming to talk to us today, Maria.

First, can you tell us what got you started as a writer? What did your early efforts look like? Are they still around to be used as bribes and blackmail material?

 

I think I was in the third grade when I started writing. The first effort was a stick-figure illustrated book of poetry that no one but me has seen in decades, and I think it is going to stay that way.  A couple years later, I pecked out my first short story anthology on a Smith-Corona manual typewriter.  That too is hidden away in a box, away from prying eyes and potential blackmailers.

If you were to write the 'origin's episode' of your writing what would be the most important scenes?

I can think of a couple important scenes in that script.  The first would be my third grade teacher patiently showing me how to format poetry and encouraging my first efforts, no matter how bad they were.  I had a similarly encouraging fourth grade teacher who recruited me to help write a grade level play on the history of our state that won district-wide attention, that would be another important scene.  The final one would be set in my High School years with my friends begging for the next installment of the six part fantasy series I was writing. Those were some very special times. 

Who are your partners in crime? What are their superpowers?

I have several partners, my family of course, first and foremost.  Their superpower is patience with me.  They listen to my wacky ideas and even come up with the plot twists that are staring me in the face, but I don’t recognize. I couldn’t do it without their unreserved support.

I have some wonderful writing buddies whose superpower is courage.  They aren’t afraid to tell me when something is just plain bad and in need of work.  It takes a true friend to tell you your main character is stupid and they don’t like her at all.

Finally, my proofreading partners whose superpower is super-vision to ferret out all those typos and other errors that are just invisible to me.  I can’t ever thank them enough.

Where is your secret lair and what does it look like?

My secret lair is the office I share with my engineer husband. The room is painted in his favorite color, royal purple—seriously. We have two desks, four book cases, a secretary armoire with pull out desk, two file cabinets and a love seat all crammed in that 11x12 foot room. It isn’t unusual to find both of us, our three teen-aged sons, five cats and the dog all packed in there watching TV in the evening, even though there is a perfectly serviceable living room just down the hall.

What are the biggest challenges faced with in your writing?

My biggest challenge is making sure I keep my focus on writing, not the thousand and one other things clambering for my attention all at once, not the least of which is the current desk cat, who trades duties with his brothers so there’s always a fresh cat in need of petting stationed between me and the keyboard.

What important lessons have you learned along the way?

  

Someone once told me, “Do it, afraid.” That really stuck with me. Writing is pretty easy all told, letting anyone else read it is an entirely different story. From the moment I first let someone read what I wrote, there hasn’t been a step in the process that hasn’t filled me with some level of panic. But I grit my teeth and just do it, afraid, and I’m glad I have.

What have been the best/most memorable experiences along the way?

When I put my first story out to be read and people actually liked it and encouraged me—that was a moment I won’t forget.

What is the best writing advice you have ever been given and why?

The best writing advice I have ever received is: You can fix anything but a blank page.  In other words, worry about getting it written before you start worrying about getting it perfect.  Editing can fix any mistakes you make, as long as you get something on paper.  That sustains me on the days I feel like I don’t think I can write a sentence that makes sense.

Tell us about you new book and why we need to drop everything and get it now.

I just published All the Appearance of Goodness, the third installment of the Given Good Principles series. Here’s a blurb.

What is a young woman to do? One handsome young man has all the goodness, while the other the appearance of it.  How is she to separate the gentleman from the cad?

When Darcy joins his friend, Bingley on a trip to Meryton, the last thing on his mind is finding a wife. Meeting Elizabeth Bennet changes all that, but a rival for his affections appears from a most unlikely quarter. He must overcome his naturally reticent disposition if he is to have a chance of winning her favor.

Elizabeth’s thoughts turn to love and marriage after her sister Mary’s engagement. In a few short weeks, she goes from knowing no eligible young men, to being courted by two. Both are handsome gentleman, but one conceals secrets and the other conceals his regard. Will she determine which is which before she commits to the wrong one?

You should drop everything and get it because it is a really fun story with some unexpected twists and turns along the way. It is a feel-good tale that is a great remedy against a grey and gloomy day.

It sounds lovely - the sort of book to read with a box of chocolates and a glass of wine. What’s in store for your writing in the future? Do you have any other big projects on the horizon?

I have tons of projects on the horizon.  I have a complete Regency Romance manuscript in the drawer, ready for editing. I’m working with an editor on a science fiction trilogy that I’d like to get out sometime next year. I have another Regency Romance 90% finished and it will soon be on the editing stack.  I have an historical fantasy novel planned out, begging to writing time and a Regency Romance Novella trying to elbow its way into the schedule as well. So I’ve got plenty of projects to keep me going for a while. 

Well,  you are certainly one busy lady. I am just off to follow the link below and buy one of your books. Thank you so much for brightening our day, and good luck with all those projects.  

 Thanks so much for having me, Judith! 

You can find Maria Grace online:

email: author.MariaGrace@gmail.com.

Facebook: facebook.com/AuthorMariaGrace

OnAmazon.com: amazon.com/author/mariagrace

Amazon.co.uk:

Visit her website Random Bits of Fascination AuthorMariaGrace.com

On Twitter @WriteMariaGrace

English Historical Fiction Authors EnglishHistoryAuthors.blogspot.com

Austen Authors AustenAuthors.net

Her books are available on Amazon.com and Barnes and Noble.

The Tudor Court as you’ve never seen it before!

Thank you to Francine Howarth for giving me the chance to share my work with you the reader.

                                                     

The Winchester Goose

at the Court of Henry VIII

Judith Arnopp

Tudor London: 1540. Each night, after dark, men flock to Bankside seeking girls of easy virtue; prostitutes known as The Winchester Geese. Joanie Toogood has worked the streets of Southwark since childhood but her path is changed forever by an encounter with Francis Wareham, a court spy. 

Meanwhile, across the River, at the glittering court of Henry VIII, Wareham also sets his cap at Evelyn and Isabella Bourne, members of the Queen’s household. Political intrigue draws the girls into danger and the shadow of the executioner’s blade.

Set against the turmoil of Henry VIII’s middle years, The Winchester Goose provides a brand new perspective of the happenings at the royal court, offering a frank and often uncomfortable observation of life at both ends of the social spectrum.

Reader comments on The Winchester Goose: 

"I truly love anything Tudor and I must say this positively one of the best one I've read so far."

"Probably the best historical fiction I have read in a long time"

"This book stands out because the main characters are completely different from your run-of-the-mill Tudor folk."

The Winchester Goose

The Wincestrian goose

Bred on the bank in time of popery

When Venus there maintain’d her mystery

(Ben Jonson – Underwoods 1692 folio)

Prologue – Southwark Stews

Although she follows me, I can tell she wishes she wasn’t here. She lifts her skirts above the foulness of the alleyway and her feet slip in the mire, the hem of her gown all besmirched with mud. She is pale, glancing anxiously from side to side, her lips colourless as she shivers and sweats, and her hands are trembling as if she has the plague.

We pass my friend, Bertha, who is sitting on her threshold with her skirts hitched, airing her blue-veined legs. I wave, “good day” to her but she doesn’t respond for, just as she sees me, her man comes lurching round the corner, sozzled with drink although it is not yet noon. Every day he pisses all Bertha’s hard earned pennies up the wall. 

As his wife sets her beefy fists squarely on her hips and lashes him with her tongue, the lady beside me whips her eyes from the raucous disaster of their marriage. She turns her head so fast that I glimpse her yellow hair tucked beneath the veil of her hood. “I cannot be responsible for the things you see here, my dear,” I say gently.

The way she averts her eye, raises her nose and flinches away from the stench of my world tells me a lot about her. She shies away from unpleasantness and would rather not see the half-naked starvelings peering from the shadows. Their hunger is an affront, their bare feet an insult, yet it was she who asked me to lead her here. It isn’t my fault if she doesn’t like what she finds. 

We pass a stranger, a shady fellow up to no good, he melts away into the shadows not wanting to be seen. When I stop suddenly, the lady does likewise and I point a finger along the route she is to take. “See there, past the midden where the pigs are rooting? It’s up that stairway behind the inn that you must go. The Cock’s Inn it’s called, my dear.”

She doesn’t see the joke of that. She is an innocent, kept ‘nice’ by her mother. My own mother did nothing to protect her daughters from the world but she made sure we learned enough to follow where she led. 

“Be careful on those rickety steps,” I call after her. “M’ room is the one right at the end.”

I wonder what she will make of the musty chamber where one corner of the shingle leaks when the rain is blown in from the west. My sisters and I have grown accustomed to damp in that corner and catch the worst of the drips in a bowl, for water always comes in handy. Things’ve been a lot worse mind, before our luck began to change. Once, the place was caked with grime and the blankets on our narrow bed were thin and moth-eaten but I’ve a thicker counterpane now. 

In winter the bitter blast still manages to find a way through the broken shutter but we do well enough and are grateful to have a room at all. It is better than a ditch and provides us what comfort it can. But my fine, pretty lady will not have seen anywhere like it before, of that I am certain.

“Go on up, my dear, that’s where you’ll find him.”  I urge her onward, knowing Francis will have thrown off his cloak and be growing impatient. As I watch her sidling past the pigs, tiptoeing through the mire, I snort at her gullibility but then, as she places her foot on the lowest step, to my surprise I feel a twinge of conscience. 

I bite my lower lip, wondering if I should call her back. What will she say to him? What would any woman say on finding her husband sprawled on a whore’s bed on a dull July morning?

But she is gone, already climbing gingerly up the unsteady stairs, her gloved hand reaching out to push open the chamber door.  I hold my breath and listen for the rumpus that will follow for it promises to be as good as any bawdy play. But instead, I hear a scream so grisly that it turns my skin to gooseflesh.The hair stands up on my scalp and, for a few moments, I find I cannot move.

Then, all of a sudden I am wrenching up my skirts to fly across the yard and scramble up the steps behind her. Just as I reach the top she stumbles backwards across the threshold with her hands held to her face. Her eyes are wide open, her mouth an ugly scar as she gropes blindly at my arms, scrabbles at me, babbling nonsense. I am afraid of such madness and cannot bear to let her touch me.

 

Crossing myself in the old way, I wrench away from her clutching hands so violently that she loses her footing. Her ankle turns on the top step and I see her face open like a flower as she realises she is going to fall. Before I can stop her, she tumbles backwards, her body bouncing loosely from stair to stair. 

I dare not look down and it takes a few moments for me to find the courage to look upon the bundle of fine linen and velvet that is sprawled in the mud. She is lying very still and her face is white, her eyes closed but I think I can just see her chest rising and falling. I don’t know whether to run and help her or venture indoors to see what trouble awaits me there. 

There is no sound from within and I glance one more time at her prone body before, with my heart hammering like a drum, I hold my breath and push open the door.

The Winchester Goose is available in paperback or on Kindle.

Click here to Purchase if you are in the UK

Or here if you are in the USA

Other books by Judith Arnopp are

Available here UK

Available here USA

Peaceweaver

The Forest Dwellers

The Song of Heledd

Dear Henry: Confessions of the Queens

©copyrightJudithArnopp2012