Holding out for a Hero

We don't do heroes much in Britain. Yes, there are 'sporting heroes' and 'rescue heroes' and 'NHS heroes' and so forth, but their fame isn't necessarily national nor long-lasting - certainly not a fame that endures through decades, or even centuries, and becomes part of the national fabric that binds the Nation. 

We do make more of 'wartime heroes' - generally of serving soldiers, sailors and air crew, and those involved in secret operations at home or in enemy territory, anyone who quite clearly saved the nation in a time of great danger, or made ultimate victory possible by their sacrificial efforts. Politicians less so, although Winston Churchill - whatever his tarnished reputation then and now - remains the outstanding example of an inspiring war leader who kept the nation together and ensured that we survived. In my book, he definitely counts as a national hero. 

But there is one man who stands head and shoulders above the rest: Nelson. A national myth in his own time, and even more so after his death in action at the Battle of Trafalgar in 1805. Dashing, handsome, distinguished, humane, sensual and passionate, the originator of 'the Nelson touch' - a penchant for acting independently, unexpectedly but brilliantly and securing an advantage (and with it a resounding victory), when others would have dithered, quailed, or merely followed orders. A man with qualities one can still admire, even though he did of course have many of the attitudes and standards of his time, some of which do not sit at all well with the different values of 2021. But you can say just the same of Churchill, who died 160 years later than Nelson, and well within living memory (my own, for instance).

Nelson was born in Norfolk and brought up there until he went to sea. The birthplace was at Burnham Thorpe, not quite on the coast, but within walking distance of Burnham Overy Staithe, which is one of a string of sheltered, boaty places on a tidal creek, away from the direct onslaught of the North Sea. I heard from a learned man whom I encountered in King's Lynn that Nelson, when still only a captain, and during a lull in the Napoleonic Wars (when he was obliged to go home, kick his heels on half pay, and impatiently await events) would walk daily to Burnham Overy Staithe to stretch his legs, get a newspaper, and talk to the merchant captains and working fishermen. Well, I'd been to Burnham Overy Staithe several times over the years, but never to Burnham Thorpe. It was time to go in search of a Hero. 

This is Burnham Overy Staithe, as shot by me in 1995. That large boathouse is quite a feature, and has endured. 

In later visits, I caught Burnham Overy Staithe when the tide was in and the people who like messing around in small boats were enjoying themselves. In 2008, for example:

I returned to this attractive coastal spot this year in early June. The tide was out, but it still looked good:

That path just above will take you out to Holkham Bay and onwards along the vast beach to Wells-next-the-Sea.

It's not so difficult to imagine a much more workaday and mundane scene 230-odd years ago, when Nelson would turn up, buy his newspaper, and start asking around, in the hope of picking up any rumour at all that the peace treaty had broken down and war would return. He wanted a reason to catch the coach to London, and get himself recalled to active service and command of a ship. A restless personality, itching to do things that mattered. 

Burnham Overy Staithe has a pub, appropriately called The Hero. This is it, in a 2016 photo:

That's the famous painted portrait of Nelson on their sign, the one in the National Gallery. I wanted some lunch before having a look at nearby Burnham Thorpe. I got a nice table inside, and enjoyed a starter, main course and dessert, washed down by a gin and tonic. The dessert had to be a simple one, just two scoops of delicious local ice cream, as I was by then feeling amply replete and didn't want to overdo it.

Miraculously, I finished that holiday weighing exactly the same as I had at the start of it. Despite this and other fancy meals in Scotland and Northumberland. 

It was time to go hero-hunting. First, Nelson's birthplace. It was reputed to have been in a cottage adjacent to the vicarage at Burnham Thorpe. I stopped short, and contemplated the meadow that, as a young boy, Nelson would have seen from the cottage. The scene of his formative years; and later on too, when he was a bored half-pay captain passing time until recalled to action. 

Driving on, I parked closer. I'd been told about a pond that he may have played in, or fished in, but it was in a private garden and hidden by a dense hedge. Skipping that then, I walked to where the two fingerposts I saw directed me.

It was all surprisingly low-key. You'd expect the Revered Birthplace to be on some trail, a long-distance footpath, called The Nelson Way. But not at all. Another fingerpost nearer to the Notable Spot was a bit more spick and span:

It pointed to a wall next to a driveway There was a plaque:

THE BIRTHPLACE OF

ADMIRAL LORD NELSON

THE OLD RECTORY IN WHICH THE ADMIRAL WAS BORN

STOOD TWENTY YARDS BACK FROM THIS WALL

IT WAS PULLED DOWN IN 1803

Pulled down in 1803 - in his lifetime! You'd think that the local gentry, even in pre-National Trust days, would have wanted to save it for the nation - whatever the tumbledown state of the building, and whatever the cost of doing it up - so that 3d or 6d could be charged to visit it. I glanced down the drive, and marked the exact place where Nelson must have sprang fully-formed, cocked hat and all, from his mother's womb, with 'I will do my Duty' on his baby lips. Just where the driveway jinked to the right.

Well, I'd made my pilgrimage! A pity that there was so little to see. I decided to mark the occasion with a solemn naval salute to Admiral Lord Nelson. As if he had given me some nautical order, and I had answered with a hearty 'Aye aye, sir!' 

No, that wasn't right! I'd held the little Leica in my right hand, and had saluted with the left. It needed to be the other way round. Sorry, Admiral. Will this do now?

The Navy of those days was a stickler for formality, and no sloppiness was tolerated. The salute had to be crisply and smartly delivered. So getting it absolutely right was really important. 

Further along the wall was something else set into the brickwork, next to a gate.

Ah! This was, no doubt, the actual barn used by Nelson or his family, now a holiday home. 

There must be other things to see at Burnham Thorpe. The church, for instance. That's where I went next. It was set back from the road, with a big expanse of grass in front of it. You parked on this grass. There was room for a hundred cars.

As I locked Fiona, two other cars arrived in close formation. They contained half a dozen men. They could be half a cricket team, but I thought they were more likely to be bell-ringers. I actually asked one of them, who walked on ahead of the rest, whether they were here to ring the bells. He said no, but then didn't go on to explain why they had come. I therefore assumed that they were, like me, just interested in seeing Nelson's local church. But why not say so? It was all slightly odd, particularly as the rest of the group seemed a little put out by my presence, and kept glancing in my direction, as if wary of me. Very strange. Usually I get smiles and a warm hello. Not on this occasion! A fresh guess then: they were the sort of fellows who were used to men-only gatherings, and therefore thrown if the company were mixed. This lot seemed struck dumb by me. I had no idea that a confident woman on her own could dismay grown men so much. Or maybe Norfolk men were just very shy? (But Nelson hadn't been shy) 

I gave them some time inside while I made a circuit of the exterior. 

But I wasn't going to do that forever, especially as dark clouds had been gathering and it might rain soon. So I went inside too, and found them all clustered together near the altar, speaking in low voices. 

Perhaps they were, after all, merely historians, or students of church architecture? Thank goodness I hadn't caught them in lurid robes, conducting some satanic rite. Now that would have been awkward! 

I kept my distance, took plenty of photographs at my end of the church, and eventually they filed out, leaving me alone. 

The church itself was spacious and attractive, but nothing very special in the architectural department. But that wasn't why I was there. I was looking for Nelson memorials and suchlike. I wasn't disappointed, although the items displayed were mostly underwhelming. There were some ragged old white ensigns, though surely not (I thought) as old as the early nineteenth century: 

There was a chest, made from the wood of an old pulpit that was in the church in Nelson's time:

There was a framed photo of Nelson's medical chest:

In another frame was a calligraphic rendition of Nelson's prayer before battle commenced at Trafalgar:

There was a wall memorial to a brother, who died young in 1789 - was he a victim of the French Revolution? 

Also on a wall was this bust of Nelson, installed in 1905:

The altar was installed in 1911, and dedicated to the men who fell with Nelson at Trafalgar:

The current church Bible dated from 2013, a gift from the Nelson Society:

It was bookmarked at the Book of Numbers, with details of which animals to sacrifice on various occasions. I didn't know the Church of England still went in for animal sacrifices. I must ask a clerical friend about all this hoodoo with Voodoo! 

There were a number of free-standing panels which described Nelson's background, career, and demise at Trafalgar. A very nice short history of the man. Click on them to enlarge. All but one are crisp and clear to read.

And then I saw it. An upright fortepiano that Nelson must have played on!

Made in London too. Nelson, an admirer of Beethoven and Haydn, would have been an accomplished player, and you can imagine him wooing the beautiful and passionate Lady Hamilton by his deft tinkling of the ivories, his lips pursed as he played with long sensitive fingers. She certainly enjoyed the Nelson touch! 

It was very unfortunate that in the later 1790s he damaged his right eye in action off Corsica, so that he couldn't see out of it. This meant that he couldn't read the right half of the music, and had to improvise, drawing on his Caribbean experiences in the 1770s and 1780s. Thus jazz was born.  

The loss of his right arm at Calvi in Corsica not long afterwards made musical expression very difficult, as he was now only able to play the low notes on the fortepiano. But he could still manage rolling bass phrases in a boogie-woogie style, which made him very popular for the parties of the day. Nelson and the Carronades were a stomping chart-topping success in the last years of the 1790s, and it is said that George III, in his lucid years, would engage him for one of his rustic, barn-storming, hand-clapping fantasias at Weymouth, when on holiday there.

The church had one more surprise: the opportunity to buy a Nelson tea towel. They featured that famous portrait. I unfolded one to think it over.

Hmm. A very handsome tea towel that would make! But really too good for the purpose. And did I want this image in my kitchen, or anywhere else in my home? No, I didn't. So I merely signed the visitors' book and walked away. 

That wasn't quite the end of my encounters with Nelson. Back in Sussex, I came across this new statue in Chichester, featuring local hero Sir George Murray with the Great Man:

And then, just a few days ago, when in Southend-on-Sea with my friend Emma, we came across this plaque about the old Royal Hotel. 

It mentions Lady Hamilton (another Emma, of course) throwing a ball in honour of Lord Nelson, though it doesn't say whether it was before, or after, Trafalgar. I suspect shortly before - or at least before the sad news of The Hero's death reached Britain. 

Lady Hamilton was dropped like a hot potato once Nelson was dead, society growing prudish, and unwilling to respect Nelson's dying wish (made in the presence of many witnesses, before asking Captain Hardy to kiss him, and before saying 'Thank God I have done my duty') that she be looked after by the nation. Well, their daughter Horatia was, but not Emma herself. Poor lady!