My fountain pen is now 70 years old

Continuing the fountain pen theme from my last post, I'd like to record that my own pen - Water Dragon - is now seventy years old. Here it is:

Like the Queen's pen, Water Dragon is a Parker 51, albeit a slightly plainer version than she would have had. I know all about Parker 51s, and I can (from several styling clues, plus a conclusive date mark) confidently say that this one - made in Sussex at Newhaven - was made in July, August or September 1955. Well, here we are on 2nd September 2025, and I think it would be entirely fair, were I so inclined, to open the champagne bottle and toast this long-lived writing instrument. 

You would not think that an easily-damaged and much-used thing like a fountain pen would last for decades. It has an alloy cap that protects the gold nob when on, but obviously not when posted onto the other end for actual writing. You can imagine how vulnerable that nib really is, should the pen roll off a desk or table and take a header onto a hard floor. Most of the exterior is plastic: liable to cracking, and easily broken. Inside is a rubber sac into which the ink is drawn. A metal bar presses onto it during the weekly refilling operation, and although rubber can take a lot of punishment it doesn't last forever. There are tubes and baffles to get clogged up, mostly plastic. Most individual parts are fragile, and it isn't hard to see how even a well-made fountain pen might suffer in the hands of a clumsy or impatient person. 

I bought this one from a dealer in 2019, and conjectured in an earlier post that it might (prior to my ownership) have been the cherished possession of a headmistress, who had used it for a very long time, though eventually becoming too old to write properly with it. So for most of its life it would have been well cared-for, spending only the last few years consigned to a drawer. The dealer had taken it apart to flush away congealed ink and replace the rubber sac, but otherwise I had got myself a truly vintage pen only three years younger than myself. 

And it has never given a moment's trouble or concern. Nothing bad has happened. No leaks, for instance. And it writes beautifully. I use it several times a day, mostly for short, temporary notes, and it is of course my pen for birthday cards. 

But all the time I'm highly conscious just how easily damaged Water Dragon is. So in between use, my pen sits in a soft leather pen case that I made myself, and I re-cap it as soon as I've finished writing. People sometimes ask whether they can try it out, but I have to say no: Water Dragon is just too old and delicate for someone else to write with it, especially if they are not used to fountain pens. It's nothing like using a ballpoint. You don't press with a fountain pen: you let it glide over the paper. That's why smooth paper is needed, and plenty of writing-practice.

Seventy years old though! I don't think I possess any other device that has lasted anywhere near so long, and which I still use today. Well, Water Dragon ought to carry on being useful for the rest of my life. There are plenty of vintage pen dealers who can fix it, if ever a part wears out. It does consume ink of course, at roughly the rate of a bottle each year. And every time I buy a new bottle, the cost has increased, although it's still modest. Ink will be available, online at least, so long as there are artists and calligraphers, and sufficient numbers of other people who enjoy writing well with something special.

I rather like old-fashioned things, provided they are genuinely useful and a viable alternative to their modern equivalent. I'm definitely not alone in this. It may seem quirky, impractical or unfashionable, but I'm sure nobody laughs at me when I take out my pen and use it. The same with my wicker basket, and my red fedora hat. They are all reminiscent of a different time, and perhaps a more congenial one. And people know that they will easily outlast any trendy gadget you might buy today. 

Did the Queen blink?

The late Queen was famous for coping with anything: never complaining, never explaining, imperturbable in any situation of possible embarrassment. Obnoxious heads of state? Boring ambassadors? Those would give her no trouble. Well then: was she ever incommoded by a breach of protocol, a slip in proper procedure or etiquette, or a gaffe of some sort? No doubt she inwardly rolled her eyes; but there would have been no visible sign of that. No, it would have to be something very personal. And I am wondering whether there was in fact one occasion when the mask nearly slipped.

I visited Guildford Cathedral recently, and wandered into the Treasury there. Not immediately seeing that there was a prohibition on taking photos of the Treasury exhibits, I got this shot:

It was the fountain pen she was given to sign something (as Head of the Church of England, presumably) when the Cathedral was consecrated in 1961 (it was a brand-new cathedral, though very long in the building). It's not in the right colour or style. I think she would have hesitated for a micro-second before picking it up and signing her name with it - 'Elizabeth Regina', one supposes.

Why would she hesitate when given this pen? Well, she had her own, a special Parker 51, basically the same fountain pen that I use. She was a Parker fan. She was shortly going to honour Parker with 'By Royal Appointment' status. But this turquoise-coloured object with gold embellishments was surely a Sheaffer. 

If you are old enough, or have become a fountain pen enthusiast, you will know that by 1961 Parker and Sheaffer had established themselves in the public eye as the two major pen makers. Each company had its fierce supporters, rather like rival sports teams do. There were many other other makers, of course, and if you were a young scholar the well-known value-for-money names of Conway-Stewart and Platignum will ring bells. But owning a Parker or a Sheaffer fountain pen (with a gold nib) was the thing to aspire to. Both had status. Both made excellent pens. But I think it was true to say that Parker definitely had the edge in the UK. 

Most youngsters were given their first proper fountain pen by their proud parents, or perhaps a doting aunt or uncle, and there was no personal choosing involved. That's how it was with me. Fountain pens were always expensive, way beyond a schoolboy or schoolgirl's financial reach, and were never casually bought. They were Birthday or Christmas presents, or possibly a reward for passing your eleven-plus examination. Whatever you got, you tended to stick with it. Most 'proper' pens worked well and faithfully and were easy to get on with, so the match of pen to person was usually a happy one. And more often than not, if you started with (say) a Parker, your next pen when older would be another Parker, and you would become a champion of the brand, irrationally defending the virtues of all Parker pens to the death. The same with Sheaffer ownership. It was all actually very divisive, and very tribal. I have little doubt that in the school staff room, the teachers held similarly partisan views on the right pen to use, and who knows, careers might depend on one's preference. If you favoured Parker, and so did the Head, well, say no more.

It was a completely different world; which pen you used mattered. Rather like which tie, if you were a man. 

And then, as ballpoints improved - stopped leaking and could write a smooth continuous line - and became objects of desire (mistakenly, I craved a fancy Papermate at one point) the Fountain Pen Wars abated, and the Parker-Sheaffer rivalry didn't matter any more. By 1970, only those who remained very keen on using a fountain pen - individualists all - were using them in everyday situations. My Dad did. I did too. But 98% of the population did not, nor did they care. And so it still is. 

But in 1961 the Queen and her entourage, and professional people generally (including, surely, the architect who had designed the new Guildford Cathedral, Edward Maufe, later knighted) would have been daily fountain-pen users, and would have championed the brand they had had a long acquaintanceship with, whether it was Parker, Sheaffer, Waterman, Lamy, Montblanc or whatever. 

As I said above, The Queen was loyal to Parker. It was unthinkable to use another make of pen. 

But she had to use the Sheaffer in the photograph. How so? What went wrong? Who blundered?

I imagine that late on the very morning of the Consecration ceremony it occurred to some lowly young cleric in the Diocesan Office - as he set out the charter, or book, that the Queen was going to sign - that the entire shebang might come to a shuddering halt if no pen were available. All in front of the Bishop and a sea of invited guests! The Consecration was a culminating moment - interrupted by the war, the Cathedral had (so far) taken 25 years to get to a state where it could be used as a place of worship, the symbol of the city's regeneration. The signing part of the ceremony had to go right. There must be no kerfuffle. 

He must have run to the Dean with that awful vision. There was no time for careful deliberation. It was a crisis. Instantly fishing out a tenner from his own pocket, the Dean despatched the lowly cleric to the city centre, pedalling furiously downhill on the cathedral bicycle, to procure a suitable writing instrument. The Dean, had he thought of it, could have specified a Parker, but he had no time to think. The lowly cleric (though of good family) had been raised on Sheaffer, and so it was a Sheaffer he bought at W H Smith. 

No doubt he told the girl behind the pen counter (all stationers had a pen counter in those days) that it was for an important lady and must look nice. She guessed - alas, mistakenly! - that he meant his mother, or his aunt. So he returned, pedalling heroically uphill, with a pen that was very suitable for a lady who liked pretty frilly things, but it wasn't fit for a Queen engaged in an extremely important duty - and especially not a Queen who favoured a Parker 51 in burgundy red, and who, in any case - for she was famously well-organised - would have had that personal Parker 51 in her bag. 

The Dean must have blenched when he saw the purchase. But with minutes to go, there was no time to remedy the situation. No time even to warn the Bishop. Oh dear, heads might roll! 

His own career might be over.

The Consecration begins. The Dean, with his secret knowledge of impending disaster, is sweating. He looks ill, in fact. 

The critical moment arrives. It is time for the Queen to sign. You can picture it. The massed congregation, craning to see; the entire top clergy of the Diocese and indeed of Southern England - including the Archbishop of Canterbury - with everyone in full regalia, crooks, mitres, the lot; and of course the Queen, Prince Philip, and Princess Margaret, and all their attendants. The photographers. 

'Would your Majesty sign here, please?'

Before the Queen can open her bag for her own pen, the lowly cleric steps forward, dishevelled and red-faced, and presents her with the turquoise-coloured Sheaffer with gold embellishments. A micro-second passes. The Dean stares in fascinated horror. But the Queen does not blink. She gives no sign of anything out of the ordinary. She picks up the pen. Does the cap pull off, or unscrew? An even chance. She guesses correctly. But it's an open nib, not a hooded one. And the whole feel and balance of the pen is strange and unfamiliar. But nevertheless, she writes a beautiful signature. 

The moment passes. The Dean breathes again. 

Later, the Bishop brings the matter up, and the Dean confesses that he and the lowly cleric both panicked unnecessarily. And now there's £10 wasted. 'Oh well,' says the Bishop. 'I don't think anybody noticed, except of course, the Queen.'

The pen has found its way into the Cathedral Treasury. The Dean became a bishop. Nobody knows what happened to the lowly young cleric. 

Meeting Lord Denning

'Meeting' makes for a snappy title to this post, but of course Lord Denning died in 1999, so in fact I could only present myself at the grave he shared with his second wife Joan. And to see one other thing connected with him. More of both anon.

He was Lord Denning of Whitchurch. Whitchurch is a small town in north Hampshire. I went back to see it again on 7th July, just over a month ago. It hadn't changed much. I was last there in 2003 when M--- and I had a stroll around the place on a warm April afternoon. Before that, on a Saturday in 1975, when I tried to attend the wedding of a work colleague at the parish church. I turned up late, underestimating how long it would take to drive myself from Southampton to Whitchurch. The service had already begun. I felt awkward about opening the church door, and perhaps interrupting the ceremony at a critical moment. I gave up and because I was dressed too well for a country walk, or even to look around the shops in Winchester, I just went home. 

Whitchurch was historically an important market town, and the first location of Messrs Portal, who until 2022 made the special paper required by the Bank of England for its paper money. Whitchurch is on the River Test, one of Hampshire's two best fishing rivers, the other being the Itchen. The town once boasted many watermills. Here is the water-wheel at one of them, taken by me on holiday in 2005:

    

Few things are more soothing or mesmerising than slowly-moving water and the swish, swish, swish of lazy machinery. 

But back to Lord Denning. He lived a long time, being born in 1899. The law of England was his passion. He was called to the Bar (that is, allowed to speak in court on behalf of a client) in 1923, and took silk, becoming a KC, in 1938. His rise continued. He became a judge in 1944, an Appeal Judge in 1948, was made Baron Denning in 1957, and then finally Master of the Rolls, the ultimate Appeal Judge so to speak, in 1962. He held that position until 1982, when after twenty years of deciding the most important Common Law cases, he retired - only to commence a series of influential books on the history and current state of the law. I read two or three of them during the 1980s, and in 1988 actually bought one that he had published in 1984, Landmarks In The Law, which is about key decided cases in our history. Here it is, in a photo I took when lounging about on that holiday in 2005:

It covered these subject areas:

High Treason

Torture and Bribery

The fate of past Lord Chancellors

Martyrdom

Matrimonial Affairs

Freedom of the Individual

General Warrants

Freedom of the Press

Persecution

Murder

His most important case - the Profumo Inquiry

His own life in retirement, with comments on cricket, the beauties of Whitchurch, and the joys of family life in mellow years.

I think you will agree that this is an interesting list. I hope it will encourage you to get a copy of his book and read it for yourself. It's written in his very recognisable style, and is easy to follow and absorb. The cases concern many historical figures you will have heard of, though not always to their credit, and tell of shocking deeds and perverse miscarriages of justice that created a backlash and led to a change in the law. 

Lord Denning wrote half a dozen books in retirement. All concerned the law. Each was greatly anticipated, and each was received with proper seriousness, for he had become a national figure of immense weight. He profoundly overhauled the Common Law of England - meaning the law that is made by judges on the many matters not subject to Statute Law (which is that body of strictly-defined law contained in Acts of Parliament: tax law, for instance, which I had to pay close attention to all my own working life). Common Law is dynamic, based on what you might call natural or fundamental principles, some of them many centuries old. But it can develop as modern life introduces new situations and standards. Common Law tries to keep up with the times, although it is also subject to the rule of precedent, where any principle established by a judge must be followed by subsequent judges unless the case currently being decided by them features something entirely new or different, so that new ground can be broken. Lord Denning did not like being bound by narrow hoary precedent, especially if it led to an injustice. He felt that the first duty of a judge was to be bold, and intervene if it would achieve the right and proper outcome, and 'do justice'. He became famous for clearly-expressed, far-reaching, innovative and important judgements that swooped in like a breath of fresh air. 

But some of his judgements were controversial. Not everyone approved of them. So some were overturned. But mostly not. He became a household name, and (at least to many) a well-loved figure. The man on the cover of my book does indeed look old and wise, and if not necessarily kindly then at any rate a person who understands human nature. The sort of person I can speak easily to. I do wish we had met. 

Well, I did what I  could. I would find his grave. My first port of call was the parish church at Whitchurch. He was not there. There was no memorial to him, except a note that one of the bells, the newest, was called 'Great Tom' in his honour. It was ready for his 100th birthday in 1999. 

His grave must be in the town cemetery. I looked it up and found it. It was only a short walk away. I already knew that it was no big, gaudy grave. It was modest. In fact, after a methodical search that took me to a quiet corner of the cemetery, I saw just how modest it was. Here are my pictures of it. 

The carved words that mention him were not prominent, certainly not the bit about his being Lord Denning of Whitchurch, which were almost hidden by the grass and those neglected flower pots. And they came underneath the larger words about Joan, his second wife, whom he married in 1945. (She was 92 when she died in 1992. So he was eight years a widower)

It was a very ordinary grave that you might easily walk past and never pay attention to. Yet this had been one of the best-known judges of the last century. Even so, I felt that he wouldn't have minded ending up in this small and very plain grave. I am also sure that back in 1999, when he died, the people of Whitchurch considered something grander for their most famous son. It could be highlighted as a must-see tourist stop. But that didn't happen. And so Lord Denning's bones rest at peace, tucked away, undisturbed and unnoticed.

And the other thing I saw? 

Just inside from the entrance to the cemetery was a shelter, shaped a bit like a merry-go-round, with dividing walls. On each wall was a wood-carving on a panel, showing a religious scene. I don't know who the artist was, nor when these rather good carvings were done, but I'm guessing it was shortly after Lord Denning died: in the year 2000 perhaps, perhaps as a Millennium thing. One of them commemorated Lord and Lady Denning.

Here are some of the other panels. There were eight in all.

I think that the same artist carved this panel at the entrance itself.

Well, that was that. Show over. Nothing more to see.

I did wonder whether a statue of Lord Denning exists - outside the Law Courts in London, maybe. But somehow I doubt it. If there ever was one, it would be a target for those who are alert for prejudicial remarks, and instantly take extreme offence. For Lord Denning said some dismissive and disparaging things about certain groups of people. Certainly those whom he felt were the irredeemable enemies of traditional English Christian life and values, a threat to proper standards of decency and morality, and likely to be disloyal to Crown and Country. Above all, he surely had distaste for those for whom the beauty and gentle pursuits of rural England, and especially Hampshire, meant nothing. 

I'm not saying I'm exactly like he was, but I know what he meant.

I now have a disabled toilet key!

On the advice of a friend, I have been online and bought a disabled toilet key - see https://shop.disabilityrightsuk.org/products/radar-key - so that I can use one of those locked toilets for disabled people.  

I am not of course officially disabled. The aches and pains of my advancing years don't really count. Nor does my bad right knee, especially on a good day. But more than once I've wished that I could get into a disabled toilet when ordinary ones have been shut, usually in the evenings, or perhaps all day in winter. Of course, large supermarkets have toilets, but it feels wrong to pop in and out without buying anything. And you definitely shouldn't misuse a pub or hotel like that. But surely even cash-strapped councils, who close ordinary public toilets in the winter if they can, keep locked toilets available for disabled folk who need to go. You just need a key to get in. 

Obviously, using a disabled toilet is a way of jumping any queue outside an ordinary public loo. Even so, I'd have no qualms about doing that if my need were pressing. But in principle my new key will be an emergency standby, not to be routinely or frivolously used, and I must be sure that I don't keep a properly-disabled person waiting outside while I'm doing my stuff inside. Although, as they say, not every disability shows. Maybe that's a line I can trot out if I emerge and encounter somebody in a wheelchair who has got soaked in the rain. Maybe I'd better carry my stick around more often, to suggest a degree of impairment. I imagine that truly disabled persons get very annoyed if their special facilities are usurped by sprightly types who could easily go somewhere else.

The key itself looks like this:

It's not really pocket-friendly. You could certainly carry it around in a bag, but it's just a little too long and substantial to attach to a keyring. I'm going to keep mine in the car, for use when away from home and out and about. 

I'm a bit sceptical about one key opening all disabled doors, all over the country. I suppose it will. Well, I'll be trying it out as soon as possible. 

The little Leica finally takes its 100,000th shot

It's been a long time coming, but my long-term favourite camera has finally taken its 100,000th shot. This happened yesterday evening. When transferring the day's haul to the laptop for processing, I saw with delight that the camera's shot counter stood at '2030435'. This meant 'shot 435 of folder 203'. The first folder was numbered 100, and a new folder got created after every 999th shot. So the camera was actually saying 'I've reached shot number 103,435'. 

But there were some adjustments to be made. On three occasions in the past I'd accidentally or deliberately reset the shot total, increasing it, and I knew by how much. Besides this, the camera skipped one shot every time it opened a new folder, so it gradually overcounted. I've maintained a spreadsheet to keep track of all this from the very beginning in June 2009, and it let me deduce the correct current total. 

Above, two extracts from that spreadsheet. Yesterday evening I nudged past the 100,000 shot milestone by two shots. Hurrah!

I'm very proud of the little Leica for doing this. Here is the wee beastie, taken recently with my phone. It's no longer pristine, but it's wearing well for a sixteen year old device that has been handled multiple times a day for much of its life.

It has its limitations. The main snag is the small ten-megapixel CCD sensor, which limits its tonal range and ability to record fine detail at a distance. Nor does it perform well after sunset, unless the subject is brightly lit. I've never found any of this much of a problem though. The little Leica is good for nearly everything I want to do with it. And although the rendering is not the very last word in sharpness, I do like it, whether for colour or black and white work. Here's a selection of recent pictures which, I think, show what this small and versatile camera can do.

The little Leica is particularly good for close-up work. 

Despite the low interior light in the shot above, the lit-up glass of prosecco comes out sharply, bubbles and all. If you click on the shot, you can see the effervescence just above the rim of the glass.

I'd never really looked closely at the riverside artwork above. Looking into the serrated grooves, I could see tunnels in the metal. I carefully inserted the little Leica and took a series of black-and-white shots. Here's two of them.

Just like full-sized caves! Or perhaps one's sinus passages. Not many cameras are small enough to manoeuvre into cracks like these.

A lot of my camera outings take place in the Golden Hour in the evening. And why not? It makes colours glow with extra radiance. The little Leica's CCD sensor does strong colour well.

I especially like this camera for food shots.

As I said, the little Leica's vintage sensor can't cope well after dark. The pictures look noisy. And yet that can be used for effect. Here are some 2022 shots taken in Cirencester. The church tower was lit up in amber and blue light, and to my mind the noise has given a couple of these photos an attractively distressed appearance. 

I've never been able to produce anything similar with LXV. Or at least, not without a lot of post-processing to create the same look.

And now the little Leica D-Lux 4 has shown definitive longevity. Sixteen years old, so many shots taken, and it's still a great tool for image-making. It seems that age cannot wither it, nor custom stale its infinite variety. It mustn't go back in the cupboard again, in semi-retirement, as merely a standby camera. It doesn't deserve that. So I am promoting it over LXV's head. Assuming the latter makes a full recovery. 

They are in fact quite similar in what they can do. LXV is the better option for faithfully capturing the details of a scene, the better for recording an occasion. Its pictures are sharp and clear. But I think the little Leica has more creative possibilities, simply because it is old and imperfect, and the pictures sometimes bleary. 

I'm most certainly looking at 200,000 shots with it now. Who knows, it may be immortal and will outlast me!

Actually, how long should a small camera like this last? Large, heavily-used professional cameras are built to go on to 500,000 shots and more, with a lifespan of quite possibly a decade. The Nikon D700 I bought in 2008 would have been one example. I sold it for wedding use, and I'm certain that it was busy for many years, and is likely to be active, or at least on standby duty, even today. But a little point-and-shoot for the consumer market? Even if meant to be an 'enthusiast's camera', and carrying the Leica logo to boot? 

Sixteen years without major component failure, or multiple dents and scrapes, or some little-used part becoming gummed up, or something vital breaking in an unlucky fall...it does seem that my little Leica has been exceptionally durable, and perhaps exceptionally fortunate. Well, I do look after my possessions, as my cars will testify, but even so, a device that has braved wind, rain, sun, snow, sand, windy clifftops and steamy kitchens without coming to harm is a device that is beloved by the gods and protected by them - as possibly I am too, as the owner. Policy dictates that I'm not going to give offence by spurning their gift!  

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