The Vintage Twins Abroad...

Two years ago, we made a promise with our long-time best friend that we would take a birthday city break together. Over time, the trip evolved from visiting Devon, "taking the waters" (there is no other acceptable way to say it) in Bath, to a European adventure. We had all spent various parts of last summer travelling around Italy and Spain, so we decided that, in the month before our respective birthdays two years on, we would take our trip. It didn't take us long to settle on a city; Amsterdam seemed to have it all.

   From walking along the canals, to eating waffles every morning, to visiting the Rijksmuseum, Anne Frank's House, the Van Gogh Museum, Old Church, New Church, the Stadhuis (Royal Palace), and the Church in the Attic in four days, you can imagine we jam packed our trip with history- something Amsterdam is really not short of.
  Here are just a few of our favourite shots from the adventure!

Lessons From Juliet

My Dearest Helen, 
   Thank you so much for sharing your story with me...

Readers - this will be a late-night ramble, be warned. The title probably suggests that this might be an emotional lesson in love, and in romance, but in truth, I don't know much about either of those. I don't know whether anybody knows much about those things. 

  What I do, humbly, know a thing or two about is history. I can reel off facts about the past that people may or may not want to hear- I can remember the dates of battles, coronations, when Kings died and Queens reigned. 

 But I don't pretend to know much about matters of the heart. 

     I know an awful lot about the Sweet Swan of Avon, where this all started. Between the two of us, Catherine and I could recite most of the plays and several sonnets by Master Shakespeare- in fact, Catherine is a Shakespearologist and is the North's answer to Stanley Wells. And I thought I knew enough about his most famous play, the tragic Romeo and Juliet, to know that it isn't really about love. It's a melancholy state of affairs, in which two blissfully naive teenagers are victims of political violence and die within three days of knowing each other. 

   Not going to lie. I never had much time for this play. But Juliet...well, Juliet was the saving grace. She was wised up to Romeo's bold declarations and pinned him down swiftly before he could run off to his next Rosaline, she was the one who sorted out- and carried through rather efficiently- their escape route- whilst Romeo ballsed it all up by killing her cousin and not bloody listening. 

 And then something changed. Last summer, in a whirlwind month doing a Grand Tour of Italy, we came to Verona. Juliet's balcony. La Casa Di Giulietta. 

You cannot possibly go to Verona and avoid this house. The exquisite little city is dotted with sign posts and memorabilia, hoards of tourists hustle you along their path, down the tiny cobbled side street and past scores of graffiti, names and hearts and declarations, before you reach the 14th Century house. 

  It was there that I sat down and wrote a letter to Juliet. The Club Di Giulietta, a group of local volunteers who reply to thousands of letters sent to Juliet every year, baffled me at the time. Call me cynical but I couldn't understand what it was about Juliet that was causing such a fuss. Why was I confiding my deepest emotional turmoil to a fourteen year old girl? Yes, Shakespeare gave her and Romeo some rather wonderful lines- they speak in sonnets- and yes, there never was story of more woe...but I didn't understand it. 

   Today, I finally think I understand. 

Waiting for me when I got home was a letter. A handwritten, two page letter. From Juliet herself. 

Sitting in floods of tears reading this powerful, eloquent letter, I realised something.
  I bloody underestimated Shakespeare.
Juliet isn't just a fourteen year old girl. She's a fourteen year old girl that every single person who has experienced the ups and downs of love can relate to. She's the person who says: been there, done that. Here's what you've got to do. Here's how you handle it. It's okay, honestly. And the best part is- she isn't real. She doesn't exist. Everything you put in that letter is like screaming out in a deserted wood. You let everything out, nobody has to hear what you think is stupid, embarrassing, and heartbreaking.
   I sat and wrote that letter because, I realise, I desperately wanted somebody to write back and tell me what to do. I said I don't know much about love- I don't. I thought I was in love once. And Juliet's reply...well, let's just say it helped.
  Juliet isn't a heroine in Romeo and Juliet. But what she has inspired in the Casa Di Giulietta is rather spectacular. Romatical cynics, say what you like. y. They let no deserted scream go unnoticed.

Thank you, Shakespeare.
And thank you to whoever was the Juliet behind my letter.
It will be treasured.

Heretic, Harlot, or Heroine? Me & Anne Boleyn

Wolf Hall. If you haven't seen it, you will have heard about it. Here at The Vintage Twins HQ, our Wednesday night revolves around BBC2, 9pm, and the National Trust's Wolf Hall Bingo. "Methinks I hear a lute! Bingo!"

(c) The National Trust 2015

  The deliciously rich, historically charged, exhilarating novel series by Hilary Mantel- Wolf Hall, Bring Up The Bodies and the third installment due out this year- revolve around the life of Thomas Cromwell, Henry VIII's chief minister from 1532 until his untimely execution in 1540. I could write at least ten more posts on how exquisitely Mantel captures the wiley, ambitious, intelligent Cromwell in such a realistic and potent manner, but I don't want to talk about Cromwell. Right now, with the BBC airing their equally brilliant adaptation of Wolf Hall (hats of to you, Mark Rylance), everybody is talking about Thomas Cromwell. 

  

  I want to talk about the woman who started it all, and my long, turbulent relationship with her.

My relationship with Anne Boleyn started at, I would imagine, the age of seven. Divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded survived; we all learnt it, we all heard it, we were all gleefully presented with a gruesome idea that a big fat king had his wife's head chopped clean off. Then there was the constant re-reading of Terry Deary's Cruel Kings and Mean Queens, lingering over the stories of her vomiting behind a sheet at a banquet due to her pregnancy, and laughing at the literal 'Greensleeves' joke that followed.

   As a child, the Tudor world was a rich story that I obsessed over learning more about. By the age of ten, we both devoured every book we could get our hands on about the flame-haired royals, getting lost in a world of stays and damask dresses. The books and the stories that I read about or saw in museums were not much better at shining some light on Anne Boleyn. She was a witch. She had six fingers, swarthy skin, and an ugly face. She killed a bishop. She might have killed her former Queen.

To me, she wasn't real; she was the villain in a story that had resulted in her death, a death that, I was sure, she deserved. I hated Anne Boleyn. I hated the thought that Catherine of Aragon had died because of her. I hated her because she made Princess Mary work as a servant. In these many, many books I read about the Tudor dynasty, Anne was spiteful, ambitious, and terrifying. She was the enemy to the good, shining light of the Tudors. 

   I hate to say it, but Jane Seymour, dull as she was, was more of a hero in my eyes. Jane Seymour.

A few years later, when I was about ten or eleven and hopelessly obsessed with anything remotely historical, I read the below book. It is now completely battered, with the pages curled, possibly from being thrown in bags or carted around on every half-term venture and summer holiday that we went on. Both me and Catherine were obsessed with this book, and I'm pretty sure that we nicked it from our older sister in the first place.







 Margaret Simpson, I owe you one. Because my discovery of Elizabeth I, and my subsequent adoration of her, led me to a change of heart about her mother, Anne Boleyn. If Anne Boleyn had lost early on to Catherine, the good Catholic girl you'd take home to your parents, then Elizabeth would never have happened. England's history would have been entirely different, and my all time heroine would not have been the great, glorious woman that she was.

Elizabeth famously never spoke about Anne, but in her possessions kept the famous 'B' necklace that Anne wears in the portrait of her that hangs in Hever Castle. Elizabeth was Tudor, yes, but she was also Boleyn- and the legacy of her mother was something that I think shaped Elizabeth to be the Queen she was.
  Anne Boleyn was no witch. She was an intelligent, witty, ambitious woman who changed the game for women at a time when they were to be meek and submissive. The villain of the piece is the tyrant who saw wives and women as disposable. Anne wasn't held back by her gender in her quest to secure power and authority. She was not the 'goggled-eyed whore', the evil, dark woman who wickedly led a golden prince astray. Right up until the end, she maintained her innocence, she fought for her life, and she remained courageous in the face of her orchestrated downfall.
 Wolf Hall is the first piece of historical fiction that portrays Anne not as a saint, not as a sorceress, but as an immensely brave and clever woman.
Anne Boleyn was a woman who all women should stop and think twice about.
As you can see below,
I certainly have.
 Bow down to the Queen B.

Please see Hilary Mantel's great article about Anne from the Guardian here: http://www.theguardian.com/books/2012/may/11/hilary-mantel-on-anne-boleyn

Shakespeare & Charlecote: A Match Made in Heaven

"There was a star danced, and under that was I born." - Love's Labours Won

This post is about four months late. I’ve been meaning to write it day after day, week after week, sorting through the photos, thinking of what I could write. Then I completely forgot, and put it on to-do list that only ever seems to lengthen. That was until I saw on my calendar, under 11^th February, ‘LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST CINEMA’, scrawled in black marker pen, and I thought to myself, today’s the day I write about Charlecote Park, Stratford-Upon-Avon, and my love of Shakespeare.

Images copyright of the RSC

Images Copyright of the RSC

You know all about The Vintage Twins’ love for the National Trust, and when I found out last year they had teamed up with the Royal Shakespeare Company for me it was a match made in heaven.  My love affair with Shakespeare started years ago, when I was presented with Charles and Mary Lamb’s ‘Tales From Shakespeare’. I was hooked. One English Literature degree, a dissertation on Shakespeare's history plays, and an RSC Key Card later, I'm here to tell you about two wonderful plays.

Back in October (where did those four months go?) I went down to Stratford-Upon-Avon to see Love’s Labour’s Lost and Love’s Labour’s Won (Much Ado About Nothing). Director Christopher Luscombe is nothing short of a genius, setting these two romantic comedies either side of the First World War.

And the RSC is now bringing these wonderful plays to you, or at least, to a cinema near you on the 11^th February and 4^th March!

But here’s the twist, local National Trust house Charlecote Park makes a wonderful cameo.  The inspired set replicates rooms from the house. Tiny details, such as the carved fireplace, are noted, making the audience feel as though they have been transported to 1914. The WWI connotations are so important and significant, from the solemn ending of Love’s Labour’s Lost, a scene which made me cry. The celebratory, carefree mood of Love’s Labour’s Won is also scattered with hints to the horrors of the war.

The two, quite frankly, hilarious plays are absolutely wonderful. From the incredible sets, to the sumptuous costumes, the music, and most importantly the talented cast, it’s a gorgeous experience. Check out the amazing leads Michelle Terry and Edward Bennett, who are so very likeable and funny.

 

Obviously a trip to Charlecote Park was sandwiched between the two plays. There are links to Shakespeare’s own past, rumour has it the playwright was caught poaching there. With deer roaming round the magnificent park, you can well believe it. Not to mention the Folio which you can see in the library. The house still feels alive, with cooking demonstrations in the kitchen, a tour round the stables and a working farm (check out the adorable pigs!). The house is one of my favourite National Trust properties, with it's friendly staff, beautiful grounds, and rich tapestry of history threaded throughout the interior. It is well worth a visit! 

So for an evening filled with wit, humour, love, loss, and a beautiful stately home, go and see Love’s Labour’s Lost and Love’s Labour’s Won. You won’t regret it. 

Gaskell's House: Manchester's Hidden Gem

Helen ventured out in the snow to uncover the secrets of 84 Plymouth Grove...


84 Plymouth Grove sounds very unassuming. Not quite as grand a title as Chatsworth, Nostell Priory, or any of the other heritage houses we've written about here on What They Wore Yesterday. But there is something special, something different about 84 Plymouth Grove. It was not graced by dukes and duchesses or by royalty, but by some of the most talented and famous writers and thinkers of the Victorian era.
  Finding hidden gems is always great- whether its picking up a pair of vintage trousers for 50p at a car boot sale, or stumbling onto a heritage site as amazing as 84 Plymouth Grove. What makes it even better is when it's slap bang on your doorstep.
  So, welcome to 84 Plymouth Grove, seated at the heart of Manchester and once home to the sensational Elizabeth Gaskell!

She wrote the truth about the poor, the north/south divide, and the struggles of women, and what's more, she did it at a time when her husband was a junior minister, and had half of his congregation raving about the inappropriate writings of his wife. She had her own bank account and wasn't afraid to travel alone. She educated her daughters and encouraged them to live their own lives. She opened up this house, which she was so proud of, to artists and writers- Charles Dickens and Charlotte Bronte were amongst the visitors. 

  Her novels were visionary and she was a woman ahead of her time. (She also created the role of John Thornton in North & South, and anybody who has seen Richard Armitage take on the role knows how swoon-worthy he is. Cheers Elizabeth!) So stepping into her house was an incredible experience- mainly because the whole house is reconstructed so that you can sit, stand, walk, look, wherever she would.

The fires look so real you almost want to reach out and warm your hands, and me and my friends Clare and Liz had to double check whether the cakes on display were edible...

It really is a remarkable place. There are no ropes, no rooms off limits- you can breathe in how they lived through the rooms on display, and see what they wore through the amazing wedding veil exhibition in the living room. 

My favourite room was William Gaskell's study, where I sat to write my own sermon- mainly preaching the wonders of his wife- at his writing desk. The maps on the wall gave an impression of what Manchester was like at the time, and it really is amazing how different the city where I wander every day was. Elizabeth and I saw very different sights when we looked out of the same window. 

Of course, when do either of the What They Wore Yesterday ladies visit a heritage house without heading straight to the tea room? Look how delightful and delicate the china is! Tasty cakes and all sampled in the heart of every house- the kitchen. 

Please, please, fellow northerners- go and support this little house, that is bursting at the seams with the stories of a woman who told some of the most important stories of her time. The volunteers are kind, helpful, and friendly, and from the first step over the front door, you feel at home with Elizabeth herself. 

Becoming Ellen: A 'What They Wore Yesterday' Heroine

"Ellen Wilkinson, I am told, has red hair. But this, my chivalry takes for granted, is not her fault. Neither is it her fault that she was educated in Manchester. Manchester can happen to anybody."

Ellen Wilkinson and I have a lot in common. 

History is at the root of these stories we tell. Stories about the National Trust, the 1950s New Look, and the nostalgic wandering through tiny Devon villages in 1930s dresses.

   So, it might come as a bit of a surprise that our latest What They Wore Yesterday muse is somebody who has sort of been forgotten by history. I say sort of- her name is etched on buildings, printed occasionally in text books. If I'm honest, I didn't know her story until my recent stint of being buried in the archives of the People's History Museum, where four boxes hold everything you could want to know about her- almost. 

   Her name was Ellen Wilkinson, a formidable, fire-haired, 4ft10 northern politician, famous for walking the Jarrow March in 1936 alongside her impoverished constituents, and for taking on the political world at a time when women were still supposed to be staying in the kitchen. Oh, and she started out as a student suffragette. Brilliant. 

   In all the newspaper cuttings that were written about "the spinster of Westminster", at least a third of them were written about the vibrant colours she wore, or how she was doing her hair. She loved wearing bright things- she said it was to counteract the dull colours of her working-class childhood. One journalist even described her as the "best dressed lady in parliament".  Great reading for the thirties fashion fan side of me- not so great for the feminist in me, roaring to be heard. Does it really matter what she wore?

She may not have always followed her head- sometimes she downright followed her heart- but what isn't refreshing about that? One of the best things about her was her energy, and her passion, and her determination. She was different at a time when women weren't supposed to be different, but she didn't care. 

I believe that Ellen was so aware of her fashion tastes being publicised, she used it to add to her distinctiveness, and to gain more attention for her politics. She gave them what they wanted, but played them at their own game. 

This blog documents what people did- and wore- in the past, and how we can bring it into modern day. Most of the time, remembering what they wore isn't as important as remembering what they did, but here, wearing Ellen's signature green, I hope I do her some justice. 

   There's one red-headed fire-brand in Manchester yet.