Another Small Town

Horncastle, UK - Jamie - Thursday, May 12th, 2005 : goo

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And so I find myself, once again living in the country. In an historic market town in the heart of the Lincolnshire Wolds. Today just as it was in Roman times, Horncastle is one of those nowhere-in-particular places. The Romans built the fort of Banovallum here sometime time during the last quarter of the third century. The exact purpose of the fort is a matter of contention as it lay neither on nor near to any major roman roads of its time. Despite its remote location, the walls were an outstanding 12 feet thick, and are estimated to have been up to 20 feet in height. They built that baby to last.

Modern day River Waring

The Romans hauled-ass back to Rome some centuries later, heralding the beginning of the dark ages. The population of the settlement more than halved owing to the famine and pestilence that ensued. The Anglo-Saxons came to name this place Hyrnecastre, meaning “fort in a corner”. The corner being the junction of the River Waring and River Bain, which was at one point navigable all the way to Boston. The Bain was later superceded by the Horncastle Canal which was in turn made redundant by the introduction of the railways; finally throwing in the towel in 1898. There is currently talk of reviving the old canal in an effort to attract tourism.

It is from the name Hyrnecastre that the modern-day name of Horncastle is derived. Little of the original roman walls remain as they were a ready source of building materials during the centuries following roman withdrawal. St. Mary’s church is a good example of this architectural cannibalism. Before you ask, I have no idea where the surviving sections of roman wall reside. I’m curious to find out though.

The population of Horncastle for the majority of its existence has hovered around 100 souls or less. Wealth and prosperity only really began to return during Tudor times. Then came the industrial revolution which forcibly nudged the numbers towards their current plateau of around 5,000 inhabitants. In relative terms however Horncastle is no larger than it has ever been.

Horncastle proudly holds the title of ‘Best Antiques Town 2001’. Whether this title is national or regional in scope I neither know nor care to, but every other business premises in this town houses an antiques dealer. There are countless other quaint little shoppes, bakeries, tea rooms and other curiosities to be found amongst the more mundane high street chains. How any of these businesses manage to turn enough profit to stay afloat though, is to my mind the biggest curiosity of all. Horncastle has made virtually no mark on the history of this country, though there was once a Horse Fair held in the town which is said to have attracted buyers from all over Europe. The fair, first chartered in the early thirteenth century reached its historical peak in the mid 1800s. It was, at that time, reputed to be the world’s largest horse fair, and it was during one years abandoned merriment that a farmer made an unusual disappearance. His skeletal remains lay undiscovered; sealed between two walls, until their accidental discovery some thirty years later. Who had killed him and why are questions that will probably never be answered. The local trade in horses moved into drastic decline along with the canal, around the turn of the last century. By the end of world war two the fat lady was beginning to sing. The last horse fair to be held in the town was in 1948; a mere shadow of its former grandeur.

Wharf Road

And you’re no doubt wondering by now how I come to posses all these historically obscure factoids about my adopted hometown. Learning about stuff is my new hobby. That and writing; and photography. Perhaps it has something to do with working in a school, or perhaps I’m just making up for lost time. In either case, I am nonetheless discovering that I am neither as dim-witted nor as intellectual as I had previously been led (mostly by myself) to believe.

I’m starting lately to examine and analyze things to a ridiculous extent. I have an acute interest in the most pedantic of matters. Recently I’ve decided that Lincolnshire harbours the same small-town attitudes and narrow-mindedness as does Northern Ireland. I have openly been deemed gay for wearing a lilac shirt and tie combo, in much the same way as I was deemed gay in Northern Ireland for having the audacity to sport a wooly hat in public. Perhaps I am gay. That said; there is not quite the same level of social retrospection here as in Northern Ireland. On such a densely populated island as this, you’re never far from an urban centre. There is precious little wilderness here, and one is never far from at least a modicum of liberal common sense. I can if I wish, purchase a tasty kebab prepared by a man with a loose grasp of both the English language and basic food hygiene; And that’s just the way I like it.

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Jamie: ... and thats why i eat my peas with honey

Anonymous : isso é uma BOSTA

Jamie: smartypants

jamie: umm recently.. i meant recently

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