On the trail of Wilfred Owen - PART 1 - Shrewsbury

Regular readers will already be aware of my massive admiration and love for the amazing poet Wilfred Owen. His poetry is cleverly written and genuinely beautiful, despite the subject matter and his honesty about his experiences has inspired me more than I could possibly express in words.

On the Trail of the Poets of the Great War - Wilfred Owen by Helen McPhail and Philip Grant is a fantastic book, which I bought back in 2010. I was on the trip to Ypres and the Somme, in which I also drove up to Ors, where Wilfred is buried (see my post about that trip). It has proven invaluable in locating some of the places which were important in his life. I haven't yet located all of them yet but I hope to get round all of them eventually. 

Last August, my friends Anna and Ralph married at Craig Y Nos Castle in South Wales. It was a beautiful wedding in a really interesting Victorian gothic setting, all watched over by 19^th Century opera singer and former owner of the castle: Adelina Patti.

Once the celebrations were over, Mike and I decided that it was the perfect opportunity, being in the West Country, to find some of the places where Wilfred and the Owen family had lived. One hastily booked Travelodge later, we were off to Shrewsbury in my old 1991 Fiesta.

Shrewsbury Abbey

Shrewsbury really took us by surprise. A beautiful old town, it sits in a meander of the River Severn in Shropshire. It is full of amazing tudor buildings and balances its history with the modern world really well. We both fell in love with this little town immediately. Everywhere we walked, I couldn't help but imagine that Wilfred had walked the same paths, and looked at the same sights. It felt really special.

The first place we visited was the ancient abbey. An imposing structure of red sandstone, it stands in an unwalled graveyard, which almost feels like a park.

Symmetry

At the far end of the graveyard is 'Symmetry', a granite monument in remembrance of Wilfred Owen. It was designed by Paul de Monchaux in 1993.

On one side, is a quotation from Owen's poem 'Strange Meeting' and the structure is designed to echo the tunnel, which is referred to in the poem. It is a beautiful monument.

Within the Abbey is a memorial to the men of Shrewsbury, who gave their lives in the Great War. Wilfred's name is marked by a poppy.

The Abbey itself is beautiful and its staff were very friendly to us. 

Not far from the Abbey, in the Monkmoor area of the town, are the two houses in which Wilfred and the Owen family lived in, after moving from Birkenhead in 1907.

1 Cleveland Place (Now in Underdale Road)

 The first house – 1 Cleveland Place – is no longer known by that address, having become part of Underdale Road but, under a thick layer of decaying white paint, the former address is still just visible, carved into the pillars at the end of the path. 

The house itself, mid terraced and three stories tall, is fairly imposing but pleasing on the eye. 

The Owen Family lived here from 1907 until 1910.

Mahim

Mahim – the last place Wilfred's parents lived before he died, is a beautiful house – semi detached with a large bay window and attic room. It is located at number 69 Monkmoor Road.

As I stood there, I looked up at the dorma window jutting from the roof and I could just imagine dear Wilfred sitting at that window, head stooped towards his desk, writing poetry and letters, studying his books and honing his craft. 







Mahim bears a plaque in recognition of the fact that Wilfred lived there from 1910-1918.

 

I must say that I didn't track these places down unaided. My guide book was fantastic, providing detailed and accurate directions, which made it really easy to find what I was looking for. 

Other places I located, using the guide were Wilfred Owen Close, Shrewsbury Station, where Tom Owen (Wilfred's father) worked and also the former site of Shrewsbury technical school, where Wilfred attended school. 

Shrewsbury Station

Former site of Shrewsbury Technical School

St Julian's Church

Finally, we found St Julian's Church, where Wilfred's mother was an active member of the congregation. The church contains a roll of honour for the war dead of the congregation, where Wilfred is named.


 

I loved discovering Shrewsbury and finding the various locations which featured in Wilfred's life and the monuments erected in his memory. I would go back in a heartbeat.

Colchester WriteNight meeting 13th May 2013 - Strange Meeting

Last night, I went to the Castle Pub for the WriteNight meeting. 

I organised an activity for us to do.  We read the poem 'Strange Meeting' by Wilfred Owen, in which Owen describes a ghostly encounter with the ghost of a German soldier he killed.  We discussed it and then I set the task of writing a prose story, with the title 'Strange Meeting'.  

Between us, the stimulus inspired some very different stories, all of which were interesting to listen to.

My contribution is below.  I hope you enjoy it!  

 

Strange Meeting

I gaze down at my blood stained hands. Cracks of crimson gaze through scaly, raw skin, as my body pays the price for my inner demons.

Itching. Awful, insane itching irritates my hands, my mind, my soul.

Is it possible to be physically allergic to mental torment? I very much doubt any physician would define it as such but I definitely believe it.

Clawing at the backs of my hands, I shudder, as my nails graze along elephantine skin. Unwillingly, I restrain a groan of simultaneous relief and agony, as the itching temporarily gives way to the pain of flesh tearing from flesh, It has to end soon. One way or another, it just has to.

Pulling the gloves back down, I look for a distraction – something to break the spell of all consuming misery. I have to go out.

An hour later, attired in my darkest disguise; 'Disco Goth'; I head for the not-so cobbled streets of Colchester. My Doc Martens creak their way up the High Street, as the leather continues to mould itself to the curves of my calves. My lace sleeves dig into my skin; especially on my poor hands. In my disguise, I exude confidence, poise, balls. No-one would guess the truth.

Marching into the pub, I greet my friend. We exchange inane, profane stories for a moment, before acquiring a pint of cider each. Karaoke will be a triumph. I will belt out some depressing, angry man-metal, swing my hair about and go home knackered but full of hilarious, yet terrifying stories of strange meetings with the eclectic mix of drunken freaks that frequent the dark corners of the pub. It will be just the thing to drag me, kicking and screaming, out of my stressy stew.

Then I see her.

What is she doing here? She doesn't even live in Colchester.

Her. Blonde hair, the slim, curvy figure I know all too well. One glimpse of her and I can feel her steely gaze; hear her metallic, insipid voice, bleating out insidious niceties. One glimpse of her and I sense her tightening deathly grip on me heart.

I breathe in. My lungs have no capacity. I breathe out. They contain no air. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out … in an increasingly erratic, violent, pumping rhythm.

My pounding face can scarcely contain the intense heat burning my cheeks.

I slump to the ground; my legs concertinaed up beneath me, as I struggle for breath.

People crowd around me, asking me stupid questions, to which the answer is obvious.

“Are you alright?” a chorus repeats. “What's wrong?”

“Puff … puff ...” is all they hear but inside, I'm screaming at the top of my broken lungs. “Yep! I'm alright. Obviously. People, who are alright always crouch on floors, wheezing, turning purple and then draining to a deathly grey pallor all the time, you STUPID IDIOTS!”

I flick my helpless eyes back in her direction. She smirks, raising a washed out eyebrow. “Failure” her eyes scream. Hopeless drain on our resources, Drain. Drain. Drain. My helpless body, still puffing and panting, as the panic ensues, won't let me tell anyone that my kryptonite is jeering me voicelessly, from the bar.

The crowd fades, as my mental anaphylaxis consumes me. Then all is dark.

© Annie Bell 2013