No breakthrough in Suffolk

THE search for information about my great grandfather’s early life continues to frustrate my best efforts (for any new readers: I started off thinking he was born in Ireland, then found an Army record that strongly suggested he was born in Ipswich and raised in the Suffolk village of Trimley).

This week, Suffolk Record Office sent me the results of their research. There is no record of a William Henry Feeney baptised in any of the 18 parishes of Ipswich around 1843.

There are 15 entries for Finney, with one William (but for the year 1875), and none for Henry. There are also three entries for Finny, but none is a William or Henry. So the Ipswich line of enquiry goes cold.

In the parishes of Trimley St Martin and Trimley St Mary, there are 30 entries for Finney between 1813 and 1875, and one of them is for a William Henry Finney, son of Caroline Finney, who was baptised in 1846. This sounds very promising – and then a note in the baptismal records, to say that William Henry was being baptised several years after he was born – in 1831. So he cannot have been my great-grandfather.

Ah well, it’s back to searching for a clue in Irish records.

Dangerous charm

SO LONG, KID: Alex Frith was able to charm the grumpiest editor

THE Current Mrs Feeney and I were at a funeral on Monday. Alex Frith walked into my life one morning shortly after I had taken over the Editor’s chair at the South Wales Evening Post in 2002.

She breezed into my office, introduced herself as my Children’s Editor (until that moment, I was unaware that we had one), and explained that she wrote a weekly column about elf-like marine creatures called The Bumbles of Mumbles. Apparently, every Christmas there was a Bumbles Special show at the Grand Theatre. All of Swansea’s dance schools took part. At the end of the show, every dance school principal received a bouquet on stage. It would be very kind of me if I would agree to do the honours this year.

Which I did. That year, and every year after that. Every year, I would tell myself that I wouldn’t get talked into it again. Alex would walk into my office, tell me that my ‘aura’ was “looking good, kid,” and leave with my enthusiastic agreement. Worked every time.

Which just proves, there is nothing more dangerous for a man than a charming woman.

Denying the undeniable

I WENT to a Silver Screening at our local Vue cinema this week. They are for those of us who have reached what is called, in polite society, “senior” status. TCMrsF was unable to join me, if you get my drift.

The film being shown was Denial, about the real-life (unsuccessful) libel action brought by Hitler historian David Irvine against an American Jewish female writer who accused him in her book of deliberately distorting historical facts about the Holocaust to suit his own political views.

Having visited Auschwitz Birkenau twice, I find it hard to comprehend why anybody would seek to reject the truth about the biggest crime in history.

I thought Timothy Spall was horribly watchable as Irvine, but the film struggled as a courtroom drama because of the defence team’s decision not to put either the defendant or any Auschwitz survivors in the witness box. So, no climactic showdown between Irvine and her or them.

Still, a reduced-price ‘superior’ seat, and free coffee and biscuits. I must go again. TCMrsF won’t be joining me.

Time and tide

POSTCARD SCENE: this is how I recall Langland Bay in the 1970s.

TO Langland Bay yesterday, with The Gamekeeper son, our daughter-in-law and our two grandsons, who had a lot of fun exploring rock pools and digging holes.

I was shocked by how little sand there was on the beach. I recall Langland in the 1970s as a golden cove; now it is strewn with black rocks. Either my memory is wrong, or time and the tides have wreaked havoc.

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