My doctor, who is a charming but efficient lady, mostly listens patiently as I sit and recount my ailments to her. She dutifully prescribes a placebo, mutters under her breath ‘that should fix him until the next time’ then goes about looking after people who are really ill, rather than a neurotic hypochondriac like me. But even her patience has been exhausted recently as my visits for a strained neck have verged on thrice a week.
You see, in researching stories and looking for unknown and interesting ‘angles’ for a tale, I have truly stretched that neck to its limits.
So why, you may ask, does a couple of paragraphs about the village of Newick start off with mention of a French hotel?
The 18th century Hotel de Charost in Paris isn’t a hotel any more. It’s now the British Embassy. But as a hotel it has had a history that is colourful to say the least. It was purchased in 1803 by the wayward but intriguing Pauline Borghese, sister of Napoleon, and wife of an Italian prince. In the words of the Embassy staff, ‘by all accounts, she was a bit of a wrong ‘un’. She was a great party goer and a great party giver and according to diaries of the time, she liked to walk around naked at her soirees, in order to be admired. It is said that a man was employed to carry her into and out of her bath; and if she felt cold, she warmed her feet in the neckline of a
lady-in-waiting lying on the floor.
Pretty naughty stuff, but what you may say has this to do with the shy and retiring but charming little village, nine miles from Lewes, called Newick?
The teller of these tales is the head of the British Embassy staff in Paris, formerly the Hotel de Charost, once owned by the Duke of Wellington and scene of many of the lascivious festivities organised by Pauline Borghese. His name? Ben Newick. It’s the only thing in common that Hotel de Charost has with East Sussex.
There, do you start to have an inkling why my doctor is so fed up with me?
Newick, is not a flamboyant village. In fact, although there is evidence that the community goes back well before the Norman Conquest, it isn’t logged in the Domesday Book. The reason some historians suggest is that it was tucked away so deep in the Ashdown Forest, the invaders couldn’t find it.
But this modest little settlement of 2500 souls has a few fascinating moments in its history to perk up the inquisitive mind, stretch necks to a scribe’s limit and paint a picture of eccentricity and innovation.
The tramp of armed soldiers marching through its centre, echoing down its streets was heard as early as 1264, when Simon de Montfort’s Barons’ army passed through on the way to defeating Henry III at the Battle of Lewes.
But the real echoes came much later in the form of leather on willow. Two village brothers proved to be exceptional cricketers, James and John Langridge; James played for England eight times until he was forty, being a member of Douglas Jardine’s team, the famous bodyline bowling character of 1932. James captained Sussex for three years and was knownto be both a very accomplished bowler and batsman.
Brother John was described in the Cricket ‘Bible’ Wisden as “one of the best English cricketers of the 20th century never to play a Test”. John first played for Sussex in 1928 stayed there until he retired at 45 in 1955, scoring more than 34,000 runs and 76 centuries as an opening batsman. He went on to became a first class umpire for seven Test matches and eight one day internationals, being awarded the MBE for services to cricket.
Funny how things tie up. The two brothers were encouraged to develop their talents by the local squire, Thomas Baden-Powell. The Powell’s had been a leading family in the district for many years and Thomas was an ardent cricketer.
His enthusiasm probably grew from being close to the village of Chalvington. The ground for Chalvington and Ripe Cricket Club is in the grounds of the village pub, The Yew Tree Inn. Cricket was born there in 1762. The ground is still in use and many famous players, such as WG Grace have played on its carefully tended surface.
Sadly, although the cricket ground at Newick was similarly picturesque, it eventually surrendered to the 20th Century vandals of governance and now holds houses and bungalows.
Thomas Powell was also the cousin of Lord Robert Baden-Powell who founded the Boy Scout movement. So Newick’s contribution to famous organisations is endless.
Despite wholesale modern changes, with buildings ugly enough to give a scribe nightmares (not just in Newick but in many formerly pretty and charming English villages), the residents have retained numerous enchanting features of yesteryear, including three pubs and St Mary’s, an 11th century church, plus a village green with shops and houses surrounding it.
The village is proud to have its own Bonfire Society and in 1999 set a world record for the biggest Catherine Wheel ever built.
Of course, in such a small and close community, gossip and rumours are always rife, and I’ve just picked up a tip that an entertainer is appearing at one of the pubs soon, who is rumoured to be a relative of Napoleon Bonaparte.
But no, if I stretch my neck one more time, my doctor has threated to cross me off her list. Can’t risk it. She knows too much about my ailments for me to change my doctor now.