This was the title of a BBC Radio 4 programme broadcast on Saturday afternoons some years ago, and it fascinated me. The premise was that if someone had told you their earliest memories, those memories stayed 'alive' and could be passed on by you to future generations. Oral history in the making. And the examples they found - of elderly people who recalled memories recounted to them by their own grandparents - were quite incredible. One man had been told by an ancient relative of his memories of the Napoleonic Wars. Imagine that! A family memory going back to 1815, handed down from father to son, and eventually to great-grandson, and still kept alive in the late 20th century. Maybe there is still someone who holds that memory, like a treasured family heirloom, and will pass it on yet again.
Perhaps in the same programme, someone talked about a field behind their house, which was exceptionally hummocky, with one particular hillock always being referred to locally as 'where the old king was buried'. Nobody knew why it was called that. It just always had been, as far back as anyone could remember. It was a folk-memory.
One day, it was excavated, and what was found there? Relics of a far-distant age which indicated that it had indeed been the grave of a highly important man - a 'king'. The folk-memory was true - an instance of 'I remember, He Remembered' so old that nobody knew when it had begun; yet it had persisted through many centuries.
My 'I Remember, He Remembered' was passed to me by my father, who was born in 1895. He grew up in Gosport, Hampshire, which stands on the shores of Portsmouth Harbour and close by his house ran the branch railway line from near the harbour to Fareham, where it would join the main line. It was probably quite busy - I remember trains using it regularly myself, although mostly for freight by then - but its main claim to fame was that it was used by Queen Victoria when she visited her home Osborne House, on the Isle of Wight.
Now, the most direct route for the Queen would have been via Portsmouth itself. There's still a station right on the harbour, and in older days the Isle of Wight ferries used to come right to the end of its platforms. But Victoria disliked Portsmouth, to such an extent that she refused even to use it as a travelling route. She caused a jetty to be built further up the harbour (still called the Southern Railway Jetty) and there she disembarked and crossed to Gosport, where her train awaited for the last part of her journey.
It was the last journey she ever made that was remembered by my father, after she had died at Osborne House. As a boy of six, he saw the black-clad carriage bearing her coffin, travelling slowly through the fringes of the town, and knew that the Queen's body lay within. Someone presumably told him, and presumably he understood the gravity of the occasion, for it was a memory that stayed with him throughout his own long life, until he died at the age of 89. A memory that was by then 83 years old.
Queen Victoria died in 1901. I hold the memory now of that train journey, and it's 110 years old. I've told my grandchildren (and I'll probably tell them again, to make sure!) and I hope that either they or I will tell their children. It could last another 50 years. Another 100. Who knows?
I'm not looking to draw any conclusions from this. Not all folk-memories are true, though they're worth paying attention to. And it doesn't really matter to anyone else that I hold a memory of a moment in history 110 years old, or that some descendant of the Napoleonic Wars man holds one going back nearly 200 years. But it's interesting. And, somehow, it feels valuable.
So if you have such a memory, passed down through the family, take a little time to make sure it gets passed on. It's as valuable as a piece of antique porcelain. In fact, since it can't be sold at auction, subject to the vagaries of a collector's market, it might be said to be even more valuable.
Have a rummage through Grandma's attic (her memories) and see what treasures are still there!
What a wonderful blog post, Lilian! Most of the stories I remember come from my mother's side of the family; from her mother, in particular. They're not always reliable, however. She claimed to have come from a titled family who lived on an estate in Worcestershire. She said her father was the squire's son and he got struck off, having brought disgrace upon the family. However, when I researched her family tree, I discovered her family were listed as 'agricultural workers' on that same estate. The truth does get twisted to suit circumstances sometimes!
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