Elizabeth Brownrigg

Please sir, can I have some more...sources

In this case it was not a soul he was looking to steal…well not according to the legend that surrounds this particular event. The second largest open space in Essex can be found in a village on the outskirts of Chelmsford called Danbury, affectionately known as “The common”. I say the second largest, it is the runner up to the huge Epping Forest and as you know, I have written a book about that particular gem of stories and events (The Elements of Epping Forest if you did not already know). When I had horses, I kept them about half a mile away from the eponymous common, and although my horse was pretty much bombproof, she hated this particular stretch of land. To begin with I thought it may be me inadvertently transmitting my fear down to her, but no matter who took her there, she would suddenly become very spooky and start to throw her equine toys out of the pram. It made me wonder what exactly she was sensing that turned this incredibly chill mare into a hot footing headcase, and after she passed away, I stumbled across what it may have been - or at least an interesting tale to accompany the area. According to the 16 th century Chronicles of England, Scotland and Ireland by Raphael Holinshead, in 1402, the villagers were in St John the Baptist church (just off Main Street) celebrating Corpus Christi day- this date can vary as it is the first Thursday after Trinity Sunday, so occurs between late May and mid June – and there was a horrendous thunder storm ensuing. At the height of the storm, the devil himself (disguised as a grey friar) was said to have entered the church : “… behaving himself very outrageously, playing his parts like a devil indeed, so that the parishioners were put in a marvelous great fright. At the same instant, there chanced such a tempest of wind, thunder, and lightning, that the highest part of the roof of that church was blown down, and the chancel was all to shaken, rent, and torn in pieces”. The story intimates that it was Lucifer himself who had brought the storm, to help him destroy the church and scare those worshipping inside it. After he had torn the building to shreds, he left, the villagers picking up the pieces of their broken holy place. But there is more… To add insult to injury, the devil came back and stole one of the church’s six bells, the congregation were having no more of his mischief, decided to pursue him and he dropped it, legend has it that it was so heavy (which was more why he dropped it than the fact he was being chased apparently) and the hole it made became a pond – there is actually a hill called Bell Hill, and a pond on that hill, people have visited in the hope of seeing Satan himself. The other version says that he dropped it just by the road, and is now the site of the Bell Inn pub, also the reason why the church has five bells instead of six, it was never replaced. I could not find in local records why Bell Hill is called that, nor when the pub was named the Bell Inn (although it is on said hill, which could also be the reason), and it may all just fit neatly into the legend, but for those who think Essex is nothing but a commuter county, it was good enough for the devil himself to visit…

Every so often when you are researching for a specific project, a person in history seems to leap out and catch you unawares…this is one such individual and now that I have seen them, I do not wish to “unsee”. As many of you know, I am a bit of an aviation nut, especially pre the jet age, and one of the talks I give is on the Air Transport Auxiliary (ATA) of the Second World War. That particular interest started when I found out they had female pilots and developed from there (I can recommend the book Spitfire Women by Giles Whittell if you would like to learn more) I was giving my talk over the summer, and one of the questions was “What about the First World War? Were there any female pilots then?” I was able to say that there were none that sprung to mind, and that there certainly was not an operation similar to the ATA in place, but there were women who had their flying license. This blog is not to cover the history of flight as that is about one hundred thousand words in its own right, but more to do with the advent of fixed wing and what was to become the conventional “aeroplane”. The Wright brothers are credited with the first flight per se, 17 th December 1903, and it is quite mind blowing to think that just eleven years later, aircraft were being utilised for military purposes with the First World War. Enough of that brief history lesson, there is shedloads of information out there if that is something you want to look into, I want to focus on the fiancée of danger, an amazing woman by the name of Marie Marvingt. Born in France in 1875, she was brought up by her father to be a very active child, her only brother being quite a fragile young lad, and this seems to be a route that she positively embraced. By the age of four, Marie could swim four kilometres – in fact she became the first French woman to swim the length of the Seine through Paris – but she was not just part fish, fencing, shooting, bob sledding, horse riding, skiing, mountaineering…you name it, she was most definitely a force to be reckoned with. In fact, her love of cycling was such that in 1908, when she was refused admission to the all-male Tour de France, she rode the course to prove she could (behind the men) and completed it – impressive anyway, but considering only a third of the actual competitors finished it, shows just how phenomenal she was. You would think her exploits may end there, but no, there is decidedly more. Marie had her first balloon flight in 1901, by 1907 she was piloting said mode of transport and in 1909 was the first woman to pilot a balloon across the North Sea (France to England), then five years later the first woman to fly a balloon across the channel. As impressive as those accomplishments were, she was not finished. In the November of 1910 she had received her fixed wing flying license, and when war broke out in the August of 1914, she was keen to do her part, which was? To dress up as a man and serve with the French army at the front…sadly she was discovered and sent home. Not to be deterred, she ended up working with the Italians - it is said at the request of Marshal Foch – participating in military operations, maybe an information gatherer but knowing Marie, she was probably there gun in hand, just hoping that the enemy would look her way. Are her exploits exhausting you yet? Drink that coffee, eat that biscuit, you need the energy to keep going. She did! Not only did she fight on the front line, she was also a Red Cross surgical nurse, medicine was something that had been on her mind for many years, as early as 1910 when she had learned to fly fixed wing aircraft, she had proposed a system of flying ambulances to the French government. These would be flown by women, and contain medical staff to enable swift evacuation of wounded military personnel to get them from the casualty clearing centres in the midst of battle to the surgical hospitals where they could be treated. Oh, and she was awarded a Croix du guerre…for? Bombing a German base, yes, first woman to fly in combat as well. Did this adrenaline junkie over achieving amazing human ever take her foot off the gas? Did she heck, at the age of 80 she took up helicopter lessons and for her birthday that year, the US air Force took her up in a F-101 Voodoo jet aircraft.  She had not stopped keeping fit, and at the age of 86, cycled from Nancy to Paris, only a mere two hundred miles or so. The Fiancée of Danger died at in December 1963, I think she left a lot for us to consider as to what a human is capable of.

I am always on the lookout for a series to binge watch, sometimes I just want something frivolous that I can switch off to, but other times…I like it to make me think. My husband and I were bored with the television that was available and I saw a new release on Netflix called “Kaos”, it mentioned black comedy, mythology and vengeful Greek Gods. I am most definitely sold! In a nutshell it is a re- imagining of various mythological stories of old, set in a more modern time and - without spoiling the plot too much – with humans who defy the will of the Gods of Olympus. Zeus is played by a suitably bonkers Jeff Goldblum, who is not only a veritable shagging machine, but also paranoid in a way that it made me think of megalomaniac leaders like Stalin and Kim Jong Un who had and have no hesitation in killing those close to them if they get it into their head that they have been betrayed. I have to say that I thought Hera - the wife and sister of Zeus – was brilliantly played by Janet McTeer, although I can see the vengefulness in her towards the mortal women who Zeus had affairs with, it was difficult to marry that with (if you pardon the coming pun) her role in mythology as the goddess of marriage, women and family and protector of women during childbirth. I think that maternal nature only exists if you had not got yourself in the family way due to her philandering little brother and husband… The show is predominantly set in three main locations, Heraklion in Crete, Mount Olympus and the underworld, I can say I have been to two of those places but I will leave it for you to work out which! I did find it a shame that none of it was filmed in Greece or her islands, but it was not meant to look “ancient” and maybe in this dystopian world ruled by the all powerful Zeus the Greek language does not exist. Whether you have watched it or not, you may disagree with my use of the word dystopian, but I do believe that is fitting. The dictionary states the meaning of the word as “relating to or denoting an imagined state or society where there is great suffering or injustice” and whilst religion does play a huge part in the lives of many, this show has a Goddess turning mortal women into bees if they sleep with her husband, it has the dead going to a place of nothingness, people having to follow the will of the Gods or die…I suppose one could argue that maybe it is not imagined, although one of my favourite works of dystopian genius is 1984 by George Orwell, and whilst that was fiction, much of it is not a million miles from the truth. Shall I throw some other well known Greek entities of mythological origin out to you to wet your appetite? The Fates, The Furies, Minos, the Minotaur, Trojans, even Icarus gets a mention.  What the creator Charlie Covell has done – which may or may not have been their intention - was put a series together which you can watch without having an interest in Greek mythology and enjoy it, or for someone like me, be googling the various characters like crazy trying to find out what their historical back story actually was, and what their place is in the various legends of old.

Who else loves to visit graveyards? I know that quite a few of you do as I see the posts about it. On my recent family holiday to Somerset, we had parked outside a gorgeous old church in Mulcheney and my – newly turned – eleven year old excitedly asked if we could walk around the grounds and look at the gravestones. He knows how much I enjoy speaking the people’s names, and has started to gain an interest into looking at the dates and speculating on who they were. Once he is a bit older I will most definitely teach him how to research those individuals and to learn more, but up until then, I just embrace his interest and do the deep diving myself. There was one particular marker that caught my attention as it seemed so sad, in case you cannot read the photo I attached it says - In loving memory of William Pipe Beckey who died February 19 th 1929 aged 70 years, also of his seven children. Resting in the Lord. The main thing that positively jumped out at me was the mention of his seven children, no names, no additional writing to explain how old they were, just that, seven children. It made me wonder what had happened, I am no stranger to seeing whole families listed on the stone, and normally a bit of historical quarrying tends to uncover something like a flu epidemic, a bout of cholera or something similar. Was this what had happened to Mr Beckey and his family? I thought some of you may find it useful to know how I do my research, or at least how I tend to start it when looking at something like his. My first port of call was the 1911 census, this is a really handy one (if obviously it is the right time period) as it shows how long a couple have been married and also how many children have been born to that coupling – for completeness, there is also a box for how many of those children are still living. I do tend to find it quite sad when I see numbers that show high child mortality for a particular family, as in the case of the Beckeys. Under the website produced by the University of Cambridge, populationspast.org which shows you per area the mortality rate for both infants (under 1) and young children (between 1 to 5 years old), the figures for the district of Langport (where Mulcheney fits into) are not as high as more industrialised areas and are nearly 100/1000 and 60/1000 respectively in 1881. Looking up the Beckey family on that 1911 census showed they had been married for thirty eight years and the union had produced sixteen offspring, of which ten were still alive – by this point Anna Maria, William’s wife was now into her late fifties so we can safely assume she had no more children. A quick and slightly clinical mathematical calculation shows they lost over a third of their family, when the average for 1881 was nearer 6%. I then start going back over previous census records to see who was still living at home, and if a child was not mentioned who maybe should have still been under the care of their parents, then you look to see if there is a record applicable to them.  Trying to work out who the seven children were who are unnamed on the grave marker is tricky, by using baptism records you can work out those to born to William and Anna Maria, but when you have had someone who has been giving birth every twelve months or so, and there is a large “gap” in ages, it is safe to assume that there may have been a bereavement of a baby before they had even been registered. I was able to trace five of the children, and whilst they may not have been buried in a marked grave due to cost – they were agricultural workers so money would not have been in abundance - I hope that Sarah Jane, Samuel, Mary Ann, Ethel and Gertie are resting easily.

One of these days I will get my arse into gear and actually start researching this amazing woman and write a book about her, but until my backside decides to play ball, you will have to put up with me putting together short little pieces about her and talking incessantly of her achievements and biblical sized kahoonahs. If anyone ever wonders why I do not have a degree or some kind of academic attainment, they will probably find it easy to understand the reasons I do not. Not sure any university lecturer would give me brownie points for using words like kahoonahs in my essays, anyway, onwards and upwards… The woman who came to be known as Lady Florence Dixie was born Lady Florence Douglas in May 1855, the daughter of Caroline Margaret Clayton and Archibald Douglas, the 8 th Marquis of Queensbury. And here is where the first real questions can start to be asked about the eventual Scottish tomboy. Sometimes, her father is cited as the 7 th Marquis, rather than the 8 th , why is this? If you have read my book “The battle for Bosworth Hall” you will know exactly why, but for those of you who are yet to experience that particular pleasure, it is due to an ancestor of the family. In 1707, the future 3 rd Marquis - James Douglas – is said to have murdered, roasted on a spit and then consumed a young scullion (a male version of a scullery maid). He was only 10 years old at the time but had been deemed so dangerously violent and insane, that he was in permanent restraints. Somehow he had managed to escape these and go on to commit the awful act. If you are so predisposed, the site of this cannibalism took place at Queensberry House in Edinburgh, and the fire area he used is still there. So are some good old fashioned hauntings, maybe from its time as a cholera hospital in the 19 th century or even it is said, of the poor lad who was eaten by the psychologically disturbed Marquis. Florence’s life, surrounded by scandal that the family tried to erase, was to be hit with tragedy when her father died in a supposed hunting accident, a fatal wound to his chest. There was talk of him having taken his own life, however most newspaper articles after the event were adamant that this was not the case, and could never have been the case as he had asked his daughter Gertrude to come with him, had written a number of business letters prior to the fatal accident and also was notoriously careless with his gun. Her brother Francis fell to his death whilst climbing the Matterhorn, and his remains were never found, all of this must have been a lot to contend with. Florence was the epitome of a tom boy, she had short hair, regularly competed with her brothers at the more masculine type events such as hunting, swimming and the like - and despite being only five foot tall, held her own. In 1875 she married Sir Alexander Dixie, he of Bosworth Hall, in fact it was her determination and lack of fear which caused her wedding to be delayed when she had an accident whilst out fox hunting (no judgement, I am just reciting history here) and managed to well, basically smash her face in after a fall. As I mention in my book, “The battle for Bosworth Hall”, Florence had a wanderlust and being a prolific writer, was always looking for new projects, many of which got her into trouble. I think that she was the stereotypical adrenalin junkie, and even after her mind was changed regarding the “sport” of hunting following her trip to Patagonia, even going as far as to turn her vegetarian – although if you read about her diet it is verging on vegan – she was still a force to be reckoned with. Her tenure at Bosworth Hall was comparatively short compared to other Dixie wives, Sir ABCD (the nickname of Alexander as his full name was Alexander Beaumont Churchill Dixie) was a horrendous businessman and somewhat of a spendthrift, so in 1885 the estate was sold off to pay the family debts. Florence is said to have had a strong part in that decision.  Whilst from 1885 the hall was no longer in the Dixie family’s possession, I believe that Florence is still there, and it is apt that the now hotel is dog friendly as she was a real lover of all things canine, in fact, if you are coming along for www.festivaloftheunexplained.com this year (and tickets are available) go and have a wander into the woods and see if you can find the monument to Smut, a black and tan old English terrier who had belonged to Lady Florence

On 9 th June 68AD, Emperor Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus took his own life, the blade at his throat guided by his loyal assistant (and freedman) Epaphroditus rather than face the ignominy of being stripped and beaten to death due to his newly decreed status as being an enemy of the state by the Roman senate. Based on some of the well- trodden historical roads that have been travelled by biographers of Roman history such as Suetonius and Tacitus, any type of violent and unnatural death was exactly what this supposedly hated tyrannical leader deserved and nothing more.  But is this fair? There are so many figures in history who have been maligned by the writers after that you would think they were the devil incarnate whilst they were alive, Richard III, Queen Mary I, Catherine the Great even Vlad the Impaler, but when you start to dig into the time in which they lived, the danger they were constantly facing, then it makes it a lot harder to castigate them for their actions. What I mean by this is I read an article recently that discussed how awful Catherine the Great was, the author was both disgusted and horrified that during a bout of pleurisy she had consented to bloodletting…how absolutely heinous of her! And yes, I am being sarcastic, another cause of complaint was when Catherine decided to read and better her brain when bored with her marriage, well banish her to a deserted island for that abhorrent act. Anyway, Nero. I like so many others naïve of the intricacies surrounding his reign thought that he was a vicious killer, slaughtering wives, walking around the city of Rome under cover of darkness and murdering unsuspecting city folk, tossing their bodies in the sewers like common garbage, not to mention starving the locals of the proceeds of taxation and erecting extravagant buildings to benefit him and him alone. Not to mention his dislike of Christians, burning them as human candles, but as with so many things, there is doubt being cast on that by modern day scholars who study that time. When I visited Rome in 2018, we were lucky enough to have a tour of the infamous colosseum and what was even more fortunate for a total history nerd like myself was that our guide was a working archaeologist (her current project at the time was at Pompeii). When she was showing artists images of the area around the colosseum she mentioned Emperor Nero, and how he had envisaged a place for the common people (as opposed to nobility) to enjoy themselves. Being the inquisitive pain in the backside that I am, I asked her what people thought of Nero as my knowledge was he was a narcissistic murdering sex addict who just wanted to party and write poetry rather than rule. Fortunately, she was not offended at my portrayal and said that current research was actually painting him more as a hero of the average Roman, and that in the areas surrounding Rome he was adored as opposed to vilified. It seems that many of the senate were the problem here, not happy with the fall of Rome as an oligarchy and its transference into an empire with an all powerful individual at its lead. The area that the huge palace – the golden house – and the accompanying buildings were due to occupy was devastated by the Great fire of Rome in 64AD, the very same one that the line “Nero fiddled while Rome burned” is meant to have originated from. The fact that he was around thirty miles away when the inferno blazed, did not stop those with an agenda (again, the upper classes) blaming him and insinuating that he had the fire started deliberately to clear the area so this could all be built. Conveniently ignoring the fact that closely situated wooden constructs were catching fire on a regular basis and it was not an isolated incident. When he returned to Rome, blame for the destruction was levied by him on Christians, and this is where the “Roman torch” method of execution is said to have been devised, and whilst I do not condone murdering people for their religious beliefs, one only has to look at the number of assassinations and deaths that happened during the empires existence to see that nothing was off limits. This is a man whose own mother married her uncle and then after finagling her son into the line of succession, is said to have killed her husband. Roman laws denoted that death by execution could be comparable to the crimes which a person had been charged with. Even with the absolute kangaroo courts that would have found the Christians guilty of burning down the city of Rome, killing hundreds of people and making many thousands homeless – oh yes, there is evidence that Nero opened up his palaces as shelter for those who had lost everything – then being incinerated alive would have been viewed as acceptable punishment. Historians like Suetonius (who was not born until at least a year after Nero’s death) and Tacitus (around ten when the emperor died) have written in scathing contempt of Nero’s rule, one does wonder if their depiction of his life is painted as deliberately revolting to appease the new leaders of the Roman empire, I mean do we really think he raped a vestal virgin? Whilst his death at the age of only 30, and having ruled the empire for thirteen years may still to some be seen as no big deal, and there are certainly elements of his (and other Romans, he was not an isolated case) behaviour which in modern day eyes is most definitely loathsome, I want you to question what you believe you know about these people.

As most of you probably know, I have been doing a podcast called Haunted Histories for many years now – if you were not aware, it is on Spotify and any other podcast platform that you may use. There are many things I enjoy about doing a show like that, but a very big one is when listeners email their own personal stories and accounts to me. The recent show I did on Bomber superstitions with James Jefferies was one such episode, and I got an absolutely wonderful story sent by a listener. It is such an interesting account that I asked their permission to write it up, which they gave as long as I did not use their real name, so let’s call them “Guido”. Guido tells me that they were just approaching junction 11 of the M11 motorway, it was mid afternoon and they remembered it was quite warm as they had their windows wound down. Shortly after the traffic ground to a halt – not an unusual occurrence for that particular road – they were aware of what sounded like a WW2 type aircraft near them, but at that point could not see anything. Shortly after the noise came the sight of a four engine bomber Guido says “Suddenly I was aware of a huge WW2 bomber type plane flying past very very low, with the wing tip only about fifty metres away from the hard shoulder over flat open farmland…” Reading this account, I would have had the same theory as Guido, IWM Duxford was only one junction up, and maybe there was an aircraft practising for an airshow of some description? But here’s the rub…Guido described the plane for me, and the only one that fitted the description was a Short Stirling. It had the four engines, the bulbous nose, the window high up on the fuselage and rounded wing tips and my guess of which WW2 aeroplane Guido saw was confirmed when I emailed them a picture of a Stirling and the answer came back “Wow! That is it, I forgot to say there was only tail fin and this totally fits what I saw” This is where it gets really interesting, there is no way in the last twenty years (at least) that a Short Stirling would have been flying from anywhere, let alone in a show based at Duxford. So, the investigator in me started researching. There were a lot of airbases in the Cambridgeshire area, and one, right by this particular junction of the M11 was RAF Bourn – it was a bomber base, and guess what? from 1941 to 1945, it served to test and transport damaged Short Stirling’s to and from the manufacturers factory at nearby Maddingley. The Short Stirling is an often forgotten bomber from WW2, eclipsed normally by my favourite the Lancaster or even American aircraft like Liberators and Flying Fortresses, but it is unfair to dismiss her as she was the “original” heavy weight bomber and was lauded by its pilots as being incredibly agile and even able to outmanoeuvre enemy night fighters – not to mention the level of punishment she was able to take and keep flying. It does seem a shame that she went into a more secondary role but was still pivotal in so many important missions – forming the initial pathfinding squadrons, working with specialist navigation and also target finding with the main units. She was also commandeered for towing the huge Horsa and Hamilcar gliders from 1943 and also from around 1944, the Special Operations Executive acquired some to use on their operations. Talk about versatile. So, what did Guido see that day? They assured me they were stone cold sober, and not given to hallucinations but says that it did not appear that anyone else saw it. Guido also stressed to me that they are not an aircraft groupie, so would not have known what they were looking at, and I can confirm that when you look at the four engine bombers available during WW2, the Stirling is very distinctive.  Have you ever had a similar experience? If so please email hauntedhistories@virginmedia.com and let us know.

If you have listened to my recent podcast, with my guest the wonderful James Jefferies, where we discussed some of the superstitions and traditions shown by bomber crews during the Second World War, you would also have heard us mention a few names. Guy Gibson – he of Dambuster’s fame – and also Leonard Cheshire, a name which anyone with a passing interest in bomber history is aware of, but in my experience many people are not and that is a great disservice to the man that he was. James knows I am a massive Gibson groupie (there really is no other word for it!) and said that Cheshire seems to be overshadowed by the former in the history books and people’s memory, I actually agreed, he is and unfairly so. My belief is that because Guy died as a very young man and under slightly unknown circumstances, was it pilot error? Was it due to friendly “fire” or was he taken out by a Luftwaffe pilot during a mission? Personally, my view is that it was a combination of perceived invincibility, arrogance and exhaustion that led to ultimately a fatal pilot mistake. Many of the posthumous comments made about Gibson did state that he was incredibly pompous and had absolute self-belief in his own abilities, as this blog is not about Guy, I am not going to share my thoughts on that but Cheshire was the polar opposite in personality, and perhaps that is why he survived three tours on bombers during the war. Read any of the books he has written, and do not forget to get hold of a copy of Tail Gunner by Richard C Rivaz, the title tells you what his role was, but perhaps it is better to read what one of the flight crew felt about their pilot than how he came across in print. Cheshire had an incredibly hard working and studious approach to being a pilot, he took the responsibility with uber seriousness and whilst he was training under Hugh “lofty” Long, he would be expected to repeat tests and scenarios until he was absolutely perfect. This gave him a sense of caution which is perhaps why, after he was made a Group Captain at RAF Linton on Ouse, for 76 Squadron, he still flew on missions, albeit a few times a month (apparently the Commanding Officer was only meant to fly once a month, unless it was absolutely necessary, Cheshire always found a reason to meet that criteria). He had an amazing knack for making novice crews feel at ease, and was always looking at ways to improve the men’s morale and lot. Flying Handley Page Halifax’s out of Yorkshire, they were not able to reach such high altitudes as the Lancasters, so were more susceptible to flak than their higher flying sister. Cheshire looked at reducing the weight of the aircraft under his command and subsequent losses were reduced = improved morale. I am fast forwarding through four years of constant work here, but I would need thousands upon thousands of words to correctly put into print the amazing achievements of this man. It is believed it was his experience of seeing the second nuclear bomb dropped on Nagasaki on 9 th August 1945 that changed his outlook somewhat. “ We are faced either with the end of this country, or the end of war. Ending war and making a better future is not a responsibility that we can say belongs exclusively to the government …each one of us must play our part.” This is the same person who was awarded a Distinguished Flying Cross, two bars to his Distinguished Service Order and a Victoria Cross, so why have so many people not heard of him? If I were to say “Cheshire Homes”, you may know of one? I certainly grew up near to the place in East Carleton Norfolk, and as a Brownie and Girl Guide (yes, I was young once!) we would regularly help at the summer fete with our stall selling groceries but we never saw the people who lived there and I wondered why. When I became older, I learned that Cheshire Homes were actually founded by…Leonard – actually, he was also married to another amazing charity founder, Sue Ryder, that is one humanitarian powerhouse of a couple! It is the story of how it happened however that is well worth reading about. After the war had ended, Cheshire was still looking for meaning in his life and started a communal living project entitled “Vade in Pacem” to help former service personnel transition back to civilian life, unfortunately that did not work out but he heard that a former member of the experiment, one Arthur Dykes, needed somewhere to live and had asked Cheshire if he could park his caravan on the site of Le Court, Hampshire. This gave Leonard his purpose back, and he proceeded to learn nursing skills to help both former army veteran Arthur – who unbeknown to the patient, had a terminal cancer diagnosis – and by 1949, twenty four other residents.  Whilst initially he may have veered more towards ex service personnel, now the many homes set up in his name are a place of safety for people with severe disabilities, whether physical or learning, and all due to one person having seen the worst of humanity, wanting to give something back. It is slightly tragic however, that Cheshire passed away after being diagnosed with Motor Neurone Disease at the age of 74, the youngest ever Group Captain in the R.A.F certainly left an amazing legacy.