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I was attracted to this old photo-postcard of Reading, England, for several reasons.
Firstly, there’s the numbers in the title: View from Caversham Bridge 892. While it may be tempting to think it is the year, it could be a unique reference number for the image. I found this similar postcard image online, titled View from Caversham Bridge 896, in exactly the same font.
I was intrigued by the fuzzy chimney stack in the distance, wondering if it was, in fact, masts of the boat, and the second photo confirms that it is indeed a chimney. The boat itself is attractive and could be in both photos - I don’t know much about boats, but it looks more for fishing more than for pleasure. The boat on the right side of the second image looks very similar to the pleasure cruisers for hire at Reading today.
But what really fascinates me are the smaller, shallow boats, in front of the house and below the bridge, in the first image. These are unmistakably punts.
A punt is a flat-bottomed boat with a square-cut bow, designed for use in small rivers and shallow water. It is propelled by a punter standing in/on the boat, pushing against the river bed using a 12-16 ft pole (3.7-4.9 m).
Nowadays, they are often associated with Oxford and Cambridge universities, but they can also be hired at other locations; generally, elegant cities where tourists meet suitably calm waters. But not Reading. Why? Because the river is way too deep. The Thames is 6.5-7m deep at the river flow gauging station at Reading Bridge (about where the chimney was), at least a metre and a half longer than the longest pole.
The flow rate is considerable, too, reflecting the large catchment area - right now, it is over 100 cubic metres per second, with the river level at 6.7m. Live data is available from the Environment Agency. Punting is impossible.
This can only mean that the riverbed has been subject to scouring, or that the riverbanks have been raised by a mud-flood event, or both, since the first photograph was taken. The river even looks narrower in the first photograph (“dated” 892) compared to the second photo (“dated” 896).
A substantial change in the river Thames is also hinted at in the message on the reverse of the postcard. Mr Greer writes to his daughter in Thames Ditton, a riverside village some fifty miles downstream, as the river flows. It seems that he was temporarily away from home.
He says: Hope you have not forgotten the pass tonight, give it plenty of water. Tell J. + B. I will send them pcs (pics?) tomorrow. Best love Dad. In a note at the top, he adds: Bi-plane just gone over flying very high.
The pass he mentions must be a fish pass; and if the fish needed a pass, then there must have been an obstacle across the river that they needed to get around, i.e. a weir. There is no weir at Thames Ditton today, nor a lock.
In The Chronicles of London from 1089 to 1483; supposedly written in the fifteenth century, it is recorded that in Anno xi, it was graunted be the kyng that alle the weres in Thamyse schulde ben broken up and distroied, and never after schulde be set ayene [Year 11, it was granted by the king that all the weirs in the Thames should be broken up and destroyed, and should never after be set up again].
This is the entry for the third Anno xi in the Chronicle, being the eleventh year of the reign of the Papist London king Henry III. This equates to 1226/7 in the narrative. However, if we place this within the context of the congruences between the London Chronicle and Roman conquests (explored here), this would put the postcard as being written in 11 A.D. at the latest. What’s the postmark? Spooky!
Is this postcard a glimpse of the last days of pre-Roman Britain, high-flying biplanes and all?
Firstly, there’s the numbers in the title: View from Caversham Bridge 892. While it may be tempting to think it is the year, it could be a unique reference number for the image. I found this similar postcard image online, titled View from Caversham Bridge 896, in exactly the same font.
I was intrigued by the fuzzy chimney stack in the distance, wondering if it was, in fact, masts of the boat, and the second photo confirms that it is indeed a chimney. The boat itself is attractive and could be in both photos - I don’t know much about boats, but it looks more for fishing more than for pleasure. The boat on the right side of the second image looks very similar to the pleasure cruisers for hire at Reading today.
But what really fascinates me are the smaller, shallow boats, in front of the house and below the bridge, in the first image. These are unmistakably punts.
A punt is a flat-bottomed boat with a square-cut bow, designed for use in small rivers and shallow water. It is propelled by a punter standing in/on the boat, pushing against the river bed using a 12-16 ft pole (3.7-4.9 m).
Nowadays, they are often associated with Oxford and Cambridge universities, but they can also be hired at other locations; generally, elegant cities where tourists meet suitably calm waters. But not Reading. Why? Because the river is way too deep. The Thames is 6.5-7m deep at the river flow gauging station at Reading Bridge (about where the chimney was), at least a metre and a half longer than the longest pole.
The flow rate is considerable, too, reflecting the large catchment area - right now, it is over 100 cubic metres per second, with the river level at 6.7m. Live data is available from the Environment Agency. Punting is impossible.
This can only mean that the riverbed has been subject to scouring, or that the riverbanks have been raised by a mud-flood event, or both, since the first photograph was taken. The river even looks narrower in the first photograph (“dated” 892) compared to the second photo (“dated” 896).
A substantial change in the river Thames is also hinted at in the message on the reverse of the postcard. Mr Greer writes to his daughter in Thames Ditton, a riverside village some fifty miles downstream, as the river flows. It seems that he was temporarily away from home.
He says: Hope you have not forgotten the pass tonight, give it plenty of water. Tell J. + B. I will send them pcs (pics?) tomorrow. Best love Dad. In a note at the top, he adds: Bi-plane just gone over flying very high.
The pass he mentions must be a fish pass; and if the fish needed a pass, then there must have been an obstacle across the river that they needed to get around, i.e. a weir. There is no weir at Thames Ditton today, nor a lock.
In The Chronicles of London from 1089 to 1483; supposedly written in the fifteenth century, it is recorded that in Anno xi, it was graunted be the kyng that alle the weres in Thamyse schulde ben broken up and distroied, and never after schulde be set ayene [Year 11, it was granted by the king that all the weirs in the Thames should be broken up and destroyed, and should never after be set up again].
This is the entry for the third Anno xi in the Chronicle, being the eleventh year of the reign of the Papist London king Henry III. This equates to 1226/7 in the narrative. However, if we place this within the context of the congruences between the London Chronicle and Roman conquests (explored here), this would put the postcard as being written in 11 A.D. at the latest. What’s the postmark? Spooky!
Is this postcard a glimpse of the last days of pre-Roman Britain, high-flying biplanes and all?
