averilburystedmunds: Roses All The Way

One of 400 varieties of rose in the
Appleby Rose Garden, Bury.

Bury is so different from Brugge in spite of strong similarities: long history of at least 1000 years; ancient beauty and modern municipal protection and active care, plus bags of civic pride among residents. But Bury has had to tolerate and suffer many fewer of the foreign invasions, enemy occupations, inter-regional and inter-state powers shuttling an area back and forth between and across national boundaries; the bartering and bargaining between the ruling elites solely motivated by power with whole regions [like Flanders] caught in the crossfire. I like to think that the chequered history of Flanders accounts for the wariness of the general public, of strangers in the streets of Brugge. In contrast, I could hardly believe when I arrived in Bury the open trusting friendliness of passers-by towards strangers they may never see again. For instance, my early morning walk today of a little less than an hour elicited at least twenty ‘Good mornings!’ from passing strollers/dog walkers/parents en route to school with small children, whom I may never see again. It confers a feeling of public companionship, fraternity which is low level but comfortable and reassuring in its every day, effortless presence.

One fleeting corner of the
Abbey Gardens.

But rather like Bruges, whenever I am out, I seem to come across Something Happening. I was amused to see publicity for a Beer Festival next month in … wait for it …. the Cathedral of all places. Impressive. En route to the cinema last week I had to stop to let pass a long musical parade of airmen and soldiers marching vigorously up Abbeygate Street in strict formation. Not sure what was being celebrated, but it was fun and impressive. Several times, Crazy Golf corners have popped up, then disappeared quickly, in the Abbey Gardens and occasional clusters of tents and marquees have materialised, again in the Abbey Gardens, ready for brief action. I say ‘brief’ because it or they have disappeared two days later. Another constant seems to be a musician or two,, different every day, providing a marvellous musical backdrop for pedestrians in Abbeygate Street; begging of course, and well worth an offering from passers-by. Someone told me that the now Really Famous Ed Sheeran used to busk in Bury frequently, in his salad days.

What is constant are the views, the flower beds, the green tunnels of trees and foliage and wild plants like nettles and grasses; the crowded pavement cafes and strolling families; the Wednesday and Saturday markets with the now-familiar plant stalls, fruit and vegetable sellers; the Saturday Iranian expert who sells beautiful tribal rugs; the stalls of wooden terrace furniture and the one selling a variety of metal bowls, implements and mirrors. Bury is a quintessential English market town with its own individual quirks and characteristics. I haven’t even mentioned the little miracle of a relatively small town having the Apex Theatre AND the Theatre Royal, a quite tiny Regency survivor with a marvellous period feel. Plus of course not only a bus station but a train station too!

The Buttermarket. John Tookey.

Jubilee Weekend.
Passing Crown manned by five people.

Unusually, I visited the impressive Rose Garden in the Abbey Gardens this morning and it was glorious with blooms; I read the plaque explaining it owes its existence to John Appleby, a Sergeant and engineer in the U.S. Air Force stationed in Rougham during WW2. John published his book, Suffolk Summer in 1947 and contributed royalties from it to fund the Memorial Rose Garden. Such a long-ago heartfelt and generous gesture which continues to bear fruit, in the guise of roses, today. It conveys Appleby’s deep love for Suffolk, developed while involved, involuntarily, in conflict as a member of 487^th Bomb Group in Lavenham.