The Peverel Papers
Flora Thompson

Cover of The Peverel Papers by Flora Thompson

Complete transcript of
Nature notes by Flora Thompson
written 1921-27

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Front cover: The Deer's Hut Inn at Griggs Green in 1908.
Internal drawings by
John Reaney and Margaret Hutchinson

Paperback - 474 pages
John Owen Smith; ISBN: 978-1-873855-57-7

Associated titles: Heatherley by Flora Thompson; On the Trail of Flora Thompson by John Owen Smith; 1925 Guide to Liphook by Flora Thompson; Flora Thompson, The Story of the 'Lark Rise' Writer by Gillian Lindsay; Without Education or Encouragement by Ruth Collette Hoffman


Back Cover . Contents . Introduction . Map of Area . Sample Chapter . Index . Reviews . About the Author . Further information


Although extracts from The Peverel Papers have been published previously, this is the first time they have been published in their entirety, in chronological sequence and in a single edition. It is a project which Flora herself wished to pursue just before her death, but never did so. Now, with the blessing of her granddaughter, we are pleased to bring that wish to fruition. They have been transcribed from the original Catholic Fireside magazines in which they were first published over the period 1921–27.


On the Back Cover

Flora Thompson has become known almost exclusively as the author of Lark Rise to Candleford.

These nature notes, written in the 1920s while she lived in Liphook, Hampshire, predate that work by more than a decade and show many of the characteristics which were to emerge later in her more famous work.

Illustration: View south-east from Weavers Down, August 2007


Contents

Map of the 'Peverel' district
Introduction
An Appreciation
Acknowledgements
1921
1922
1923
1924
Photographs
1925
1926
1927
Timeline
Other publications
Index


Introduction

Flora Thompson in Liphook

In the issue of the Post Office Circular dated 30th May 1916, a vacancy for Sub-Postmastership of Liphook was advertised at a salary of £125 per annum. John Thompson applied successfully for the job, and in August of that year moved from Bournemouth to Liphook with his family: wife Flora, daughter Winifred aged 12, and son Basil aged 6.

For Flora, it was a return to an area she had known and grown to love some sixteen years previously when, before her marriage, she worked as assistant to the sub-postmaster for over two years in the neighbouring village of Grayshott. There, in her early 20s, she had been awed by the presence of such giants of literature as Arthur Conan Doyle and Bernard Shaw, and as a result had burned her own writings thinking she would never be their equal.

Now, a married lady with children, she had begun to gain confidence in her writing again by submitting articles and short stories to such magazines as The Ladies Companion and The Literary Monthly and seeing them accepted.

The start of the First World War placed extra demands upon the population, and for Flora it brought a personal tragedy when her favourite brother Edwin (the 'Edmund' of Lark Rise) was killed fighting in Flanders in April 1916. He had joined up in Canada, where he had emigrated in 1909, and it must have been particularly poignant when Flora arrived in Liphook just three months after his death to find herself surrounded by Canadian soldiers who were stationed at a large camp just up the road waiting to go to the 'Front'.

This appears to have put a stop to her writing for a while as she struggled to look after two young children and help her husband in the post office due to the shortage of manpower, getting up at 4am to sort the mail, seeing her children off to school and then queuing for food and preparing meals.

Then, to add to her problems, in 1918 she became pregnant again and Peter was born in October of that year, in the middle of the flu pandemic.
With the end of the war in November, things began slowly to get back to normal, and by 1920 Flora was submitting articles and short stories to magazines again, this time finding success with The Catholic Fireside.

Flora had always loved the open air, and said that a twenty mile walk was 'nothing' to her. With The Catholic Fireside she was able to combine the two activities by writing a series of monthly nature articles which they first published in 1921 under the title 'Out of Doors', then from 1922 to 1927 under the title 'The Peverel Papers' – in total about a quarter of a million words.

In the 1921 articles she writes as if she were still in the New Forest area near Bournemouth, but from 1922 onwards she imagines herself to be living in a small cottage tucked beneath Weavers Down, just outside Liphook and near to Forest Mere. In fact post office regulations, if nothing else, dictated that for the first 10 years of their time in Liphook the family should live in rented accommodation next to the post office on London Road in the middle of the village, to 'provide for Telephone calls at night and on Sundays when the staff is not in attendance.' Only in 1926, when the post office appointed a caretaker switchboard operator, could they think of moving elsewhere, and they bought their first house, Woolmer Gate, about a mile outside the village in Griggs Green close to where Flora had placed the cottage of her imagination.

Strangely, the nature of the Peverel Papers does not change at this point - the tales continue to be written from the perspective of the 'make believe' location just on the other side of Weavers Down. But, sadly, the Papers had not much more than another year to run. Soon after they moved John Thompson decided to try for promotion and was appointed postmaster of Dartmouth in August 1927. Again, the tone of the Papers shows no hint of the disappointment which Flora must have felt at this news - but although she stayed in the house until it was finally sold in the Autumn of 1928, she wrote no further Peverel Papers after December 1927.

Other writings at this time

The Peverel Papers were by no means her only writing activity during her twelve years in Liphook. From 1923-25 she also wrote another series of monthly articles for The Catholic Fireside entitled 'Fireside Reading Circle' in which she writes impressive articles of literary criticism on the great authors - and this from a person who had never received anything other than a rudimentary school education. She also set and judged competitions for her readers.

Before this, she had her first book published in March 1921. Titled Bog-Myrtle and Peat it was a collection of her poems, for at that time she thought that poetry was her speciality. Despite getting her picture in the national press as the 'Postmistress Poet' the book never sold well, and she was disappointed with it.

She wrote the majority of a 'Guide to Liphook, Bramshott and neighbourhood' in 1925, in which she describes the area which her nature notes were taken. From this, for instance, we can identify which old mill she was referring to in her Peverel Paper of June 1925.

In 1925, also, Flora stopped writing the 'Fireside Reading Circle' articles and, with Mildred ('Myldrede') Humble-Smith, started a postal writers group called 'The Peverel Society', issuing 'The Peverel Monthly' and commenting on the work of the Society's far-flung members. (See the various small ads included with the Peverel Papers from 1926 onwards.) The Society also published The Peverel Book of Verse not long after its formation, a small book of twenty-four of its members' poems including two by Flora herself. Unlike the Peverel Papers, the Peverel Society continued to operate after Flora had left Liphook – in fact until the pressures of the Second World War put a stop to it in 1941.

At the time Bog-Myrtle and Peat was published in 1921, Flora told reporters that she was working on a novel. 'Of course, the central subject is a girl, and it is rather autobiographical,' she said. In a couple of surviving issues of 'The Peverel Monthly' issued in 1928 a novel of hers called Gates of Eden is serialised, and there is a full typescript of the same novel, though a somewhat different version, held in her archives in Texas. In it we are told the tale of a young girl named Berengaria who seems to have all the traits of Flora – a love of the countryside, a father who was a stone mason, a mother finding it hard to make ends meet and, inevitably, a younger brother named Edmund. While clearly fiction, it is perhaps more revealing about the true character of Flora herself than are her more famous works. Unfortunately it is somewhat naïve in its construction as a novel, and on good advice has never been published – but this work and the Peverel Papers and other works written during the twelve years that she lived in and around Liphook show unmistakable signs of her development towards the style of writing which was so successful some ten years later in Lark Rise.

Derivation of 'Peverel'

It is unclear why Flora chose 'Peverel' as her pseudonym for Liphook. She was later to use 'Heatherley' as a pseudonym for Grayshott, which is more understandable since she remarked on the revelation of first seeing heather there (and it was also in the parish of Headley, in other times known as Heathley). But there are no known local connections with any name similar to Peverel.

Some have noted that the surname Peverell occurs twice on the war memorial in Cottisford church, and assumed she renamed Liphook in their honour. Another possibility is that during a stay in Essex she may have had a memorable association with Hatfield Peverel, which at least uses the same spelling for the word – she tells us in Heatherley that she saw her first film in 1898 at Halstead which is not far away, so such a connection is possible.

Other possibilities have been put forward by other people, but sadly we shall probably never be certain as to why she chose the name.

John Owen Smith
Headley, 2008


Map of the Area

Map of the 'Peverel' district showing locations mentioned in the text. Lighter shaded areas are above 150m (500ft), including Weavers Down.

Today's visitors should note that the Portsmouth Road (A3) from London now bypasses Liphook to the north and takes a route towards Longmoor.

Click on map to enlarge


Sample chapter

January 1922

Some great poet or philosopher once said that "he who goes to nature for comfort must go to her empty-handed," and I think he was right.

Not that I myself had ever much to relinquish, and that which I had, excepting a bare subsistence, the war took from me; but even the very little which is left to me seems at times to come between myself and perfect tranquillity. No doubt it is just as well that it should be so; it was ordained that our earthly pilgrimage should be a struggle, and life would be a tame affair if everything went smoothly.

Yet, on the whole, life does go more smoothly with me than it does with most people. It was not always so. For some time after the armistice had put an end to my war service I remained in the press of things, getting and spending. Then, suddenly, the futility of it all was revealed to me, and, clutching faith and courage as one who had great need of them, I dared to simplify my own life by cutting down my needs to a minimum.

By what we humans call accident, I came upon this cottage, a mere snail-shell of a place, so small and low and grey, tucked away amongst pine and holly at the foot of Peverel Downs.

By the shores of a little lake†, a few yards farther up the valley, tradition says, a holy hermit once had his dwelling. A narrow lane leading down to the shore still bears his name; the lake itself is called "Hermit's Pool." But all memory of what manner of man he was, whence he came, or in what particular way his sanctity was made manifest, has perished. Being interested in such legends, I came one summer day to gather together and record such fragmentary traces as remained; but as soon as I saw that peaceful hollow in the downs, the wood, the leaf-reflecting pool, the little grey cottage with the blue hills behind, the billowing heath before, my mission was forgotten. I felt like a homing bird after a stormy flight, and could only lie in the grass and fern resting war-worn nerves and steeping my tired soul in the beauty and peace of it all.

I spent one day in thinking and planning, another in searching out and making terms with the owner of the place, and many more in putting it in order, for it had been long unoccupied and neglected; but, at last, all was done, and I settled here, a modern hermit, with my dog and my books for company, my garden to supply my frugal table, and my pen to provide my simple luxuries.

The struggle had been breathless. At first my spirit was faint and languid; my body, dismayed at the hardships and inconveniences of such primitive conditions, easily cast down and sorrowful. But, gradually, there stole upon me all the comfort and healing nature holds in store for such stripped ones; my little cell became dear to me, my garden provided both discipline and pleasure, the keen moorland air revivified my body, the silence and solitude my soul and brain.

Not that I had not still my moments of weakness. Sometimes, at first, on dark winter nights, when the wind rushed over the downs and shrilled through the pine trees, and all manner of strange noises were abroad, I would imagine the sound of footsteps in the driven leaves, and shrink with a sudden unreasoning dread of a woman living, for the first time in her life, alone.

Since then I have spent two years here. I have steeped my whole being in the rain and dew, have rejoiced in the sun, exulted in the shrilling of the wind. The song of birds, the stirring of insects, the murmuring of bees in the heath-bells, of wandering winds in the tree-tops, crackling of snow and frost, the plashing of summer rain – every one of nature's myriad voices has struck an answering chord in me. I have come to love the loose, warm, peaty soil of this southern county, and wish for no better fate than to live and die here.

But it is not good that man, still less woman, should live to themselves alone. The work of healing completed, my heart turns to my own kind again. I have neighbours, of course, dwellers in the cottages dotted about the heath; simple, kindly folk, always ready to stop work for a cheery word with the passer-by. I have come to know some of the village people, too; the gift of sympathy, the one gift which God has endowed me, which in other days, in the outside world, brought me many strange confidences, has not lain wholly dormant. But they have their interests, I have mine; our intercourse, excepting in rare moments of stress, does not go much farther than an exchange of weather prophecy.

But, farther afield, scattered worldwide, are others, men and women who love the things I love – the small, beautiful, simple things in nature and in life. For these I will write and send out these papers, telling of all I see and hear and read which I think will interest them, hoping that, before very long, they will come to think of the Hermit of Peverel Downs as a friend.

***

This morning the long wavy ridge of the Downs at the back of my house was snow-capped. Usually they are but faintly blue, showing green turf and dark encircling hedgerows only before heavy rain, turning to piled-up amethyst at sunset, obliterated altogether in fog and mist. But today the crisp, clear atmosphere reflecting the snow drew them quite near, so near that I felt tempted to walk straight off to them, although I knew, in sober geographical fact, six miles of bog and heath and field and village lay between.

The smaller, nearer hill‡, which keeps guard over Peverel Heath, wore its winter white with a difference. With its heath and furze ruffling the snowdrifts, it was shaggy, black and white, and looked more like a crouching, watchful animal than ever. This hill is heather-clad; the farther ones are chalk and turf and wild thyme. From them, people say, you can see the sea; we cannot, because they close us in, but often I fancy I can scent it.

That is on mild, wet, windy days. Not on such mornings as this, when, even in the long and narrow wood which shelters with me beneath the hill, there was scarce a stir, unless when one of the pines freed itself from its snowy burden, and the slow, sliding fall of it re-echoed long through the sharp, clear silence.

That and the "Yaff! Yaff!" of a woodpecker were the only sounds. The smaller birds kept very quiet in such weather; they need all their energy, poor birdies, just to keep a spark of life in their tiny, cold-puffed bodies. They came very humped and shivering to their breakfast of soaked bread – two chaffinches, ten sparrows, a mistle-thrush, a robin, and Gulliver among the Lilliputians, a carrion crow, one of a pair which haunt my steps each time I climb the hill, settling upon a bush or tree stump a few yards in advance and flapping away with melancholy croakings each time I draw near.

Yesterday I had an even wilder guest, for a hare came at a noonday and invited himself to dine upon my winter spinach. I had not the heart to "Shoo!" him away – although I, too, like spinach, and his appetite was truly alarming – for he looked so pretty, sitting up upon his haunches and eating daintily, like a well-behaved child at table, scanning the windows all the time with dark, innocent, cold-glazed eyes.

He was a stranger-guest, but the birds are always with me, for the wood, although narrow, is a tentacle of a much larger one running out of Hampshire into Sussex and locating itself at last in the dim blue mistiness of the weald. Not only that, but the Hermit's Pool and my garden with the oak and chestnut trees closing them round form an oasis in the dry, sandy darkness of the heath. Birds on the wing sight it from far above, and drop down for rest and refreshment. In this way I have become acquainted, at one time and another, with almost every bird known in this country, from the swan and wild goose upon the pool to the wren and tree-climber which haunt the underwood.

As I brushed the snow from my porch and doorway and stopped to beat my numbed hands together for warmth, the heath beyond my little white gate lay freezing in utter silence. Not a creature was in sight. Yes, one; one whose presence explained the absence of all others. Against the greyish-dun of the sky, suspended like a biplane, hung a kestrel. Moment after moment he remained quite stationary, until some current of the upper air upset his balance and he sailed with staccato wing-beatings down the wind and the little birds were free to come out from their hiding places.

Across the dark heath the path wound ankle-deep; illuminated by the winter-whiteness, the eye could trace it a mile or more to where it drops beneath the railway arch and becomes one with the road which leads to Rome, to London, or merely and more often to Peverel village.

I cross this path almost daily, sometimes cycling, but more often on foot, for sandy ways make heavy going for wheels, to make my frugal purchases at the village shop, to collect my letters and newspaper, or to change my library book at the station bookstall. This library subscription was no part of my original scheme of life here. For the first few months I did well enough without it, for there were the old favourites to re-read, my own impressions of the crowded years to set down and clarify, one or two little volumes of my own to launch; but, that accomplished, with more time on my hands, a homesick longing came upon me to share in the thought and movement of the minds of my own generation.

I think this feeling comes at times to all who read much. It is not ingratitude to the past. The works of the mighty dead have formed us, their blood is in our veins, their strength in our sinews. In moments of exultation or despair we fly to them still for understanding; but in the ordinary present, for human nature's daily food, we turn to our contemporaries, men and women who, in spite of their limitations and inadequacies, so plainly discernible because so near to us, yet know and are able to explain exactly where this old twentieth-century shoe of ours pinches.

Even when the new poets tell us that "June is a grey ghost," and call the pine trees, which we have always likened to cathedral spires, "the pointing fingers of long murdered men," they give a new zest to life in the month when June herself comes to laugh at them, shaking laburnum tresses in her mirth and painting her roses the same old-fashioned crimson.

But the novel I have been reading this week has a title much more seasonable than red roses, and, as it happens, it is by a new poet, Mr Thomas Moult. But there are no grey ghosts or dead man's fingers in "Snow over Elden." It is a happy book, instinct with mirth and jollity. There is nothing quite like it, ancient or modern. Perhaps "Cranford" is the nearest, but even that, in comparison, is quite sad and wistful.

Of the two pairs of lovers in it each one of the four loves and marries aright. The course of true love runs almost too smoothly, or would if it pretended to be true to life as we know it; but it does not. Such a life has not been possible in this country since the so-called Reformation. If it were so, England would be "Merrie England" still.

But through it all goes such a stir of love and joy and beauty, blended with solid comfort; such rich savours of cooking come from the kitchen; such a sense of warm hay and pulped turnip and the breath of herded kine from the byre; such tantalising floatings of song and laughter and lovers' greeting from the sleighing parties; such fiddling and scraping of rustic feet from the parlour at night, that, for those not able to emigrate straight away there, the next best thing is to read it.

But how short and dark the days are now. Even with the snow-light eking out the daylight, I have at four o'clock to throw on another log to see by. Imagine me, writing-pad upon knee, upon my fender-seat, writing these last words by the fireglow. Outside, night sinks upon down and pool; one by one the stars come out, frosty stars, white and many-rayed. It is the mystic moment when night touches day and all nature stands still to witness the meeting. At that moment, if we will but –

Shut the eyes that flame, and hush the heart that burns:
In quiet we may hear the old primeval cry.
God gives wisdom to the spirit that upturns.
Let us adore together, you and I.

Issue dated 7th January 1922


Index

Animals

Ants, 111, 458
Badger, 252, 321
Bats, 145, 162, 208, 310, 389
Bees, 96, 97, 136, 228, 271, 340, 356, 357, 418, 419
Butterflies, 34, 69, 82, 97, 109, 168, 200, 292, 293, 351, 362, 372, 409, 441
Caterpillars, 293, 351, 352, 362, 373
Cows, 37, 85, 139, 149, 167, 170, 223, 369, 391
Dabchicks, 73, 288, 436
Deer, 447
Dormouse, 309, 379, 424
Dragonflies, 80, 154
Ducks, 120, 238, 272, 351
Earwigs, 395
Foxes, 83, 99, 147, 252, 298, 463
Frogs, 87, 139, 272, 380
Glow-worms, 290, 381
Goats, 107, 170
Grasshopper, 37, 91, 165, 220, 432
Hares, 54, 201, 202, 298, 434
Hedgehogs, 47, 138, 139, 206, 223, 309, 358, 379
Horses, 181, 218, 220, 237, 299, 319, 337, 387, 432, 433, 456, 464
Insects, 362
Lizards, 37, 451
Mayflies, 289, 290
Moles, 115, 116, 380, 451
Moorhen, 120, 352
Moths, 147, 293, 315, 362
Newts, 85, 176
Otters, 252, 253, 423
Pigs, 43, 367
Rabbits, 82, 105, 116, 141, 159, 218, 253, 308, 321
Sheep, 103, 121, 130, 195, 264, 265, 269, 270, 404, 405, 413
Shrews, 132, 380
Slow worms, 358
Slugs, as food, 318
Snails, 317, 318
Snakes, 21, 133, 160, 308, 357, 358, 359, 380, 451
Spiders, 367
Squirrels, 31, 44, 46, 91, 188, 298, 308, 337, 379, 424, 450
Squirrels, red versus grey, 251
Stoats & Weasels, 105, 106, 253, 284, 424
Swans, 73, 80, 139, 288, 326
Wasps, 247, 248, 373
Water rats, 68, 139, 154, 176, 333
Water-spiders, 86
Wood mouse, 424

Birds

Blackbird, 46, 94, 98, 138, 144, 146, 148, 277, 327, 331, 348, 393, 426, 430, 458
  eggs, 338, 345
  nest, 284, 314, 337, 457
Blackcap, 452
Blue tit, 73, 237, 424
Bullfinch, 222, 224, 294, 326, 443
Chaffinch, 18, 67, 68, 128, 207, 249, 326, 331, 457
  nest, 68, 314, 411, 457
Chiff-chaff, 277, 306, 339, 345, 452
  nest, 278
Cole tit, 237
Cormorant, 161, 162
Crossbill, 92
Crow, 244, 265
Cuckoo, 27, 69, 72, 136, 146, 205, 211, 213, 344, 348, 363, 415, 416, 424
  battle with tit, 72
  caged, 69, 70
eggs, 212
eggs, 193, 274, 333, 338, 345-47, 405
feeding on coconut, 238
Fieldfare, 183, 244, 279, 452, 453, 461
flocks, 102, 128, 232, 306, 328, 412, 457
Goldfinch, 91, 237, 368
Great tit, 237
Greenfinch, 322
Gulls, 20, 49, 69, 161, 182, 320, 432
Hawfinch, 250
Hawks, 207, 212, 245, 326, 391, 393, 425, 457
  nest, 425
Heron, 332, 333
  nest & eggs, 333
House martin, 98, 144, 163, 344, 381, 444
Jackdaw, 223, 224
Jay, 46, 50, 142, 327
Kingfisher, 59, 173, 273, 422
nest & eggs, 274, 346, 423
Lapwing [Peewit, Plover], 91, 207, 249, 367, 453, 461
Lark, 18, 59, 61, 106, 109, 125, 131, 141, 193, 194, 195, 238, 264, 331, 332, 391, 416, 444, 456
  nest & eggs, 193, 345
Linnet, 37, 82, 146, 222, 294, 304
  eggs, 345
Long-tailed tit, 211
  nest & eggs, 284
migration, 103, 184, 244, 306, 310, 452
Mistle-thrush (storm-cock), 237, 263, 393
nests, 68, 129, 193, 274, 278, 284, 314, 333, 337, 405, 425, 457
Nightingale, 80, 146, 147, 279, 306, 338, 352, 353
Nightjar, 99
Nuthatch, 173, 332
  like Kingfisher, 173, 423
Owl, 16, 39, 50, 103, 123, 124, 147, 184, 374, 375
  eggs, 346
  mobbed, 183, 426
Partridge, 154, 218, 219, 286, 308, 331, 375, 428
  eggs, 346
Peewit. see Lapwing
Pheasant, 188, 251, 371
  nest & eggs, 24, 138, 143, 284, 346, 423
Pigeon, 328, 363, 462
  eggs, 346
Plover. see Lapwing
Robin, 41, 98, 173, 187, 233, 265, 287, 302, 319, 330, 331, 366, 402, 444, 447, 453, 454
  eggs, 345
Rook, 103, 104, 129, 130, 182, 257, 264, 320, 321, 339, 405, 407, 444, 456
  eggs, 405
  nest, 129, 405
Sand martin, 144, 163, 416
seed-eating, 369
Siskin, 452
Sparrow, 67, 102, 183, 247
  eggs, 338, 345
Hedge- versus House-, 338
  nest, 314, 457
spring plumage, 331
Starling, 133, 134, 264, 331, 367, 412, 413, 461
  nest, 133
Swallow, 26, 44, 98, 103, 163, 164, 184, 244, 310, 368
  nest, 345
Swift, 163, 164, 444
Thrush, 28, 41, 206, 264, 277, 330, 414, 416
  eggs, 338, 345, 423
  nest, 314, 337, 423
Wheatear, 91
Whitethroat, 416
Whitethroat, lesser, 417
Willow wren [warbler], 278
Woodpecker, 153, 327
  as Popinjay, 153
Wood-wren, 278
  nest & eggs, 278
Wren, 103, 186, 187
  nest, 148, 284, 314
Yellowhammer, 189, 247
  eggs, 345
  nest, 411

Custom & Practice

Bees, 97
Children as historians, 179
Christmas customs, 322, 324
Field names, 382, 384
Gypsies, 295
Gypsy's promise, 47
Harvest supper, 227-28
Little Festival of the Toasting-fork, 109
Lord of the Manor, 242
May Day customs, 28, 281, 417
New Year, 269
Old times, 95
Palm Sunday customs, 271
Perfumes, 349
Poverty, 32, 156
Punch & Judy, 18
Rights of way, 92, 200, 433
Rights, commoners', 43, 169, 170
Rights, of property, 142
Rights, squatters', 241, 311
Rook-shooting, 405
Rosary, naming of, 150
Rowan tree, 387
Sparrowing, 102
Trespassing, 141, 201, 384, 464
Turf walls, 83, 133, 169, 239, 240
Water-finding, 45

Farming & Weather

Blackberry-picking, 105, 235, 314, 446
Boys working, 18, 42, 43, 104, 266, 358, 369, 462
Carting, 43, 169, 231, 463
Climate constancy, 455
Clouds, 37, 115, 198, 199, 279, 280, 403
Colours of nature, 16, 27, 43, 74, 204, 238, 276, 297, 361, 398, 415
Counties, properties of, 110, 349
Deaths from green Christmas, 126
Farming, fate of, 299
Gleaning, 445
Harvest, 90, 169, 217, 226
Heath fires, 40, 178, 213, 364
Hedging, 266, 302, 367, 462
Honey, 96, 440
Hop-picking, 231
Land-girls, 196, 229
Machine, reaping, 165, 217, 218, 219, 226, 428
Machine, thrashing, 90, 165, 385, 456
Months' scents, 110
Nutting, 105, 172, 367
Ploughman, 103, 122, 181, 182, 200, 306, 319, 408
Rainbow, 25, 205, 280, 414
Shepherd, 121, 180, 181, 195, 198, 266, 270, 403, 405
Snow, 53, 54, 117, 180, 321
Wind & storm, 20, 53, 108, 175, 198, 199, 257, 307, 372, 455

Fish

Carp, 94, 153
Eels, 86, 176, 177
Pike, 154, 389, 390

Locations

Aldershot, 466
Andredswold, 447
Australia, 242, 356, 369
Birdwood/Boldrewood/Boldre/Bolderwood, 27, 32
Bournemouth, 37, 78, 88, 401
Brittany, 103
Brixham, 467
Brockenhurst, 75
cottage at foot of Peverel, 52
Dartmouth, 8, 467
Dorset, 36, 110
Duffus Piece, 382, 384
Fernhurst, 222
Forest Mere, 17, 222
garden, postmaster's, 126
Grayshott, 7, 466
Hampshire, 18, 34, 35, 36, 54, 62, 87, 103, 131, 142, 180, 187, 204, 235, 251, 295, 301, 349, 352, 447
Haslemere, 76, 222
Hengistbury, 159
Hereford, 110
Hermit's Pool, 52, 54, 58, 79, 105, 120, 219, 300
India, 209, 369
Isle of Wight, 20, 37, 78, 128, 158, 162, 205, 216, 229, 271, 350, 430
Kent, 225, 349, 447
Longmoor, 77
Lynchborough, 62
Lynchmere, 381
Midlands, the, 163, 200, 227, 259, 299, 305, 318, 349, 430
Milland, 222
New Forest, 8, 15, 17, 30, 43, 75, 92, 158, 171, 241, 259, 401, 441
Northamptonshire, 163
Norway, 183, 452
Oxford, 83, 171
Peverel, 9, 52, 55, 74, 79, 82, 90, 93, 121, 126, 129, 146, 193, 210, 218, 301, 432, 438
  fire upon, 178
Poole, 78
Portsmouth, 75, 296
Portsmouth Road, 55, 352
Queen's Bank, 447
Queensland, 299, 466
Red Moss Valley, 176
River Wey, 252, 287
Russia, 48, 111
Ryde, 205, 430
Scotland, 24, 73, 103, 111, 167, 301, 305, 320, 387
Selborne, 129, 223, 310, 417
Solent, 37, 158
Surrey, 251, 349, 352
Sussex, 36, 54, 93, 106, 139, 201, 204, 208, 229, 251, 260, 349, 352, 368, 452
Swanage, 216
Sweden, 111, 452
Viper's Lease, 133
Wales, 387
water mill, 288
Wiltshire, 36, 110, 128
Windsor, 447
Woolmer Forest, 61, 142, 179, 190, 447
Yateley, 466

Miscellaneous

Aeroplane, 442
Buses, 222, 297
Canadians, 7, 18, 235
Cities, 114, 203, 465
Correspondents, 47, 76, 88, 100
Elections, 118, 119
Gardening, 23, 27, 42, 47, 67, 96, 128, 152, 372, 378, 415
Library, 19, 44, 55, 70, 89
Literature & reading, 30, 44, 88
Military, 22, 170, 465
Packhorse road, 92
Railway, 21, 50, 55, 76, 93, 99, 141, 194, 220, 223, 253, 370, 403
Rationing, 31, 318
Rheumatism, 117, 156
Romans, 125, 128, 159, 167, 317, 407
Romany language, 75
Shops, 63, 78
Telegraph wires, 41, 44, 99, 374, 437
Tramps, 62, 79, 228, 376
War took from me, 52
Wireless, 177, 281, 320, 353, 388, 397, 456

People

Asquith, Margot, 76
Boojie (her dog), 20, 34, 47, 138
botanising friend, 37, 86
Bridges, Robert, 80
brother, 7, 33, 104, 202, 466
Browning, Elizabeth, 70
Browning, Robert, 63, 88
Conlan, Father, 27, 32, 35
de la Mare, Walter, 44
Doyle, Arthur Conan, 7
Edmund, 7, 33
Feena (Fanny), 75
Fiona, London dancer, 23, 27, 32, 135, 136, 153, 166, 226
Francis of Assisi, 32, 58, 110, 127
gypsies, 33, 35, 47, 57, 74, 75, 76, 138, 155, 206, 220, 294, 295, 296, 432, 464, 465
Herrick, Robert, 341
Keats, John, 80
Lee family, 33, 295, 296
Linnaeus, 111, 399
Mary, Queen of Scots, 58, 89
Meredith, George, 258, 280, 312, 350
Moult, Thomas, 55
Old Queenie, 228
Old Sally, 418
Park, Mungo, 191
Patmore, Coventry, 18
poets, 18, 19, 30, 35, 64, 70, 80, 83, 88, 179, 194, 334, 341, 459
Queen Anne, 179, 447
Rossetti, Christina, 70
Rossetti, Dante Gabriel, 305
Ruskin, John, 230
Shakespeare, 87, 172, 216, 235, 276, 341, 375
Shaw, George Bernard, 7
Shelley, Mary, 88
Shelley, Percy Bysshe, 30, 115, 185, 459
Stride, Jack, 241
Tennyson, Alfred, 76, 216, 273, 294, 300, 410
Tennyson, Frederick, 30, 194
Thompson, Francis, 18, 89, 322
Thomson, Christine Campbell, 89
Tidy, Bill and wife, 311
White, Gilbert, 129, 223, 310, 417
Wordsworth, William, 341

Plants

Anemone, 23, 205, 206
Blackberry, 86, 235, 236, 446
Blackthorn, 23, 61
Bluebell, 24, 73, 74, 142, 283, 284, 285
  in Scotland, 24, 73
Bog asphodel, 441
Bog myrtle, 17, 20, 127, 175
Bracken
  harvesting, 43, 169, 308, 463
Broom, 90, 216, 217
Buttercup, 141, 348
Chrysanthemum, 44
Clover
  fertilisation, 356
Coltsfoot, 266, 400
Cotton grass, 440
Cowslip
  mead, 48, 446
Cranesbill, 83, 328
Crown imperial, 417, 418
Cuckoo-pint, 131, 411
Daffodil, 67, 341
Dandelion, 334, 335
Delphinium, 152
Dewberry, 154
Dodder, 440
Dog's mercury, 415
Ferns, 441
Foxglove, 153, 360
Fungi & Mushrooms, 166, 239, 317, 450
garden produce, 23
Geranium, 88
Gorse, 90, 110, 111
  always in bloom, 51
Grasses, 149, 150, 215, 218, 286, 429, 430, 435
Ground ivy, 400
Guelder rose, 433
Hawthorn, 250, 251
  berry, 170
Heather, 35, 300, 301, 438
  and Dodder, 440
  fertilisation, 439
  for brooms, 245, 463
  heather-mead, 440
  three varieties, 439
Hops, 224, 231, 232
Iris, 216
Ivy, 122, 123, 185, 463
  corymbs, 315, 459
King-cup, 272, 342
Ladysmock, 87
Lavender
  gathering, 41, 42
Lesser celandine, 132, 328, 329
Lichens, 316, 398
Lily-of-the-valley, 430
Liver-wort, 190
Mosses, 123, 176, 190, 316, 317, 398, 399, 400
names, common, 421
names, Latin, 86
Orchis, 430
Pimpernel, 154
Poppy, 229, 230
Primrose, 126, 204, 265
  gathering, 24
Rose, 82, 88, 150, 152, 355
Robin's Pincushions, 314
Rosebay, 178
Screw moss, 398
Sea-lavender, 158
Snowdrop, 18, 61, 62, 127, 128, 329, 400, 401
Spearwort, 86
Speedwell, 210
Stitchwort, 210
Tulip, 136
Violet, 343, 420
  violeting, 200
Viper's bugloss, 220, 221
Water lily, 94, 300
Wheat, 104, 217, 299, 370, 429, 435
Whortleberry, 35, 294, 432
Winter aconite, 189
Wolf's bane, 190
Wood-sage, 47
Wood-sorrel, 143

Publications

Bog-Myrtle and Peat (1921), 8, 466
Candleford Green (1943), 467
Gates of Eden (1928), 9, 467
Guide to Liphook, Bramshott and neighbourhood (1925), 8, 467, 468
Heatherley, 9, 468
Lark Rise (1939), 9, 467
Lark Rise to Candleford (1945), 467
Over to Candleford (1941), 467

Trees

Apple, 240
Ash, 60, 259, 386
  buds, 60
Beech, 196, 261
Birch, 60, 261
buds, 342, 410
Cherry, 136, 349, 352
Chestnut, horse, 342
Chestnut, sweet, 176, 177
Crabapple, 143, 211, 328
Damson, 126
Elder, 41, 155, 156, 237, 302
Elm, 83, 103, 129, 199, 260, 261, 339
Hazel, 105, 126, 267, 268, 367, 407
Holly, 16, 121, 253, 310, 312, 361, 393, 464
identifying trees, 260, 328
Larch, 276, 410, 458
Maple, 236
Mountain Ash (Rowan), 167, 387
Oak, 60, 171, 172, 258, 259, 387
Pine, 55, 364, 394, 458
Poplar, 60, 339, 352
Sallow, 127, 270, 410
Spindle-wood, 211, 239
Yew, 239, 340, 419


Reviews

I have been meaning to send you this "thank you" since receiving my copy of Peverel Papers in July. Thank you, thank you, thank you for returning this extraordinary series of Flora Thompson's nature studies and gentle beauty to our lives.

Peverel Papers is one of the most beautiful books I have ever read. When I want a treat from a stressful day at the library or a morning relax on my day off I savour 2 or 3 chapters of Peverel Papers and return to nature and go back in time with Flora. (Yes, working in the library can be stressful now that they are so bound up with computer, internet, and wireless services.)

Our patrons love the BBC DVD series: Larkrise to Candleford and whenever I get the opporrtunity I tell them more about Flora Thompson and what her life really was like. I know her cottage in Peverel Papers was part dream place, part real experience but but I like to share her dream and return to the walks, flowers, colours, weather, seasons, sky, birds, animals, sounds and smells, seaside and woods, with her. The places she describes may be gone now. I thank her for giving them life forever and you for returning them to us!!

Lorraine Brooks
Fort St. John, British Columbia, Canada
October 2011


See also information on two plays about Flora Thompson's life in Hampshire
and
Heatherley, her own book telling about this period of her life.

Visit the web site dedicated to the memory of Flora Thompson and her time in east Hampshire

Please feel free to contact if you would like to share information on the life and works of Flora Thompson.