Bridgerule

Elizabeth Veale, as she was then, was born in 1766 and raised in the English village of Bridgerule, on the border of Cornwall and Devon in England’s southwest. The time I spent in Elizabeth Macarthur's birthplace was absolutely the highlight of my trip to England.  But, as I always seem to find, the place mattered far less than the people. The spritely octogenarian, Mr Bowden, who showed me through St Bridget's church and then rang the bells for me.  That's him holding the enormous key to the church! Rose Hitchings, [...]

2018-03-21T14:56:19+11:00July 8th, 2014|Elizabeth Macarthur, Life|13 Comments
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Plymouth Plaque Perpetuates Perfidy

A kind friend let me know about the existence of this plaque so while I was in Plymouth I made sure to find it.  It is in the historic Barbican area, opposite the marina and next door to a pub called The Admiral. It's a wonderful plaque - if only it were true! According to the Australian Dictionary of Biography Lieutenant Henry Waterhouse and Lieutenant William Kent bought twenty-six merino sheep (in fact early proto-types of the breed) at the Cape (now called Capetown, in modern South Africa). The return [...]

2018-03-21T14:56:19+11:00July 2nd, 2014|Elizabeth Macarthur|13 Comments
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Billingsgate

© Copyright Christopher Hilton and licensed for reuse under this Creative Commons Licence Last night I attended a gala function at the Old Billingsgate Market, apparently at one time the world's largest fish market.  World's largest? How on earth do they measure such things?  Anyway, it was from this point that the Macarthurs left London forever. ‘I took leave of my friends in London’ began Elizabeth Macarthur in her journal, ‘and accompanied by Mr McArthur, hired a Gravesend boat from Billinsgate [sic], which conveyed us to the Neptune’. [...]

2018-03-21T14:56:20+11:00June 26th, 2014|Elizabeth Macarthur|0 Comments
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Beginnings

Convict ship Scarborough was no place for a gentleman’s daughter. Elizabeth Macarthur – wife of soon to be notorious John – was cold, pregnant and bone-weary. The Southern Ocean pummelled the ship with storm after storm but Elizabeth hardly noticed: her soldier husband and infant son were both grievously ill. She lofted some desperate prayers.  Somewhere on that roaring sea, exhausted by her nursing duties, constantly pitched and tumbled, Elizabeth was ‘thrown into premature labour, & delivered of a little Girl who lived but for an hour.’ [1]  We only [...]

2018-03-25T00:11:29+11:00June 16th, 2014|Elizabeth Macarthur, Work in Progress|4 Comments
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