“No days without lines” ………..

Apparently, Zola had a sign in Latin on his desk which read, “No days without lines”.

The Latin reads“Nulla dies sine linea” and seems to be attributable to Pliny the Elder who was writing about Apelles, who was a Greek artist from the 4th century BC.

And it became a phrase used for centuries to remind artists that drawing is the basis of their craft, and that frequent practice leads to increased skill.

Given that I spend a great chunk of any day writing or researching in preparation to write something it immediately struck a chord.

Now I don’t pretend to be a Pliny the Elder or Zola but I instantly recognise the message that everyday is a day to explore and tell stories.

In my case at the expense of the housework and the list of tasks I should undertake to shoulder my share of keeping the house ticking over.

But once sat in front of the computer the magic starts and the day disappears in a trawl of historical records, interrogating old photographs and bringing them together with a series of maps which together help call a life out of the shadows.

And if I am lucky the spur is nothing more than a question of help from someone interested in the history of their house or tracking a long dead relative.

In some cases, it is just a photograph which lands on my desk, with no information other than that it once had a meaning to its owner and that is all I need.

So here’s to you Zola, Pliny the Elder and Apelles and long may people mutter “another damned, thick, square book! Always scribble, scribble, scribble! Eh! Andrew?"

To which I own up that it  refers to Edward Gibbon and his masterpiece  “The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire” and is variously attributed to William Henry, Duke of Gloucester, the Duke of Cumberland and King George III.

Leaving me to also admit that the pictures of a telephone engineer on a misty October morning, Carrington's and that sign on Edge Lane have no connection to the story.

Location; Chorlton

Picture; Misty work, Carrington's, and road sign2023, from the collection of Andrew Simpson