February 2024 – Annika Perry

My respect for the staff of the big houses, such as the fictional Downton Abbey, grew this week as I set to sprucing up my silver spoon collection.

Long neglected, it has lain gathering dust in the loft until the recent redecoration of a room brought it to mind. A new blank wall, a whole new canvas beckoned to be filled and up to the ladder I headed to hunt out something appropriate.

Tucked on a shelf the two cases lay next to each other – perfect. Not the entirety of my collection, there are many more in boxes, however these forty-two represent some of my favourites.

They were in a sad state; dirty and blackened and well overdue a clean-up. Cherishing them once more I washed them individually in a bowl of soapy warm water, rubbing them as clean as possible, drying and buffing up to a shine. This took more time and dedication than I’d expected and my esteem for the staff handling the silver in the big houses grew ever more, in awe of their perseverance and dedication!

Although many are gleaming and glittering some still are rather less than shiny. For now, I am not resorting to silver polish as online warnings recommend that if used at all it is important to acquire the right low-dosage one! Who knew!

All children (and many adults too!) love collecting things and as well as bookmarks, spoons are my niche hobby. Many were gifted to me, mostly by family, as well as bought by myself. I love to travel and the spoons represented somewhere exciting and exotic; a memory of special times and other eras; the designs opening the doors of untold mystery and excitement.

The collection is split into three categories: The United States of America, Europe and The United Kingdom. Enjoy browsing through the collection with me! Which are your favourite ones?

For those in America, can you find your state’s spoon?

As a child I was mad about anything to do with space and especially the space shuttle – imagine my joy at receiving this spoon.

I’m particularly fond of the two spoons from Los Angeles and New York City with their golden hanging ornaments.

For those in Europe, can you see your country’s spoon?

When young we visited Greece many times and I have wonderful memories of our time in Corfu!

The slender shape of the Dutch milkmaid spoon is striking and there is exquisite detail of the woman herself, the two pails balanced perfectly on her shoulders.

Here are the spoons from Great Britain.

Have you ever been to any of these places?

Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament are looking splendid on top of the silver spoon.

I remember being surprised that the local Hedingham Castle (which I’ve written about here) was similarly designed with the building on top.

Finally, one spoon fell in between all categories although it ended up with the American.

Leif Eriksson, also known as Lucky Leif, was a Norse man born in the late 900s, believed to be the first European to reach the shores of America. His father, Erik The Red, was originally banished to Iceland, before moving with his family, including Leif, to Greenland.

According to the sagas, Leif and his crew were said to have been blown off course while sailing from Norway to Greenland, eventually landing on Vinland in Newfoundland.

So much history within just each spoon! It is such a unique way of commemorating a place or moment.

Writing my post I became interested in spoon collections in general and intrigued to learn the following:

Silver spoon collecting became popular in the 1800s following the birth of tourism and especially the Grand Tours of Europe. By the late 1800s this European fad spread across America.
The first souvenir spoon produced in the United States, in Washington, D.C. in 1889, featured a profile of George Washington and was created to mark the centennial of his presidency.
Interest waned following World War One and is a marginal hobby nowadays.
My collection is palfrey in comparison to the world’s largest collection of 30,000 owned by Des Warren in Mayfield, Australia.
The phrase “born with a silver spoon in his/her mouth” is well known and is assumed to mean the child grew up wealthy. However, the idiom originated as a way of saying that the person never seems to get sick. There was a belief that the silver offered germ-killing properties and in the past children who were fed with silver spoons (which was a luxury often reserved for wealthier families) were typically healthier babies.
The most expensive silver spoon was sold for $32,500 / £26,000 at Heritage Auctions, London in 2021. It was manufactured in 1790.

Do you tend to buy a memento of your time visiting somewhere special? Or perhaps you have an unusual hobby or collection yourself? It’s great to chat away in the comments!

Finally, many thanks for David Prosser for mentioning how good the Red Dragon of Wales would look upon a silver spoon! They exist and look amazing- a new one I would love to be my next silver spoon!

Yes, it’s under warranty, only two weeks old but how can I make a claim when it simply disappeared?!

Early 2018 the internet was flooded with posts and tweets about the latest jetpacks for those with means and a wicked sense of adventure. The adverts promised a ride like never before with an added mysterious non-specific dimension. I just had to have one.

I’d tried out some jetpacks at an airfield or two. At £2,000 a time the rides were a bargain yet I longed to possess one of my own.

One spring afternoon I found myself in the library with my father. This was my favourite room, all Elizabethan dark wood panelling, four walls of books, all tucked safely away behind glass doors. On one shelf I spotted my beloved and tatty Jane Austen penguin books — a most wonderful writer and I adored her books so much. So very much that one Christmas my parents surprised me with a first edition set of all her sixteen books dating from the start of the eighteenth century. They got it at a very reasonable price, I was told, at just under £200,000.

My father was on the window seat and looked up at me. Even before I said a word he spoke.

‘No, Katy. I told you last night, no way. It is just too much.’

‘Pa,’ I said. He loved it when I called him this and I repeated. ‘Pa, it is just a bit more than my yearly allowance and rumours are you lost this amount just last month. Ma called it pocket change, I heard!’

Admittedly £300,000 was way past pocket change for me even!

There was a hiccup of silence. Yes!

I had him; the famous hiccup tell — he never could work out why he was always losing at the tables.

Father reached over to me, his glittering card stretched to my eager fingers.

‘Take this and just promise me to be careful, bubbles.’

There it was, the reason I would always get what I wanted — bubbles! The nickname made me smile and groan in equal measure. My delight of bubble baths was infamous. The renowned photos of me as a child surrounded by bubbles galore by the world famous photographer Georgias Kerragiannis collectors plastered on our walls … and those of many art galleries. How did he manage to turn such a simple idea into a colourific gaudy prints that took the world by storm? Over and over he merely changed one tiny detail at a time and the buyers kept paying ever more.

Bubbles it was and this bubbles always knew the key to her father’s heart.

My delivery from Amazon arrived promptly the next day; a bemused driver was struck with the image of a jetpack man flying over the mountains on the box. Not subtle and I’d be leaving one of my scathing reviews tomorrow.

Up in my room, I rushed to remove the packaging, sending it flying across the bedroom. I grabbed the jetpack and stepped to my balcony. This couldn’t be difficult, I told myself, convinced the two controllers would be similar to my games. After all, I was an ace at Minecraft and Sims!

The instruction booklet lay tossed on my Egyptian cream sheets, unopened at the front cover of a red brash warning of ‘read before you operate — ignore at your peril’. Blah! Generation X are so molly-coddled! As if I couldn’t fly a simple jetpack.

I stood on the balustrade and pushed the red button, with a shout I stepped off. I was flying! There followed a big dip and near mid-air tumble but I made it just above the manicured lawn below, narrowly missing the ballroom.

Another burst of power and I was up and away, heading straight to the stables about half a mile away. Skimming over the lake, my feet took a quick paddle, the giant puffy mouths of the koi popping up to try and nibble my toes.

Looking at my right controller I noticed a dial by the thumb. I’d never seen this on my previous jetpack rides. I reached over with my left hand and turned it.

Suddenly the usual quiet of the landscape and stables turned to a maelstrom of people and horses, the shouts, chatter and neighing reaching crescendo levels, each trying to outdo the other above the din and clatter of the horse drawn-carriages on the cobblestones. The men wore the strangest costumes; tall black top hats and colourful ornate suits. What was the cause of this hub of activity? Had a film company unit hired it? It looked a set fit to film the next big Jane Austen blockbuster.

I was drifting down and right underneath me a man, my age, early 20s, looked up with a startled expression. He promptly turned white and fell backwards as I stepped into a neat landing next to him.

Suddenly he woke up and grabbed my arm.

‘What are you? A flying ghost?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I replied. ‘I’m Katy and you are …’

I left the pregnant pause, waiting for an answer as to his identity. His face was set in a priceless expression of utter bewilderment in the silence.

‘What is your name?’ I asked clearly.

This time he understood, stood up quickly, wiping his hands on his trousers before reaching out.

‘Darcy at your service, ma’am!’

I laughed out loud. As if! Who had put on this elaborate joke for me? My very own Darcy, even if dressed in worker garb in rough white shirt, leather brown vest and dainty long black socks and shoes with a buckle. A small black hat flopped over his head. Of course, my Darcy would turn out to be a stable hand but his manners were to be applauded.

‘Pleased to meet you, Miss Katy. From whence do you hail?’ He stopped abruptly and realised his question. His hands waved vaguely in the direction of the air, which is in fact where I arrived from and in the process his hands, trying to reach for my arm, touched the dial instead.

That was two weeks ago and since then Darcy has enjoyed his sudden introduction to the end of the twenty-first century once he recovered from his many fainting fits. I had immediately grasped the ‘other’ dimension of the new jetpack — time travel!

How could I not fall for my own Darcy, the genuine article from 1797, so he proclaimed.

There was one small issue; Darcy longed to return home for just a while. He just wouldn’t listen, after all, he was home, here at Streaton Manor with me, just a couple of centuries out. Why was he making all this fuss?

Darcy hadn’t declared his love for me yet; that would come, I was sure. But I just couldn’t take the chance though, could I? These past days he was always on about my flying jacket, wanting to borrow it. How could I risk this most amazing change in my life? Pa already approved of Darcy although Ma muttered he was rather too dishy. For whom, I wondered?

I couldn’t risk it! I just couldn’t. This way was better for us both. A new start.

Standing from behind the jetpack, I reached over and touched the dial before stepping backwards just as the jetpack disappeared.

Whoosh! Not quite the sound rather more of a pfft but the mesmerising disappearance warranted a fanfare, I thought.

Gasping, I laughed and laughed! I’d done it! Sent the jetpack back in time and Darcy and I would be united forever. All I need was some cash for our new life— £300,000 should do it.

Now, where did I put the warranty for the notorious defective disappearing jetpack?

The End