Old Thundridge Records

We are a small independent record label and here you will find information about our CD releases of field recordings, poetry and story readings as well as music. Old Thundridge Records is a label that specializes in talking books and music with a nod towards the pastoral such as the English poets, especially the Romantics, the Supernatural including classic ghost stories and anything related to th

e work of Charles Dickens. With digitally restored CD reissues of historically important (sometimes overlooked) archive recordings and future plans for new exclusive recordings of neglected stories, tales and poetry. Please feel free to contact us at [email protected]

The CDs will feature thoughtful and especially created photographic artwork or design that will complement the CDs contents by taking inspiration from the work contained and the pastoral influence. The labels conception and the design of the CDs was and is inspired by the countryside in Hertfordshire from where we take our name from (More information can be found at the bottom of this page). Many of our releases are chosen because of the authors close connection with the landscape and the natural environment, our history and folklore, but we like to be a bit imaginative with our releases, so not all of them will fit these criteria as you will see. Our CDs feature the works of William Blake, John Keats, William Wordsworth, Edward Lear, Oscar Wilde and of course, Charles Dickens to name but a few. About Old Thundridge…

“…we shall find different animals and birds and insects at different seasons of the year, we will take the same walk each time. We will go across the fields, and down the lane, and through the wood, and back along the banks of the stream.”
from The Little Naturalist in the Country by Theodore Wood F.E.S. Old Thundridge Records takes its name and inspiration from an area of the Hertfordshire countryside that contains all the elements that you could arguably call a pastoral idyll in the old romantic sense. It is a place where you will find the poignant sight of a lonely ruined church tower - the rest of this place of worship having long since been dismantled. Devoid of its steeple and bells its stone crown now just manages to rise above the trees that surround it, its flint stone work defined by a mass of foliage that clings keenly to one side. Its vulnerable empty shell will echo to the sound of whistling wind which manages to seep through its many openings to the elements and in turn weaves its way up and down through a stone stairway that leads nowhere. Sitting just a stones throw from the River Rib a graveyard of weathered and broken ancient stones lay in the tower’s shadow and a trodden grass path leads to its now defunct entrance. As the Rib gently weaves its way through this landscape its trickling water reflects back any sunshine that might manage to break through the dense bushes that line its banks, its flow only temporarily interrupted by an ageing ford or when it is crossed by a nearby bridge, as does the Old North Road formerly the Roman, Ermine Street. A prime area of nature and wildlife it is at the height of its beauty in late summer when the environment is at its full ascent. The brambles are rich with blackberries and the fields that dominate this landscape are vibrant with corn, just on the verge of being harvested. In stark contrast during the depths of winter a different atmosphere resides, that of a landscape tranquil, dormant and empty, even more so than is normal for the resting months. These were my earliest impressions of a place which I first encountered as a child in the late 1970s through my grandfather who had probably discovered it from studying an old Ordnance Survey map in search of a suitable and natural family picnic spot to spend a bank holiday. He would drive his Austin 1100 down the dusty soil path, parking it up alongside the river. Here we paddled in the Rib, clambered up the church stairway as far as it was safe, then laid out a tartan blanket to sit on as we ate our sandwiches, drinking co-op orange cordial supplied in brightly coloured plastic cups from an equally garish picnic set, always with the gentle sound of the Rib trickling in the background. The church is that of Saint Mary and All Saints which despite its diminished state still displays architecturally signs of its evolution from a Norman chapel through to the 14th and 15th centuries, sometimes referred to as Little Saint Mary’s or more often simply called with warm affection Cold Christmas after the nearby hamlet and lane. Much folklore and many stories of the supernatural have grown up around an area so drenched in residual history. One of the most poignant tales involves the hearing of music floating in the air around the church as if the congregation had never left. The Thundridge name itself is derived from the pagan god Thunor and from hrycg meaning ridge in old Anglo-Saxon English. Once a small but complete village with a manor house it was gradually abandoned by its people seeking greater prosperity further up the river along the North Road. Over time it returned to nature as all the dwellings vanished and the new Thundridge was born. Finally just the manor house of Thundridgebury and its next door companion the church were left standing. Then in the very early 1800s the manor was demolished, itself leaving only its brick foundations and a partially dried up moat to mark its existence. Finally the church met its fate in 1853 when the nave was demolished, leaving only the tower, a lone poignant last reminder of the village that once was.