MEMORY LANE
Readers are invited to send us a story about a special day, or event, that you'd love to recall, or a place you'd love to visit just one more time. Send us the details and we'll make it into a story, such as the one below for everyone to enjoy. Contact: Britmail@aol.com subject: Memory Lane.
Updating the January essay
THE AWAY GAME by Rick Malston.
When I think back to the Christmasses I spent at home in England I always think about the times a bunch of us lads would pile in a car and head to some ‘away game’ on the Boxing Day. It didn’t have to be our immediate local team Aston Villa, even Birmingham would do, just as long as one of them was playing away on Boxing Day.
With Christmas day all done, most of the turkey eaten, the presents unwrapped, and the nuts nearly all cracked, it was time to remind the wife that tomorrow, Dave, Wally, Ally, and myself were off to the ‘away game.’ Sometimes this game was down in the ‘smoke’ - London, which was always our favourite destination on Boxing Day. If it was local in the Midlands or the east coast somewhere, well that wasn’t as exciting. I remember all these Boxing Day away games in detail but the one to Arsenal back in the early 1970’s before I emigrated was an away game, par excellence!
We were up and out on the Boxing Day morning long before most other people had slept off their Christmas indulgence. I’d pick up the other three lads and with coats, hats, and a wee hip flask or two we’d be motoring towards the big smoke before the big clock in the Birmingham Ring had chimed 9 am. By noon we were in and around the Highbury ground and heading for the delights of a fry-up in a cafe close to the stadium. Bacon, sausage, chips and beans, washed down with tea and toast had us heading for our next stop, a suitable pub where-in gathered other likely away fans. A few pints to help lubricate the vocal chords and before you could say, ‘are you blind Ref,’ we were on our way to the ground. In those days Highbury was a ground where you could get close to the game, and on Boxing Day I always wondered if all the players were full of the spirit of Christmas (turkey, mince pies & pudding, and booze) as we and most the crowd were! The games always took on a more festive and relaxed spirit, as if something about Christmas, if not the eats and drinks, had worn off on the players.
I don’t remember the results or who scored the goals. I don’t think that mattered, because all I remember is the magic of that day out. The game drew to an end and the darkening sky told us our drive home was going to be one of lights and traffic along the motorway, whilst we sang a few songs and swapped opinions about the game. As we came into the Birmingham area we’d all try not to think of stopping somewhere for one last pint, but sadly the thought of a tall glass of draught best bitter accompanied by a Morden pork pie might just be the thing to end the day with.
A quiet pub, a sparkling fireplace, the leftover decorations of Christmas filled the last few hours of our day. We never drank too much, but as I was the only driver I didn’t mind if the others took another half or two. No one ever got drunk. It was a kind of unspoken rule. All that driving and all that fun was never going to be ruined by ‘one more for the road.’ It was drop off time. First I’d drop off Dave and we’d wave and shout, although it was close to 10 pm. Then Wally, with Wally telling us - ‘be quiet.’ Ally was last and he just said ‘thanks a mil pal,’ and went indoors. ‘You’re back then,’ asked the missus. ‘Good game?’ ‘Just average.' !!
PORT OUT - STARBOARD HOME by Ann Waddington.
Part One of Two: (Scroll down for Part Two - final)
The most exciting memories I have are of those wonderful trips I made as a child with my parents, then later as a married woman myself, when we packed our trunks, our cases, and headed for the docks to board a ship to take us abroad. These were the days of the Great Empire when Britain had outposts around the world, and the British military and their families were sent across vast oceans to colonize and to influence people of different colours and different cultures. In the 1920’s and 1930’s there were no ‘uprisings’ and no ‘revolts’ to speak of, and for a decade or two the world was a safe and interesting place to live.
My travels, that I call ‘Port Out, Starboard Home,’ (the British connotation for the word ‘posh.’) began with a passage to India - literally! I was only 8 years old but I can remember it to this day. It was 1928 and there were hardships at home in Britain (although at the time I knew little if anything about the ‘depression.’) yet here we were going up the gangplank onto what appeared to me then the biggest ship in the world. It was in fact a pleasant troopship called the SS Herefordshire, a three deck, side rocker that made me extremely seasick for the first few weeks. We had a nice four bunk cabin with two portholes, and were ‘above’ the troops that were on the lower two decks. I remember there were not a lot of families on board having only three other children my age to play with.
Soon we were in Port Said where ‘traders’ or ‘bum boats’ as my mother called them, came alongside offering all kinds of things which they sent up to us on long lines of ropes with baskets on. Mother bought a few things just for fun. We then went through the Suez Canal where our ship seemed to hardly clear the canal banks. Palm trees were everywhere as well as endless horizons of desert and sky. We walked the upper deck, sat in deckchairs, dressed for full summer, had wonderful afternoon teas and early morning breakfasts, and all in all I thoroughly enjoyed every moment. I can feel the swift warm sea breezes as I write this. I can still hear the bellowing horn sound from one of the funnels, and still see the clouds of diving and gliding seagulls as they ‘caw’ and ‘cry’ around the ship. Mother and I regularly walked around the deck, the thing to do when on board I later found out. In the lounge the peace and quiet was comforting, and the waiters were dressed in white tunics with a white cloth over their arm. It was magic, specially to a kid of 8.
We sailed through the Red Sea and saw many boats with triangle sails on them pass by, at which I and my friends would wave and shout. The sun was scorching and it was important not to spend too much time exposed to it. One young lady on board got a severe case of sunburn and for the rest of the trip was covered in calamine lotion. The nights were magnificent, some spent laying on a blanket looking up at the stars. The ship never slept. I loved that. All day and all night people were about. The crew, the non-sleepers, the excited (like me), and those like my mother who lived every moment observing everything about this magic carpet ride to exotic India.
We arrived at Bombay, where the crowds were huge, the dock was smelly and untidy, and the noise deafening. This first trip was over, but there were many more to come.
Part Two:
Our arrival in India with all its hot sun and dusty landscapes was a lot different to our journey out from England by ship. Now we were on trains chugging through stations where hundreds of Indians waited to clamber aboard, some even sitting on the roofs of the carriages. It was good to finally arrive at our destination and to be met by our father at the station and to be driven off to a large, airy house that sat regally on the side of a hill overlooking a vast dusty plain. We were there, and for an eight year old it was high adventure brought magnificently to life.
India was marvellous. I went to a school for the children of the British families there, where the classes were small and we were all on our way home by the early afternoon. There were many garden parties with many house guests and long trips on small trains that took us into ‘the hills’ when the heat on the plains became too fierce. It was a magical time and soon the years were flying by, but there were rumblings of war in Europe and my father was called back to England. Suddenly we were packing crates and suitcases and saying sad goodbyes to the very kind Indians who had looked after us in our home. Our train rumbled across the plains and took us to Bombay where a huge white ship, the ‘Empress of India’ waited to take us home.
This ship was a lot grander than the one we went out to India on. Here we had a much more spacious cabin with much better interior decor, and there were many other families on board, lots with children around my age. The dining room was huge and each meal called for two seperate sittings. There were three main decks and we again were fortunate enough to be cabin’ed on the top deck with a wonderful view of the sea and sky that filled our world for the next several weeks. Gongs gonged and bells rang, someone was blowing a whistle, and voices were raised along the dockside as the heavy ship engines rumbled into power. We were pulling away from the dock as the evening sun dipped across a soft greeny blue ocean. We turned, picked up speed, and soon the lights of Bombay were disappearing far behind us.
Our first port of call was Aden, where the sun beat down sending the temperatures above 100 degrees. Fans were at top speed everywhere and those ‘wind shovels’ were lodged in every porthole to catch what breeze we could. The Red Sea was breezy with very hot winds sweeping over the decks. Boats with large heart-shaped sails bounced over the waves past us and all kinds of sea birds squawked and cried in the foamy wake the ship left behind us. Soon we were in the Suez canal and docking in Port Said. Here we went ashore for a few hours but returned to the peace and quiet of our cabin and ship.
The Mediterranean was choppy and windy and for the first time on this voyage back home I felt somewhat seasick. I also began to feel a little sad. We were now only a few days away from our port of arrival, Southampton, and the big adventure was coming to a close. I remember a stormy night in the Bay of Biscay just before we arrived when I couldn’t sleep. I went up into the lounge and sat by a porthole and dreamed about all the wonderful things I’d seen in these last few years. I wondered to if I’d ever have the great pleasure to sail out across the seas again. And I did. After the war I sailed to Australia. But that’s another story!
WIDECOMBE FAIR by Jack Allenby.
When I tells people that Widecombe Fair is an actual fair they take a second look at me. ‘Oh go one, I thought it were just a song.’ So I adopt my best Somerset cider apple accent (imagine Long John Silver in that Treasure Island film - he were from Devon), and say, ‘Oh are lads, I tell ‘ee a damned good fair it be an all.’ I then start singing, ‘Tom Pearce, Tom Pearce, lend me your grey mare, all along out along down along lee,’ and I usually get their attention, if not a few whistles and jeers to stop singing. But it’s true, Widecombe fair has a wonderful history, and just about every year when I was growing up in Compton outside of Torquay my Dad and I would head over to Widecombe-In-The-Moor on the east side of Dartmoor National Park. It was a day out I’ll not ever forget and something I sits and dreams about when the heat and the flies get the better of me here in Australia.
I’ll tell you a bit about how it all started, which was around 1850, when it was simply a market place for the local moors farmers to sell and buy animal stock. It became very well known for its good business and before long celebrations were held after the sales that lasted well into the next day, so each year the Widecombe Fayre became not only a place to buy and sell animals but a place to unwind afterwards. Cider was drunk by the wagon load, and it being Harvest time food was aplenty. There were spit-roasted pig and ox, along with all the seasons fruits and vegetables. Everyone from the local gentry to the itinerant Irish farm labourers joined in the celebrations, the latter introducing a bit of ‘horse racing.’
For my Dad and I it was an early start, the fair being held on the second tuesday in September, and we’d take a haversack and a rolled up blanket and rainwear. Sometimes the weather was like mid summer but sometimes it was cold and wet. Whatever the weather we came prepared. Dad knew lots of folks and I’d meet up with lots of kids from around Torquay that I knew. We’d watch the Mummers and their odd looking dance, then watch the younger farmers in the bale tossing contest. There’d be a tug-o-war and a mangel-wurzel sack carrying contest. A huge sack was filled with about 80 to 100 lb of mangel-wurzels and a course of 100 yards was laid out. Each contestant had to carry the sack as fast as he could from start to finish, the fastest one winning of course. The prize? The sack of mangel-wuezels.
The highlight of the fair is the arrival of Old Uncle Tom Cobley on a grey mare. This signalled the start of the singing of that great song known the world over, Widecombe Fair. The actual Tom Cobley really lived and his grave can be seen in a Speyton churchyard just north of Dartmoor. All the others in the song are said to have been real but their resting places are speculate. The first day was spent in events and games with very little trading going on but there were a few cows, horses, and sheep sold. The first night was all spit roasting, huge fires, singing and drinking, and next day was really all about ‘recovery’ with Dad and I coming out of a local barn to the tables set up with tea, coffee, mounds of toast, and lots of scrambled eggs. It was a great and wonderful memory locked in my heart forever
HARPER'S POND. by Alec Brown.
Rivers do not change. My old home town of Houghton, in Hampshire, has changed but not the ancient river that still meanders quietly through the village on its way to the sea, along past the old mill; which is now a moving and storage warehouse, and into Harper’s field. The river is the River Test, and in a shady corner of Harper’s Field is a small oasis of beauty and charm that has been there for countless centuries. It is a pond. It’s not very big, about the size of a tennis court, and it’s not very deep, perhaps about eight feet at its deepest point. It is shaded by several old willow trees with several of their long branches stretching out across the almost still waters. It’s a place I spent many happy hours at when growing up as a child. We had an old length of rope tied to a branch and would swing out over the pond then plunge our bodies into the refreshing waters. It has a hundred memories that I wanted to recall when I went back last year to visit the place of my birth.
I’d been away from Houghton 27 years, and I was now approaching my 60th birthday. When I left this village for a new life in Australia I was still young, recently married, and I planned to take Australia by storm! What happened was more a challenge of overcoming culture shock, and allowing for the poking of fun at my ‘Hampshire accent’ and my pride in being English. Those things were dealt with and we settled and raised two children. They’re now true-blue Aussies, but I still have that unbreakable link between my heritage and my birth place, and after 27 years I was back on my own, on a visit, just to find out if there were those sweet memories lurking in the shadows of the places I knew so well and loved so well. The village has changed, but only a little. Several new houses built on the outskirts, and a few older farms gone, but there is still the old pub come hotel and even the petrol station, all modern now with more bays for vehicle repairs and a small shop inside to buy everything from bread to lottery tickets.
Seeking old acquaintances I found to my great delight that Jack Millard and his wife still owned and ran his taxi service and Mrs.Callbeck still lived on the edge of town bottling and selling her honey and jams. A few faces I recognized but all we did was give each other a friendly nod.
The weather was as beautiful as I remember it and I decided that Harper’s Pond needed to be revisited - for a swim. I drove in from my hotel in Romsey, on a wednesday when the sun was high and the temperature was in the 80’s and parked my rental car on the verge of the road that runs close to Harper’s Pond. Looking about me and seeing or hearing no one I scaled the five bar gate and walked along the edge of Harper’s Field to the pond. I took off my clothes, slipped on a pair of swim trunks, put a toe into the water (it felt very cold!) and shouted like Tarzan, and plunged in. Brrrrrrr! It was chilly but a few quick strokes soon warmed me up and I began to realise, I was alone, in Harper’s Pond. I stopped. I treaded water gently. I took a gulp - it was fine. The sun dappled through the trees onto the pond. I heard birds calling. A car went past in the nearby lane. But for one fantastic, glorious, and unforgettable moment I was transported back in time to when I was kid. You can’t ever go back they say, but I did, and it was marvellous.
A DAY BY THE SEA. by Marion Leadbetter.
One of my fondest memories as a child, and even well into my teens was the times we packed up our sandwiches and flasks of tea and went off to the seaside for the day. We lived in those days just outside of Bradford (West Yorkshire) and my mum and dad worked hard for a living but sundays in the summer were very special days. From June to well into August we’d all board the train on those special seaside day excursions they offered, and by 8 in the morning we were standing on a chilly platform, food and drinks packed, and all us kids (there were four of us) holding our buckets and spades and each one of us unable to stand still. Soon the train would come hissing into the station and dad would find us an empty or near empty compartment and we’d all pile in throwing our stuff up into the racks above the seats. Doors slammed, a whistle blew, the engine huffed and puffed, and we were on our way.
Our destination was always Morecombe where there were miles of sands and lots of entertainments. Our train made its way through Bingley, Skipton, Settle and High Bentham picking up lots of people just like us all dressed up and ready for a day by the sea. We chugged into Carnforth and went along the coast by Bolton le Sand and it was there we could see the sea. We opened the train door window and there would be great gushes of salty sea air, making us choke a little with its windy freshness. Then the train slowed, and we began to gather up our things, the train whistled a few times and sent up clouds of steam. We were there. Morecombe station, and the beginning of a day by the sea.
Along the front we’d all walk in loud excitement looking across the sandy beaches for a spot that would be ours for the day. ‘There’s a good place right there,’ yelled dad and soon we were on the sand eager to take off our shoes and socks and feel the delight of warm sand between our toes. Mum and dad found several deckchairs; for which dad paid a morning and afternoon fee of six pence each I think, and laid out the towels here and there and covering the bags with more towels to keep out the sand and the sun.
The order of the day began with a run down to the waters edge where we’d run into the sea jumping and splashing, still with our street clothes on but getting them wet was not a bother to mum or dad. Dad joined us, his pants rolled up to his knees, shirt sleeves rolled up, and his Marks & Spencer braces boldly visable. This was how the day began, with the sea around our toes and ankles. As the morning progressed, and it got warmer we’d change into our swim suits and go out further to where the sea rolled in over our waists causing us to gasp for breath. And soon we were swimming. We all swam well in our family, learning at school in the swimming classes but learning just as much here in the long shallows of a warm sea at Morecombe.
As noon approached and our appetites became enormous the tins of sandwiches would be opened and everything from luncheon meat to hard boiled eggs graced our midday meal. We had crisps, and homemade cup cakes, and all washed down with tea or warm lemonade. The afternoons went by in a haze of sun, sea, and sand, and soon it was time to pack up and go home. But nothing will ever beat our days out by the sea.
MY FAVOURITE PUB By Doug Tavistock
A great many things change in this world of ours. And as we grow older we tend to think back to those things that were once part of our every day life and wonder if they’re still there. One such place was ‘The Hare and Hounds,’ a large public house come hotel just outside of Aylesbury in Buckinghamshire, in a little village named Lower Winchendon. It was here I’d spend many a pleasant evening with friends, whether it was in the coldest part of winter sat around one of its two huge fireplaces, or whether it was on one of those hot summer days where we’d sit outside and be quietly reminded by the nearby church clock that life went by in quarter-hour chimings.
It was at ‘The Hare and Hounds’ that I first came face to face with that modern concept of the ‘Happy Hour’ and how we now all had an added excuse to attend in groups to avail ourselves of pints that were 50p off. It was from 5 pm to 6 pm and became a stop-off point on our way home from work, even if we were working in Bletchley, Brackley, Bicester or Buckingham, all, being more than a short drive away! After a hard days work it was nice to walk into the main bar and smell the wood and the ale and to be met by a warm welcome by the landlord or whoever was ready to pull a cool pint. It was as if you left your cares outside, and then sat yourself down with friends and sipped some of the finest beer in the world.
For reasons that don’t seem that clear to me now I remember packing up my job, packing up my family, and pushing off to Australia and a world far removed; in every sense of the word, from the idyllic surrounds of my life upto then. It was something to do with expanding ones horizons, making life better for oneself and family, and a little bit of that adventurous desire to see the world. My removal of self and family to Australia was all of those things, and although I am settled there now I’m never quite sure in my heart and soul if I’d ever do it again if I had that time over again.
Yet there I was, back home in my old stomping grounds, where I was brought up and where I lived for the first 27 years of my life. I’d been back to England twice in the last 29 years (I left in 1976) but I never could get myself to go back to Aylesbury and Lower Winchendon. But now things were different. I had decided that before I got much older, and while I still had the health and the money, I’d take myself back to the roots of my life and look up all the places that filled my life then with happiness and good friends. And before I left for Australia I had many good friends, but sadly you lose contact once you take off to places that are on the other side of the world.
On a bright June morning I pulled my car into the village of Lower Winchendon and saw right away that a few old farms had gone and a few modern houses had been built. The vicarage was still there covered in ivy, as was the chiming church, and the old post-office come general store still hung its newspapers outside on racks. A few more turns brought me into sight with ‘The Hare and Hounds,’ still there, after all these years, as if waiting for me to return. I took myself inside, passing from the heat outside to the ancient cool inside. ‘Doug Tavistock,’ I heard someone call out. There in a seat by the window was old Walter Hill, a friend from the past. ‘So where ya been,’ he asked!
MAY: 'JESS & MABEL' By Alan Weston
It was in the late 1950’s and I was still a young lad and helping my Dad on the farm. We’d kept a farm for many generations and all I really knew was farm life and living near the village of Longford in the county of Derbyshire. Farms back in those days were losing the younger generation to city life and better paid jobs and several farms within walking distance of ours had sold up and closed down. My Dad and I had been to many farm auctions, where everything from farm equipment to livestock and even household goods were up for auction. This particular saturday morning in early autumn found us at the Cradley Farm in nearby Longfordlane where the owner, an aging Bill Cradley was selling up and going into retirement somewhere.
There were not a lot of prospective buyers there, which is good if you’re looking for the best prices but is no good to old Bill Cradley if he’s hoping to get top dollar for his stuff. My Dad latched onto an old tractor that needed some work, but being a mechanic it was right up his street. He bid, and sure enough got it for a good price. Whilst all this was going on I was looking around and came upon two old Shire horses. They were both around 15 year old and had very little work left in them, and what with all the nearby farms becoming very mechanized they were truly of little use to anyone. Bill hoped a buyer could be found who’d be able to use them for plowing or such, as he himself had done. They were named Jess and Mabel, and they stood close together as they had done all their life, and you could see they knew something was up. I stroked their heads and Jess tossed his head back as if to say I’m not for sale.
The bidding started on the two horses but it was painfully slow. In the end the auctioneer suggested someone buy at least one of the horses, and that’s what happened. Jess, the male and the stronger looking of the two was bought by Algy Mason, a nearby farmer. He paid his price and led Jess away up the lane. Mabel was fidgety and whinnied a few times, looking anxiously up the lane in the direction of where her lifelong partner Jess had gone.
This disturbed me and I begged my father to buy Mabel. He said ‘what for, she be little good on our farm.’ I asked the auctioneer to put Mabel up again and I asked my Dad to buy her and dock the cost from my wages. Mabel was knocked down to Dad for a mere £40, and with some heartfelt satisfaction I led her home. My plan however was not quite as simple as taking Mabel to our farm. I had something else in mind. After we got home I put Mabel in the barn and cycled over to Algy Mason’s farm. My plan was to offer Mabel to Algy for free as long as he would keep the two together. We talked for sometime, about feeding them and general upkeep, but in the end he saw that I really wanted him to keep the two together. He finally agreed, and I of course offered to come over on occasion and see they’re fed and groomed.
That evening I led Mabel out into the lane and walked her to Algy Mason’s farm. As we approached I could hear Jess whinnying and stomping and soon Algy came out to see what the fuss was. He led Jess to the gate as I led Mabel in. There was a greeting between the horses that involved heads ducking and hoofs stomping. They were back together again.
MY FIRST VISIT HOME by Sylvia Watts (April Memory Lane)
We’d been in Australia 18 years and we were thoroughly settled in. No more pining for home or harbouring lingering thoughts of what used to be. Jack (my husband) had no interest in ever returning for a holiday, and our son Billy was now moved out and living on his own. Jack’s parents had passed on and all I had was my dear mum who was now in a smart home for the elderly in Bournemouth. It was time to go back and visit her one last time and, to spend a few weeks looking up the old haunts as well as catch up on a modern Britain. Passport, savings, fare paid, I was soon on my way to London as our winter began, and as Britain came into spring. I was truly excited, if a little scared being on my own.
I arrived at Heathrow completely tired out after the long flight and all I wanted was to get to my pre-arranged hotel near the city. A ‘tube’ took me within a few streets of it and I was soon booked in. A nice big bright room with its own bathroom overlooking a park, and for £65 a night I was well pleased. I slept well, rose early, had a good breakfast, and with the excitement of a kid I was out and on my way. No car rental for me, I had bought a Britrail pass, and soon I was in a fast clean train on its way through the beautiful countryside on a most fantastic May morning.
Bournemouth had hardly changed from the last time I saw it. Still a big tourist city with hotels and shopping plazas. The promenade was packed and early holidaymakers were celebrating the end of a long winter. I visited my mother who was just as she always was - fussy, to the point, but clearly loving the attention she was getting. I was soon on my way.
The remaining weeks of my holiday were planned loosely, allowing for stop-offs, stop-overs, and lots of shopping! A couple of credit cards (to be paid off in the coming year or two!), my Britrail pass, my travel book, a few maps, and I was off and running. After Bournemouth it was over to Bristol to visit an old girlfriend. A great city with a new dock area with great restaurants. Then to Oxford where I just simply wanted to be a tourist among the ‘spires of learning.’ The weather held, it was warm, and it was all very exciting.
My next stop, after a couple of train changes was to Penrith, where I took a bus into the Lake District. My goodness, what a wonderful place this is. Wonderful history, superb walks, shops, book stores, antiques, a wonderful hotel with an exquisite lounge. I stayed there a whole week and had to drag myself away. Next York, the famous minster, and again some great shops and good food. I took a coach out to Goathland where my favourite TV show is filmed ‘Heartbeat’ and I had my picture taken outside The Aidensfield Arms! From there to Whitby - exactly like it is in the show.
The holiday whizzed by. Time to get back to London, do some last minute shopping, tour all the sights, and have a good curry! After that last dining out I went down by the Embankment and just sat. London honked by. The Thames flowed quietly. The trees were in blossom and in new leaf. The evening was warm. Everything buzzed with a soothing feeling of comfort. All this is my ‘Memory Lane.’ Coming back and catching up. Our move to OZ was wise, and coming ‘home’ for a holiday was something memories are truly made of.
MARCH MEMORY LANE: 'THE LEGACY'
Scathaig is a small village a few miles south of Inverness. You get there by leaving the busy A9 road and taking a right turn onto the B851. There’s a small loch just across from our house but there are no monsters in it: well I’ve never seen any except some very large salmon and lake trout you might call monsters of sorts. I grew up there with my parents and a younger sister. Father worked on the railway in Inverness and we lived a frugal but happy life, until he took ill in the late 1960’s. Things then got hard for us all and I left school at 12 and began working in the nearby forest management area.
Not knowing much more than what I grew up with, we having no television or telephone, I had little knowledge of the outside world knowing only what I heard on the radio and what I read in the newspapers. Even our mail was so little we collected it once a week at the small general store in Scathaig. But one of those letters changed our life forever and set us all on a course that gave us more than we ever needed and took me to places I’d only read about. It happened like this. I collected the mail on Fridays on my way home from the job I had. I also got my paypacket that day and I’d collect groceries as well as the mail. There were two letters that Friday in May and one of them was official, our address being typed on it and in the top left hand corner were the several names of a solicitors firm. When dad read it he was not too impressed. ‘My brother Alden has died and I’m to go to London for a reading of his will. All that way for a few pounds. I’ll not bother. Look Glen, you’ve never been further than Inverness. Would you like to go for me?’ I jumped at the chance. The reading was only a week away so I posted a letter to them saying I would represent my father who was really too ill to travel.
Came the day and I rowed across the loch like I did every day. From the lochside I walked into Scathaig and got the small bus into Inverness. There I boarded the overnight train to London with the excitement of a child and after all I was now just 14. The train journey was magnificent. I hardly slept, and London was incredible. Busses, taxis, cars everywhere, and more people I’d ever seen in my entire life. I arrived at the solicitors and was seated next to my dad’s brother's wife and their two daughters, both around my age. There were two other people there, being friends of dad’s brother Alden. After a lot of legal talk the solicitor read out the bequeathments, coming finally to my dads. ‘To my brother Angus William Croftmore I leave the sum of £47,000 which I hope he will bestow upon his family the riches they are so deservedly due.’ I was breathless. The solicitor paused and looked over his glasses. ‘Are you alright Glen?’ he asked.
With a bankers draft for the money tucked safely in my travel bag I got the overnight train up to Inverness, from there a taxi to Scathaig, then I took the boat and rowed across the loch. Sandy the dog began barking with joy when he saw me coming nearer. Dad came down to the water's edge. ‘Well my boy what is the news. Ten pound or a hundred pound?’ ‘Neither dad. How about £47,000.’ He staggered. ‘You don’t say,’ he said, ‘better call your mother.’
THE HAYMAKERS. by Gregory Kemp. (February's Memory Lane)
(Editor Ken Seymour:) - One of the fondest memories I have, and many people like me, is those few short weeks we spent helping out on a farm during the summer. The final harvest, when the wheat was brought in saw many people from all walks of life helping out with pitchforks and tractors and trailers, as they went around the fields gathering up the sheaves. Before the wheat harvest came the haymaking when square bails of hay were gathered and formed into haystacks. Gregory Kemp lived in Suffolk and from the age of twelve years to well into his thirties he hardly missed a summer when he wasn’t working on a farm helping to bring in the hay. Here’s his story.
‘Being a farming community us young lads were allowed to take time out from school and help on the farms. Haymaking usually began in mid July which coincided with the school summer break, but to us volunteers it meant a two week start on the rest of the school. Beginning when we were between ten and twelve years old we’d soon establish ourselves with several local farmers, and with luck and a good record of work, you’d be asked back every year. I fell in with two other boys, Harold and John, and each year we’d be haymaking on the Clopton farm owned by George Street, the amiable old farmer who seemingly spent his life in high gaitors and a leather jacket."
"The first cutting of the grasses that made up the precious hay was a nosegay of the most wonderful smells of mother nature. There’s nothing smells quite so nice as freshly cut grass laying out in rows on a field in the warm summer sun. The tractor made her way around the fields whilst us lads tagged along, well behind, with wide pitchforks tossing the grasses over and over. This was the happiest of jobs where we three lads would be laughing and joking most of the day, our sleeves rolled up, never a hat, and our old leather boots crunching over the stubble. After many days doing the ‘twisting’ it would be gathered up by the baler and turned into square bales of hay. Now one of us rode on the flatdeck trailer whilst the other two tossed up the bales. Soon the flatdeck was top heavy in bales and we’d ride on top all the way back to the farm."
"Back close to the farm the older hands would begin the precise building of the haystacks. This was an art passed down over generations. We’d toss up the bales from on top of the piles we brought in, and before the day was out there would be a haystack built with geometric proportions as if done with a slide rule. The old Clopton oak-beamed barn took in many loads of hay and us lads took pride in filling the upper decks in safe order, as well as have a few pretend tumbles!"
"Within a few short weeks the main job of bringing in and stacking the hay was done, and more often than not these times were played out under summer sunshine at the most wonderful time of the year. We had our lunches under hedgerows in the fields, which we brought in old shoulder bags and consisted of sandwiches and bottles of water or cold sweet tea. We got tanned, we got windblown in that sunny freshfaced way, and we laughed about everything. Young blackbirds and thrushes were everywhere, and the larks sang above the fields as if celebrating the fullness of life. Then old George would call us in on the last day and hand us lads our brown envelope paypackets bulging in notes, silver, and coppers. Truth is the pay was a sad ending. But welcome!"
|
