A Poem...A Miners Lament
This poem, attributed to Gordon Nicholl, describes the demise of Bulgill Colliery in about 1910. With no name.
Yes, "A Poem" could well be called "A Miners Lament"
Original West-Cumbrian Version...............Translation
Bulgill's buggert marra..............................Bulgill's buggered friend,
Wukken out cum's fast.............................Working-out comes fast,
If thou gits t'backshift in...........................If you get the backshift in,
That cud be thee last...............................That could be your last
T'Powney's gone till Riser..........................The pony's gone to Risehow
T'Ingins gone till t'seals.............................The Engine's gone to the sales
Thompson's up afoort t'boss.....................Tompson's up before the boss
Fer pinchun six inch neals..........................For stealing six inch nails
Tyson's gone till Buthy...............................Tyson's gone to Bothel
Cass till Outerside.....................................Cass to Oughterside
Uncle Joe's at Number Fower....................Uncle Joe's at Number four
An Tom's at Number Five.......................... And Tom's at Number Five
Bulgill's buggert marra...............................Bulgill's buggered friend
Just a wa' o stean......................................Just a wall of stone
Divent ga 'till Buthy....................................Don't you go to Bothel
Thoo's better off at yam.............................You're better off at home
Ere we ga up t'clog trod.............................Here we go up the path
In till t'Railway Pub.....................................Into the Railway Pub
Get thee wissel wet me lad........................Get your whistle wet my lad
See-un thou'll be on't club..........................Seeing as you'll be on the club
27 August 2003
22 August 2003
Google
Spring
Today was bud burst in the swampy bottom below our house here in
NZ. During the month of August, I look each day from our diningroom window and, this was the day!
Spring
Today was bud burst in the swampy bottom below our house here in
NZ. During the month of August, I look each day from our diningroom window and, this was the day!
15 August 2003
Ullswater: The Corlett's.
Our friends, the Corlett's lived at Sharrow Cottages some way towards Howtown, on the hillside, overlooking the lake. The one they lived in was was the middle one of the block of 3.
The Corlett's had 3 daughters Annie, Jean and Elsie. Mrs Corlett was a cheerful person and quite noisy and loving to "pull ones leg", often mine. Mr Corlett was a retired, quiet man and had been a gardener at a large house, close by.
Elsie, the youngest worked in a shoe shop in Penrith, McVities. Jean the middle daughter had joined the WAAFs in the early part of WW2. Annie, the eldest I'm not sure what here work was now. Sometimes if our parents were out late, usually at the weekend or possibly visiting relatives in west Cumberland, brother John and I sometimes stayed at the Corlett's.
The 3 cottages did not have electricity and as the evenings dimmed, Mrs Corlett would bring a large table lamp off the top of the piano and place in the middle of the dining table. The lamp was a pressurized type and was operated by paraffin. The lamp had a glass flue, a piece called a mantle, which glowed whitely when, with the wick lit and the paraffin vapour was pressurized by pumping and fed to the mantle. The light from the table lamp lit the room brightly.
There was only an outside toilet, set some distance to the rear of the house and needed cleaning out periodically. This was quite common in country areas and not uncommon in towns and sometimes built-up areas. Some houses did have cesspit's or septic tanks fitted, but this was costly.
After WW2 was over, the following years showed an improvement, especially with electricity supply.
On one of our periodic visits to the Corlett's, Mrs. Corlett was all a-buzz, after a cup of tea we were whisked up stairs. At the top of the stairs was a door to a small bedroom. With an almost theatrical throw, she flung open the door, wide. There standing before us, was a brand new indoor toilet. After our first surprised shock we were all talking together, asking questions. I'm not sure what type the toilet was now, whether it was a wet or dry type.
Other times I remember well was winter. In the decade of the 1940s, this period was particularly cold. Just down from the Corlett's was a fair sized pond close to the road. The pond used to freeze over in winter, thick enough to skate on. The Corlett girls all had skates and used to use them. They had at least one small pair which I used to attempt to skate with but I wasn't very good.
During our visit to the area in the year 2000, I noticed the pond area no longer had water. It was just grass and weeds. As I knew it over 1940s, the pond was full all the year round. The pond was situated where the stream which flows in front Sharrow Cottages, then down the hillside at an angle then crossing the road and into the lake. The stream did not connect to the pond.
Other times I remember well was winter. In the decade of the 1940s, this period was particularly cold. Just down from the Corlett's was a fair sized pond close to the road. The pond used to freeze over in winter, thick enough to skate on. The Corlett girls all had skates and used to use them. They had at least one small pair which I used to attempt to skate with but I wasn't very good.
During our visit to the area in the year 2000, I noticed the pond area no longer had water. It was just grass and weeds. As I knew it over 1940s, the pond was full all the year round. The pond was situated where the stream which flows in front Sharrow Cottages, then down the hillside at an angle then crossing the road and into the lake. The stream did not connect to the pond.
Next door, lived Mr and Mrs Platt. I mentioned Mr Platt earlier with us showing of a light during the WW2 blackout. Quite some years later after WW2 was over and we had left Sharrow Bay. The Platt's passed away. The house became vacant, the youngest daughter Elsie, with permission took over the cottage to run as a rental for both summertime visitors. It was also popular with out of season climbers, walkers and fishermen, and not forgetting its spectacular views over Ullswater.
When the cottage was initially taken over and in the process of being refurbished, the attic was inspected. A heavy box was found and removed. When opened it contained a large number crown and halve crown coins. Being honest people, the Corlett's got in touch with the solicitors who had handled the Platt's affairs. What happened from here on I don't fully know, other than the Platt's did not have any offspring and did not seem to have any near relatives.
12 August 2003
Galloper Jack
A politician every bit as flamboyant as Alan Clark
(Filed: 18/05/2003)
Alan Judd reviews Galloper Jack by Brough Scott
Time's toll on contemporary reputation is always greater than we think. You could be close to kings and prime ministers, minister of state, war hero twice over, friend of Churchill's for 48 years, founder of the National Savings movement, father of the 1930s National Government, ennobled, arch-appeaser of Mussolini and Hitler, then repentant and vigorous supporter of war against them – all this and more, yet within a few decades your name is known only to historians and your family.
But Jack Seely – the first Lord Mottistone – may become better known as a result of his grandson's affectionate memoir. Brough Scott, racing correspondent for The Sunday Telegraph and Channel Four, decided to add bones and structure to the corpus of family stories about their dashing and heroic Edwardian forebear. The result is a story both uplifting and instructive, well researched and written with infectious, but not uncritical, enthusiasm.
The Seely fortune grew from Nottinghamshire coal, but home for Jack (1868-1947) was the family estate on the Isle of Wight. The privileged, impetuous youth became and remained a stalwart member of the local lifeboat crew and the experience reinforced in him those liberal and egalitarian instincts that so often went hand-in-hand with Victorian and Edwardian patronage. Theirs is an age we have, in Scott's words, "cast into caricature" and Jack Seely, with his upper-class drawl and imperial assumptions, could easily be caricatured.
But to do so would be as facile and unjust as that cinematic sneer against the First World War, Oh! What a Lovely War. Grim experience of the Boer War – when he ruffled feathers by protesting against military muddle and by opposing ranch burning and concentration camps – sharpened his political instincts, and he entered Parliament to campaign for Army reforms. He was first a Conservative, then a Liberal MP, but always, essentially an issues rather than a party man.
He progressed to secretary of state for war, but politics turned his virtues – loyalty, straightforwardness, honesty, courage – into vices: naïve judgment, simple-mindedness, self-advertisement. In 1914 he was made scapegoat and forced to resign over the Curragh Mutiny. He also had his share of ill-luck: while he was breaking up a fight at a royal function between the South African and Canadian representatives, his horse bit the King's foot – and that is what stuck in people's minds. To the military hierarchy, it showed he was a loose cannon.
This was despite the judgment of Maurice Hankey, first and archetypal Cabinet secretary, that Seely did more than anyone apart from Asquith and Haldane to facilitate the country's belated war preparations. Not least of his achievements was helping to found the Royal Flying Corps and organising shipping to get the Army to France. Flying became a theme of his life: he was the first minister to fly, became post-war Under-Secretary of State for Air, and in 1919 scandalised the powers-that-were by flying a sea plane through Tower Bridge to land at Westminster. Of modern ministers, perhaps only Alan Clark might have had that style.
In the First World War, Seely forsook Westminster for the trenches, commanding a Canadian cavalry brigade with idiosyncratic flair and systematic bravery. He endured four harsh winters in the line and numerous near escapes before the brigade he loved met its own Calvary at Moreuil Wood, during the 1919 German Spring Offensive. This, like other war episodes, is vividly evoked by Scott, a biographer who rightly makes the effort to walk the ground he describes. The commentary box asides that pepper his earlier chapters – remarks that might work on air, but appear intrusive and otiose in print – are less evident here. His depictions of the four million horses killed on the Western Front, and his descriptions of Seely's incomparable mount, Warrior, are written with all the informed enthusiasm you could expect of a former jockey.
Seely led a vigorous life after the war, but he was somewhat adrift and his ardour never to see such suffering again blinded him to the realities of Mussolini and Hitler. Always an idealistic optimist, he became, says Scott, "a cock-eyed one" who found Hitler "absolutely truthful, sincere and unselfish". It took another war to restore his political sight; he donned uniform and went to Churchill in tearful repentance. He died in 1947 of the gas that had got him in 1918.
Not least among our misconceptions of that age is the assumption that our forebears repressed their emotions; one of the attractions of this sympathetic piece of family and social history is that it shows how fearlessly and well they could express feeling, and how Roman they were in performing their duty. I doubt we match them in either.
A politician every bit as flamboyant as Alan Clark
(Filed: 18/05/2003)
Alan Judd reviews Galloper Jack by Brough Scott
Time's toll on contemporary reputation is always greater than we think. You could be close to kings and prime ministers, minister of state, war hero twice over, friend of Churchill's for 48 years, founder of the National Savings movement, father of the 1930s National Government, ennobled, arch-appeaser of Mussolini and Hitler, then repentant and vigorous supporter of war against them – all this and more, yet within a few decades your name is known only to historians and your family.
But Jack Seely – the first Lord Mottistone – may become better known as a result of his grandson's affectionate memoir. Brough Scott, racing correspondent for The Sunday Telegraph and Channel Four, decided to add bones and structure to the corpus of family stories about their dashing and heroic Edwardian forebear. The result is a story both uplifting and instructive, well researched and written with infectious, but not uncritical, enthusiasm.
The Seely fortune grew from Nottinghamshire coal, but home for Jack (1868-1947) was the family estate on the Isle of Wight. The privileged, impetuous youth became and remained a stalwart member of the local lifeboat crew and the experience reinforced in him those liberal and egalitarian instincts that so often went hand-in-hand with Victorian and Edwardian patronage. Theirs is an age we have, in Scott's words, "cast into caricature" and Jack Seely, with his upper-class drawl and imperial assumptions, could easily be caricatured.
But to do so would be as facile and unjust as that cinematic sneer against the First World War, Oh! What a Lovely War. Grim experience of the Boer War – when he ruffled feathers by protesting against military muddle and by opposing ranch burning and concentration camps – sharpened his political instincts, and he entered Parliament to campaign for Army reforms. He was first a Conservative, then a Liberal MP, but always, essentially an issues rather than a party man.
He progressed to secretary of state for war, but politics turned his virtues – loyalty, straightforwardness, honesty, courage – into vices: naïve judgment, simple-mindedness, self-advertisement. In 1914 he was made scapegoat and forced to resign over the Curragh Mutiny. He also had his share of ill-luck: while he was breaking up a fight at a royal function between the South African and Canadian representatives, his horse bit the King's foot – and that is what stuck in people's minds. To the military hierarchy, it showed he was a loose cannon.
This was despite the judgment of Maurice Hankey, first and archetypal Cabinet secretary, that Seely did more than anyone apart from Asquith and Haldane to facilitate the country's belated war preparations. Not least of his achievements was helping to found the Royal Flying Corps and organising shipping to get the Army to France. Flying became a theme of his life: he was the first minister to fly, became post-war Under-Secretary of State for Air, and in 1919 scandalised the powers-that-were by flying a sea plane through Tower Bridge to land at Westminster. Of modern ministers, perhaps only Alan Clark might have had that style.
In the First World War, Seely forsook Westminster for the trenches, commanding a Canadian cavalry brigade with idiosyncratic flair and systematic bravery. He endured four harsh winters in the line and numerous near escapes before the brigade he loved met its own Calvary at Moreuil Wood, during the 1919 German Spring Offensive. This, like other war episodes, is vividly evoked by Scott, a biographer who rightly makes the effort to walk the ground he describes. The commentary box asides that pepper his earlier chapters – remarks that might work on air, but appear intrusive and otiose in print – are less evident here. His depictions of the four million horses killed on the Western Front, and his descriptions of Seely's incomparable mount, Warrior, are written with all the informed enthusiasm you could expect of a former jockey.
Seely led a vigorous life after the war, but he was somewhat adrift and his ardour never to see such suffering again blinded him to the realities of Mussolini and Hitler. Always an idealistic optimist, he became, says Scott, "a cock-eyed one" who found Hitler "absolutely truthful, sincere and unselfish". It took another war to restore his political sight; he donned uniform and went to Churchill in tearful repentance. He died in 1947 of the gas that had got him in 1918.
Not least among our misconceptions of that age is the assumption that our forebears repressed their emotions; one of the attractions of this sympathetic piece of family and social history is that it shows how fearlessly and well they could express feeling, and how Roman they were in performing their duty. I doubt we match them in either.
8 August 2003
Ullswater: Sea Training and the Indian Head.
Just up the road from us towards Howtown was a large empty mansion called called Ravencragg. Here the mansion had been taken over by the government of the day for use as a Royal Navy training establishment. The teen-aged boys, I suppose would be 15 years upward. I'm not at all sure what their training was exactly for, but to make a guess I would say it would be for the Royal Navy. We would often see the boys on the lake practising their seamanship with boats which closely resembled lifeboats or maybe cutters.
At Sharrow Bay we, by this time had left the cottage and moved into the lodge at the main gate entrance. The cottage was now empty, shortly a man and his wife moved in and I noticed he wore a uniform, a naval uniform which to me resembled a petty officer's uniform. My wife Patricia's brother was a Royal Navy chief petty officer during WW2 and the uniforms were similar.
The man was employed at Ravencrag and would be, probably an instructor. One day I overheard that the man had asked Nelson's permission to build a boat were the hounds dog kennels were. These unused kennels were from the days when Mr Nelson was Master of the Ullswater Hunt. Sometime after this permission was granted. Part way through the building of the boat we were invited by Mrs Nelson down to see the progress of the boat. The man gave us an explanation of how it was built using steel plate(with rivets), the size of the boat and other things which I forget now.
As I write this I am puzzled why the boat was being built. Why the man had been allowed to build the boat. Why he had been allowed to dismantle the dog kennels. This present early morning as I write I came up with what I think may be the answer.
These were ship building engineering students who at the end of their training would go to sea as ships engineers? How ships were built was part of their course training. Ravencrag mansion was not the ideal place to demonstrate ship building techniques. Ravencrag was built on a small piece of flat ground with rising ground to one side and the rear, with the road to Howtown on the 3rd side. Whether steel boat or ship, steel building causes a noisy environment and if close to a study environment is far from ideal. So that is my best guess.
I don't remember seeing much of the Ravencrag boys but I do remember, vividly, seeing one of the boys carvings. It was on a tree on the Howtown road, not too far from Pooley Bridge. There was a row of smooth barked trees, Beech trees, I think. The row of trees started at about opposite Elderbeck Farm gateway and continued at spaced intervals down the hedgerow towards Howtown for a short way.
Some lines had been cut in the tree bark with a knife. At 2-4 day intervals more lines and curved cuts would appear, slowly a picture started to emerge from the cuts. One day I saw the finished picture. It was a side view of an American Indian's life-size face plus wearing full headdress. Coming down the road on my bike I would sometimes stop and gaze at the picture and marvel at the lifelike picture the boy had done.
In the year 2000 when visiting the UK, my brother John took me up to Sharrow Bay for a nostalgic visit. I thought of the Indian head carved into the tree trunk and asked John to stop. As we came up to the row of trees I immediately picked out the tree. I clambered out of John's vehicle. As I crossed the road towards the tree, at first I could not see the carving. Had I got the wrong tree? I glanced past the tree to the next tree, I started walking towards it; no there was nothing there, the bark was smooth. I started to walk to check the previous tree to the one I was so sure of. I stopped and took another glance at the tree I was so sure of and then stared intently, I thought that is silver coloured lichen I see. I moved closer into the hedge as far as I could and scraped the lichen away and the dirt underneath. With my finger nail following the black line and as I kept scraping I came to missing bark, twisted bark and then newer bark from the tree trying to reproduce new bark. I stopped what I was doing and a thought crossed my mind, if I do clean the carving up, all I can do is make it look worse. Best thing I could do is leave the Indian head carving alone and let nature take its course. As I write this the year is 2010 and I am 78 years. I last saw the Indian Head 12 years ago, in the year 2000. I would be about 10 years old when the boy did the carving.
In the year 2000 when visiting the UK, my brother John took me up to Sharrow Bay for a nostalgic visit. I thought of the Indian head carved into the tree trunk and asked John to stop. As we came up to the row of trees I immediately picked out the tree. I clambered out of John's vehicle. As I crossed the road towards the tree, at first I could not see the carving. Had I got the wrong tree? I glanced past the tree to the next tree, I started walking towards it; no there was nothing there, the bark was smooth. I started to walk to check the previous tree to the one I was so sure of. I stopped and took another glance at the tree I was so sure of and then stared intently, I thought that is silver coloured lichen I see. I moved closer into the hedge as far as I could and scraped the lichen away and the dirt underneath. With my finger nail following the black line and as I kept scraping I came to missing bark, twisted bark and then newer bark from the tree trying to reproduce new bark. I stopped what I was doing and a thought crossed my mind, if I do clean the carving up, all I can do is make it look worse. Best thing I could do is leave the Indian head carving alone and let nature take its course. As I write this the year is 2010 and I am 78 years. I last saw the Indian Head 12 years ago, in the year 2000. I would be about 10 years old when the boy did the carving.
John sat patiently in the drivers seat waiting for me.
18 April 2003
Ullswater: Our Family and WW2…My Brother John
OldEric says :-) My brother John born August 17th 1937 was not long turned two years old at the start of WW2 in 1939, I was three and a half years older and heading for six years old. During these early years three and a half age difference was a wide gap. John was essentially still a toddler and I was attending school. Our interests were widely different and so we didn’t really interact with each other at this time. I was allowed to go out with my friend Peter and John was not allowed to wander far without supervision. During these early years there were no local children of John’s age group and it must have been a lonely existence for him.
The thing I remember most vividly of John was his very blond hair during these early days at Sharrow Bay, inherited from our mother’s Brough genes. Otherwise I have only un-synchronised glimpses of John until he reached school age in 1942. One other thing comes to mind, a simple thing. Our main meal of the day was at 12pm… lunchtime; we often had chips with our meal, which were deliciously home made. Mum usually seemed to make too many chips and as afternoon progressed she would wrap the cold chips in two paper cones for us and send John and I down the lane parallelling Sharrow gardens with the chips. I guess this was to keep us out from under her feet. We liked cold chips and we willingly went with her bribe.
John as far as I remember didn’t go to Barton School as I did, he went to Yanwath Primary School close to Eamont Bridge near Penrith. A much better school academically than Barton School. He travelled to school by Bell’s taxi, which was contracted to the local Education department. He got over the two and a half mileage minimum ruling by catching the taxi at a point father down the road from where my walk to school was measured. From the Cottage, by crossing a paddock via two gates and a footpath brought him to Thwaite Hill Farm entrance gate which when measured was just over two and a half miles to the nearest school. The Bell children went to Yanwath School too so this suited John very well.
How many children travelled by this means, I don’t know, the taxi seem to be very full as it passed me on my bike. This was the same taxi which used to pass me as I walked to school before I got my bike and I used to wish that I could travel that way too. Later with my bike I think I preferred this mode of transport best, it allowed me to stop at will and explore and look at anything which caught my eye.
Children can sometimes be heartless when young and I must confess I was no exception. One day we were visiting with our parents our friends the Corletts’ down and along the road to Howtown at Sharrow Cottages situated on the lower reaches of Barton Fell. Not to be confused with our home which was known as The Cottage at Sharrow Bay. My friend Peter was with us. Peter and I decided to go up to nearby Hobley’s Cave and John came along with us. I picture him as probably five or at the most six at the time. We went up via the fell track and on our way back we returned via a lower track and John was started to struggle to keep up with us. John fell further and further behind us and called out to us to wait which we did. When John hurried and caught up we continued on and, probably Peter and I with a short rest accelerated our pace. John dropped back again and we took no notice of his calls except to turn round and tell him if he didn’t run and catch us up we would leave him, and we did.
As we neared the Corlett’s home we became worried, he was no longer in sight so we decided to back track to him. Not in a fit of conscience but a fear of the trouble we would be in. There was John tearfully plodding along trying his best to get back. We sat him down to rest, straightened him up and slowly returned with him.
Even today I still feel a little twinge of conscience for that episode and sometimes in my later years when I am reminded of Sharrow Bay occasionally my mind will drift back to the scene of that plodding figure of John making his way slowly back.
Re-reading this post leads me to think John did go to Barton school in his early years.
OldEric says :-) My brother John born August 17th 1937 was not long turned two years old at the start of WW2 in 1939, I was three and a half years older and heading for six years old. During these early years three and a half age difference was a wide gap. John was essentially still a toddler and I was attending school. Our interests were widely different and so we didn’t really interact with each other at this time. I was allowed to go out with my friend Peter and John was not allowed to wander far without supervision. During these early years there were no local children of John’s age group and it must have been a lonely existence for him.
The thing I remember most vividly of John was his very blond hair during these early days at Sharrow Bay, inherited from our mother’s Brough genes. Otherwise I have only un-synchronised glimpses of John until he reached school age in 1942. One other thing comes to mind, a simple thing. Our main meal of the day was at 12pm… lunchtime; we often had chips with our meal, which were deliciously home made. Mum usually seemed to make too many chips and as afternoon progressed she would wrap the cold chips in two paper cones for us and send John and I down the lane parallelling Sharrow gardens with the chips. I guess this was to keep us out from under her feet. We liked cold chips and we willingly went with her bribe.
John as far as I remember didn’t go to Barton School as I did, he went to Yanwath Primary School close to Eamont Bridge near Penrith. A much better school academically than Barton School. He travelled to school by Bell’s taxi, which was contracted to the local Education department. He got over the two and a half mileage minimum ruling by catching the taxi at a point father down the road from where my walk to school was measured. From the Cottage, by crossing a paddock via two gates and a footpath brought him to Thwaite Hill Farm entrance gate which when measured was just over two and a half miles to the nearest school. The Bell children went to Yanwath School too so this suited John very well.
How many children travelled by this means, I don’t know, the taxi seem to be very full as it passed me on my bike. This was the same taxi which used to pass me as I walked to school before I got my bike and I used to wish that I could travel that way too. Later with my bike I think I preferred this mode of transport best, it allowed me to stop at will and explore and look at anything which caught my eye.
Children can sometimes be heartless when young and I must confess I was no exception. One day we were visiting with our parents our friends the Corletts’ down and along the road to Howtown at Sharrow Cottages situated on the lower reaches of Barton Fell. Not to be confused with our home which was known as The Cottage at Sharrow Bay. My friend Peter was with us. Peter and I decided to go up to nearby Hobley’s Cave and John came along with us. I picture him as probably five or at the most six at the time. We went up via the fell track and on our way back we returned via a lower track and John was started to struggle to keep up with us. John fell further and further behind us and called out to us to wait which we did. When John hurried and caught up we continued on and, probably Peter and I with a short rest accelerated our pace. John dropped back again and we took no notice of his calls except to turn round and tell him if he didn’t run and catch us up we would leave him, and we did.
As we neared the Corlett’s home we became worried, he was no longer in sight so we decided to back track to him. Not in a fit of conscience but a fear of the trouble we would be in. There was John tearfully plodding along trying his best to get back. We sat him down to rest, straightened him up and slowly returned with him.
Even today I still feel a little twinge of conscience for that episode and sometimes in my later years when I am reminded of Sharrow Bay occasionally my mind will drift back to the scene of that plodding figure of John making his way slowly back.
Re-reading this post leads me to think John did go to Barton school in his early years.
17 April 2003
Where have I been?
OldEric says : ) I hope to have something written over Easter. Think I have writers block at the moment, or is it the upheaval of the coming UK trip?? Who knows. I am trying to sort out brother John and I'm desperatly short of early memories, I was hoping something would come to the surface from the swirling depths of what is my mind. Not much has surfaced yet of John's early years.
OldEric says : ) I hope to have something written over Easter. Think I have writers block at the moment, or is it the upheaval of the coming UK trip?? Who knows. I am trying to sort out brother John and I'm desperatly short of early memories, I was hoping something would come to the surface from the swirling depths of what is my mind. Not much has surfaced yet of John's early years.
30 March 2003
Ullswater Our Family and WW2 Pt.3
My Mother continued
OldEric says :-) One night after dark at the height of WW2 there was a knock at the door. This was strange indeed for someone to visit after dark unless the visit was urgent. Mum answered the door to find a Mr. Platt on the doorstep who, in a pompous manner told Mum we had a light showing, would we please take care of it. The light we found was in the kitchenette; the curtain was caught up at one corner when drawn to. So the offending light was taken care of. Mum was so embarrassed.
What was so important about that you might well ask? During WW2 a complete blackout was in force after dark, it was an offence to show any light. Wardens in both town and country areas were appointed to patrol after dark to strictly monitor the regulations. In the towns and cities it was obvious light could guide enemy planes to their destination and attract bombs. In the countryside especially in our remote area it was not so obvious but single lights had been known to attract stray enemy planes with unused bombs, which they were liable to eject on their way home to lighten their load and save fuel if they had lost their bearings.
Towards the end of the war when the allies’ forces were winning the war in Europe the industrial towns and cities of Britain were free from air raids and it was safe to visit dad in Chilwell. Mum, John and I used to go down to Chilwell to stay with Dad in his lodgings during the school holidays and luckily for us there was a spare bedroom for my brother John and I to sleep.
We went down to Chilwell by train, and although train travel on the main lines was not permissible due to the war effort travel on the network of branch lines it was. The branch lines were used for local freight and local travel and they were slow. There was a slow passenger train that wended its way on the branch lines through the countryside stopping at all the small towns and cities, which eventually ended up in Nottingham, close to Chilwell. The nearest pick up point by train for us was Appleby so we caught local public transport to there where we had to wait for some considerable time for the arrival of the train. Appleby railway station was on the edge of town on rising ground and so we decided to go down the hill to have a meal, we were hungry. As we were finishing the meal we heard the toot of a train and Mum in conversation whilst paying the bill asked the café people which train that one was, they named the train and it was the one we wanted.
We hurried out of the cafe, up the hill and by this time the train was in the station. We were no more than halfway up the hill and with a toot on the whistle in horror we watched the train slowly pull out of the station.
We arrived in the station breathless and my brother John only seven or so with his shorter legs dropping off hardly able to keep up. Mum explaining our problem to the station personnel and she was referred to the Stationmaster who after a deal of pondering suggested we could possibly achieve our destination with a train due soon and two further changes before arriving in Nottingham. The only problem he said was the trains were even slower with stops at each little country station on the way. It was just like missing the Express bus and having to catch the local bus with bus changes.
How we got from Nottingham to Chilwell and found Dad’s address I don’t know. We didn’t turn up on the expected train and Dad would not have had any idea what had happened to us and enquires would not have helped. There were no or at best few taxis and I guess we hauled our suitcases and ourselves by bus asking our way on the way. Cell phones were not invented then, private phones were uncommon. Street signs had been taken down to confuse enemy agents and street lighting was turned out, the blackout was still in force. We made this intrepid journey of what should have been only a few hours eventually arrived on the doorstep of Dad’s lodgings at past 10pm. We had left home early that morning.
Why we missed the train, mistaking the time I don’t know. Did we mis-hear, were we mis-told or was it mis-something else? I’ve no idea. All I know Mum got us there without any fuss, anger or shouting. But then that was how our Mother was; always she seemed to find a way if there was a way to solve a problem. As a boy I trusted my mother implicitly.
My Mother continued
OldEric says :-) One night after dark at the height of WW2 there was a knock at the door. This was strange indeed for someone to visit after dark unless the visit was urgent. Mum answered the door to find a Mr. Platt on the doorstep who, in a pompous manner told Mum we had a light showing, would we please take care of it. The light we found was in the kitchenette; the curtain was caught up at one corner when drawn to. So the offending light was taken care of. Mum was so embarrassed.
What was so important about that you might well ask? During WW2 a complete blackout was in force after dark, it was an offence to show any light. Wardens in both town and country areas were appointed to patrol after dark to strictly monitor the regulations. In the towns and cities it was obvious light could guide enemy planes to their destination and attract bombs. In the countryside especially in our remote area it was not so obvious but single lights had been known to attract stray enemy planes with unused bombs, which they were liable to eject on their way home to lighten their load and save fuel if they had lost their bearings.
Towards the end of the war when the allies’ forces were winning the war in Europe the industrial towns and cities of Britain were free from air raids and it was safe to visit dad in Chilwell. Mum, John and I used to go down to Chilwell to stay with Dad in his lodgings during the school holidays and luckily for us there was a spare bedroom for my brother John and I to sleep.
We went down to Chilwell by train, and although train travel on the main lines was not permissible due to the war effort travel on the network of branch lines it was. The branch lines were used for local freight and local travel and they were slow. There was a slow passenger train that wended its way on the branch lines through the countryside stopping at all the small towns and cities, which eventually ended up in Nottingham, close to Chilwell. The nearest pick up point by train for us was Appleby so we caught local public transport to there where we had to wait for some considerable time for the arrival of the train. Appleby railway station was on the edge of town on rising ground and so we decided to go down the hill to have a meal, we were hungry. As we were finishing the meal we heard the toot of a train and Mum in conversation whilst paying the bill asked the café people which train that one was, they named the train and it was the one we wanted.
We hurried out of the cafe, up the hill and by this time the train was in the station. We were no more than halfway up the hill and with a toot on the whistle in horror we watched the train slowly pull out of the station.
We arrived in the station breathless and my brother John only seven or so with his shorter legs dropping off hardly able to keep up. Mum explaining our problem to the station personnel and she was referred to the Stationmaster who after a deal of pondering suggested we could possibly achieve our destination with a train due soon and two further changes before arriving in Nottingham. The only problem he said was the trains were even slower with stops at each little country station on the way. It was just like missing the Express bus and having to catch the local bus with bus changes.
How we got from Nottingham to Chilwell and found Dad’s address I don’t know. We didn’t turn up on the expected train and Dad would not have had any idea what had happened to us and enquires would not have helped. There were no or at best few taxis and I guess we hauled our suitcases and ourselves by bus asking our way on the way. Cell phones were not invented then, private phones were uncommon. Street signs had been taken down to confuse enemy agents and street lighting was turned out, the blackout was still in force. We made this intrepid journey of what should have been only a few hours eventually arrived on the doorstep of Dad’s lodgings at past 10pm. We had left home early that morning.
Why we missed the train, mistaking the time I don’t know. Did we mis-hear, were we mis-told or was it mis-something else? I’ve no idea. All I know Mum got us there without any fuss, anger or shouting. But then that was how our Mother was; always she seemed to find a way if there was a way to solve a problem. As a boy I trusted my mother implicitly.
Ullswater Our Family and WW2 Pt.2
My Mother
OldEric says J After my father went away to Chilwell life went on much as it was before, that is to me. I continued on at primary school and in 1942 my brother John started school. He was 5 years old and I was turned eight years.
I’m not too sure how well off we were during the war, Dad now earned much more wages than before but had to pay his board and lodging down in Chilwell and pay for his trips home. We were probably at least a little better off.
Mum and Mrs Nelson took over the cultivation of Sharrow Bay gardens and toiled each day trying to keep them tidy and grow enough vegetables and fruit for our selves. Mum would be 35 years old in 1942 and the Nelson’s a generation older.
On the radio were a gardening duo that offered tips for “Dig for Victory”, the slogan on everyone’s lips on posted on hoardings where ever one looked. The duo were two ladies and Mrs. Nelson with her bubbling enthusiasm christened Mum Anna after the quiet one of the duo and christened herself, I cannot now remember the other name now and with much searching I’m unable to trace the pair of ladies. So my mother Mary became Anna for everyone but to me she was still Mum.
Later, looking after the gardens and tending the Nelson’s mansion was too much for the pair of them and Mrs. Nelson advertised for a cook/housekeeper and a couple applied from Liverpool, I believe, they were Mr. and Mrs. Redman, he a cook and she a housekeeper and they lived in the mansion’s servants quarters. They would be in their late forties or early fifties. The year would be in 1943. I can date this, at the age of eight I received my first stamp album and after asking everyone which country a certain stamp belonged I tried as a last resort Mr. Redman, he didn’t know either.
Late one Saturday early evening Mrs Redman came up to our house looking very upset and worried, Mr Redman had gone down to Pooley Bridge in the morning and had not returned. She said she was going to walk down to Pooley Bridge to look for him and could Mum help. Mum in her quiet way asked a few questions and said she would accompany her down. We boys went too. Mrs Redman knew where to look in the village and we found him in the second of the two pubs, which were in the village at that time. Mr Redman was very much the worse for wear. Now I understood why Mrs. Redman needed help. Mum and Mrs Redman guided him home, he was all over the road swinging his arms and the two of them ducking. I can still picture him and the place draped across the low cut hedge being violently sick and the two pulling him out of the hedge and continuing guiding him down the two miles road home.
Mum never got exited over a situation, her way seemed to be to analyse the situation and then act. Gillian in some respects reminds me of her in her attention to a situation and quietly attending to it without fuss.
The Redman’s didn’t seem to stay too long before they left in the latter stages of the war. A Mr. Orphan came along about this time and took over some of the garden and grounds maintenance and this relieved Mum and Mrs Nelson to attend to the mansion. Mum cooked with Mrs. Nelson helping and Mum also took over the house keeping duties and this situation remained so after the war up to when we left in 1948.
Mum’s WW2 story will continue.
My Mother
OldEric says J After my father went away to Chilwell life went on much as it was before, that is to me. I continued on at primary school and in 1942 my brother John started school. He was 5 years old and I was turned eight years.
I’m not too sure how well off we were during the war, Dad now earned much more wages than before but had to pay his board and lodging down in Chilwell and pay for his trips home. We were probably at least a little better off.
Mum and Mrs Nelson took over the cultivation of Sharrow Bay gardens and toiled each day trying to keep them tidy and grow enough vegetables and fruit for our selves. Mum would be 35 years old in 1942 and the Nelson’s a generation older.
On the radio were a gardening duo that offered tips for “Dig for Victory”, the slogan on everyone’s lips on posted on hoardings where ever one looked. The duo were two ladies and Mrs. Nelson with her bubbling enthusiasm christened Mum Anna after the quiet one of the duo and christened herself, I cannot now remember the other name now and with much searching I’m unable to trace the pair of ladies. So my mother Mary became Anna for everyone but to me she was still Mum.
Later, looking after the gardens and tending the Nelson’s mansion was too much for the pair of them and Mrs. Nelson advertised for a cook/housekeeper and a couple applied from Liverpool, I believe, they were Mr. and Mrs. Redman, he a cook and she a housekeeper and they lived in the mansion’s servants quarters. They would be in their late forties or early fifties. The year would be in 1943. I can date this, at the age of eight I received my first stamp album and after asking everyone which country a certain stamp belonged I tried as a last resort Mr. Redman, he didn’t know either.
Late one Saturday early evening Mrs Redman came up to our house looking very upset and worried, Mr Redman had gone down to Pooley Bridge in the morning and had not returned. She said she was going to walk down to Pooley Bridge to look for him and could Mum help. Mum in her quiet way asked a few questions and said she would accompany her down. We boys went too. Mrs Redman knew where to look in the village and we found him in the second of the two pubs, which were in the village at that time. Mr Redman was very much the worse for wear. Now I understood why Mrs. Redman needed help. Mum and Mrs Redman guided him home, he was all over the road swinging his arms and the two of them ducking. I can still picture him and the place draped across the low cut hedge being violently sick and the two pulling him out of the hedge and continuing guiding him down the two miles road home.
Mum never got exited over a situation, her way seemed to be to analyse the situation and then act. Gillian in some respects reminds me of her in her attention to a situation and quietly attending to it without fuss.
The Redman’s didn’t seem to stay too long before they left in the latter stages of the war. A Mr. Orphan came along about this time and took over some of the garden and grounds maintenance and this relieved Mum and Mrs Nelson to attend to the mansion. Mum cooked with Mrs. Nelson helping and Mum also took over the house keeping duties and this situation remained so after the war up to when we left in 1948.
Mum’s WW2 story will continue.
24 March 2003
Advisory
The Wisconsin State Dept of Fish and Wildlife is advising hikers, hunters, fishermen and golfers to take extra precautions and be on the alert for bears this summer.
They advise people to wear noise-producing devices such as little bells on their clothing to alert but not startle the bears unexpectedly.
They also advise you to carry pepper spray in case of an encounter with a bear.
People should be able to recognize the presence of bears in an area by their droppings:
Black bear droppings are smaller and contain berry residue and possibly squirrel fur.
Grizzly bear droppings have little bells in them and smell like pepper spray.
NO? Try reading it again
The Wisconsin State Dept of Fish and Wildlife is advising hikers, hunters, fishermen and golfers to take extra precautions and be on the alert for bears this summer.
They advise people to wear noise-producing devices such as little bells on their clothing to alert but not startle the bears unexpectedly.
They also advise you to carry pepper spray in case of an encounter with a bear.
People should be able to recognize the presence of bears in an area by their droppings:
Black bear droppings are smaller and contain berry residue and possibly squirrel fur.
Grizzly bear droppings have little bells in them and smell like pepper spray.
NO? Try reading it again