Reminiscences and Rhymes by George Morris

Reminiscences and Rhymes

By George Morris

Dedicated to Agness – my Sweetheart for sixty-eight years.

(George Morris and friends at Breach Farm, Bishopstoke)

Introduction

Bishopstoke History Society were gifted a manuscript by George Morris that had been stored in the Stationers in Spring Lane where it had been held for many years and suffered some water damage. We do not know why it was never published. When we examined the document, we found it to be a wonderful record of what it was like to grow up in a then semi-rural community before modern conveniences both here in Bishopstoke and on the Isle of Wight from where the family originally moved from, and we wish to share these recollections and poetry with you. The poetry is humorous, well written and needs to be read in the style of Pam Ayres, although much of it is likely to pre-date her popularity. This poetry also reflects life from a bygone era. If you only read one of these poems, which I accept may not be of everybody’s taste I recommend “The Trip to Lunnon Town”. I have tried to follow the original script with my two fingered typing and wrestled with auto correct on numerous occasions. The original manuscript has been returned to the Morris family, who have kindly allowed us to copy some of their family pictures which I have used to illustrate the stories. Additional pictures from Bishopstoke History Society have also been used for illustration. The article is rather long at over 48,000 words but highly recommended as a record of country life in the 1920s and beyond.

I hope you enjoy reading it. – Chris Humby MSc

Index.

1. Memories of the Isle of Wight
2. Cowes Regatta
3. The Haymarket
4. Breach Farm
5. The Water Meadows
6. Highbridge to Eastleigh – and back
7. The Changing Years
8. Clanfield

Poems by George Morris

1. Those Quality Mushers
2. A Trip to Yesteryear
3. Christmas Memories
4. Peter’s Passion
5. What a Choice for a Birthday Present
6. The Trip to Lunnon Town
7. The Kitchen Ceiling
8. I Wonder What Dickens Would Have Said?
9. The Sunday Joint
10. A Much-Kneaded Rise
11. Beccy
12. The Otterbourne Odyssey
13. The Reversal
14. Taking The Rise
15. The Rat Race
16. More Changes
17. The Flowers of Bishopstoke
18. The Passion Killer
19. A Visit to Landford Wood
20. The Little People
21. The Loons
22. Our Jim
23. The Suet Duff
24. Our First Camp

Memories of the Isle of Wight

1914 to 1922, nearly seventy years ago

I was born on the Isle of Wight in 1914 and we, as a family “emigrated” to Highbridge Farm, near Eastleigh, on the mainland. I was eight years old at the time. To a real Isle of Wighter I suppose that makes me an “Overner”, and yet, I feel, somehow, that I belong over there. We’ve visited many times since and had a number of very nice holidays there.

My surname, Morris is, over there, well known. A friend who is also a distant relative, recently supplied me with a copy of our family tree back to the late sixteen hundreds. She said it would have been easier to investigate the Smiths.

Those of our family who were most well-known – that is, in my time – were three brothers, William, George, and Harry.

William and George farmed for many years at Great Pan, just on the outskirts of Newport. George was, for years, head shepherd but, in the time that I knew him, unfortunately, a victim of severe arthritis and so attended to the paperwork. His wife Lavinia, known to us as Aunt Vin was one of another well-known Island family, the Shergold’s. She was a neat, petite little person, always impeccably dressed but who, to a growing lad, wasn’t exactly a favourite. If I went there to tea, she would count the slices of bread and butter that I ate and the slice of cake to follow was miniscule. George and Lavinia had two children, Fred and Freda. In later years Fred went out Freshwater way as a farm manager. Freda married George Weeks who had a confectioner’s shop and restaurant in Newport Square.

William, known to all as “Varmer” attended to the outside business and organised the practical running of the farm. He did more than his share of the manual work himself. He was a well know character around Newport- or should I say, “Nippert?” The milk produced was retailed around the town by pony and float and much was made into butter, fresh and salt. William’s wife, Annie, was the butter maker and people travelled from miles around to get it.

I can remember, before a cream separator was used, the milk was poured into large, shallow skimming pans which stood on slate shelved in the dairy. After settling, the cream was skimmed off with perforated ladles and then turned into butter in end-over-end churns. Most of the skimmed milk was fed to the pigs; this was excellent for fattening, and, I was told, was what made their tails curl.

The farmhouse was large and old. I think it is now a listed building. At the back was a large covered and paved area, in the centre of which was a well with a pump. Beyond was the bakehouse, also paved – or was it brick floored? To one side were the large bread ovens and often I’ve seen whole cart load of faggots stacked ready for the next baking session. I can smell the newly baked bread even now.

Aunt Annie also attended to the poultry. I think the proceeds were her “perks”. She bred and reared turkeys, geese, hens, and ducks. What a hive of industry there was, especially at Christmas time; it was all hands to plucking. How Aunt Annie coped with all this I can’t imagine. She weighed about sixteen stones and rode a tricycle: poor old trike! She had a family of six- Albert, Millie, Ella, Ena, Roy, and Joyce. I think that, in time, Albert went out into the Island to farm and some of the girl’s married farmers. I’m afraid that over the years, we’ve lost touch. I always enjoyed going to Aunt Annies. No matter whether or not you had recently eaten, out would come a round of beef – about a foot across – and the slices would cover a large dinner plate – with mountains of veg. It was more than enough to warm the heart and fill the stomach of any growing lad. Do you wonder that Aunt Annie was my favourite?

I can recall to mind, quite clearly, some of the workers on the farm, most of whom had been employed there all their working lives. There was old Harry Pitman, head carter; Charlie Scivier, under carter, and Stan Holbrook. Mr Way was head dairyman. I never knew his Christian name; for some reason, unknown to me, he was known as the Professor. Of course, as you would expect, he was always addressed as “Fesser”; he had a habit of talking to himself, and when asked the reason, would reply in his low, gravelly voice, “Oi loikes t’ talk to a zensible man”. There were others who worked on the place, but I can’t remember them.

The farm was, I think, about six hundred acres, and carried a large dairy herd, many pigs, and a flock of three hundred or more sheep. Varmer George was, at one time, head shepherd. There were many acres of arable – wheat, oats, barley, mangolds and swedes etc. Much of the acreage has now been transformed into a residential estate. The old house still stands. I should think it would now be a listed building. The yard still remains, but the old cow stable now houses the ponies of a riding club; the horse stable and adjoining buildings are used as an egg distribution centre. The pond where the horses and cattle drank has disappeared completely.

I realise how time changes things but, when I stand in the yard and look around, I seem to see and hear those characters activities of old. I see the teams of tired horses as they come in from a day ploughing up in Pan Woods and watch them as they enjoy a much-needed drink, their harnesses removed, a good brushing and combing, and to appreciate a good meal of oats, chaff and hay. I also hear the rattle of the milk buckets from the cow stable and ‘Fessors Ways voice saying, “Git awver Vi’let; Ya clumsy ol’ vool”.

These strong feelings of nostalgia show my age, don’t they!

My father worked for a while on the farm before we emigrated to the mainland – but more of that later.

William and George’s brother, Harry became my grandfather. I think for a while he farmed in Burnt House Lane and, whilst there, married young Ada Rose. After they married, they took over Baskets farm at Rew Street, Gurnard and it was there that their family was born – Reg, my father, Herb, Bern and Nessie. They went to school in Gurnard and the whole family attended the Primitive Methodist Chapel there. Harry was, for a while, Sunday School Superintendent and, until his death, in 1956, was one of the trustees.

When Reg was twenty-two, he married a young girl from Cowes, Rose Allen, the daughter of a real old sailor, Lewis Allen. I call him a real old sailor because he was born in 1854 and ran away to sea at the age of eleven when sailing was sailing. I later years he sailed on the Duke of Hamilton’s yacht, The Goshawk. Afterwards he served on The Thistle; this was the yacht of the ex-Empress of France, Eugenie. She was the widow of Napolean the Third. He ended his working life as a rigger in one of the Cowes shipyards. He died in 1945 at the age of ninety-one. As I remember him, he was a great character and a great favourite of mine.

While living in Newport we often visited Grandpa and Grandma Allen in Arctic Road, Cowes. They lived almost opposite Mill Hill Road railway station, and I can still hear those little “Puffing Billies” as they emerged from the tunnel under the town pulling the square-wheeled coaches on their way to Newport.

The front room at No 26 was like a museum; it was literally filled with mementoes which grandpa had brought back from his world-wide travels. The three-feet long sword from a swordfish hung on the passage wall; there were shells of all shapes and sizes; lava from Mount Vesuvius and much more. What fascinated me most, I think, was the piece of material on the overmantel, resembling a piece of mahogany. It was in fact a piece salt beef that had been issued to him for his dinner many moons before, he conscientiously varnished it every year. Another fascination was the stair well; this was not of wood but rope, at each end of which was a Turk’s Head. This, too, had an annual varnishing.

I can well understand young Reg falling for Rose; she was a smasher! She later became my Mother. When first married they lived in Palance Road Chapel. Soon we moved to the top end of what is now known as Oxford Street. In those days it was Furze Hurst, referred to by the locals as “Vuzzy Urst”. It seems to me almost sacrilege to call it Oxford Street. From here Dad was running a milk round in and around Cowes.

Early in the Great War he volunteered for the army and spent the whole of the war in the Royal Artillery, a horse regiment; it suited him as he was always a lover of horses. He had already “broken in” several for himself and others.

While Dad was overseas Mother and I lived in a little terraced house in Pyle Street, Newport. Times must have been hard for a young wife alone with a youngster to bring up. I was born in May 1914. A squaddie’s wages weren’t much in those days – a shilling a day. I can just remember going with Mother to the shops to queue for food. Another memory is of the two of us sitting with our feet in the gas oven for a bit of warmth.

When Dad was demobilised in 1919, we moved to Pan Manor Cottage, just below the flour mill. He worked for his two uncles until we moved to the mainland in 1922. He enjoyed working with Farmer William; they were kindred spirits.

The cottage we lived in has been mentioned in the Isle of Wight Country Press lately. Being a listed building, it was decided by ‘the powers that be’ to have it restored. At the time of my most recent visit to the Island I went to see it.

My definition of the word ‘restoration’ must differ from that of the restorers. There is no conceivable way that the present structure can be recognised as our old cottage. It must be three or four times larger than the original size. Had it been restored to its original size it would not have been of much practical use, I must admit, whereas now it can be used as offices or something of that sort. In a way that makes sense but what I depreciate is the fact that, in spite of the decision to ‘restore’ and assurances made to the conservationists, such vast deviations occurred. Unfortunately, this seems to be a common occurrence these days. If the powers that be will mislead in such a thing as this who knows what other manipulations go on, and maybe to the detriment of the public they pretend to serve? What has happened to the old adage ‘A man’s word is his bond’? The result is, in this case, we have anything but a cottage. Everyone in Newport must be aware of the cottage to which I refer but the following is how I remember it.

Situated almost under the walls of the old mill it was approached from the Pan-Newport Lane by crossing a wooden bridge over a stream, by the side of which stood a large oak tree. The bridge has now gone but the tree still stands; I wonder if that is listed?

The old mill, now converted to other uses, belonged in those days to Thomas, Gater and Bradfield and was a hive of industry. There was an almost continuous stream of traffic, bringing raw materials and taking away the finished products. There were horse-drawn vehicles, Foden steam wagons and a few solid-tyred, chain driven lorries.

I was friendly with a lad whose father worked in the mill, and we were sometimes allowed to go inside, and it was a never-ending source of wonder. We would marvel at the machines and the activities. The place had, too, an aroma all of its own. We also visited, unofficially I might add, a large shed behind the mill and helped ourselves to locust beans stacked in sacks.

Back to the cottage.

As we came over the wooden bridge to approach the cottage we passed on our right, a two-horse stable, by the side of which was an open cart shed. This latter housed our dog cart, ralli cart and wagonette. In the stable was kept our little dun pony. Joe, and Tit, a fourteen hands mare.

Often, we had a ride out into the countryside on a Sunday afternoon, taking our tea and eating it in the corner of someone’s field. Sometimes we got as far as Sandown or some other spot by the sea. Dad bought Tit, the mare, from a hunting stable and she, too, took us on many very enjoyable trips. She really picked her feet up and Dad would say, “she bloomin near steps through her collar”.

I saw my first pig-killing behind that stable. I remember it was a bit gruesome, but we were recompensed by fresh pork, salt pork, faggots and chitterlings – known to us as chidluns. There was also of course, liver, lights, kidneys and trotters; the brawn made from the pig’s head was out of this world.

Behind the stable was quite a large garden and, beyond, the withy beds. Greta Granpa Rose – who was by then an old man – a lovely old chap – used to potter in the garden and was sometimes joined by another old gent, Mr Smith. He lived a little further down the road towards Newport where he and his sons ran an agricultural engineering business – although I think, then, that the old chap must have been retired.

The cottage, small and square, stood on the left of a widish gravelled area. The ceilings were very low; in fact, my Mother, when brushing her long, wavy tresses, touched them. Fortunately, my Father wasn’t very tall so the low ceilings didn’t bother him. An old mangle stood outside the back door and a galvanised bath hung on a nail nearby. Also on the wall was a perforated zinc food safe. There were no fridges or freezers in those days. My brother, Harold, who has been in Australia for thirty odd years and our sister, Maisie, sadly no longer with us, were born in that cottage. Harold, who was on a recent visit to us, was of a similar opinion to me regarding the restoration.

If one continued past the cottage and over another small stream, one came to a large, very old house which has since disappeared. Living there was a delightful old couple, Mr and Mrs Turner. I often trotted over to see them and the old lady used to call me “Little Breaches”. Their two sons, Reg and Clive ran a market garden there and watercress beds. The area was intersected by small streams which ran down to connect up with the main river in front of the Shoulder of Mutton, just by the old stone bridge.

During the time we lived at the cottage my Grandparents, on Dad’s side, Harry and Ada, lived at Fairlea. Old Granpa Rose lived with them. They were a great couple. Our lives became more involved when we came to Highbridge.

Harry was running the milk rounds from Great Pan Farm at the time of which I write. Their middle son, Herb, who served in the Navy during the Great War – and was an engine room artificer – married young Flo Shepherd. Her parents had a bakers and confectioners’ business in the Square and were well known for, among other things, their doughnuts and salt lardy cakes. — and, talking of food – another shop we patronised was Hales’ the pork butchers. They sold the most delicious pork scraps you ever tasted. After going over to the mainland, we paid occasional visits to the Island and invariably came back with doughnuts, salt lardy cakes and pork scraps.

Uncle Herb and Aunt Flo moved to Eastleigh, on the mainland, in 1920, two years before us. The younger brother, Bern, was employed for some years by Crouchers, the importers and exporters on Newport’s Town Quay. He married a Londoner, Una Frances. She was, at first, a teacher at Barton Village School, where I started school. She later became a relief head mistress, travelling to many parts of the Island.

The boys’ sister, Nessie, the youngest of the family and nine years my senior, worked in Dabells, the drapers in High Street. She came with us to Highbridge, and she and I had great times together. She is now married to her third husband, a retired Australian sheep farmer and lives near her son, David.

Being involved in the farming community I often accompanied Dad and/or Farmer William to the market in Newport Square. Iron railings lined each side of the Square to which were tethered horses, ponies, cows, bulls, etc. Those rails were only about four feet away from the shop fronts and so, at times, when passing an extra fierce looking bull, one did so with a certain amount of trepidation. Invariably I would be encouraged by “Come on, Nipper, ‘e won’t eat ya”.

The sheep were penned in hazel hurdles in the middle of the Square. There were always plenty of folk milling around, the sightseers in their town clothes easily distinguishable from the visiting country folk in their broadcloth suits and gaiters; I can still her snatches of conversation in the local dialect; “Ow be you, Jarge? Ow’s yer taters doin?” “That ere bull looks a vierce un. Oi would’n want one o’ they ‘orns up my backside”. Or “Ows yer missus?” “Ah sne’m a bit unner the weather, sno. Last night she shivered and shook like a dawg in a wet zack”.

Hampshire dialect is somewhat similar to that of the Island but there are some words and expressions essentially Isle o’ Wight. Even after all the intervening years I am still sometimes recognised by some as an Isle o’ Wighter.

After coming over to Highbridge Grandpa, Dad and I sometimes went back to Newport market or a farm sale. This was always exciting for me. We would drive down to Southampton in the pony and trap which we left in the charge of the little old ostler at the Haymarket Inn. This was almost opposite Edwin Jones’s store or, as it is now, Debenhams. We them boarded one of the old paddle steamers and then breakfasted down below. I can still smell the bacon and see the green water as it rushed past the portholes.

Reverting to the time we lived at the cottage – Mother liked to go to visit her folk at Cowes occasionally. Dad would sometimes run us down in the trap but, if he was busy, we would walk. On a couple of these jaunts – five miles each way – I rode my wooden wheeled scooter. I must have been six or seven years old then because it was before Harold and Maisie were born. We would go up Honey Hill and Horsebridge Hill, past the old St Mary’s Hospital on our right, and the prison on our left; passing the Stag Inn on our right we were soon in open country. We could look away to our right and see the ribbon of the Medina River as it wound its way to Cowes and the sea. It is a tidal river so that, at times, it is not much more than a trickle between the mud banks. On the near bank, in an area of white dust, stood the cement mills with its own railway halt. Further on our way we passed the Horseshoe Inn and then, not far away, the Flower Pot Inn. This latter pub was distinguished by an ordinary flowerpot on top of about a thirty feet high pole. It always struck me as looking ridiculous. I must have had some sense of proportion even in those days. I seem to remember all the pubs en route although neither Dad nor I ever went in one.

Next of note, on the site of what was to become Somerton Airfield, stood the motor-scooter works. You may remember the Lambretta and similar motorised scooters that came into their own and became popular worldwide. At the motor scooter works these were invented about thirty or more years earlier but seemed to be before their time. The pubic weren’t ready for them and the business collapsed. Had they been just a few years later when the public were becoming more – cheaply – travel minded those pioneers would have enjoyed a resounding success.

Continuing on our journey it was a long downhill run past the cemetery, and we were at our destination. On our return journey it must have been a great relief to my little fat legs to free wheel on my (unmotorised) scooter down Horsebridge and Honey Hills. We seldom did the trip by train; I expect funds were a bit low.

Both before and after coming to the mainland I often spent holidays at Arctic Road. Grandma Allen was a lovely person. She was not my real grandma but the only one I knew – on my Mother’s side. My Mother lost her Mother when she – my Mum – was fifteen years old. After some years Grandpa married Martha, and she was held in deep affection by all who knew her. Mother had an older brother, Lewes, and a younger sister, Nellie. Lewes was married to Annie Souter, and they had four children, Charlie, Don, Mollie, and Syd. Uncle Lewes was an exceptionally clever man. He was of some repute on the Island as an artist. He was also a competent motor and radio mechanic and, indeed, could turn his hand to almost any job; the more difficult it was, the greater the challenge. Like many clever people he was somewhat eccentric and not always easy to live with, but I was quite fond of him; Aunt Annie was a kind loving soul, loved by all. The family lived in Wyatts Lane, Northwood before moving out to Wroxall where Uncle built a bungalow; he did everything except connect up to the services. The whole family was co-opted into the building process – or perhaps I should say, coerced.

The three boys served in the armed forces, Charlie in the navy, Don in the marines and Syd in the army. They all finished their working lives as warders in Parkhurst Prison. Mollie was involved in various activities mostly with the church and was, for years, an officer in the Girl Guides. She later married Ernest King who was rector of Whippingham Church. This was where Queen Victoria attended when staying at Osborne House.

Mother’s sister, Nellie, was a Great War G.I. bride. She married Cecil Kittle who had emigrated to the U.S.A. and returned with the American forces. He and his family of six were staunch Salvationists.

When holidaying at Arctic Road I often went walking with Grandpa Allen, mostly by the sea. During Cowes week he would explain where the yachts were going and how the rigging was used and why. Being an old seaman he was a mine of information. In those days racing was between the big yachts – King George the fifth’s Brittania; Tommy Lipton’s Shamrock; Tommy Sopwith’s Endeavour, Moonbeam, Velsheda and others. Grandpa also introduced me to Captain Upstall under whom he had served many years previously. They wore white-topped peaked caps and, on these jaunts, so did I. I thought I was the cat’s whiskers. Old Captain Upstall always addressed me as Cap’n.

To get to the sea our walk would take us down over Shooters Hill and along the High Street. This was very narrow and even in those days, could be very busy with traffic trying to pass each other – mostly horse-drawn, of course. The High Street housed several ships chandlers and a shop that always fascinated me was a taxidermist. There displayed was a calf with two heads, a pig with five legs and many other freaks from the bird and animal world. All were interesting, some slightly frightening and some downright repulsive. However, I was irresistibly drawn to them.

Further on we passed the Fountain Inn and the Pontoon where the paddle boats dropped and picked up passengers and freight. The steamers didn’t go over to East Cowes as now. (If I remember rightly the return fare to and from Southampton was one shilling and ninepence).

A little further along, on the sea side was the old sail loft where Ratsey and Lapthorns, the world-renowned sail makers, plied their trade. Grandpa’s father used to work there in about the eighteen fifties. It is now an excellent Maritime Museum.

On the opposite side was Morgans, the sailing worlds outfitters. Grandpa, during his service with the Empress Eugenie, had his uniforms made there. Sometimes he did not need the full quota to which he was entitled, so Mother and Nellie were fitted out with some of the very best overcoats. They thought they were some of the best dressed youngsters in Cowes.

Now it was down Watch House Lane and the sea. It was at the slipway at the bottom of this lane that the two girls used to wait for their father when he returned from his trips at sea. I remember seeing the large seaman’s ‘frail’ basket in which he used to bring home the bits and pieces from foreign parts. How these girls must have waited in anticipation to see what Dad had brought!

The Parade was, as its name suggests, where all classes of people strolled leisurely along, to see and be seen. There was once a pier, but that has since disappeared. On the landward side of the Parade were several hotels including the Gloster and the Globe. In later years another was built, a huge white monstrosity, surely one of Prince Charles’s carbuncles. It is an eyesore to anyone walking by and an even greater source of disgust to anyone approaching from seaward. To my mind, and I am sure, to countless others, it was a ghastly mistake.

I have often enjoyed firework night on the Parade. In the darkness the milling crowds would be bubbling with anticipation. At a given signal all the hundreds of vessels, large and small, would light up overall with coloured lights. All the following firework displays were reflected in the water. It was a magnificent sight. In those days half the Island turned up but there were very few cars. The ponies and traps, wagonettes, dog carts and gigs were tethered alongside all the roads leading to the sea.

Beyond the Parade stood Cowes Castle, the home of the Royal Yacht Squadron, the world’s most prestigious yacht club. Alongside was the Royal landing jetty. The steam yacht, Victoria and Albert, was anchored in the Roads and I’ve often been standing by the jetty and could almost have touched, as they came ashore, King George and his queen, Mary; the Prince of Wales (who later abdicated as King); Princess Mary and other members of their entourage. I can still smell the nearby seaweed and see the row of brass cannon under the squadron’s walls.

Just around the bend from the building one approached Princess Green and the first stretch of beach. In a corner of the Green stood the umbrella tree and, nearby, a nice drinking fountain. The latter was quite elaborate and had on it a quotation from St. John, chapter 4, verses 13 and 14. It says ‘whoso drinketh of this water shall thirst again but whoso drinketh of the water that I shall give him shall never thirst’. Beyond the Green was Egypt Point with its small lighthouse and lions on their stone plinths. In those days the road ended here and the only way to proceed to Gurnard was along the sea edge where the sloping banks were covered in gorse, blackberry bushes and scrub. The going could be very difficult owing to a large area of blue slipper clay. When, later, the council decided to build a road to connect The Green to Gurnard, Grandpa, who had known this area from a small boy, warned that it would always be a source of trouble and, even to this day, the winter storms and seas undermine it, and extensive and expensive repairs are necessary almost annually.

At the very start of the walk from Arctic Road I have previously described, we passed the road that led to the floating bridge that connected West Cowes with East Cowes on opposite sides of the River Medina. If it was knocking off time in the shipyards the roads would be choked with the workers in their overalls and cloth caps and the foremen in their bowler hats as they made their way to their homes. The fare over the bridge was one penny. I remember crossing on several occasions as we went to see The Shell House, Osborne House and Swiss Cottage.

When we final left the Island in 1922 we came down from Newport bringing with us about twenty cows, as we were bringing them to our – and their – new home on the mainland. In the lead was the pony and trap in the back of which was a calf. The mother followed, naturally and, in turn, the others followed on behind. After a few deviations into gateways and gardens they settled down and plodded quietly along.

At Cowes we boarded the freight paddle boat, the Lord Elgin, and disembarked at Southampton. We then made our way up through the High Street, under the Bargate, past what is now Eastleigh Airport, through Eastleigh and out to the farm. This was about seven miles from Southampton. By this time there was little liveliness in the cows or even in those that accompanied them, and they soon settled down in their new surroundings. —- but this is the beginning of another story.

P.S. Grandpa (Harry) farmed at Highbridge for about thirty years and Dad (Reg) farmed at Breach Farm, Bishopstoke, for about thirty-two years.

(Harry Morris at Highbridge Farm)

Cowes Regatta

Memories of seventy-five, or more, years ago

It is now mid-September, but I am sure you can remember having seen on television and read in the newspapers of this year’s happenings at Cowes regatta. How very different from those of my boyhood days!

Cowes High Street shops are almost unaltered except that they now show and sell goods more attuned to modern times. One especially springs to mind. Gone is the little old taxidermists that used to fascinate and even frighten me. In the dusty window that looked as if it hadn’t been disturbed for years was a calf with two heads, a pig with five legs and many other monstrosities. The proprietor, hovering in the dim interior, only added to the fascination. He was probably as old as the animals in his collection. I think it has been replaced by an ice cream parlour. I don’t think I could fancy an ice cream from there. Ugh!

Two other of the old establishments are still in the street: Atkeys, the ship’s chandlers and Morgans, and Morgans, the yachting fraternity clothing outfitters. Morgans used to supply uniforms for the various yachts, one of which was The Thistle. She was home of the widow of Napoleon the Third of France – the ex – Empress Eugenie. My Grandfather served on her yacht for a number of years. When he didn’t need a new uniform my Mother and her sister were some of the best dressed youngsters in Cowes. Morgans now sell shirts and jumpers with motifs and logos to suit the young yachtsmen of today.

When I walk along the High Street now, I experience a certain sadness. I know that progress is inevitable but so much, t seems, is lost in the process. I suppose, in some ways it is better so, and I refer now to the fact that yacht racing is no longer the prerogative of the privileged few but can be enjoyed by so many more, obviously in a humbler way, but non – the – less enjoyable.

At the time of which I am writing we lived just outside Newport. My maternal Grandparents lived in Cowes, and we would often visit them, certainly during Cowes week. My Grandfather, being an old seaman of the sailing ship days, would explain the comings and goings of the large yachts and this, to a young whippersnapper was most interesting. We would walk along the Parade, he wearing his white – topped peak cap and me, in similar rig, as proud as a peacock.

We walked from Arctic Road, past the Rope Walk and some of the shipyards, down Shooters Hill and into the High Street. There were very few motor vehicles. The other traffic was all horse drawn – butcher’s and baker’s carts, milk floats, a brewer’s dray and once, I remember, a hearse. The narrowness of the street often caused mayhem as they tried to pass each other.

Opposite Atkeys, to which I referred, was the entrance to the Pontoon. All the cross – Solent ferries – all paddle boats, belonging to the Isle of Wight Steam Packet Co. used to tie up at the Pontoon. They didn’t go to East Cowes, as they do now. We continued along the High Street almost to the end then tuned right down the narrow Watch House Lane to the sea and the beginning of the Parade. There were, on the landward side, restaurants and hotels, all dressed in bunting and flags of several nations. Halfway along stood the pier where the excursion boats tied up; that has now disappeared.

At the far end of the Parade was, and still is, Cowes Caste. This was home of the Royal Yacht Squadron Sailing Club, one of the most select in the world. During this week large yachts were anchored in Cowes Roads, the most prodigious being the Victoria and Albert, the home, for this week, of the Royal family.

I have several times stood close to the Royale Slipway where brass-funnelled pinnacles brought the Royals and their friends ashore. I could have reached out and touched King George the Fifth, his Queen, Mary, Princess Mary (who later became The Princess Royal), Edward, Prince of Wales (later Edward the Eighth who abdicated his throne) and his younger brothers. It was a thrill to me.

The Castle grounds had marquees and canvas-covered awnings where the guests could sit and chat. The row of brass cannons that stood on a platform near the sea signalled the start of the races; they still do.

In those days they were for a very different class of yacht. They were large sea-going vessels with acres of sails and were a magnificent sight. There was the King’s Brittania, Tommy Lipton’s Shamrock, Tommy Sopwith’s Moonbeam, Velsheda and others. They made a thrilling sight when ploughing through, sometimes, rough seas with their large sails and spinnakers billowing in the wind.

All this was very exciting to a young lad, but I think the climax was something that half the Island looked forward to; Friday – Fireworks night. The Parade would be packed solid and, as it began to get dark, the excitement was intense. As the darkness deepened all lights were extinguished and then, suddenly, as one of the brass cannon boomed out, all the boats, large and small, were illuminated overall. Their reflection in the water was breathtaking. The fireworks continued for some time. The grand finale, however, was the highlight. It was a set piece depicting the King and Queen, while underneath were the words, “God Save the King”.

Imagine what it was like when the excitement died down and everyone decided to make for home. All the roads leading up from the sea were lined with vehicles of all types – traps, wagonettes carts, brakes, landaus etc. The horses’ heads were tied to gates, fences and even to heavy weights.

Mother, Dad and I made our way back to Arctic Road where Dad had tethered our pony, Joe, and the trap. After a sup and a bite, we rattled off back to Newport over the gravelled road, the only lights being from the candles in the carriage lamps and the occasional sparks from the pony’s shoes and the iron-shod wheels.

These are some of my earliest recollections of Cowes Regatta and ones that will always remain with me.

The Haymarket

Southampton

We came over from the Isle of Wight in 1922, when I was eight years old, and went to live at Highbridge Farm, three miles out of Eastleigh.

In those days the shopping facilities were pretty basic and if we wanted to purchase anything special, we had to go to Southampton to do so.

There was, at that time, no bus service from Highbridge to Eastleigh so we had to resort to pony and trap – or walk. Dad would sometimes take Mother to Eastleigh station in the early afternoon where she would catch a train downtown. Later, when the afternoon milking had been done, we’d, as Dad would say, “Catch a bit of tea” and then harness up the little dun pony – or Tit, the sleek brown mare and off we’d go at a brisk trot.

We’d rattle down through Southampton – taking care to avoid getting the trap wheels caught in the tram lines – and drive into the yard of the Haymarket. The yard was of cobbles and, to one side was an open shed where we parked the trap while, on the other side was stabling where, for a shilling, we would tie the horse and leave him for the evening. That shilling also provided a feed of hay and a bit of straw underfoot.

There was, in attendance a little old man who would touch the peak of his old cloth cap and assure us that “he’d keep an eye on t’oss for us.”

Dad and I would then go and meet Mother at a prearranged place, return to the Haymarket with her purchases and put them under a blanket in the trap. There was no need, in those days, to put things under lock and key.

Then came what was tom me the thrilling part; we’d meander up through East Street where the crowds were so dense one could have walked on the heads of people. What a cosmopolitan crowd they were. There were all nationalities and colours – Turks, Lascars, Indians, Chinese etc. and what a babble they made as they chatted and bargained with the shopkeepers!

Many of the goods for sale were displayed outside the shop fronts and the salesmen would offer all sorts of inducements to buy. If you bought a suit for thirty-five shillings (£1.75) they would throw in a watch or a pair of shoes.

Close to the Horse and Groom was a hot chestnut barrow where one could buy a bagful for twopence. Up at the top of East Street was Samuels, the jewellers on one corner and, on the other, on the pavement by the old church, was a pavement artist displaying his work. He fascinated me, not because of his paintings but because he had no legs and used to propel himself along on a little board. I always had instructions not to stare but I’m afraid I always did so.

We then made our way up to the Hippodrome in Ogle Street, armed with the remainder of the chestnuts and perhaps a bag of monkey nuts as well. There were some marvellous shows there and I remember some of the names of the artists, G.H. Elliot, Randall Sutton and others.

Afterwards we’d meander back through the crowds to where Joe – or Tit – would be patiently waiting. He would whinny a welcome and soon we’d be rattling over the cobbles and all set for the run home; but not before the old ostler’s hand had closed over the extra tanner we’d given him. I never knew his name, but he was a kindly old gent.

Up under the Bargate we’d go at a brisk trot, and it wasn’t long before we were out in the dark countryside with only the carriage lamps to help us see our way. Dad’s eyes were good, and Joe knew his way home, anyway.

Mum and Dad would be sitting up front with a rug tucked round their knees while I’d be tucked up cosily in the back. We used to sing all the old songs as we journeyed and, I’m sure, some of the new ones we’d just learned at the Hipp. A cup of cocoa, perhaps a bacon sandwich and then off up the wooden hill.

It had been a thrilling day for a lad of eight, nine or ten and, as I think of it now, I can still see the old Haymarket as clear as ever.

Breach Farm

Bishopstoke

During a recent conversation the name Breach Farm was mentioned, and I was asked by a comparative newcomer to the area if I knew anything about it. It only occurred to me that, except for the older residents of the village, Breach Farm was just a place that had come to be noticed when Hall and Sons, the gravel and aggregate firm, excavated thousands of tons of these materials from part of the land.

(Harry, Reg and George Morris at Breach Farm)

The place gained notoriety because of the excessive amount of heavy traffic involved in the transport of the materials. This traffic caused mayhem on the roads with mud and stones and, even more, by the vibrations which not only tended to ruin the road surfaces but disturbed the foundations on the other side of the road. As a consequence, the name Breach Farm became synonymous with inconvenience, discomfort and just plain nuisance.

That this has now disappeared with the cessation of gravel extraction and the area has now returned to the peace and quietness of its previous existence must be a source of satisfaction to so many of the local residents.

(Breach Farm from across the water meadows, Bishopstoke)

This was a decidedly different Breach Farm from what I knew from about 1930 onwards when my family lived there and my Father farmed the area. The family – Father, Mother, my brother Harold and sister Maisie moved into the house in 1930, and I joined them a year later when I returned from a period of farm work in Alberta, Canada.

Breach Farm was originally, I understand, part of the Mount estate and at one time belonged to a Mr. Hargreaves. My wife’s late mother remembered him driving around the village in a four-in-hand. The house was rebuilt in 1892 by the next owner, Mr. Thomas Cotton. He resided there for some years and after his decease it was converted into a Sanitorium and several more buildings were added.

Mr. Cotton was a much-travelled man and was a keen arboriculturist. As a consequence, there were, in his extensive grounds and gardens, many foreign trees, shrubs and plants. Prior to the walkabouts of the recuperating hospital patients, each tree and shrub had a label giving its name and country of origin. Unfortunately, vandalism existed even in those days and those labels were either removed altogether or mixed up causing much confusion.

The grounds sloped down quite steeply to the banks of the River Itchen. A series of stone steps were constructed here, and they were adorned on either side by ornamental urns and figures of birds.

(The Mount Steps)

There was a large aviary near the house, and, on occasions, all was thrown open to the public. As can be imagined, all this necessitated a large work force and, at one time, there were sixteen gardeners and other outdoor staff employed there.

The main gates were-and still are- situated above the old school and almost opposite St. Mary’s Church. This was not the official entrance to the farm, but we were permitted to use it when going to the village or to Eastleigh. Our official way in was at the top of the hill between the Doctor’s house and a large spinney of trees.

This has now been sealed off. When the gravel excavations started a new way in was opened up, presumably to avoid damage to the house. The Doctors House was so called because it was the residence of the doctor in charge of the Sanitorium. Our road in was called the Cinder Track because that is, in fact, what it really was. It was resurfaced annually by loads of cinders fetched from the Running sheds of the railway works at Eastleigh.

At the bottom of the first slope, it met the other road which came from the main gates, through between the hospital buildings, past two gardeners’ cottages, the clock tower, workshops and mortuary. Where these two roads met was a notice board which warned recuperating patients from the hospital that this was the limit to which they were allowed to go in that direction. Consequently, this was known to us as “Out of Bounds Corner”.

(Aerial view of “Out of Bounds Corner” and track to Breach Farm on the right)

(Out of Bounds Corner at ground level with Clock Tower and cottages on the right)

Coming down the Cinder Track to this point, Hospital Ground was on our left and the top ground was on our right. Each of these fields had one or two fine spinneys of trees. These could be a nuisance when engaged in the various cultivations but provided good shelter for cattle and certainly enhanced the beauty of the scene.

Before leaving the environs of the hospital I should mention that these were converted and added to cater for the sufferers of tuberculosis, or consumption as it was commonly known, in the late twenties. This complaint was then rife. Often, both day and night, when passing through, we would often meet the hospital porter pushing his trolley along with another customer for the mortuary. The local St Mary’s Churchyard was fast filling and so a rule was made that, unless the deceased was a local person they were not allowed burial there. In those early days there were often eight or nine deaths a week but as progress in the research of this complaint was made, and also by the dedication of Dr and Mrs Capes – she was also a doctor – it became cause for comment if one saw Mr Keresen with his grim burden.

On leaving Out of Bounds Corner to continue to the farmhouse, the hospital gardens and piggeries were on our left; all of these supplied food for the patients. This straight stretch of lane was, at this point, lined on the right, by a large number of oak trees and a strip of hazel coppice. These had a beauty at all times of the year and, in Spring this was enhanced by a carpet of primroses, bluebells, anemones, Soloman’s seal, red and white campions etc.

The lane then made a right-hand bend – known as Piggery Corner and on this bend was a holly tree. This, in its season produced a profusion of berries of which we made good use at Christmas. Most of the oaks and all of the hazel has now been replaced by a wire fence, I call this an act of vandalism but am told it is progress. I’ afraid I can’t be convinced.

Now, on our left the land fell sharply away to the water meadow below. These slopes were, at first, all brambles and scrub but were replanted with larch, poplar etc. These grew and have since degenerated and no use was ever made of them. Now all is a tangled mess again. Here in the undergrowth, there were the usual woodland flowers, interspersed, quite prolifically, with daffodils and narcissi etc. presumably thrown out by the Mounts gardeners.

The last part of the lane before reaching the farm buildings and house was down a steep slope, probably of about four or five in one. This was of shingle and pebbles. In wet weather this packed down hard but in dry spells it became very loose and often caused problems when attempting to traverse it with a loaded cart or lorry. Indeed, it was hard going to walk on such a surface.

The wooded area to which I previously referred continued on the left, down the hill and was known as Breach Copse.

The farmhouse stood almost at the bottom of the slope on the left-hand side. It was, from the outside, a somewhat unprepossessing building, plain, rectangular and with, though this may sound contradictory, the front and back doors on the upper side, by the road. There were no doors on the lower side as the ground fell sharply away and then levelled out to form our garden. It was a six-roomed house, three up and three down and very basic. In later years a bathroom, toilet and larder etc. was added and this made a considerable difference. Our original toilet, known as the dunniken – or simply the ‘ouse, was a wooden structure situated at the bottom of the garden and the bucket therein had to be emptied periodically. The contents were dug into a hole further down and we were always proud of the marrows we grew there. Our new flush toilet was, undoubtedly, an improvement and we considered it progress, but we never grew such good marrows again.

(A dilapidated Breach Farm showing the steep sloped track)

I don’t know the age of the house, but it was said to be two hundred years, at least, and was to me, something of a marvel. Although built on slopes going two ways, both length and width wise, it had absolutely no foundations. This was discovered after the last war when repairs had to be carried out to the wall on the lower side because of damage caused by the vibration from bomb and gunfire blast. When the repairs were carried out new foundations were laid but the remainder of the house still stood on bare earth. During very wet weather water would rush down the hill past the house but never disturbed it.

When we arrived at the farm the house had not been lived in for a number of years. Prior to our tenancy it had been farmed by Mr Charlie Neale, of Hill Farm, Brambridge and, before that, by a Mr Hurtes and I have read that he supplied milk to much of the village. It was then owned by Hants County Council. My paternal Grandfather farmed it for some years in conjunction with Highbridge Farm on the other side of the river.

(Pictures of Breach Farmhouse taken during a survey in 1948)

In our early days there, Father and I worked for him but, later, when Grandfather relinquished the tenancy, Dad took it over. Still later, a few years before he retired, he bought the place.

When we moved into the house it needed some attention indoors, but it wasn’t until some years later that the extension to which I referred was added. This, with a connection to the mains water supply, the installation of a Rayburn cooker, electricity and a few other odds and ends made life much easier, especially for my Mother. How she coped in those earlier days I don’t know and, sometimes, I don’t think she did, either.

In the winter she cooked on an old kitchen range. Depending on the way of the wind and the airless dense fogs which often persisted in this low-lying area, the fire wouldn’t draw, the room filled with smoke and the flues needed frequent attention.

In the summer she cooked on a three-burner oil stove and when I think of the meals she produced under such conditions, I marvel.

We, as a family, were hearty eaters but always there was plenty of good wholesome food. She baked her own bread for years until, during a long illness, we were supplied by Mr C.N. George, generally referred to as C.N. She occasionally baked bread again but not regularly. Thursday was bread-baking day, and I can still savour the aroma. Hot cottage loaves, straight from the oven, with lashings of her own butter is something I shall never forget.

Prior to being on the mains water supply our water came from a spring up in the field opposite the house. It was always clear and cool. The elevation enabled us to have a tap over the sink. The cattle also drank from the spring. Farm work can, at times, be very dirty and baths could be a bit of a problem, especially in hot weather. We used an old, galvanised bath which, between usages, always hung on a nail outside the back door.

Until the installation of the Rayburn, heating the water was quite a chore but we managed to keep clean. I wonder what the young folk of today would think of these conditions.

One thing I have not mentioned is lighting. We used paraffin lamps and, to go to bed, candles. Often, we went up in the dark. We advanced to an Alladin lamp and then to a Primus, all improvements, but when the electricity was installed, we seemed to be living in a different world.

Opposite the house, on the right of the road, the bank sloped steeply to the field above and was clad in trees and bushes etc. These were overshadowed by a large oak tree. At various times of the year these all added to the natural beauty of the place.

Over the years the weather had washed out much soil from under and around the roots of the oak and the hole provided a kennel for the succession of dogs we had; there was Terry, the Springer spaniel; he could be quite fierce but was a splendid house dog. Most of us didn’t trust him but my wife – she was then only my girlfriend – got on famously with him. She would adorn his neck and head with daisy chains, and he loved it. Then there was a scruffy little gingery-haired terrier. He also let us know when anyone was approaching over the top of the hill. These dogs were on a long running wire that allowed them to go up beyond the back door and woebetide any strangers who ventured too close. Old Bess, the blue-black spaniel bitch was everybody’s favourite. She had a lovely disposition and accompanied us when working all day in the fields and water meadow. Over the years there were other dogs, all of whom seemed to be part of farm life.

Now, leaving the house we descended to the farmyard. This was a rectangular area, bounded on the right hand by a galvanised iron fence and on the left by the small dairy and cow stable, this latter was a slate roofed building and accommodated eighteen cows. We laid a four-foot-wide concrete pathway along the front of it, and this enabled us to keep much of mud away from the building. This, together with the stable, was scrubbed daily.

(Reginald and Harold Morris milking at Breach Farm)

In those early days the milk had to be delivered twice daily to James Hann and Sons, Eastleigh by pony and float. Later a cooler was installed, and a lorry collected the milk once daily.

At first, when the two farms were run as one, the cows were brought over from Highbridge as and when the supply of grass and feed was available. We used to bring them via Brambridge, round the lanes, up through Stoke Common and down the Cinder track. Later, a wooden bridge was built over the river, by Houghtons of Durley. This made for much easier and less time-consuming movement from farm to farm. Eventually, when my Grandfather relinquished the tenancy of Breach, Dad took it over and it was run as a separate entity.

He started off with a nucleus of young in-calf heifers, shorthorns, which he purchased from Mr Frearson of Twyford Farm. Over the years he switched to guernseys, and this enabled him, because of the increased butter-fat content of the milk, to qualify for a subsidy of four pence per gallon, this was followed by a further subsidy of four pence when he qualified by passing tuberculin-free tests. This, needless to say, boosted his monthly milk cheque.

At first, we did, as had been done for generations before, milked by hand. A machine was then installed, and life seemed to be that much easier. The power for this was supplied by a little Petters engine situated in a lean-to attached to the lower end of the stable. This shed also housed cattle, pig and poultry food.

The far end of the yard was bounded by a large barn.

(Buildings on Breach Farm photographed for a survey in 1948)

This did not present the most pleasing appearance as it was painted black corrugated iron. The structure of its timbers, however, was quite remarkable. They were large, solid beams which, at some time in their existence, had been ships timbers. It was possible to see where the previous joins had been made. No nails or screws had been used; all being held together by dowelling. This barn had numerous uses, sometimes being filled to the roof with hay, mangolds, swedes etc. stored for winter feed. At other times it contained machinery, and the thousand and one bits and pieces always found on a farm.

The bull pen was attached where Breach Duke pawed the ground, snorted and from where he was brought forth to do his bit toward the running of the farm.

(Harold Morris pictured with Breach Duke)

A gate on the right-hand side of the yard opened out into Home Paddock where was situated the aforementioned spring and the deep litter poultry houses. The other gate, in the lower left had corner, led to the water meadow.

(Reginald Morris feeding poultry at Breach Farm)

This meadow, though labour intensive, was a valuable source of supply of fresh young grass for the cattle. By a method of irrigation, which I have described elsewhere, a good supply of early feed in the Spring boosted the milk yield and again when the higher meadows were burned brown by the summer sun.

In those days there were such meadows stretching the length of the Itchen. I had practical experience of them from Highbridge, through Breach and Withey meadows – now owned by my son and his wife, – the fields which now form Eastleigh Playing Fields and those south of the Bishopstoke Road and down as far as Six Arches, where the Botley railway line spans the river.

(River Itchen with Breach Farm in the background)

My brother Harold and I are the last remaining of the old workers – known as drowners, to have worked in these meadows. The Beeden family of Stoke Common had worked these areas all their lives but, sadly are no longer with us. Indeed, they taught us the intricacies of this work when we first came over from the Isle of Wight in 1922, we having had no experience in this line.

(Water meadows pictured during a survey in 1948)

Most of these meadows have now been levelled and drained and treated to get rid of weeds, sedge and reeds etc. and by the use of artificial manures, they still yield well. However, I have never since seen almost knee-deep areas of young green grasses and herbs that gave the cows – and us workers such pleasure and satisfaction. The work was often long, arduous, cold and wet but of great interest and I enjoyed my work there.

An aspect that saddens me is that, with the use of herbicides, many plants and flowers have been lost – marsh marigolds or, as we knew them – king cups – water avens or, as we called them, granny bonnets, forget-me-nots and many and many of the attractive reeds and rushes. There were also valuable herbs which the cattle knew and ate. I wonder if antibiotics and other man-made substances can ever really replace those natural additions to the cows’ diet?

By the rivers some of these flowers still remain – the yellow irises with their sunny blooms, purple loosestrife, blue and white comfrey, etc. Due to some pollution of the waters much of the broad-leafed, semi bitter watercress has disappeared. The cultivated varieties now available bear little resemblance to the natural kinds. How we used to enjoy feeds of that plant and, as Father would say, “it does yer internal workin’s a power of good”.

Talking in this vein reminds me of the old remedies that we used to cure aches and pains – a swede cut up overnight and soaked in brown sugar, good for coughs; brimstone and treacle, made with flowers of syrup and treacle, helped if we were bothered with constipation; a bowl of boiled onions laced with pepper or a basin of bread and milk laced with black treacle would bring out a sweat that would get rid of any cold. Dad also believed that some of which would cure complaints in horse or cow was good for humans. Polienta oil, used on cattle was rubbed into a tight chest; Tipper’s cow relief, a Vaseline-like substance, was excellent for chapped hands. Old Mr Beeden, when having cut his hand when whetting his scythe or his hay knife, would come into the stable and collect cobwebs to wrap around the wound. These would stop the bleeding and sure enough, healing would take place quickly and cleanly. The leaves of plantain would have a similar effect. Back ache, often caused by unaccustomed exercise, was relieved by applying a hot iron to the affected part.

I can assure you that I have tried, not always willingly, all of these nostrums but must admit they haven’t always produced a cure but, undoubtedly have brought some relief. Other things which benefitted one’s health, and which were accepted with much more willingness were blackberries, elderberries, both of which made excellent tarts, jams and jellies. Crab apples made a wonderfully piquant jelly and field mushrooms were eagerly looked forward to on those warm, misty September mornings.

(Water meadows with Breach Farm in the background)

Having turned right out of the water meadow – or walked through the barn – one had a clear view across the twenty-one-acre field and across the river to the railway line. Beyond one could see the houses of Allbrook village as they clad the hill leading to Eastleigh. To the north was a view up the valley toward Winchester. High up one could see Otterbourne Grange among the trees, the home of Mrs Fitzgerald who, I believe, was the aunt of the famed naturalist, Brian-Vesey Fitzgerald.

I’ve seen this field under several crops – mangolds, swedes, turnips, kale, oats and hay. Being very gravelly I remember quite vividly the back breaking work when hoeing them. Even when horse-hoeing the stones made progress difficult. However, some good crops were grown there.

The machines for harvesting the hay and oats were horse drawn and when the carting was carried out, pitching on to the wagons and from thence to the ricks was all hand work, and much sweat was lost in the progress.

A great spirit of camaraderie existed between the workers, however and there was never any bad language or smutty talk. Father would not have approved of that. The work went with a swing, weather permitting. In addition to our own little staff, Father, Harold, Jerry Jennings and Harry Legget, we could always rely on the help of an additional band of helpers, Artie and Bill Longland and Bill Cooper, all willing workers.

(Breach Farm – Jack Elliot holding the bull)

There was much fun, and some relief, when at the end of a long afternoons sweating, Mother and maybe visiting friends and relations would bring out a large dixey of tea and baskets of sandwiches, cakes and scones and we would all break off, try and find a bit of shade and relax for half an hour. How loth we were to start again. Muscles would ache, joints would creak, and it was a while before we got back into full swing again. Those were the times when visitors thought that haymaking were such rollicking times in the country.

The hay and corn ricks, when completed, were thatched to keep out the wet, until the hay was needed for winter feed or when the corn needed to be threshed. The ricks were thatched with sedge which was cut from the narrow strip of land known as the Sling.

The main carrier which when needed, conveyed the water from the river to the water channel that ran around the outside of the Big Ground, following and almost parallel with the course of the main river. On this narrow strip of land between the two watercourses, the Sling, grew sedge in abundance, plenty for thatching requirements. This area was the natural habitat of wild duck, moorhens, coot, sedge warblers, dabchicks, the occasional snipe, water rats, snakes and, in the summer, a host of mosquitos, damsel flies and numerous other insects and wildlife. One sometimes would see an otter or a fox and often watch the ungainly flight of an old jack heron as he floated above looking for a feed of fish in the river.

(Water channel with Breach Farm in the background)

At the far distant corner of the Big Ground was a small pit where we dug gravel used to fill in any unwanted depressions such as in gateways etc. Beyond the gravel pit we crossed the main carrier and came upon another strip of land that that reached up to what we knew as Six Hatches. Across the river at this point, as you may suspect, were six wooden hatches. Flanking this strip of land was a hazel coppice, narrow and on rising ground and to our right. This, on the old map is shown as Breach Sling Copse.

The hatches were used to facilitate the flooding of the water meadow. They were lowered to the required depth to send the water along the main carrier to where it was needed. Near the hatches, which were situated almost in the lee of what was known as Lloyd Copse, was erected what became known as the Fisherman’s hut. This was for the benefit of those fishermen who rented stretches of the water for their leisure pursuits.

The stretch of river running through Breach was looked after by a keeper, Charlie Terry. He was a solidly built, eighteen or nineteen stone and could be a terror to any poachers who came across his path. To us, with livestock on various parts of the farm he could be, and often was, a great help. If he found any signs of trouble among the animals, he would endeavour to put it right but if it was beyond his power to do so, he would immediately come and tell us of it. Charlie was quite a character and was known in all the local pubs for his partiality for a drop of he “strong stuff”.

Most of the area excavated by Halls for gravel was used by us for root crops etc. and, on occasions, for oats. We sometimes grew quite exceptional crops there. This was partly due to the position of the Mount piggeries on the upper side of the lane. The tanks which collected the effluent from there were emptied by a pump over on to the top of the field and, as the ground sloped away, this soaked over a considerable area. We have grown marrow-stemmed kale to over six feet tall and as thick as a man’s arm. To cut it for carting out to feed the cattle we had to use a good stout billhook and an equally strong arm. It was on that land that, nearly seventy years ago, I first learned to plough with a pair of horses and a single furrow plough. Not long afterwards I was ploughing, in Canada, with four horses and a double furrow plough.

In later years, partly at the instigation of my younger brother, Harold, Dad bought a tractor – an old standard Fordson – and the horses were sold. Dad was sorry to see the horses go and, to a lesser extent, so was I. He had worked with horses all his life and, even during the first world war, had served four years in India with a horse regiment. I, too, was brought up among them; we always had a pony and trap and, at one time, a wagonette and ralli cart. They were our means of going to town or market or even going out for an evening’s ride. It soon became obvious, even to Dad, that a tractor made sense but, even then I’ve known the time when the machine got stuck in and had to be pulled out by old Captain or Prince.

Also, the companionship of horses, when used daily and all day – is such that a tractor driver couldn’t imagine. If he’d been caught talking to his charge as we talked to ours, he’d soon have been locked up.

On the north side of the farm was a property belonging to a Mr Matthews. He was a Boer from South Africa but was in residence here for only a few months of each year. His house, Stoke Lodge, stood at the end of a beautiful avenue of beech trees and was quite a picturesque place. A Miss Marks was his housekeeper, and another old chap looked after the garden and grounds.

(Stoke Lodge, Bishopstoke)

The place is marked on the old map as next to Copse House Farm. An old donkey was kept there which was used with a small cart for transporting goods and produce about the place. When that old Moke was out in the fields he would often bray, and I swear he could be heard up the valley halfway to Winchester.

(Donkey and cart decorated for Bishopstoke Carnival at Copse House Farm)

When Mr Mathews died his property, or part of it, was bought by Mr Bucket, a farmer from Allington Lane. He was related to the Coombes family, timber merchants from Eastleigh. As a consequence, many of the beeches in the avenue were cut down and this left a scene of devastation.

There were twelve or more acres of grassland of the Copsehouse Farm adjoining the fields of Breach and Dad was able to rent them and they made a useful addition to his own acreage.

All our top fields and a considerable portion of those extra acres were the site of gravel excavations and, though they have been filled in, grassed down and landscaped and look quite attractive, I’m afraid they have lost much of the attraction they once had, for me, at least.

I must make mention of Woodpecks, the small field just inside the Mount gates. We often kept dry cattle and heifers there and, in winter they had to be fed daily. We kept an old wagon out in the field in which we kept hay and cake. It was often my job to go and dish out some to the animals.

Coming up the lane from the farm I went along a path that went in at Piggery Corner and led along the lower side of the Mount gardens, by the ornamental steps and eventually to the bottom of Woodpecks. At the start of the path was a large rhododendron which always bloomed in February, whatever the weather. The path from here was overgrown and dark, even in daytime.

Often my little trip took place at about five thirty in the morning and at that time of day I reckon it was the darkest place on earth. We never carried a light of any sort and would have deigned it to do so even if it had been suggested. The only times I found it a bit startling was when I disturbed a roosting pheasant or wood pigeon, and they swooped across my path with a sudden whirring of wings. Remembering the time of morning and the fact that I had only just got out of bed, do you wonder I was startled? All sleepiness was immediately dispersed.

The early Springtime was a favourite time of year for the womenfolk of our family to visit Woodpecks as they could pick armful of lovely little, short-stemmed daffodils.

To this day there are, on the upper side of the field, just inside the Mount gardens, some huge fir and pine trees. I knew an old, retired gardener who told me that, as a boy, he had fetched these trees, as seedlings from Horton Heath. He was a delightful old gent of a well-known Eastleigh family, the Mariners.

Having spent so much time at Breach there are so many memories I can recall that it is not possible to record here and, indeed, were I to attempt to do so, I would soon become a bore. However, I will still mention just a few more and risk doing so.

While there we attended the little chapel at the bottom of Spring Lane.

(The Tin Chapel in Spring Lane near the new Post Office)

It stood on the site of what is now Nick’s Fish and Chip Bar and the Off-Licence. It was a long rough walk, and we attended in all weathers. My brother and sister also went there to Sunday School. It was there, too, that on my first Sunday evening home after returning from Canada, I was introduced to the girl who, for the past fifty-three years has been my wife. That was about the best thing that ever happened to me.

That walk down from the hospital to the farm could be a rough old trip at times. There was no lighting of any sort and my Mother and sister have each made the journey scores of times with never a qualm – or a light.

Sometimes, on a moonlit night, we would see a fox, or a badger cross our path. At times the fog would be so thick and dense that we, quite literally, could not see our hands in front of our faces. At other times it could be blowing and raining so hard that we had to battle against it.

Because we had little option, we became used to it and so accepted it. There were also occasions when we were more than compensated by a beautiful moonlit night with the frost silver on every twig and branch. Harold and Maisie attended the school opposite St Mary’s Church and they too, had some rough trips.

(The old Bishopstoke Boy’s, Girl’s and Infant schools)

Our nearest bus stop, to go to Eastleigh was at the corner of Church Road and St Margaret’s Road. The fare was one (old) penny. Later the buses ran up to the Foresters Arms at Stoke Common. This was twopence each way or threepence return.

(Foresters Arms at Stoke Common)

Opposite the Foresters Arms was Mr Billy Woodford’s blacksmiths shop. He, and his son, Basil, shod all the local horses and repaired all sorts of broken machinery. They also re-tyred wagon and cartwheels that had shrunken during long, hot spells of dry weather. I was always pleased to take our horses there to be shod; it was always an interesting experience.

(Woodford’s Smithy at Stoke Common)

Speaking of getting new shoes for the horses reminds me of seeing Dad sitting in the light of an old oil lamp, snobbing our boots. The rough road played havoc with them. He always bought the leather from Mr Harry Fellows the harness maker in Market Street, Eastleigh. When my own family were growing up, I had to follow Dad’s example and become something of a snob.

An annual event that I feel I should mention was when the threshing outfit came. This event was greeted with a certain thrill by us youngsters but with mixed feelings by others. It so interrupted the peace and quietness with noise, dirt, dust and constant comings and goings, all hustle and bustle. Mother was always pleased to see the back of it.

On a prearranged date we would hear the deep chug of the steam engine as it laboured up over Stoke Common hill and then we’d watch it come down over the hill here, a veritable train. The traction engine would be pulling the threshing machine, behind which was the elevator, the driver’s sleeping cabin and a water cart. This was all manoeuvred into position by the corn rick and needed quite a bit of setting up. The old thatch was torn off and two men mounted the rick, ready to start pitching the sheaves to the cutter standing on top of the drum. One man would be standing ready to attend to the stacking of the grain when it started to emerge from the rear of the machine. Another was needed to keep the cavings clear from beneath the drum. No one relished that job as it was the dirtiest, dustiest job imaginable. When the engine driver saw that his engine was correctly lined up and everyone in position, he gave the signal, and we were off.

The engine chugged away, the drum rumbled deep throatedly and, as the men on the rick got progressively lower, so did those building the straw rick get correspondingly higher. The filled grain sacks were carried away to the barn and the water cart had to ensure that the thirsty engine didn’t run dry. We’d stop for a mid-day break and then we were of again. When we shut down for the night the driver and his mate slept in their little caboose. As the hustle, bustle, clatter and hiss of steam died away the silence that followed was almost uncanny.

The corn rick had been built on a bedding of faggots, hedge trimmings and the like to keep the sheave up out of the dampness. In this bedding the rats had made a nice comfortable home, with well-stocked larder attached. They objected to being disturbed and, at the last lap there was much frenzied running, leaping and squealing as they tried to make their escape. A circle of fine mesh wire netting around the base of the rick checked their endeavours and many suffered at the hands of those wielding sticks, prongs or any other weapon that came to hand. Those that escaped these weapons ran the gauntlet of the dogs who were having the time of their lives. This may sound very bloodthirsty but was actually a necessity as those rats had already destroyed a large quantity of grain and, if left to breed would do more untold damage.

When the whole operation was finished there remained the job of getting the outfit back on the road again. Remembering the steepness and condition of our hill, this was quite a clever manoeuvre on the part of the driver. He assembled his machines, etc in the yard, took the engine to the top of the hill and hauled them up, one at a time by using his winch. The conditions prevailing at the threshing scene was one of devastation but, within a few days all was cleared up and tidy again, and the straw rick was thatched.

Having spent so much time at Breach, there is so much that comes to mind, things to do with family life, farming too, many happy ones, some sad, some disturbing but from all of which there’ve been lessons to be learned.

Gradually, over the years, our ties with Breach have become more tenuous. When I married, we moved to a little house in St Margarets Road; Harold married and lived and farmed on what is now the Longmead housing estate and for the last forty years he’s lived in Queensland, Australia. He visits us from time to time. Maisie married, their first child was born, and they moved to lower Eastleigh. Dad carried on at Breach for some time and then, in about 1961 he retired, and he and Mother went to live in a bungalow in Chandlers-ford. He sold the farm to a Mr Dance who farmed it for a few years and then sold out to Halls, the gravel people.

Time passes inexorably and with it brings change and, often, sadness.

Mother, Dad, Maisie and her husband, Bill have all left us. The connections with Breach have become more tenuous and it is only on the odd occasion that I walk around the old place again.

The house is just a ruin; the oak tree opposite has gone as also the old barn and bull pen; the cow stable is still standing but in a sad state. The water meadow is neglected and the fields used only for grazing cattle and horses. A large modern barn has been erected near the yard, winter shelter for cattle. We would have loved a barn of these proportions but now, to me, in the old setting, it looks so incongruous.

The old place looks derelict and depressing and, as I stand and ponder, I get a bitter-sweet feeling and though I often can’t resist a visit, yet I am glad to come away.

As I have already stated, the reason I started writing these lines was in answer to a friend’s query regarding Breach farm. I still haven’t told any history of the place; I must confess, I don’t know it.

I hope he will find a little interest in these lines, even though there is as much – and more – about the Morris family than about the farm. As those who know me will agree, when I get started, whether writing or talking, I tend to get carried away. Please forgive me.

The Water Meadows

(1995)

Dutch engineers are reputed to have brought the idea over to England in the early 1600s.

The laying out, levelling etc was a skilled operation as the object was to flood the land evenly to a depth of three or four inches for periods of three or four weeks. In the winter when there were hard frosts, this prevented the ground from freezing and brought valuable nutrients to the soil. Indeed, after a period of flooding, there was a brown sediment over all.

The means of achieving this flooding was by a series of channels of varying width and of hatches to control the flow. A large hatch was situated across the main river and lowered to divert sufficient water through the subsidiary channels for the purpose required. The first of these channels was referred to as the main carrier and varied in width according to the size of the area to be flooded, but only eighteen inches deep. Anything deeper would have been wasted water. When the area to be flooded was reached, further smaller hatches were involved to again divert the water, this time to the actual beds.

(Pictures of water meadows on Breach Farm taken during a survey in 1948)

As the quantity of water was being diverted, the carriers diminished in size until, along the high beds, they were only a spade width and, instead of hatched, had “stops” positioned to affect the even flow over every square inch of land. These “stops” were merely turves cut from the high spots and pegged at intervals in the floaters – as these small channels were called – with wooden pegs, cut from the nearby hedgerows. Between the higher ridges of the land there were “V” shaped ditches which carried the used water back into the main river.

(Picture taken by a culvert, 270 M S.W. of Breach Farm in 1948)

These were called drawns. To accomplish all this was, as I have said before, a work of considerable art and I can only admire the engineers who first devised and carried it out. The upkeep of all this also required a certain art and great interest on the part of the men doing the work. They were called “drowners”.

(The Water Meadows at Bishopstoke, looking towards Allbrook)

Incidentally, I am the last of these folk who was engaged in this work in this area and who is still here to tell the tale. I worked, mainly on Highbridge Farm, run by my Grandfather and Breach Farm owned by my Father. There was a family of drowners – old Mr Beeden and his two sons, Bob and Jim – who taught us the work when we came over from the Isle of wight in 1922 and I have, on occasions, assisted them in working the meadows where you are now sitting and those adjacent which are now the Eastleigh Playing Fields. To my knowledge there are no water-meadows on the Island.

I often feel sad when I realise that almost all these meadows have gone never to return. I consider it a privilege to have been part of the scheme. To recall the site of the water flowing evenly and knowing the good it was doing gives a wonderful feeling of satisfaction and accomplishment.

There were several reasons for the cessation of these activities. One was the amount of labour involved and, consequently the cost; even though a farm labourers wages were about thirty shillings per week (less ninepence for insurance); a drowner was paid a little more. The cost in maintenance was high. Also, the use of artificial manures did away with the need for the natural. The levelling of the beds, carriers, floaters and drawns meant that the application of manures and harvesting of hay crops could be carried out by tractors in a fraction of the time when all had to be done by hand.

The use of weedkillers also got rid of the natural weeds which grew in abundance. These so-called weeds were herbage of several kinds, many of which were beneficial to the cattle and the animals knew which they were. These have had to be replaced by antibiotics and concentrated foods etc. Also – and perhaps I am now indulging in a bit of nostalgia – there were numerous flowers, grasses, reeds and rushes, many of which I don’t know the names and many of which you will be familiar – water avens (which we knew as granny bonnets), marsh marigolds (which we called king cups), forget-me-nots, buttercups, milk maids, meadowsweet, shivery-shaky grasses. Down by the deeper drawns and by the river’s edge were meadow sweet, purple and white loosestrife, comfrey, yellow irises and reeds of several descriptions. The taller reeds we used to cut and use for thatching hay and corn ricks. When was the last time you saw a well-built and tidily and effectively thatched rick? I said I was being nostalgic, didn’t I.

In a piece I wrote about the water-meadows some years ago I told of my experience of them, but I have since read of added uses to which they were put in other parts of the country. Both my Father and Grandfather were dairy farmers but kept no sheep. I stated that sheep were not fed on these meadows because of liver fluke and foot rot. I now understand that where sheep were kept, they were allowed on to the meadows at certain times of the year but were penned on higher ground at night where there were corn and other crops grown. This meant that they had the benefit of lush grass and that the crops benefitted from their dung and the treading of their feet. This enabled sheep farmers to keep larger flocks than they would otherwise have done.

In our case, having only cattle, we started preparations just before Christmas. Thus, by early February we were ready to let the water in. The positioning of the main hatches would depend on the variable change of flow of the water in the river due to weather conditions. Once the desired amount of water was flowing evenly over the meadow the drowner would walk around with his spade under his arm and make any adjustments to keep it so. By the way, when doing the repair work, I always wore well-oiled leather boots but when the water was inn I wore rubber boots. In the old days, even before my time, the drowners had no wellingtons. Do you wonder that they suffered, quite early in life, with rheumatism and arthritis?

Almost the only tools of his trade as an almost heart-shaped spade which he kept sharp with a carborundum stone – which he called a rubber – and which he carried in a roughly-made leather or canvas type of sheath which was attached to his belt. Some areas where the soil was fibrous or spongy the spade would be effectively sharp for quite a period but where there were seams of gravel the file was constantly in use. Unfortunately, in the meadows in which I worked there were large patches of a gravelly nature, and these tended to lower the pace of work and heighten one’s temper. One invariably worked on ones own so this latter condition affected no one but oneself. I have said how much I enjoyed this type of work but, as in all walks of life, no matter how dedicated one is, there are always little things that cause irritation.

To return to the water meadows: – after about three weeks from the initial flooding, the main hatch over the river was raised and the flow of water was allowed to return to its original course. The water in the meadow drained fairly quickly and very soon the grass started to grow and, if the weather was reasonably mild, the rate of growth was little short of amazing. Remembering that the temperature was never really cold – except to one’s feet – and the ground had been kept frost free, it should not have been too much of a surprise.

By this time of the year the fields on the higher ground were eaten well down and the hay supply as getting low, so the fresh flush of grass was most welcome for the cattle and also for the monthly milk cheque for the farmer. After the water had drained away and the soil firmed up, the cows were let in on it for a few hours a day. Longer than this, due to the unaccustomed lushness of the grass, there would have been ill effects on their digestive systems.

As they became used to it, they were allowed longer periods, and the effects were very noticeable in the milking buckets. Yes, we used buckets in those days because the milking was done by hand. I am, of course, talking of the days before milking machines. No longer does the cowman get the satisfaction of the sound of the steady stream of milk as it hit the empty bucket and the deepening sound as the bucket gradually filled. Having said this, I must say that milking was not my favourite pastime and, if I could get out of it by doing other work, drowning, working with horses or any of the other numerous jobs to be done on a small farm, I was glad to do so. Unfortunately, milking had to be done seven days a week so, although all other work came to a standstill on Sunday the milking had to be attended to. Invariably, cows also decided to calve on a Sunday – or so it seemed. This could be very frustrating, especially during ones courting days.

After the first flush of grass had been fed off by the cattle some areas would be laid up for hay.

(The Morris family with a fully laden hay cart at Highbridge Farm)

This meadow hay was of good quality, mainly because of the herbage amongst the grasses. If the weather was such that the crop could be harvested satisfactorily it continued to improve in the rick or, as we said, “it continued to make”. When cutting out the trusses during the winter for feeding in the stable the aroma was as sweet-smelling as a bit of tobacco and the cattle enjoyed every mouthful. The present-day method of haymaking and stacking in the form of bales is, to me, a retrograde step although I must admit the process is less time-consuming and, being mechanised, does away with the hard work, sweat and aching muscles that we experienced by the old method. The reason I say it is a retrograde step is because, when baled and stacked, it doesn’t continue to make to the same degree. In building a bale stack the hay is not layered and does not settle and heat up, partly because of the air spaces between the bales. I have had a difference of opinion with some of the younger generation regarding this. They can’t – or wont – seem to accept that there is a certain sadness when quality is sacrificed to speed and mechanisation. The fact that there is the need for anti-biotics and concentrated foodstuffs to replace the natural quality of the herbage and hay doesn’t seem to be taken into consideration. However, I am bound to admit that this is the price of progress.

I used to say that no machine had yet been invented that could replace the work of the old drowner. I now agree that much of the work of keeping the main carriers and drawns in condition, could be done by machines, but still insist that the detailed work needed to be attend to the actual beds must be done by hand. The channels along the ridges of the beds – the floaters – were spade with – about nine inches – and about two inches deep. Imagine, if you will, the effect of the hooves of horses and cattle and the tracks of carts, wagons or even tractors over these floaters. Even a single hoof mark is enough to allow a stream of water to escape with the consequent lessening of the quantity needed further on.

What the drowner did with his spade was clear away any obstructions in the channel and strategically place them in the offending gaps. If deep they had to be held in place by pegs cut from a nearby hedgerow or consolidated by the heel of a boot. As I said, no machine has or ever will be invented that can think and decide where to make these adjustments. Even the most mechanically minded have conceded this point. However, as the water meadows have now virtually disappeared there will be no need for the inventors or engineers to puzzle their heads over this problem.

One other advantage of these meadows I forgot to mention was that, after the hay crop was taken, the channels were given a quick overhaul, the area flooded for a few days or so and soon, now that the weather was warm, the grass would really grow. Imagine the value of this when the higher fields were eaten bare and browned by the summer sun. I have spoken of the satisfaction in the mind of the drowner as he views his handiwork. The sight of the water flowing evenly over every inch of land, knowing the benefits that will accrue in the days ahead gives him a feeling which is beyond me to describe.

If you glance out of the window you will see a field of lush green grass, level and weed free, where Richard’s cattle are contentedly feeding. The conversion from the old water meadow has been well done and is profitable but I will say that, because I am old fashioned in my ways and ideas – and maybe because I am being nostalgic – I regret the passing of what was to me and many others quite an achievement in producing additional feed for cattle, winter and summer. There, too, is the loss of all those flowers, rushes and reeds that I mentioned, together with the fauna. The nesting places of so many birds – peewits, moorhens, dabchicks, wild duck and even the occasional heron have been disturbed and even destroyed. The disturbance has also meant that one no longer sees the otter around. I am sure you now understand me when I say I am saddened by all this and regret that progress – as it is called – can only be made by the destruction of so much that is beautiful and has, for so many generations, been worthwhile.

From Highbridge to Eastleigh – and back

(With a few Deviations)

Foreword

This trip down memory lane that has followed the route from Highbridge to Eastleigh and back has taken much longer than those I physically experienced in the early twenties.

I have enjoyed recalling the old experiences and, at the risk of being boring, I hope I have invoked memories of the past in some of my older readers and have even given some of the younger folk a brief glimpse into a period of local history – of times and places that have now gone, almost beyond recognition.

I reiterate – these are merely memories and not the result of any research. I therefore apologise for any inaccuracies which may be contained herein.

Sixty-four years next Michaelmas we, as a family, moved from the Isle of Wight to reside at Highbridge Farm where my Grandfather, Harry Morris, farmed for twenty-five years. I was eight years old at the time of the move. Much water has passed under the bridges at Highbridge since those days and so many changes have taken place that I am tempted to recall some aspects of life as they were at the time.

(Bridge at Highbridge in the old days)

The farm was mainly dairy with a small area used for growing oats, mangolds, swedes, turnips and kale as cattle feed. At first the milk had to be delivered twice daily to Eastleigh; later, when a cooling system was installed, the deliveries were once daily. I often rode with my Father, in the Bristol cart pulled by Joe, the little dun pony or by Tit, the sleek brown mare when he made those deliveries. Also, for just over a year, I attended Chamberlayne Road School.

(Chamberlayne Road School, Eastleigh)

Mr Shotten was then Headmaster; Mr Arthur Drewitt (author of Eastleigh’s Yesterday) was the history master, and it was the job of Mr Hood (Duchy, as he was known) to try to instil into the minds of us youngsters the rudiments of arithmetic. Those journeys and occasional shopping trips to Eastleigh or Southampton were enough to impress on my mind a picture of the surroundings as we travelled to and fro.

We would load the seventeen-gallon churns in the cart and, with a rattle of iron-shod hooves and wheels, set of at a brisk pace, The roads at that time were gravelled and often the sparks would fly. In summer the dust would blow but, during rainy spells, mud flew and coated everything. Often holes were worn in the surface and, until they were repaired, we had to try and dodge the worst of them. To repair them the deepest holes were filled with flints picked up from the neighbouring fields and then the whole surface coated with gravel. The materials were drawn to the site by horses and carts, laid by hand and levelled by steam roller. To get the gravel to bind together it was sprayed by water cart and the resultant yellow slurry smothered everything; clothes, boots, harness, vehicles, everything.

I remember this most vividly, mainly I think, because on Saturday mornings, before going out to play, it was my job to clean all the boots and shoes in the house and occasionally help with the harness. Believe me, it had to be properly done; my Dad had spent the years of the Great War in a horse regiment in the army and he was most particular. Insteps had to be polished, brasses shone and so on. Another pre-play Saturday morning job was to clean all the knives, forks and spoons; Wellington’s Knife Powder, applied with a cork, for the knives and Goddard’s Plate Powder for the spoons and forks. There was no stainless-steel cutlery in those days, and we certainly could not afford silverware.

There were no houses on the road to Allbrook in those days. The pair now standing on the right, a third of the way to the village, were built by Mr George Lovegrove and his father-in-law, Mr Fraser. That stretch of the road was narrow and twisted but was later widened and straightened considerably. Just before reaching Allbrook railway arch on the left there stood a sawmill. It was owned and run by a Mr Rowlands and his two stepsons by the name of Mouton.

(Water wheel at Allbrook Sawmill)

The mill was originally powered by a huge water wheel which was eventually replaced by a turbine. (Great advancement in those days). The head sawyer was old Mr Miller who lived in the village. His knowledge of timber and sawing was phenomenal, and I am sure that some of his expertise was passed on to his helpers. One of these was young Charlie Davis who had nothing but respect for the old gent. Indeed, everyone who knew old “Uncle Levi”, as he was affectionally known, really loved and respected the old chap. He was tall, upright and had a flowing white beard. He reminded me of those pictures of Moses with which we are familiar. He was a staunch chapel goer, both at Allbrook and Colden Common. Another saintly old gent whom I like to remember, also a chapel goer, was old Mr Munday. He was white haired and had mutton-chop whiskers and the youngsters at Sunday School jostled for the privilege of sitting next to him. What examples those two old gentlemen were and how my life and that of many another would have been improved if we had followed in their footsteps.

By the side of the mill, by the old ag-ag tree was the entrance to a footpath that followed the river on the lower side of the village. This led past the back of Bazley’s Nursery, past Breach Farm, where my father farmed for thirty years, over the weir and hatches where Charlie Terry, the water keeper had his eel traps, passing the sports field and cycle track.

(The Sports Field and Cycle Track at the end of Dutton Lane)

This latter site is now owned by Silcocks Express where they marshal Ford trucks made at Swaythling. The path then passed the back of the Mount gardens, over the Bishopstoke-Eastleigh Road and, if followed to its conclusion, eventually via Woodmill, Swaythling to the sea.

The connecting path from the right of the Allbrook Road meandered by the Itchen and the Barge Canal to Winchester and beyond. A short way from the road was a bathing spot where the village youngsters used to spend hours during the hot summer months.

The Railway Arch

Immediately after passing the sawmill and before rising up into the village, the road ran under the railway arch, under the main Eastleigh to Waterloo line.

(Allbrook railway arch)

This bridge was notorious for its height – or lack of it. In those days it was made of brick. Many is the lorry that became stuck under it. I’ve even seen drivers let their tyres down to gain a few more inches in order to get going again. This, of course, was not possible for the old, solid-tyred vehicles, many of which were still in use at that time.

Talking of solid tyres reminds me of some of our Sunday School outings. We travelled in “coaches” owned by Stoneham Motors, an Eastleigh firm. These had solid tyres, wooden seats and very few other comforts, but we were thrilled. Looking back, those coaches seem so old fashioned but, at the time of which I write, they were the very latest in luxury travel.

The bridge was even more notorious for the buses. For a period after we came to this area there were no buses at all on this route. Then, firstly a service was started from Eastleigh to St Catherines Road; this was later extended to Allbrook and finally to Colden Common. The bridge was no drawback for the fourteen and twenty seaters which were single deckers, but it was a hazard when the open-topped double deckers started to run. If there were any passengers on the top deck the conductor, as he passed the Victoria Inn, before dropping down to the bridge, would shout “Mind your heads, please”. To us youngsters this was great fun as we ducked and saw the bridge just a few inches above our heads. As should have been expected, the worst was bound to happen and one day a lad was killed. There was some doubt as to whether the conductor failed to shout his warning, whether the lad didn’t hear or even he was just too daring. This episode took all the excitement out of the journey for some time afterwards.

Immediately on the left, as one passed under the bridge and tucked into the railway embankment, was a little corrugated-iron bungalow, the home of Mr Billy Miller and his wife. He was a cheery, chubby little man, another chapel goer and, I think, a nephew of old Uncle Levi. I don’t know whether or not he was considered a bit tight fisted, but it was said that the privy at the bottom of his garden was papered out with pound notes. I cannot, of course, verify that as I never had occasion to do business there. The only water supply to the bungalow was a small stream that ran alongside. The building, like so many others, has long since disappeared – and so has Billy.

Allbrook Village

Having passed under the bridge and started up the slope one found the Victoria Inn on ones left. This was known as “The Vic” and was run by a Mr Griffin; I think he has since passed away but his brother, Tom, still lives in Hamilton Road, Bishopstoke. Opposite The Vic was, and still is Allbrook Farm.

(Allbrook Farmhouse)

This is several hundred years old and quite fascinating. It was then run by Mr Len Budd who later moved to Malt House Farm at Colden Common. His brother Frank was an Eastleigh butcher whose shop was on Station Front.

(J.J. Budd Family Butcher in Southampton Road, Eastleigh)

He later moved his premises to Market Street. Old Mr Budd, father of the two brothers, used to stand outside the shop wearing a box hat and morning suit, a notable old chap, even in those days.

The Budds used to do their own slaughtering and had the slaughterhouse in Upper Market Street, approximately on the site of the present Royal Mail car park.

(J.J. Budd’s slaughterhouse in Upper Market Street)

Many is the time we have been there and picked up blood and innards in old milk churns to take back to the farm to boil up for the pigs. This, with skimmed milk from the dairy was wonderfully fattening food and, with barley meal, made the pigs’ coats shine and their tails curl, a sure sign of a good healthy animal.

By the side of Allbrook Farm was a turning, School Lane, appropriately named as the Infants School was a short way along.

(Allbrook School)

There were also two terrace cottages close by. The older children of the village used to go to school in Eastleigh or to Otterbourne Church School. This latter was quite a trip as the path between the bracken and brambles was so narrow that one often scratched one’s knees and hatched one’s socks. No long trousers for the boys in those days. The best time of the year for this journey was at blackberry time when one could enjoy the fruits as one meandered. This path came out near “The Cricketers” – now called “The Otter”. We then went along Chapel Lane, across the Common and down over the hill to where the boys’ school, a two-roomed flint building, nestled close to the church. The Infants and Girls’ school was almost next door, a more modern, brick building. Both these buildings have now gone. There was, and still is, a chestnut tree outside the church gates which we used to climb and where, in the summer, we sat in the branches to eat our sandwiches. No school dinners in those days. In winter we were allowed to sit in school to eat our sandwiches and for a penny could have a steaming cup of cocoa. This was made by a lady called “Old Sally Nichols”, the wife of the headmaster. We grouped around the circular stove and toasted our fronts while our backsides froze.

We were warned by old Schooly Nichols, as the head was known, not to climb the chestnut tree. He said that ninety-nine times out of a hundred we would do so without accident and then, on the hundredth time someone would get hurt. Sure enough, Tug Wilson who lived up at the top of the hill, must have reached his hundredth time because he came a cropper and broke his leg in two places. I lost trace of him many moons ago but, somewhile after the accident, he still had a bad limp and I’m afraid it may have been permanent.

One dinner time in the summer some of us lads set fire to some “vuzz” bushes on top of the hill. Fire spreads underground by the roots of this shrub and we couldn’t put it out. Eastleigh fire brigade was called out and we were somewhat late back to school/. Unreasonably – so we thought – there was quite a row about the whole affair.

I didn’t always go to school at Otterbourne via Allbrook; I often went up to Brambridge, along Kiln Lane, past Brambridge House – occupied by Colonel and Mrs Heseltine – and under the railway arch, nearby where grew a bank of lovely wild strawberries.

(Brambridge House)

I then passed on my left, the entrance to Moat House farm, now called Manor farm whilst almost opposite stood Otterbourne old church and the adjacent farm. Sadly, both of these buildings have now disappeared. Towards the last years of its life services were held in the old church but, eventually the building became unsafe, and it was pulled down. Some of the timber from the old pews can still be seen in Myrtle Cottage, Otterbourne where they form panelling in the home of Mr and Mrs Les Morant. Les was one of the older boys at Otterbourne school when I attended there. We later worked together for some years as security officers for Pirelli General at Bishopstoke.

The farm adjacent to the old church then belonged to Mrs Christian of The Grange but was farmed by Mr Lovegrove and his two sons, George and Harry. George later took over Allbrook farm when Mr Budd moved to Colden Common and he, George finished his farming days on the Bishops Waltham Road, just past The Woodman Inn, on the right. When George left Allbrook Farm Harry took it over and farmed there until his death quite recently. His sons, I believe, continue to farm Moat House and Allbrook Farms but I see they have both been offered for sale. Immediately past Allbrook Farm was the School Lane turning already mentioned. This is now Pitmore Road and is flanked by houses and bungalows all the way to Otterbourne. No more scratched knees or hatched socks on this route. The travellers go by bus or car or, if the youngsters have more than a few hundred yards to go to school, they are taken in coaches. That, too, means that they can’t feed on blackberries en route or pick, in their season, primroses, bluebells, anemones, honeysuckle or bugloss etc, to take home to Mother. Neither can they gallop around among the scrub bushes or in and out among the humps and hollows shooting off imaginary pistols as they played Cowboys and Indians.

Having passed the entrance to School Lane, on our right was Jimmy Week’s small farmstead. It had a delightful little thatched cottage behind which were his stables and out-buildings. He had only a few cows, but they must have provided a living for Jimmy and his wife. George Bodman, who recently contributed to a book on Old Eastleigh, used to help Mr Weeks and could often be seen taking the cows along to pasture. He lived in Wheelers Terrace opposite the farmstead. His neighbours there included old Uncle Levi, the Brewer family – Stan and Bert – the Harris’s and others.

Between The Vic and this terrace was a pair of semi-detached houses with large gardens, one of which was occupied by the Soper family. They were a large family and several of the younger members were my school pals. One, in later years, became a relation – she married my wife’s cousin. Mr Soper was a well-respected man – another chapel goer. I can so well remember Mrs Soper, kindly, gentle and wearing a snow-white pinney as she stood at the garden gate, with a smile for all who passed by.

Just before reaching the two village shops, on the right, there was a pair of distinctive detached houses in one of which lived a quite remarkable old character, old Mr Billy Kilford. In the other resided the Warwick family. These were known as Ginger, occasioned by the colour of their hair. Mr Warwick drove a horse-drawn covered cart containing the wares of Reads, the hardware and oil mongers of Eastleigh. With these he supplied the housewives for miles around. Later his horse and trolley were replaced by a Ford van and Mr Warwick drove it as gently and steadily as he had his horse. He was a kindly, gentle man and I liked him. One of his sons drove a bus in Eastleigh and later became an inspector. I have a feeling that his younger brother also became a bus driver but I’m not certain. They were a few years older than me.

The two shops to which I referred were general stores and, being the only ones in the village, were well patronised.

(Allbrook Hill)

The one on the right was owned and run by a Mr Fretton (whose attractive daughter sometimes assisted him). The other was owned by the Pritchet family. Indeed, half the village from here on up the hill was owned by them. Old Mrs Pritchet, a rather formidable character, lived in a large rambling old house way up on the hill on the left, while next door, in a similar house, lived her eldest son, Mr Hedley. Mr Garfield, the youngest, had a bungalow built adjoining. He and his daughter, Mona, used to attend the chapel on the bank opposite. Mona often played the organ, and her father accompanied her on the mandolin. Mr Sid Allen from further down the village, also, on occasions, accompanied them. The regular organist was Miss Kathy Sheppard. Between the Pritchet houses and the shops were several semi-detached houses and terraces. The families living there were the May’s, Lacey’s, Randalls, Rickman’s, Bunker’s, Davis’s, Cooper’s, Etheridge’s and others whose names I can’t remember.

The Davis family I remember particularly well as Bill, one of the middle sons, became a playmate and friend and still is today. He used to come up to the farm on Saturday mornings and never jibbed at helping with the footwear and cutlery cleaning before we went out to play. We were blessed with plenty of playing space – a cart shed and barn suitable for fixing up a swing and to clamber about in when it was wet; fields to roam in; Spinneys where we could pick primroses, bluebells, cowslip and anemones and where we could catch minnows in a jam jar; a river in which to bathe and even an old hollow-topped ash tree about four feet across where we could sit about twelve feet off the ground and have a picnic. We had some wonderful times, and I cherish the memories.

Mr Davis senior, Bill’s grandfather, worked at Shears’s Mill, Bishopstoke – demolished in 1934 – and for some years Bill’s Dad drove a Foden steam wagon for the firm.

(Shears and Sons Foden Steam Wagons)

His steersman was Mr George Paice of Bishopstoke. They delivered flour, corn etc. to the surrounding bakeries and shops. Bill and I sometimes went on these trips, going as far afield as Alton. We would stop at a stream or pond en route, put a large pipe into the water and suck it up to quench the thirst of the engine.

When the mill finally closed down Mr Davis drove a huge Fowler traction engine for a fairground firm which used to travel around to carnivals and fairs. His engine was the one which supplied the power and lighting and was always gleaming and shining. It was a magnificent sight and a credit to the driver. Bill’s Mum was a delightful person and when I went to call for Bill, even though she was busy with the several younger members of the family, always greeted me with a kind word and a smile.

The Pritchets’ shop. – The Pritchets, like us, originated from the Island where some of their family were still in business. They had a brickyard outside Cowes and continued until lorry transit enabled mainland suppliers to deliver their goods more cheaply. They also had a flair and expertise for making terra-cotta ornaments, flowerpots, etc. I still have in my possession a tobacco jar on the front of which is a model of Carisbrooke Castle, which was made by them. It was given to my Grandfather by the maker, a Pritchet, who was a friend. However, to return to the Allbrook section of the family. Their shop was run by the two elder brothers, Hedley and Walter. The main business was done by Walter while Mr Hedley was cashier, bookkeeper etc. The shop contained a small post office section, a grocery department and a provision counter. In addition, there was, in every available space, merchandise of every description. There were brushes, brooms, buckets, mops, trays, shovels, saucepans, frying pans, hurricane lamps, packets of candles and, oh so much more. Many of these goods were suspended from the ceiling. One could also purchase paraffin (bring your own can) and rich, dark treacle (bring your own jam jar). At the back of the shop was a bakery – now used, I believe, as a Chapel, the old one having been pulled down. The chief baker was Mr Garfield Pritchet who was assisted by John Parker. His brother, Reg Parker, was the delivery man with his horse and two-wheeled cart. The two brothers lived in the terrace nearly opposite. I spent quite a few happy hours “helping” in the bakery. The aroma of newly baked bread was delicious, second only to the taste. My mouth still waters at the memory.

The Recalcitrant Cow. – The terrace next to the shop, going uphill, has now been pulled down and replaced by modern dwellings. I well remember one special event that took place concerning one of the old houses. We were driving a herd of cows down through the village street when one of them decided to go into one of the very narrow front gardens.

(View of Allbrook Hill with very narrow front Gardens)

She had to turn round to get out but, in doing so, owing to the lack of space, her back end took the front window out, sash and all. This really scared her, and she made a dash for the first opening she saw which was the front door. She went down the passage and came to halt at the foot of the stairs. The lady of the house, who was at the back had heard the tinkling of glass and dashed in to determine the cause; when she came face to face with a full-grown cow, I don’t know which of the two was the more frightened. While my father and his helpers kept the other cows together in the street, I dashed round to the back of the house and managed to get the offender out in reverse. She was frightened, stubborn and creating a fair old din, in addition to which her natural functions were performed somewhat unnaturally. I don’t recall how the damage was cleaned up or paid for but, judging by the vociferous protestations of the lady occupant, I presume she intended to be suitably compensated.

The little Chapel halfway up the hill on the right has now been demolished and replaced by a dwelling house. The congregation now worship in the old bakehouse and one of the stalwarts, Mrs Allen, whom I first knew as Miss Sheppard, is still a very active worker. She must be now well into her eighties and has given a lifetime of service to the chapel and the village. Mr Sid Allen, who was one of the accompanists on the mandolin in the old days, eventually became her stepson – she married Sid’s father. Just above the Chapel and almost tucked in the side of the hill was a low building that did service as a stable and store for old Mr Goodchild and his son, Jimmy. They had a pony and canvass-covered trolley with which they ran a mobile green-grocery business. When eventually the old chap passed away, Jimmy worked for some years on the Eastleigh Council. As one neared the top of the hill on the left stood a corrugated iron building. This was the property of the Church of England and was administered from Otterbourne Church. There were occasional services held there but I don’t remember the details.

Allbrook and Ham Farm Hills – Coming from the Highbridge direction and going uphill it was Allbrook Hill and going down the other side it was Hams Farm Hill. In those days they were much more steep than they are now. Somewhere around 1924 about eight to ten feet were taken off the top. This made the climb so much more easy, especially for horse-drawn traffic. Mark you, some of the cars and lorries of that era also had difficulty in making the ascent. The radiators would steam and boil and often they got stuck halfway. We used to supply the occasional load of hay to Charles Cox and Sons, corn, hay and straw merchants of Eastleigh. We delivered this in two-ton loads, eight trusses, by wagon. This wagon was drawn by two horses abreast but, to ascend Allbrook Hill, we had also to use a trace horse hitched to the front. To descend the other side, we used a drag shoe to act as a brake. This was a metal block chained to the bed of the wagon. When put in position one of the back wheels mounted the shoe and then skidded along the gravelled road. It was a very effective brake. On our way to Cox’s store, we called into the Railway Goods Yard opposite the Parish Church and used the weighbridge and weighed again on our return, when empty.

(Railway Goods Yard, opposite Parish Church)

Back to Allbrook Hill – High on our right as we breasted the hill was a brickyard. This provided work for quite a large number of local people. Just over the brow were two large houses, one each side of the road. The one on the right was Rookwood which became a maternity home where many of Eastleigh’s children were born – but this has now been replaced by residential homes.

(Rookwood Maternity Hospital)

From there we dropped down Hams Farm Hill, so named because of the farm situated halfway down on the left.

(Ham Farm, Twyford Road in the 1940s)

This had a large, delightful old, thatched barn. Mr Beeden and his sons from Stoke Common thatched it on one occasion, I remember. This barn was, later, very regrettably burned down. The farmhouse was very old and of considerable character. That and some of the farm buildings have now been turned into quite a fashionable eating house. At the time of which I write, however, the farm was run by Mr Frith and his son, Reg. Part of the land was later built on by Eastleigh Council and now comprises Ruskin Road reaching St Catherines Road and, at the back, To Shakespeare Road. Mr Frith also farmed Barton Farm, the buildings being where Chickenhall Service Station now stands. The land included what is now Bishopstoke Playing Fields and the area down Chickenhall Lane which is now an industrial estate and the premises of Pirelli General Cable Works. The land occupied by the playing fields and that behind it known as Withy Meadows – and now owned by my son Richard and his wife, used to be water meadows and, as I grew older, I assisted the Beeden family in their upkeep.

(Barton Mill and Barton Farm on the right)

This craft, Drowning, has now been lost to this part of the country. I think I am the last of those who were engaged in this work in this area.

Twyford Road – or Winchester Road, as it was then called. – On reaching the bottom of Hams Farm Hill and divided from the farmhouse by a gravel lane leading down to the river, was Bazeley’s Nursery.

(Bazeley’s shop on the corner of Leigh Road and High Street)

This was comprised of gardens and greenhouses run by the two brothers who also had a retail shop in Leigh Road. They were always noted for the quality of their produce. Two houses stood near the gravel lane entrance. Indeed, they still do although one is now a shop. Mrs Rodaway lived in one and the Ellis family in the other. Roseberry Crescent has now been built on the site of the nursery.

Further along the road on the left was a depression known as the Ballast Hole. I understand that in making of the railway much gravel was dug from here. When I knew it houses had been built in the hollow. They were terrace houses, similar in style to many others built in the town to house the railway workers when they came down to Eastleigh from Nine Elms, London. On the corner of the Ballast Hole, near the road, stood the Progressive Club while, lying back behind it was Pickle Lee’s factory.

(Lee’s Pickle Factory)

This, as its name suggests, was owned by a man named Lee who produced several kinds of pickles. If the wind was in the right direction, one could easily tell one’s position on the road by the aroma which assailed one’s nostrils. Phew! It was said that the residue that came from the shallots and onions made splendid humous for the nearby allotments. At the southern end of the Ballast Hole there was no petrol station or shop as there is now.

(The Petrol Station in Twyford Road in the 1940s)

After the time of which I write a shop was built by the firm of grocers, Messer’s Higgins and Badman from Leigh Road, Eastleigh, to serve the growing community in this area. At the time of which I write there were only fields on the right-hand side of the road, at this point.

When, for about a year, I attended Chamberlayne Road School, if the weather was fine, I made my way from the bottom of Hams Farm Hill and took a diagonal course across the open fields along a line that was approximately where Ruskin Road now is. This brought me to the top end of Archers Road where I crossed the railway line. The present footbridge was not there then but was erected soon afterwards after a young lad had been killed by a passing train.

(Footbridge at the top of Archers Road)

I used to continue down Archers Road and access the recreation ground where the trees in the venue weren’t much more than saplings.

(Archers Road, Eastleigh)

At the other end of the avenue, at Leigh Road, stood two very large cannon, relics from the Great War.

(Canon in the Recreation Ground, Leigh Road)

As there were no school dinners in those days several of the boys, of whom I was one, would climb up and sit astride the barrels to eat our sandwiches. Many is the time when, in winter, my bare thighs would be frozen and red raw, while in summer they almost had the skin burnt off by the hot metal. I don’t recall when these cannons were removed but suggest it may have been to assist in the scrap metal drive of the second world war.

Older folk and those interested in the history of old Eastleigh will, undoubtedly, have seen published in The Eastleigh Weekly News photographs of buildings and events of those old days. One photograph was of army medical huts that were erected on the recreation ground to house the sick and wounded personnel brought back from the fronts in France and Belgium. These were erected I understand, about 1916 – 1917.

(Eastleigh Clearing Hospital Huts in Recreation Ground during WWI)

It may be of interest to know that we still have one of these huts in our garden. It was purchased by my wife’s father at the end of the war and has been in use as a garden shed ever since. They don’t make ‘em like that these days!

Now I am back to St Catherines Road again. Almost opposite here several three-storey houses, quite imposing and between them the Meadowbank Hotel – now The Golden Hind – were a few bungalows, in the centre of which was The Albion Tennis Club.

(Meadowbank Hotel later renamed The Golden Hind)

(Before becoming the Meadowbank Hotel, Meadowbank was a private residence)

The courts were at the bottom of the slope behind the club building, and one could sometimes watch the players as they moved decorously in their long white – or cream- trousers and below-knee length dresses. Not for them the sun-tanned thighs, the naked torsos and the brief sun-tops of today.

(Players at The Albion Tennis Club)

Beyond the Meadowbank stood a shop – it still does – where one of the Holloway brothers stored and sold his wares, materials for the building and decorating trade. In the last house of the adjoining terrace, opposite the Shakespeare Road turning, lived Mr Tilbury. He was a harness repairer who sometimes came to us at the farm to carry out repairs. He carried his equipment on the back of an old belt-driven motor bike. There were two other harness makers in Eastleigh, one a Mr Welch who had a shop in Southampton Road, near Moggeridge’s the pawn brokers and the other, Mr Harry fellows who had premises in Market Street. Mr Welch and his son later moved to High Street where they opened a sports outfitters and toy shop. Mr Fellows son, Frank, later became a town councillor and opened a newspaper and confectioners’ shop in Leigh Road, opposite Nutbeem Road. Mr Harry Fellows was, first and foremost, a harness maker rather than a repairer and often made complete sets of harness for Mr James Hann’s – the dairyman – team of horses.

Salisbury Arch to the dairy. – I hope you are still with me! I am now going over Salisbury Arch and almost into Eastleigh proper.

(Salisbury Arch looking north)

Formally there was a level crossing here a cottage called Cross House, one of the earliest houses to be built in Eastleigh. On breasting the arch one could see on one’s left White’s coal yard. I think White’s also ran a furniture removal business. Adjacent was a blacksmith’s shop; a Mr Farmer, I believe. Near the entrance to the yard which was opposite Shakespeare Road infants’ school was a building with a long, low window and I used to be quite fascinated by what went on inside. There was a bespoke tailor sitting cross-legged on his table amid piles of cloth, industrially sewing away., quite oblivious to any prying eyes. I don’t remember his name. Further down, opposite the side gate of the Parish Church was a small one-roomed building set into the fence of the railway goods yard. This was a cobbler’s shop. Again, I don’t remember his name.

I hope you remember we are still in the milk cart, on our way to the dairy. When we first came to Highbridge we delivered the milk to Arnold’s shop in Leigh Road. What is now Delbridges corn and seed merchants was at that time a private Girl’s School and next door was the dairy shop – run by Mrs Fielder.

(Arnold’s Dairy before it became Delbridges on the far side of Eastleigh Central Club)

(Delbridges on the corner of High Street and Leigh Road)

The entry for deliveries was a narrow alleyway at the side leading to the rear of the premises. This alleyway is probably unknown to many folk today as it was later built into an Ice-cream parlour by Mr Reg Ruscillo. It was later taken over by his brother-in-law and became Vernon’s Sweet Shop. It has subsequently become a Pensions office. We dealt with Arnold’s for only a short time – I don’t know why – and then transferred to James Hann and Son, Dorset Dairies in Market Street. Their shop was next to – or close to – Rogers, the undertakers. Incidentally, I think that Rogers is the only firm left in Eastleigh that is still run by a member of the original family, Mr Stan Rogers. Now that Ruffs, the watch makers and jewellers have closed, Rogers must be the last.

In those early days Mr Fred and Mr Bill Rogers ran, not only the undertaking business but were also suppliers of house-building and decorating materials. They had a staff which carried out work allied to the business. I can just remember seeing the funeral cortege complete with black horse-drawn hearse. It was soon after this that the horses were replaced by a motorised hearse – not nearly so impressive. Upon the report of a death a familiar sight in the town was the four-wheeled covered cart driven by a Mr Shearing taking the coffin to the house of the deceased. At the farm at Highbridge our water supply was from a well in one of the cellars, fetched up by a very antiquated wooden pump. One had to pump vigorously for quite a while to raise enough water to whet one’s whistle. The firm of Rogers supplied and fitted a new force-pump, a really posh job and it seemed to us a marvel of the age.

To get round to the back of Hann’s shop where the dairy was situated, we went along the alleyway between the old Regal Cinema – now Martines – and a baker and confectioner’s shop.

(Regal Cinema, Market Street)

In the latter one could buy two-pennorth of stale cakes from the previous days baking. I’ve had many a feed from there. As we drove along the alley at the back of the shops we could always tell when we were nearing the dairy by the rattling and banging of the churns. An empty seventeen-gallon churn really rattles. We would off-load our full churns, pick up the empties and away. Father always drove a lively and sensitive horse or pony and often he or she would be nervous amid the clamour and clatter in the dairy. Mr Hann and his son Harry were horse lovers and always insisted that we were not delayed but sent us off as quickly as possible. Woe betide any worker who kept us waiting.

In latter years the dairy business expanded, and new premises were built in Factory Road. The delivery vans were all horse-drawn in those days and a large stable was included in the building to house the animals.

(Hann’s Dairy in Factory Road)

The Hann’s, both father and son always prided themselves on a good turnout and had a good reputation for doing so. The firm was eventually taken over by Browns of Southampton and subsequently by Unigate. The buildings have recently been pulled down, Unigate having moved to new premises in Shakespeare Road. Just Think! All this was started by Harry and his father delivering round the town on hand carts.

(Milk being delivered by hand cart in High Street, Eastleigh)

On our way home – Having left the dairy with our empties we started to head for home, passing, on our right, Fair Oak Dairies, housed in the former Bishopstoke Brewery.

(Fair Oak Dairy. Southampton Road)

These and more buildings have since disappeared to be replaced by a new super shopping precinct. My! How Eastleigh does change! If, before leaving the corner one looked down Southampton Road to a point opposite the entrance to Campbell Road bridge one could just see the old Police Station, blue lamp and all.

(Old Police Station in Southampton Road with blue lamp above the door)

After the old station was superseded by the new premises in Leigh Road it was still used as a police residence, though it has long since disappeared.

As we made our way up Southampton Road our left side as lined with shops, a terrace of cottages, a garage, more shops until we reached the corner of Leigh Road opposite the Railway Station. I can’t remember them all but there was Muggeridges, the pawn brokers; Welch’s, the harness repairers; Mrs Lawrence’s second-hand clothes shop; Tate’s terrace of houses; Station Garage; Geals, the tobacconist and herbalist; Turners, the barbers and Budds the butchers.

(Station Front, Eastleigh)

Periodically, when Father and I needed haircuts, it was possible to have them on one of these trips. Old Mr Budd, the old gent with the box-hat and morning suit, loved a good bit of horse flesh and would come out and lovingly hold our horse’s head while we nipped in and had the job done. The charge in those days as threepence for men and twopence for boys.

(The Junction Hotel on the right next to the Railway Station)

Immediately past the railway station were two public houses, one on each side of the road. The one on the corner of Leigh Road was the Home Tavern; that is still there, though somewhat smarter than it used to be. The opposite one was The Junction Hotel. The host was a Mr Robinson, a tall, upright figure with a large military-type moustache, quite a florid complexion and a corporation, all of which suggested to me that he may have imbibed a considerable amount of the profits. Outside the station would often be seen the railways outside porter, Mr Allen. He did his portering around the town on a tricycle with a box on the front.

(Outside the Junction Hotel on Station Hill)

One sight that always had a saddening effect on me was, when returning in the evening from a trip to Eastleigh or Southampton, was seeing the wide paved area outside The Home Tavern sprinkled with young children, some babies in prams and pushchairs, shivering in the cold and wet, waiting resignedly for their parents who were inside tippling. My family were all teetotallers and, not being used to such treatment, I used to be really upset to see this suffering and misery. Fortunately, that is a sight one no longer sees.

(The newly re-built Home Tavern)

On the wall next to The Home Tavern was a billboard on which was displayed an up-to-date timetable of the sailings to and from the isle of Wight of the Isle of Wight Steam Packet Company. This was of special interest to us because, being an Isle of Wight family, we often made the journey across, sometimes when my Father and Grandfather attended farm sales or Newport market. The vessels in those were paddle boats, fascinating to a young lad, as he could watch the huge pistons working up and down in the engine room and sell the aroma of the well-oiled and polished machinery.

When we originally came over here from the Island, we brought with us a herd of twenty cows. The way was led by Joe, the dun pony, in the trap, in the back of which was a calf and so the mother followed closely behind, and the other cows followed her. We walked them down from Newport, crossed over in the old “Lord Elgin” and on again right up Southampton High Street, under The Bargate, along Above Bar, through Eastleigh and out to Highbridge. This was all without mishap, perhaps mainly because the cows were too tired and weary to misbehave. They, however, suffered no long-term ill effects.

(Station Hill looking north)

As we breasted Station Hill – we are now back on the homeward trip in the milk cart – The Crown public house was on our left. This is now The Royal Mail Hotel. There was, too, Cox’s sweet shop. Nosworthy’s the chemists, Scammell and Smith’s offices and sale yard, Amos’s cycle repair shop, a barber and the British Legion Club. A little lower down was Trehearne’s, the builder’s yard while, on the corner of Romsey Road was Wood’s coal yard. (I expect I’ve missed out a few).

(Cox’s Sweet Shop on Station Hill)

Cox’s sweet shop, I feel, is worth a special mention. It was quite roomy inside and was furnished with cast-iron, filigree-designed chairs and tables, the latter with marble tops. Here, in winter, one could regale oneself with cups of steaming hot cocoa or chocolate and sit smugly out of the biting wind while waiting for a bus. In the summer one could cool off with an ice-cream, wafers at twopence and cornets at a penny. One could also buy cooling drinks, chiefly fizzy lemonade that was supplied in peculiarly shaped bottles with glass alleys as stoppers. This was quite a venue for folk returning home after a late-night shopping spree. The shops in those days stayed open until nine o’ clock at night and some closed only when there were no more potential customers around.

The buses used the top of Station Hill as a starting point.

(Top of Station Hill looking north)

At first, they only went as far as St Catherines Road, then the route was extended to Allbrook and, eventually, to Colden Common. The first buses belonged to the Hants and Dorset Bus Company but soon a brave effort was made by Mr Reg Miller of Fair Oak to supplement what, until then, had been a rather poor service. His fleet was known as the Santoy Buses and many members of the public were loyal to Santoy, as far as possible to uphold their services. Although his efforts helped folk in general for a while it was to no avail and, finally, he was driven off the road. Rivalry from the larger firm who used price cutting and who also timed their buses just a few minutes in front of the Santoy timetables, was too much for the smaller business to compete with. Eventually we were back to the Hants and Dorset again and they showed their true colours by cutting services and increasing fares. The scramble for room on the late evening buses when shoppers were homeward bound and when the first house of the cinema turned out had to be seen to be believed. Those early buses were fourteen and twenty seaters with ladders at the back to reach the roof racks on top. As the vehicles filled up – packed like sardines, only more uncomfortably so – the more desperate and energetic passengers climbed onto the roof and even clung to the rear ladders, literally by the skin of their teeth. There was much joviality as the buses moved off – and occasionally a certain amount of discord.

One of the Hants and Dorset drivers, Alf Maffey, at that time, the youngest, became a friend and colleague of mine in later years. When Colden Common service started, the buses would stop to pick us up at the bottom of our drive at Highbridge. At that time the drivers were not enclosed in cabs on their own as in later versions but had a bench seat alongside with room for three or four persons. It was when I got aboard that Alf and I started our friendship, me a schoolboy and he only a few years older. Later Alf became an inspector and then, feeling the need for a change, entered the service of Pirelli General, Leigh Road, as a security officer.

(Pirelli General Cable Works main entrance in Leigh Road)

Because of a back injury I had joined the same firm in a similar capacity and so, for several years, Alf and I worked together. Eventually the Bishopstoke factory was built, and I transferred there, and Alf stayed at Eastleigh where he became Chief security officer until his retirement a few years ago.

As I picture in my mind’s eye the remainder of the journey back home, I can bring to memory some of the people and vehicles I often met en route. Wilkinsons, carriers from Bishops Waltham who travelled on a route from their base to Winchester via Eastleigh; Ernie Lockyer and Archie Fratton, both carriers based at Brambridge, who travelled mainly between Eastleigh and Southampton. All these provided a valuable service to the community. The we would probably have met a Sentinel steam wagon delivering beers and mineral waters for Winchester Brewery; a Ford van belonging to Piper’s Mineral Water Company, also from Winchester and, maybe too, Mr Batt the postman on his rounds. One of his sons later became a member of The Five Strands, a popular singing group from Eastleigh. We could also have been startled by a group of motorcyclists – the horse most certainly would have been – mostly from Colden Common. In that village there was a band of young bloods who’d caught the motorcycle bug of that age. They all had big, powerful machines with drooping handlebars, and they rode with their chests almost on the petrol tanks. The bikes names have been lost now – Brough Superior, Cotton, A.J.S., Triumph and others. Sadly, the whole motorcycle industry has been lost to the Japanese.

These lads would vie with each other at speeding, raising sparks from their footrests as they took the corners and bends so fast. Riding on rough gravelled roads it must have cost a small fortune for tyres. Some rider’s names I recall were Fred and Ernie Matley and their sister, Dolly. She was as bad as the rest and later married another member of the gang, Sid Ventham. Then there was Wally Vear, his older brother; Bruce Cowling, the local butcher’s son and young Francis, son of Mr Francis, owner of Highbridge gravel pits. It is a miracle that none of these lads were killed. The nearest, as I recall, was when Fred Matley ran into our cows as we were bringing them in for milking at about five-thirty one morning. One cow was severely injured and several received cuts and bruises. Fred injured his shoulder, and his machine was badly knocked about. A vacuum flask he was carrying in his pocket was not damaged. Even though I was walking behind the cows with a hurricane lantern and had to jump out of the way Fred swore he saw nothing at all.

A Sunday afternoon traveller on this road was the ice cream vendor from Winchester, Mr Sinacola. He had a horse-drawn covered cart and when the weather was very hot would drive down into the first stream for his horse to drink and cool his feet. This stream has since been diverted or dried up. He came regularly about two-thirty, soon after we had started the afternoon milking. We could hear the bells on the horse’s harness as he approached, and I would dash down the drive with a quart basin and get it filled for sixpence. This was divided into individual portions and how we enjoyed it!

The atmosphere in the stable was almost stifling, the cows were hot and flicking their tails to disturb the many flies bothering them. The milk and buckets were hot, and we were streaming with sweat and so you can imagine with what anticipation we listened for the sound of the approaching bells. My contribution to the milking operation on Sunday afternoons was very brief as I had to dash off to Sunday School.

Just one more traveller on this road I must mention – though I could go on and on; on Mondays, Winchester market days, a man who had been there to buy poultry for his shop in Southampton, drove a smart little grey pony in a costermonger’s barrow. Hat pony was the fastest stepper I have ever seen. His feet beat a real tattoo on the road, and he nearly flew. What a picture to watch! He wasn’t being driven, either; his master would be sitting on the near-side shaft, plucking poultry as he went, feathers flying in all directions. I think there would be a few complaints if that were done today.

Oh, forgive me if I mention one other traveller, Mr Peter Cozens, known as “Old Peter”. He was a little man who drove a coal trolley belonging to Mr Jesse Boys of Colden Common. He often gave us a lift on his empty trolley as he was homeward bound. He was well known to all us youngsters and, indeed, in the whole area. What fascinated me more than anything was the fact that his old horse, “Soldier” was totally blind and yet had complete confidence in Peter’s driving. These two were great pals. Soldier was true to his name – he had been blinded when on active service in France during the first world war.

You must surely think that, by this time, we were nearly home. You are right. As usual our trip to Eastleigh had been an invigorating experience, one of the thoughts of which still gives me a thrill. The horse’s hooves clattering on the gravelled surface of the road, the muffled slapping of the well-greased wheels as the cart slightly swayed with the motion, the creaking of harness leather and the twinkling of brasses. All this was music to our ears and, added to this, was the sight of the pulsing body of the pony as, with ears erect, he was eager to get home. He was obviously looking forward to a feed of corn and a bit of sweet meadow hay. How can ride in a modern motor car, however sumptuous, compare with such an experience as I have described?

Yes, we had just put the cart in the barn, Joe was contentedly munching his feed of corn and, as I walked round the end of the barn to go indoors or a good breakfast, I saw the house and cottage over the road and, remembering this, knew that I could not fail to tell you about them. The small cottage on the right was occupied by an old couple who seemed to be quite ill-assorted. Old Mr Marsh was, more often than not, a taciturn, grumpy old chap. Perhaps this was partly because he had difficulty in getting about. He had a game leg and always walked with a stick. What amused me as a youngster, though now I am ashamed to admit it, was that when he was standing still, he raised his game leg quite high while he balanced on the other. His stance reminded me of a resting jack heron. Indoors he would sit in the corner of the big old fireplace and had a habit of spitting on the hot bars. He seldom missed and I used to wait to hear the sizzle. His waistcoat was thickly coated with snuff.

I said that he and his wife were ill-assorted; how the dear old soul tolerated him I do not know. I often delivered a jug of milk to the cottage and would sit and talk to her. She was spotlessly clean and invariably wearing a snow-white “pinney”, except in the mornings when she wore a coarse sack apron. The cottage, too, was spotless; the red brick floor was immaculate, and the deal table was snowy white. She was a lovely old character, and I was quite fond of her. The cottage has since been enlarged and the name has changed from Highbridge Cottage to Heybridge. Criminal, I call it.

The other house to which I referred was large and stood on rising ground, well back from the road. It is still there and called Chapel Cottage. It has been considerably modernised and has a wide drive and well-laid out garden. The first modernisation was carried out by a Colonel and Mrs Parker. When I first knew it, however, it was quite secluded and almost hidden from the road by trees. An avenue of large elms ran from the gate to the front door. In winter when it was dark – and I was delivering milk – it was really dark; as my Father would have said, “As black as yer ‘at”. In the spring and the summer, however, the whole garden, though somewhat wild, was a mass of old-fashioned garden flowers. The scent of the banks of violets could be smelt over at the farm, especially first thing in the morning and late evening when the dew was on them. The porch was covered by honeysuckle and climbing roses.

What made the place even more remarkable was the folk who lived there. Mr Williams was a tall, smart, bearded figure in heavy tweeds and knickerbockers with woollen stockings and polished brown boots. He was a gentle but noble-looking old gent and always very kind to a young whippersnapper delivering milk. He was a retired game keeper and an excellent shot. His two sisters were maiden ladies who looked as if they had stepped out of a hundred-tear old magazine. They were very much alike and always dressed in black. They wore ankle-length dresses, tight waisted with flowing skirts, blouses with shoulder-of-mutton sleeves and black velvet ribbons round their throats. Their sleek hair was drawn into buns at the nape of the neck. They were gentle, retiring ladies and always wore smiles. In the summer if they were out in the garden – which was seldom – they each wore a boater with black ribbons hanging down the back.

The house had a dim, musty interior and contained furniture that would be worth a fortune today. Attached at the back of the house was an old chapel. It was devoid of furniture and had a flagstone floor. It was said to be connected by an underground passage to Brambridge House and had been used in the days of catholic persecutions in this country. Even in the modernised house there can still be seen a cross on the apex of the roof. There are, I believe, books which tell of the house, chapel and times.

I hope I’ll be excused once again for deviating from my original trip but now I am going indoors at last to that good breakfast – the aroma of which I can still recall. It has been said that one cannot live in the past. Yes, I agree, but as the years go by, it is pleasant to reminisce. I enjoyed life in those days. Besides which, with what does one compare the present, if not those days of the past?

The Changing Years

To anyone starting to read the following it will quickly become obvious that I have little ability to express my feelings. Indeed, the reader may think me a little odd in attempting to do so. I am aware that some will do so before reading this far but, in spite of that I am going to carry on.

I have a habit, if that is the correct word, of, on the occasions of the birthdays of some of my forebears, feeling a certain wonderment that I have actually known and talked to people who lived in what is normally considered to be the “dim and distant past”. Today, the eighth of January 1992 is the anniversary of the birthday of my paternal grandfather, Harry David Morris. He was born 124 years ago at Shorwell on the Isle of Wight. I remember, too, Great-grandfather Rose, Grandma’s father; he was born on the seventh of May 1831 – also an Island man. Back farther still, I recall going to see my Mother’s grandfather in about 1920. He was then 94, having been born in 1826, the year after the birth of Queen Victoria. To have known and talked to folk who lived back in those days is always a source of wonderment to me.

How times have changed since those days! I have seen many changes during my 77 years but, to go back to the old days of those old folk, I am amazed that I actually knew and talked to them and am almost non-plussed when I think of the periods through which they lived, their modes of life, how they worked and how they brought up their families. So many things we now accept with scarcely a second thought – radios, cars, televisions, washing machines, vacuum cleaners, power tools, sophisticated hospital equipment, tractors, combine harvesters – and so many, many more, many of which have appeared in my time; are you, too, not amazed?

But then think back another 88 years to the early days of those folk I have mentioned, when they were young and active and with their lives before them. If I can remember them, is it so long ago or is it only that we think so? The two sides of my family came from different walks of life. My Father’s side were – way back – yeoman farmers and had always worked the land and Mother’s side were connected with the sea. Mother’s paternal grandfather was a sail maker who worked for the old firm of Ratsey and Lapthorne at Cowes on the Isle of Wight. They were, and have been, right through the years, world renowned. In recent years sails have been made of nylon and other man-made fibres but, in those early days they were made of stiff, heavy canvas and the old four-masted clippers, brigs and schooners needed acres of such canvas to propel them.

Mother’s father, born in 1854, ran away to sea when he was eleven years old. This was still in the days of sail and these and the wind were their only means of propulsion. There were no safety precautions taken in those days and life aboard was very perilous. There was no Plimsoll Line painted round the ship’s hull to control the weight to be carried, and many brave vessels and men were lost in those turbulent waters. Indeed, it was often considered acceptable – and monetarily beneficial – to lose the ship and gain the insurance.

The old sailmakers must have had hard, gnarled hands and, even then, suffered chaps, bruises and cuts in dealing with the stiff, hard canvas. What strikes me even more forcibly is, when I think of the sailors, sometimes hundreds of feet above a violently heaving deck with mountainous seas all around and with only a precarious foothold, when the sails were wet, bitingly cold and, worse still, they were frozen stiff, how any human being could cope with what must have been agonising procedures, often for days and months at a time, on very limited rations and, at times, a shortage of drinking water – to me it seems to be almost superhuman. What’s more, the rations they received were “hard tack” – iron-hard biscuits, often with weevils running around inside, salt beef and just occasionally, at the discretion of the captain a tot of rum. The lack of fresh food often meant that the men suffered severe attacks of scurvy and many succumbed, only to end up over the ship’s side in a canvas bag, leaving a sorrowing wife and family with, literally no means of support. Many of the seamen weren’t volunteers but had been forcibly taken aboard by the gangs of pressmen who scoured the inns and taverns and mean streets of the seaports for men to make up the ship’s crews. Any misdemeanours and even genuine grievances were kept in check by the ship’s Bo’sun whose use of the ropes end was very liberal, to say the least. For more serious offences – mutiny or the like – the punishment could be a flogging with a cat-o-nine tails or, in extreme cases, hanging from the yard arm. These punishments must have, more often than not deterred even the strongest and most determined of complaints. The pressed men had no option but how anyone could volunteer to live under such conditions is beyond my comprehension. The love of the sea must have been great.

Grandpa had many interesting tales to tell. He rounded Cape Horn on several occasions. The seas there were some of the most treacherous in the world and countless men and ships have been lost there. In the front room at Cowes, I remember seeing many bits and pieces brought back from Grandpa’s travels. On the whatnot in the corner were shells of all sizes, shapes and colours; a pial containing lava from Mt Vesuvius; the sword from a swordfish hung on a wall and, on the mantlepiece, among other things, was, what looked like a piece of mahogany. It was, in fact, a piece of salt beef that had been issued to Grandpa for his dinner many moons ago but had been uneatable. In his later years he had varnished it annually. It was said that some of the so-called beef was, in fact, horse meat. Some wit, who was also something of a poet, composed the following which was taught to me when I was a little whipper-snapper: –

“Old horse, old horse, what brings you here

After carrying slate for many a year –

From Bantry Bay to Ballyach where you fell down and broke your back

Old horse, old horse, I know it’s true cos in the cask I found your shoe”.

There were many other signs of Grandpa’s occupation with the sea; one was the banister rail by the stairs; instead of being made of wood it was of rope, well varnished, at each end of which was a Turk’s Head. Grandpa taught me how to make one of these, but it was so complicated, and my lessons were so many years ago that I have completely forgotten how to do it.

Having spent so many of his years at sea in hose old clippers and schooners Grandpa then obtained a position on the Duke of Hamilton’s yacht, The Goshawk. This was in complete contrast to his earlier sailing days. The Duke spent holidays in the Mediterranean and went bear hunting of Spitzbergen; he also travelled extensively to the continent. When the old Duke died Granda obtained a position on the Thistle, the yacht belonged to Eugenie, the ex-Empress of France, widow of Napolean the third. He served aboard the Thistle until the death of the Empress in the early 1900s. He told of many important visitors on the ship. Old Queen Victoria would sometimes come aboard for afternoon tea, while living at Osborne House on the Island. King Edward the VII and his cousin, Kaiser Wilhelm of Germany visited on one occasion. It was said to be the Kaiser’s last visit to this country before the outbreak of the first world war and was the occasion of a terrific row between the two cousins. When Grandpa finally left the sea, he spent the remainder of his working life as a rigger in Marvin’s shipyard in Cowes.

As a boy I spent many happy holidays in the summers at the home of he and Grandma in Arctic Road. He and I would often walk along Cowes Parade and the Green, especially during Regatta week. He always wore his peaked cap with its snowy-white cover and I, proud as a goshawk, wore a similar one. I thought I was the ship’s cat’s whiskers. He would explain to me the comings and goings of the great sailing yachts as they vied with each other in the races. In those days they were huge yachts with famous names and belonged to famous people – King George the fifth with Brittania; Tommy Lipton with Shamrock; Tommy Sopwith’s Endeavour; Valsheda, Moonbeam and others. I have often stood by the slipway to the Royal Yacht Squadron H.Q. at Cowes Castle and could have touched those characters as they came ashore from a steam pinnace, together with old Queen Mary, The Princess Mary (at that time she was the Princess Royal), the then Prince of Wales – who later became Edward the VIII and then abdicated – and others.

I was introduced to old Captain Upstall with whom Grandpa had sailed many moons before. I think he was amused by the little lad with his peaked cap and used to address him as Cap’n. I felt full of importance. Those great yachts and certainly their owners have almost all disappeared now. Cowes Regatta is still world famous but attracts a different type of yacht and owner. No longer is sailing the prerogative of the favoured few. In my boyhood the racing yachts were few in number but now race in their hundreds.

Sadly, Grandpa and Grandma were bombed out of their house in Arctic Road during an extra heavy raid on the ship-building town in 1943. Grandma survived only a fortnight, and Grandpa spent his remaining two years or so with his daughter, my Mother, until his death in 1945. What a sad ending for a man who had led such an eventful life! He was, indeed, a really remarkable character. What changes that man had seen in his lifetime! How, if he could look around now, he would marvel at the alterations which have occurred since his time. When he and his shipmates navigated by the moon and stars, he could never in his wildest imaginings have visualised that, one day, man would land on that same moon and travel in outer space. Nowadays, if one hears that a space craft is taking off or returning one scarcely gives it a second thought.

My Mother’s maternal grandfather, whose name was Stone, was a Southampton man. I remember going to see him on one occasion. He was about 93 or 94. Mother and I travelled by paddle steamer and, to make such a journey was, to a lad, quite a memorable trip. I think the return fare for an adult was one shilling and ninepence (about ninepence in today’s values). I can see the old chap sitting in his armchair wearing a red velvet smoking jacket and a red pillbox hat with tassel. I wonder what memories came back to him as he sat, quietly using and smoking his cigar? I wonder too, if he was amazed at all the changes he had seen in his lifetime.

What advances have been made in the shipping world since those days! The old clippers have long since gone, replaced at first by steam-propelled ships, followed by diesel driven vessels. Grain is now carried in huge vessels, oil in massive tankers and much more in purpose-built container ships. Aircraft have now taken the place of the sumptuous ocean-going liners, the only ones left are cruise ships. Conditions have changed almost unbelievably since those very old days. Even the paddle steamers in which we used to travel from Cowes to Southampton have given way to screw-driven vessels, hover craft, hydrofoils and the new style catamarans. Overland travel has gone from horse-drawn coaches, wagonettes, gigs, floats, ralli carts and the like to fast powerful cars, huge lorries, super coaches and aircraft.

Now, I refer to my Father’s side of the family – the Morrises. I have often wondered about my forebears, how they lived, when and then a year or two ago I met, quite by accident, another member of the clan. She has done much work in this direction and has since sent me a copy of the results. This dates from the 1690s. She found that my third great-grandfather was her fourth great-grandfather but we each descended along different branches. I don’t know how many times removed this makes us as cousins.

It has been said that the Island Morris family originated from two Dorsetshire brothers who came over for the seasonal jobs of hoeing – mangolds, swedes, turnips and, in those days, wheat. That they stayed and that the Island air suited them is obvious by the number of Morrises over there now. There are more of that name there, both living and, in the churchyards, than any other name. That they succeeded in their occupation of farming is borne out by the copies of wills that have been unearthed. They owned several large farms and were able to leave to their children considerable properties and money. Some of these wills make very interesting reading, both in their content and the manner in which they were written. It would seem that some of these folk were influenced by the religious revivalist times in which they lived for many of their children were given biblical names; there was Moses, Aaron, Daniel, David, Isaac, John, Mark, Sarah, Matthew, Micah, Martha and others.

How farming methods and conditions have changed over the years! There were certainly extremes of poverty and riches. The yeomen farmers lived well – plenty of good food, hunting, fishing etc., while at the other end of the scale the workers lived in small, often tumble-down cottages and had, very often, not enough food for their families. The cottages often had brick or earth floors, open fireplaces where was cooked the basest of foods. The bedrooms were approached, either by a step ladder or by steps which ran up outside of the building. The rooms were ventilated by tiny windows and the ceilings were the thatch of the roof above. Water was obtained from the stream running close by or, if they were lucky, from a well. This latter was often the only supply for several cottages in the vicinity. Were possible water was collected in a butt from the roof. In a summer when these supplies dried up, water had to be carried considerable distances. The toilet was just a “privy” up at the top of the garden, not at all a pleasant position in adverse weather conditions. For the larger families there were two or three holers. They had to be emptied regularly by hand. The one benefit of this was the large crop of very fine vegetable marrows that was produced. The cottagers grew as many vegetables as they could and usually had a large apple tree in the garden. Oft times they kept a pig in the sty.

A really wonderful time, which was much appreciated, was when the scanty food ration was augmented by a bit of meat. The coming of pig killing time was a period of great anticipation. Beef was a rarity and only enjoyed at Christmas time when a joint was sent down from the “big house” – and that didn’t always happen. The only other variation was when father risked his freedom by poaching a rabbit or pheasant from the Master’s woods. The pig killing took place, often, on spaced out occasions and, at each time the meat was shared out between neighbours. This enabled the time of “plenty” to be prolonged. Some of the meat was made into bacon by smoking up the cottage chimney; some was salted and kept in earthenware crocks; some was eaten as pork and the offal was made into mouth-watering dishes. There was liver, lights. Chitterlings (known to us as chittluns), crow, trotters, etc and from some of these was made the most delicious faggots imaginable. Yes, these latter happenings were part of my young days and my mouth waters at the remembrance of them. Unfortunately, many workers were not able to keep pigs and life could be, and often was, very hard.

Poaching was viewed very sternly and many a father had to suffer severe penalties if caught in the act, while trying to feed his hungry family. Many of these punishments were callous in the extreme. Prison sentences in appalling conditions were imposed by the Squire who was almost always a Justice of the Peace. This meant that the families suffered even further privations. Sometimes the mothers, and even young children had to labour in the fields in all weathers or, if they were unable to do so, the whole family went to the local workhouse. Here they were fed very sparingly and kept by the parish. Where an even more brutal attitude was taken by the master, families were sometimes evicted from their homes. There was always some other poor family ready and willing to take their place. Not all employers were as inconsiderate as this, of course. Whether or not any of the Morris families were like this I don’t know. I sincerely hope not.

While working in the fields in bad weather the footwear was pitifully inadequate. The bit of extra money earned at haymaking or harvesting was usually spent on new boots to take the wearer through the coming year, As far as possible, the boots, leather, of course, (there were no rubbers in those days) were kept supple and, as far as possible, water-proofed by the application of any sort of fat or grease available. As they gradually became the worse for wear, they couldn’t keep out the wet while plodding around the cattle yards or behind the plough all day. Each night they were put by the fire to dry. If they dried too fast, they would be stiff and hard in the morning, and many would be the grunts and groans when trying to get them on chilblained feet. In wet and bitterly cold winds there must have been few, old or young, who didn’t suffer from chilblains and chaps on hands, feet and ears. Some of the young lads starting work at the age of ten or eleven tears old must have suffered terribly and oft times cried bitterly with the pain. We remember, too, they were often ill-fed and undernourished. I was fortunate that, in my young days, I was well fed, clothed and booted but even then, suffered chilblains and chaps and can feel deep sympathy for those poor, unfortunate youngsters. I used to try and make my hands supple by using medicaments bought especially for use on the cattle. A favourite and quite effective one was appropriately called “cow relief”. Many times, it became “George’s relief” also. I wonder what was used when my great-grandfather was a boy? I have heard it said that goose fat, when used on leather was a good water repellent. When we had goose on the table, which was usually at Christmas time, we found it so delicious that we spread it thickly on our bread or toast; it was far too tasty to put on our boots. Thinking of those old timers who toiled from daylight to dark in soaking conditions in inadequate footwear, it is no wonder to me that they were often crippled with rheumatic complaints and grew old prematurely.

The hot summer days had their inconveniences, too. Many of the tasks that had to be performed were energy-sapping and, often, we were soaked in sweat. This wasn’t too bad except during hay making and harvesting times. Being all hand work that meant that, in loading the wagons and off-loading onto the ricks, the hay seeds and oat hulls and accompanying insects all crept down inside one’s shirt and tormented us nearly to death. I think the worst was the barley. The brittle awns would break up and cling to and penetrate one’s skin to a maddening extent. The workers had no recourse to a bathroom and so it was necessary to strip and have a standing wash down as effectively as possible. Then, as things improved, the tin bath, which normally hung on a nail outside the cottage door was brought in and a luxurious stand-up sluice was enjoyed. We, of today, would be horrified at the thought. Before the older folk could get used to the idea it was often said that too much bathing would weaken the system.

A remark passed by an old acquaintance of mine from Hook Norton in the Cotswolds illustrates how some of these old folk viewed the changes. All his life (he was about seventy years old) he had had to draw water from a well centrally situated in front of a row of cottages. All the other occupants had to do the same. The water was always cold and sweet and had to be earned by drawing it up from the depths of the earth by bucket and windlass and then carried indoors, this in all weathers. Eventually the powers-that-be decided it was unfit for human consumption and, as the village was growing and was extending to include old Herbert’s cottage, it would be beneficial to connect it to the mains. This was done and when we visited were shown the new bathroom and toilet. It was with a certain amount of pride but qualified by the following remarks – “The water from the old well never hurt me or any of my family and, what’s more, it’s so wasteful. Why, it takes a gallon of water to get rid of half a pint of pee”. How change was resented at first, but I expect, even with Herbert, the benefits soon outweighed the inconveniences, though no doubt, the feeling of waste persisted.

When we lived at Clanfield in the late 1920s and early 1930s the only water supply to the village, apart from one or two private wells, was a thatch-covered well outside our front gate. It was 114 feet deep. The water was drawn up in a reinforced six-gallon bucket and was quite hard work. The water supply for the cattle was the village pond. I remember one hot, dry summer when I was about 13 or 14, the pond dried up and I spent all day every day for six weeks on a water cart fetching water from Lovedean, about three miles away. The well was never known to go dry.

The following winter we were completely cut off from the outside world by a very heavy fall of snow. It was on the night before Christmas Eve, and it took every able-bodied person in the village three weeks to dig our way out to civilisation. We had no tractors or snow ploughs to help us. Every foot was dug by hand. The walls of snow were five and six feet high and built up as though with blocks of salt. We lads thought it was great fun until our bones and muscles started to ache, but to the older folk it must have been a nightmare. Today all this has changed; the village has grown, and all the amenities are there. I mention all this to show that, even in my time, the country-dwellers, at times, led hard and frugal lives. How much greater must have been the problems of our great, great and even greater grandfathers.

Those workers – the carter, dairyman, the shepherd, the stockman and the labourers started work when the moon was still bright in the sky and the fields were bathed in a silvery light and the frost was thick and heavy on everything they saw and touched and the ice crusts on the puddles crackled and crunched under foot. It was not always so, even in the winter. There were times when it was so dark Dad would say “it’s as black as yer ‘at”. We had only hurricane lanterns to see our way about and these cast only a glimmer of light a few feet around. When it was blowing and pouring with rain we had to battle against the elements when going out to get the cows in for the morning milking. Most would come at the sound of our calling – “come on, coop, coop coop”, but, sure enough, one old bounder would be stubborn and not move from her sheltered position up under the hedge, always – so it seemed – in the farthest corner of the field. Even the thought of a good feed in the stable wouldn’t move her. It was only a tap on the rump with a stick and a few choice words that would get her moving. Slipping and sliding in mud and water with a sack around one’s shoulders to try and keep out the worst of the rain and in pitch dark when one could only just make out the dim form of a cow a few feet away wasn’t particularly funny. And then, of course, there were the mornings when the fog was thick and dense. One couldn’t see and one’s voice was muffled. It was almost eerie to see the grey, muffled figures looming up out of the fog; and all this was before we even started milking.

I never did care much for dairy cattle! I would far prefer to work with horses. Now, about the ploughman – he, too, had a hard time, sometimes, in the winter. Having fed, watered and cleaned his horses by the flickering light of the candle stump on top of the corn bin, he fetched them out as soon as it was light, and they made their way to where the plough had been left on the headland the night before. A reluctant start was made because the horse’s shoulders were cold and tender from yesterday’s work, but they soon warmed up and they plodded steadily on. If the soil was damp and sticky old carter’s boots would build up and be as heavy as lead and seemed to get heavier as the day progressed. His hands, on the handles of the plough became numbed and frozen and, when turning at the end of a furrow, he would stop and buffet them to try and get the blood circulating again. He could tell you what chapped hands felt like. At about nine o’ clock a halt was made for his bit of nammet. This was usually a bit of cheese and home-made bread expertly carved off in mouth – sized chunks and transferred to his mouth with his shut-knife. This was probably washed down by a swig of beer, cider or cold tea. The horses would stand with their backsides to the wind and have a feed of oats and chaff from their nosebags. On again until dinner time when a similar procedure was followed. This time the cheese might be replaced by a bit of bacon and an onion. The rooks and peewits would swoop around and pick up insects, grubs and last year’s grain from the newly turned soil.

As the sun was going down the carter and horses, tired and weary, would plod back down the lane while the bats started their evening glides. The horses then had a drink, a feed of corn and hay and settled down for a well-earned rest. Old Jarge would potter off indoors and have whatever meal “Mother” had provided, put his boots to slowly dry on the fender and warm his aching feet by the open fire. When asked how the day had gone, he would probably reply. “Twuz middlin’ cold when we vust started, Mother, but oi reckon we done a pretty good whack. Oi ud think Maaster ud be satisfied wi it”. After a few puffs on his old cherrywood pipe he would go out and rack up. This was to give his charges more hay, shake up their beds of straw and, seeing that all was well, would blow out the candle, shut the bottom half of stable door and go back indoors and up to his own bed. His mattress was crude but comfortable, being a sacking tick filled with oat hulls. How welcoming that must have been.

The shepherd would also have been about early and, indeed, during the lambing season, he stayed with his flock night and day, sometimes for weeks on end. During this period, he lived in a hut on wheels and attended to births at all hours of the day or night. There were no electric fences in those days and his charges were enclosed in pens made from wattle hurdles. These had to be moved daily around fresh areas of turnips, swedes and clover grown especially for the sheep. This could be hard going due to the nature and condition of the soil. His faithful old dog was his constant companion and, often, the only person he spoke to all day. Perhaps his wife or one of his youngsters would bring a fresh supply of “vittles” and to find out how Father was getting on. It was a solitary existence, but it was seldom a shepherd changed his occupation for another. He always seemed content as long as he had a good supply of food for his flock.

The men who did all the so-called odd jobs about the farm have often been somewhat referred to as labourers and clod-hoppers, mainly by the uninitiated. This I have always resented. In fact, they were all skilled workers. They did the hedging, ditching, mowing, rick building, rick thatching, hoeing and a thousand and one other jobs that seem to be continually cropping up around the place. They did a certain amount of horse work – hauling feed for the sheep and cattle, fencing and, indeed, were expected to turn their hand to anything that came along. What’s more, if these weren’t carried out to a certain standard, they would very soon be looking for another position.

Many of these modes and methods of farming remained unchanged for years but, as time passed, changes did occur until today, farming life has altered almost beyond recognition. There is now very little manual labour as those old timers – and even I – knew it, machines having been devised to cover almost every operation – milking, hedging, ditching, ploughing and the accompanying cultivations, harvesting; you name it and there is a mechanical aid to carry it out. No longer has hay to be cut, put in rick and thatched; it is cut, baled and covered in neat, unnatural looking plastic. Corn is cut, threshed and carted, all in one operation, two men accomplishing what it took two teams of horses and men, a steam engine and trashing drum days and even weeks to complete.

Have you noticed too – and I am sure you must have done – that, where there were neatly laid and trimmed hedges created by the hedger with his axe and billhook, there is now a sorry sight. The torn and ragged fingers of brushwood, all white and distorted are an anathema to a real countryman. Gone, too, is the occasional ash or oak sapling that used to be left to break up the monotony of the long hedges which provided shelter and a habitat for the birds. That these things still exist in some parts I must admit but they are so seldom seen that, when they are they fill the mind of an old countryman with pleasure – and a feeling of nostalgia. Other things which have disappeared, at least in this area, are the water-meadows. They were methods of irrigation which supplied extra feed for the cattle at the times of the year when grass was in short supply. They were labour-intensive but, in the days when the labourer’s hire was cheap, they were of great benefit.

Contrary to what I said previously about physical labour being supplemented by machines, this was an area where this was not possible. The work of the “drowner”, as the water meadow specialist was called, was such that when he was repairing the damage caused by the hooves of cattle and horses and by the ruts made by the cartwheels, each sod had to be picked up and strategically placed to facilitate the even depth of flow of water over the whole area. No machine yet devised could do such individual work. As a consequence of the neglect of these water meadows as such, many have been levelled and weed killers applied and now they appear as weed free, level areas of nice green grasses. When I say “weed free” that is somewhat misleading. Those old “weeds” were comprised of many varieties of herbs which were beneficial for the wellbeing of the cattle. Even if we didn’t know which herbs supplied the most good, the cattle did. The modern farmers would probably say – and indeed they do – “Ah, we now feed antibiotics to compliment the animal’s diet, and they are quite effective”. That may be so, but I still feel that Mother Nature’s remedies are the best. How often have we been told in recent years that this or that product is good for cattle, farm and garden plants, and even humans; Then, sometime later have been informed that adverse effects have occurred, and the product banned and withdrawn from the market. These effects weren’t known at the time of the products promulgation.

The disappearance of the water meadows is one of those changes that is economically beneficial and therefore necessary to keep abreast of the times, but, once more at a cost. Having worked in these meadows, and enjoyed doing so, I experience a feeling of sadness at their loss.

I regret the loss of much of the plant and wildlife, too. Occasionally I would see an otter, a jack heron as he fished for his dinner, a water rat as he swam among the reeds and countless little creatures among the peaty turf. Fewer, too, are the dabchicks and the moorhens. Gone, too, are many of those “weeds” – marsh marigolds, forget-me-nots, water avons (that we called granny bonnets), yellow irises, comfrey, milk maids (or ladies’ smocks) and numerous reeds and rushes, including reed mace or, as we called them, bull rushes. Clear, clean stretches of green grasses, beautiful in their way, can’t compare with the colours and daintiness of those water-loving plants for which we used to watch during the changing seasons and which we would take home to Mother, Sweetheart and, later, wife. The pollution of some of the rivers has also destroyed, or made us very wary of eating, the beautiful ark green, large-leaved, vitamin-filled watercress. This was ours for the picking. The commercially grown variety is very nice but can, in no way, be compared with the natural sort.

Talking of vitamins and, previously, herbs and Natures remedies, reminds me that, in the days before antibiotics, tablets and capsules, recourse was made to such cures as swede soaked overnight in brown sugar for coughs, mustard plasters on the chest for congestion, brimstone and treacle for constipation, boiled dock roots for boils, one’s own urine for chilblains on the feet etc. Another cure for coughs was Grandma’s concoction of ipecacuanha, ginger, peppermint, aniseed and I don’t know what else. It was often quite effective and, for me, delicious and so I was always willing to take a dose – much more so than some of the other remedies that were, literally, forced on me. For cuts there were two recommended aids; one, bind them up with plantain leaves; two, bind them with a collection of cobwebs collected from the rafters of the barn or stable. I must confess I have not tried these methods but have seen them used to great effect by old Mr Beeden. He was a man who had spent all his life as a drowner, thatcher, mower, hay trusser and, indeed, could turn his hand to any of the jobs on a farm. He was a man for whom I had a great respect and could say an affection. He was one of nature’s gentlemen. The real gypsies also had cures for most things; indeed, one seldom saw an ailing gypsy.

Another skill which seemed to come quite naturally to the old countryman was to forecast the weather, at least, for short periods ahead. They didn’t have any of the scientific aids used now by the meteorologists but were guided by the habit of spiders, cats, birds, frogs and other creatures. They looked at the moon, cloud formations, noted wind directions and atmospheres, and were often, pretty accurate. This skill, I think, was born by the necessity to arrange their work in the fields and with the cattle. Their very livelihood depended on it; when to cut the hay; when to drill the corn; when to carry and stack the sheaves that had been drying in the stooks.

The men who drive the new machines of this modern age have to be mechanics and engineers. As I move around and see evidence of the modern machine work, I realise that speed is necessary to compete in today’s world, but I sometimes feel that a certain measure of quality of workmanship has been lost in the process. One of the pleasures that the old boys used to derive from their work was the quality they employed in doing it. A great pride was taken and, indeed, if not there were often critical remarks, not only from the boss but from fellow workers. This gave an additional incentive to good workmanship. I do not underestimate the skills of the present-day farm worker but feel that a certain something has been sacrificed to speed.

As the work in the old days was almost always done by hand the workers were close to the soil and often teams of men worked together. They shared their thoughts – and village gossip – and enjoyed a companionship not experienced by the tractor driver up in his air-conditioned cab. He works all day and doesn’t hear the raucous cries of the rooks, peewits and seagulls as they swoop around him; one of the reasons he can’t hear is because of the noise of his tractor but another is because of his radio. If he has no radio, he shuts out the other noises by wearing earmuffs. He, like the old timers, takes a keen interest in his job but I’m sure that the loneliness must tend to dull his senses and cause his mind to wander. When he knocks off at the end of the day he puts his tractor in the barn, jumps in his car and sets off for home, finished. He doesn’t have to feed old Violet and Prince, brush them down and, later, go out and rack up before going to his own bed. Also, he can’t talk to his charges. A tractor doesn’t look round and whinny when he comes in the stable door and muzzle up to him as he puts a bit more hay in the rack or corn in the manger. Such is change. Many benefits have been brought about but, I feel, at the loss of so much that gave pleasure and companionship. I suppose you will call these remarks of mine nostalgic.

To return to the material benefits enjoyed by todays agricultural workers – instead of the small inconvenient cottages there are now modern bungalows with adjoining garages and every convenience; the car which takes him to work also takes the family on holiday to the farthermost ends of the country or to many places abroad. The children go to school by coach or, maybe, in the second car. Mum uses that car to do her shopping at the supermarket and go to the nearby park for her game of tennis. The modern mum sends her youngsters off to school with a Mars bar, knowing that, at lunch time, they will be supplied with a cooked meal.

Poor old Jarge used to plod off down the gravelled lane to work on Shank’s Pony. He might have progressed to an old bike, an essential piece of equipment being a puncture outfit which he carried in his saddle bag. Owing to the flint roads this was a must. Jarge became quite an expert at puncture mending. Jarge’s missus, Martha, would send her youngsters off with some sandwiches in an old haversack, and, as they had to walk several miles, hope that the weather would hold, otherwise Johnny would come home with wet feet. His toes were out of one boot and the stitching was coming adrift in the other. She knew he needed a new pair but there was no hope of that just yet. Having got them off to school she would go down to the village shop and get a few supplies. She would work out what she could manage from the few coppers she had left in her purse; some paraffin was a must because the lamp went out last night for the lack of it and the alternative to sitting in the dark or by the glimmer of the fire was to go to bed. Do you wonder that many of the country folk had large families? She had left a suet duff bubbling in the cast iron saucepan on the grate intending to get some treacle to go with it. This she bought loose. She had to take her own jar and, as the thick, greeny-black treacle slowly oozed forth it was a tantalising sight and one which, when served up on the table with the suet duff, would bring a shine to the eyes of Johnny and his dad. Perhaps she could just about manage a bit of cheese and spend her last tuppence on a flypaper; during this hot, sticky weather those flies were a darned nuisance.

Her modern counterpart goes off to the supermarket, loads her trolley with fast foods, veg, ready-made meat pies and a canister of aerosol fly spray, all of which she pays for by cheque. She then picks up the youngsters from school and goes home to a centrally heated house and watches the Wimbledon tennis until George comes home for his pizza. Many of the old cottages where Jarge and his fellow workers used to live have now been given rebirth as weekend or holiday homes with all modern conveniences. This restoration has put such a high price on them that they are beyond the means of even the modern agricultural worker. That means that his new home is situated a greater distance from his work and necessitates a car to get him there.

A useful invention that has proved such a boon in our time is plastics. They are used so extensively today that I sometimes wonder how we managed without them. However, we still haven’t found a way to get rid of the waste products; we need another brainwave on someone’s part to solve that problem.

There are one or two other things concerning the old days to which I must refer. One was hand milking, an occupation of which, as I have said, I was not over fond. One’s head was tucked into the side of the cow and hands were pumping away while a wet, dung-coated tail occasionally swiped across one’s face and neck. In the summer the tails were dry but much more active in endeavour to keep the multitude of flies away. In winter one’s feet froze and in summer sweat streamed from every pore. Later, of course, this changed, too. Milking machines came into being; these made life much easier for the dairyman. It also meant that one man could deal with a greater number of animals. Milking bails and parlours then became the vogue, and the cows were no longer brought into the stable to be milked. Automatic feeders were then introduced. The milk no longer went into an open bucket. It was conveyed by pipes to a large stainless-steel tank from where it was collected by tanker. This was a great advance in hygiene.

Many tasks which had accompanied hand milking also disappeared. In severe weather, when the cows were kept in stable overnight, the first job in the morning was to feed round – hay, cake (cotton and linseed) and sometimes chopped mangolds and swedes; The cow’s udders were then washed and milking started. All this was carried out by the light of a hurricane lantern. Later the soiled bedding was carried away in a wheelbarrow to the dung mixen and the whole stable scrubbed down. The churns were made ready for delivery to the town dairy. All this was before we went in for breakfast. In my early days we delivered it by pony and float, in seventeen-gallon churns. Later there were more conveniently shaped, ten-gallon churns and they were far lighter and easier to handle. Later still they were collected by the dairy’s own transport. Today it is collected in glass-lined tankers. That really is progress!

Another task that has changed almost beyond recognition is ploughing. In my Grandfather’s time the ploughman used three and sometimes four horses in a single file on a straight-furrowed, wooden beam, wheel-less plough. A young lad, probably straight from school, led the leading horse and, woe betide him if he didn’t concentrate on his work. When I learned, nearly seventy years ago, it was on a two horse, single furrow, iron-wheeled plough. This needed no lead boy as I controlled my team by means of reins and spoken words of command. The reins were made of rope called plough lines. I also had, when on a brief spell in western Canada, used a double furrow plough draw by four horses abreast. This had a seat attached. The methods of ploughing have now so far advanced that the present-day machine, five, six or even more, furrowed, is drawn by a powerful tractor or even a track-layered unit. With a single furrowed, horse drawn plough it was considered a good day’s work to plough half an acre of land, whereas, by today’s methods, several acres can be completed in the same time. My opinion is that, although I have often heard it contradicted, that the horse-drawn plough did a better job on the land.

Another of my opinions, which also has been the subject of debate, is that, in these days when hay is baled and stacked in Dutch barns or built into ricks, it is of a quality inferior to that which we used to make. When we put our loose hay into rick, if harvested correctly, continued to “make” and when cut out in trusses in the winter, have acquired that sweet, almost tobacco-like smell so beloved by the cows. The continued heating while in the rick meant that it had retained most of the elements needed for good milk production. Hay made by the modern methods is not much more than a filler. (These remarks will probably mean the start of another argument). Another means of providing animal feed from the grasses is the making of silage. I was involved in some of the early ways of producing this but even those have now changed considerably.

Evidence of the labour necessary to thresh corn – before my time – can be seen hanging on the walls of many agricultural museums, the flails. The users of these old tools meant that, slow-moving old clodhoppers though they may have appeared, they had an amazing amount of sinew and stamina. Their work would just about kill most of us today.

I think that, among the land workers, the carter may have been some of the most fortunate as he would sometimes be required to go to the railway station or to town to fetch back loads of cotton and linseed cake for the cattle and, maybe, coal, barbed wire etc; The coal was mostly required for the steam engines which powered the threshing tackle and steam ploughs. Always the horse brasses shone, and the horse’s coats glistened. This was a matter of pride among the carters – and their bosses – and a reputation to be kept up.

Market days were also something of a highlight; a break from the daily grind for some. This was an occasion where, not only cattle, horses, pigs, sheep and poultry were bought and sold but where folk met and exchanged farming news and gossip. The farmers discussed the price of corn etc. over a feed of roast beef and a pint or two in the George and Dragon. The wives brought in their eggs and veg – if there were any to spare – and sold them from stalls around the outside of the market. There, too, they bought bits of material and ribbons to make a new pinny or a pair of trousers for young Jimmy. They may have also purchased a packet of candles, some blacklead for the grate and a hearth stone.

I remember when the market at Newport, on the Island was held in the main square. There were iron railings all around the outside to which were tied the horses, cows, bulls etc. while the sheep and pigs were penned through the centre in pens made with wattle hurdles. All the animals had to be brought in on the hoof and the roads were choc-a-bloc with seething herds and flocks. The horses were trotted up and down to show their paces. Those of the wives who lived within walking distance trudged along with their baskets on their arms, while those from farther afield would cadge a lift on the carrier’s cart. This is a way of life that has long since passed away. Most small towns have lost their cattle markets and, because motor transport now conveys the animals, there remain only a few centralised markets. One market I used to attend to take in calves and litters of eight-week old weaner pigs was at Winchester. The marketplace I knew was behind the old Corn Exchange – what is now the library. This was superseded by a market in the Andover Road but this, too, has disappeared. Smart’s Restaurant was a favourite venue of the farmers for their feed and a chat. I well remember one day when one of the pigs I was unloading in the market decided he wanted his freedom. He escaped and ran all the way down Jewry Street and George Street before he could be caught. You may be surprised how fast a pig can run and dodge. Imagine my embarrassment as I walked back to the market with a loudly squealing pig in my arms, especially when his fright caused him to perform his natural functions quite unnaturally – and all down the front of my clothes. Imagine my feelings as I made my way back up the street – to the amusement of scores of onlookers.

To return to the subject of poverty and hardship. It was, of course, not only the countryside which suffered these low wages and consequent malnutrition. The mills and mines were notorious in the same way. Not all the owners were hard or brutal. Many, though still paying low wages, eased the lives of their workers by allowing them daily milk, room in the fields to grow potatoes etc., and at Christmas time, a gift of meat and blankets. Many employer’s wives helped out during sickness and childbirth and even arranged classes to teach reading and writing. Below-subsistence wages, however, enabled the master’s to continue their high living – hunting, shooting, horses for riding and for their carriages, and lavish entertaining.

When talking of low wages, I have often heard some of the younger folk of today say, “Ah but they could buy much more for their money in those days”. That is true but the wages were not enough to provide even the essentials of life. Why would fathers and husbands risk prison and even deportation in order to poach the occasional rabbit or pheasant; why was it necessary to send young boys out into the fields all day long to scare off the birds – for only a few pence? Why, too, did women have to spend days at stone-picking in biting winds to try and augment the pittance of their husband’s wages? Again, parents must have been very heavy-hearted to see their children going to school poorly shod and with empty stomachs. Such men as the Tolpuddle Martyrs risked and suffered so much to right these wrongs. Many changes for the better have been due to the efforts of men like these, with the help of the few men in Parliament who had consciences and good hearts. That the power of the latter-day unions has been much abused and misused I readily admit. Those old martyrs would, could they know, be horrified as indeed, I have been.

There is, virtually, no end to all the changes that have occurred since the days of my forebears and down through my time to the present day. I couldn’t attempt to tell of them all; there wouldn’t be a book big enough. I have tried, however, to mention a few and hope they may be of interest to someone. I am amazed that these changes have taken place in what is, in reality, a short space of time. I am still enthralled by the fact that I have seen and talked to men who have lived and worked through those years and in those conditions and even more intrigued that I have seen and taken part in some of them myself. I wonder what the coming years will bring. Will my great-great grandchildren look back with the same degree of interest as I have done – or will they consider me a senile old has-been.

Clanfield

(1928 – 1929)

I recently read, with interest, in the Hampshire Magazine, about the old wells in our county. I was particularly interested in the well with the thatched roof at Clanfield. In the late twenties I lived with my parents in the farmhouse just behind it. Clanfield has now the benefit of all the amenities – water, electricity, frequent bus services to Portsmouth and Petersfield, and a modern school. In those days the old school was in use. It was of flint and brick and stood at the lower end of the village in the road fork. There was an over-flow of pupils – the older students – who were accommodated in the old, corrugated iron Memorial Hall. Mr Bolton was the headmaster who lodged with a widow down the road, garaged his new Austin Seven in our cart shed and sped off to Bournemouth at weekends, reputedly to spend them with a lady friend.

The new school was built in 1928 – 9. The first bricks were unloaded by the roadside, and I had the job, with a horse and cart, of moving them on to the site. This was my first job on leaving school. The only lighting in the village was by candle and oil lamp, the latest innovation being the Aladdin oil lamp with an incandescent mantle. The bus service, to Portsmouth only, was hourly and the rod as far as Cowplain was pot-holed to such an extent that it was necessary for the drivers of the twelve and fourteen seaters to be tough good humoured or just mad. Every journey in rough weather was almost an epic. The Southdown and Horndean Light Railway was still running at that time but only between Portsmouth and Horndean and was of no benefit to us. Our buses were run in conjunction with a milk collecting business by a Mr Pinhorn. He garaged his buses and lorry in an old barn just behind the church.

The water supply for the village was from two sources – for human consumption from the well and, for cattle and horses, the pond. I remember these with a special clarity. The well was fitted with a two-handled windlass, though folk usually managed on their own. The bucket held six gallons and was reinforced to withstand any banging against the brick side of the well. When filled this was of considerable weight and was quite hard work to wind up one hundred and fourteen feet. There was a brake – of sorts – fitted, but when the younger members of the community lowered the bucket, it was often allowed to run free. The speed at which those handles revolved would have been enough to cut a body in half, had anyone been unfortunate – or foolish enough – to stand in the way.

Living immediately behind the well meant that we had only a short distance to carry the water but villagers from farther afield used hoops or yokes to ease the burden. The effort involved was great, but the reward was a drink of the clearest, coldest, sweetest water it was possible to find. I must confess that, at that time a weak streak showed in my character. Almost opposite, in one of a pair of old thatched cottages, lived a dear old lady, Mrs Kitchen. She owned just one bucket which held half a gallon. When she needed water, she would peer out between her curtains and over the top of her geraniums and watch for “that nice boy from over the farm”. In spite of my efforts to avoid her I often got caught and had to draw up six gallons of water and a heavily re-enforced bucket up over a hundred feet to fill her little bucket. She would tell folk how willing I was to help her, and always with a smile. If only the poor old soul had known!

We had a small pond in the corner of our yard but that didn’t supply us for long in a spell of dry weather. This meant that it was a twice daily job to drive the cows up round the corner to the communal pond. Also, it was a regular job to take the water cart to the pond, fill it by bucket and take it back to the troughs in the fields. In Winter I have had to break thick ice to get to the water. One day, in spite of Father’s instructions, I backed down the slope to break the ice with the weight of the cart. It held, however, and we all – horse, cart and me – slid out to the centre of the pond. The horse was spreadeagled and unable to get up. My shouts brought Mr Jacobs from a nearby farm, and he pulled us back ashore with a rope. The well never ran dry but the pond did one summer, and I spent a month on the water cart fetching water, at five shillings a thousand gallons, from Lovedean, nearly three miles away.

I remember too, how in 1928 or 29, on the night of Christmas Eve, it snowed very heavily, and the village was completely cut off for three weeks. Everyone available turned out and we dug our way to Lovedean through drifts up to ten and twelve feet deep. Apart from feeding the livestock our problem was what to do with the milk. We made butter galore and had milk stored in every available receptacle – churns, jugs, jars, buckets and baths – indeed, in anything that was milk-tight. It took three weeks before we dug our way out. Fortunately, being Christmas time, everyone was well stocked with food but even then, things became very difficult. Dealing with livestock was a nightmare.

Opposite our yard, where the Co-op now stands, was a lovely old, thatched barn but, unfortunately, it burnt down. Chains of buckets were formed and passed hand to hand and water carts fetched water from the pond, but the barn was a complete loss. We managed to save the two old, thatched cottages nearby, however.

Although we lived next door to the church, we were chapel and used to attend regularly. It was up at the end of a long, rough, gravelled lane. A new chapel has now been built down in the village, replacing the old one which is now used as a dwelling house. I have happy memories of times spent there. Old Mrs rogers, over eighty, was our Sunday School teacher. She was a lovely, if somewhat stern character and we all respected her. I remember, to my great shame, however, that once, when she was kneeling to pray, I let loose a mouse and the moment she became aware of it close to her knees, she leapt up on to the seat with an ability that would have done credit to an Olympic athlete. My Father heard about it later and I hasten to say, he had a few words to say on the matter.

The Coles family ran a wheelwright, and blacksmiths shop and also the general shop and post office. Eventually another general shop was opened by the Ollin family, and this created some opposition. On Saturday nights it was a treat to get Dad to take us up to one of the shops where he treated us to two penny bars of Sharp’s creamy toffee, gob stoppers, tiger nuts and maybe a sherbet dab. The social life centred around The Rising Sun – not the one that is there now – the chapel and church and, for special occasions, the Memorial Hall. In the latter the school paraphernalia was pushed up one end out of the way. The Christmas do was something special. The faithful few could always be relied on to oblige, though their repertoire was somewhat limited. Old Mr Webster always gave us The Cobblers song; Jack Peacock then rendered – and I mean, rendered – If the missus wants to go for a row, let her go; Dear old Mitch (who was the local barber and newspaper boy) and who, incidentally, gave me my first shave, played his violin. His first piece was always a short, lively little piece and for an encore, a twenty-minute dirge. In spite of boos and catcalls, Mitch stuck it out and at the end bowed smilingly as if he had been performing at La Scala, Milan.

I hope I don’t sound too deprecating in telling of these times because everyone gave of their best and we had a marvellous time and went home with a bag of nuts and an orange. While writing this I am wondering how many can still remember Clanfield during the period when it was still a quiet, country village? There were the Pinks, the Jacobs, the Coles; Edward Allen and Hilda Blackman from one of the cottages near The Bat and Ball and Geoffrey Horn from Chidden and, oh, so many, many more.

P.S. Old Jesse Adlam, shepherd on the farm on the road to Hogs Lodge, had an auburn-haired granddaughter on whom, in spite of my tender age, I was a little sweet. I wonder what happened to her.

Poems by George Morris

Those Quality Mushers

Young Harold was home from Australia – home on pleasure bent; He visited friends from times long ago, taking snapshots wherever he went.

He travelled around for miles – his old home and many old haunts; he travelled by car, but often on foot and enjoyed every one of those jaunts.

One of the snaps that he wanted was one he had previously planned – t’was one of the church down at Stoneham where the clock only had one hand.

We drove down to Stoneham together, took the snaps and, when coming out we saw such a sight that did our eyes good and together we let out a shout.

There in the churchyard before us, showing white, mid the grass and mounds was a carpet of mushrooms already to pick; they really covered the mounds.

We gathered them up in arms full and, with no backward look set off for home in a hurry to give to my missus to cook.

She was thrilled at the sight of those mushrooms but, hearing from whence they had come refused point blank to eat them but for us she agreed to cook some.

Those mushers were wholesome and tasty – a flavour all of their own but, I suppose, not surprising, considering where they had grown.

My wife thinks of them with some loathing and even a touch of abhorrence – she thinks they nurtured by old Uncle Ned or, maybe, by old Auntie Florence.

And although all this happened a few years ago, it’s still quite a cause for a joke – one we will always remember, when Harold once stayed here at Stoke.

A Trip to Yesteryear

(Dedicated to Les and Wynn).

If walls and roof could only speak what tales they’d have to tell,

What pictures they could bring to life for, surely, we know well

That hidden in the rafters, the crannies and the nooks

Is history in plenty – t’would fill a host of books.

On Sunday last my wife and I, invited out to tea,

Enjoyed the comp’ny of some friends – of couples there were three.

Frank and kitty both were there, Agness and me too.

The guests of good old Les and Wynn. They gave us quite a do.

The cottage which they live in has the atmosphere

That seems to take one back in time to days of yesteryear.

“Mind your head”, “Beware the step”, quite often we were told.

The walls were thick, the beams so strong and ‘cos they were so old,

Seemed to imprint on the mind the tales they could unfold.

Where the folk in days gone by, who lived in this old cott.

Shorter than the folk today, ‘cos surely then if not

They’d have some awful bumps, with heads so mighty sore,

Or did some sense warn them to duck when coming through the door?

I remember, as a lad the old church in Kiln Lane

And now to know that it has gone, give me quite a pain.

Therefore, what a thrill I had when I learned from Wynn

The panels in her lounge were pews that worshippers sat in.

That mere fact enthralled my mind, and I could write a rhyme

That would take an hour to read, but p’raps another time.

There was so much more to see; Les led us o’er the grass

To where there stood a building – a relic from the past.

To describe it in mere words – impossibility –

But a thing or two I’ll say ‘cos what it meant to me

Was a picture of the past that thrilled me through and through

So, if you’ll bear with me a while I’ll talk of it to you.

There it stood, with wooden walls and lichen-tiled roof,

Slightly bowed and curving, surely but a proof

Of craftsmanship of those who’d built it in the past,

Standing snow and wind and rain. They’d built it for to last.

Wooden beams were thick and strong and sound as on the day

They were put up there in place – really meant to stay.

This building was a workshop and what went on inside

Must have been a sample of that splendid pride

That those men of bygone days seemed to emanate

In the building of a cart, a coffin or a gate.

Surely, greatest of the things put here for all men’s good

Is the blessing of the tree; what do we owe to wood?

Cradle, furniture and house, handle for the hoe,

Cart and wagon and of course, coffin when we go.

All the village used to come down to the wheelwright’s shed

Their needs were very varied – a new leg for the bed

A wagon for the farmer; some shafts for his old cart

A settle for the local inn; things in whole or part.

Many were the tales that went around while work progressed

Gossip told of village maids, some of them distressed

Some said poor old Billie’s wife was, for sure, a witch

Another said that “Poor ol Jarge, when drunk, ‘ad vell in ditch”.

While all this was going on the shavings flew around

The wheel began to take its shape and very soon t’was found

It was time to have a break – a bit of bread and cheese

And, maybe, just a swig of beer to wash down both of these.

But, at times, the place was hushed except for swish of plane

Or rasp of saw cos, in the night, a rush was on again

In the light of candles work went on a pace

To make a good stout coffin for, up at Squire’s place

Poor old widow Jackson had died and, mid much sorrow

Coffin had to be in place for fun’ral on the morrow.

In imagination one could go on and on

Picturing the happening of days now past and gone

All that now reminds are tools that Les has there,

At some of which, unknown today, we only stand and stare.

There, too, is a table for standing coffins on,

As good today as when t’was built, as firm and just as strong.

Underneath is carved the date, as truly I have seen –

A hundred sixty-two years old; the year 1813.

Many things have now been lost belonging to those years,

Some of course, t’were better so for they brought pain and tears.

But, too, there has gone the pride of work well done and, too,

The honour of one’s given word; sad, but oh so true.

Those old chaps with gnarled hands and shoulders bent with toil,

Moleskin trousers and with boots that gleamed with linseed oil

Could put lots of us to shame and so, for all that,

I’ll think of them with great respect and proudly doff my hat.

And so, I’ll say farewell to them, those honourable ghosts

And give my thanks to Les and Wynn, our most delightful hosts

T’was a day we’ll think of with pleasure and with thanks,

For we enjoyed their company and Kitty’s, too, and Franks.

It’s a day we’ll think of remainder of our lives –

Three old colleagues and, of course, also their good wives.

Christmas Memories

(Dedicated to those two great people – Grandpa and Grandma).

I love to think of Christmases when I was just a kid,

Those we spent at Highbridge Farm; We’d fun; by gum; we did.

The house was big, and it was old, and I feel it lent

Just the kind of atmosphere for Christmas merriment.

Passages were long and hung with lanterns overhead

Hung on beams so thick and low you’d often bump your head.

There were corners here and there – one by the tall old clock –

That were only dimly lit, just right for Postman’s Knock.

There was always such a crowd of uncles, aunts and cousins

And, even yet, was lots more room for friends who came in dozens.

We’d dinner in the brewhouse, with the flagstone floor,

At the old deal table which seated twenty-four.

We made it even longer to get the folk packed in

What a hubbub filled the place; it really was a din.

Then Grandpa called for order while he carved the goose –

It looked so rich and plump and brown just lying in its juice.

There was pork and bacon, it all looked, oh, so good,

A round of beef and brussel sprouts and good old Yorkshire pud.

Then came the Christmas pudding, surmounted by some holly –

Everybody had to wish; it was so very jolly.

The pudd was made by Auntie Flo – or p’raps it was by Mother –

(Every year they did their best to try and beat each other).

Both of them were splendid cooks, as good as all who come,

But Mum’s was always best to me – perhaps cos she was Mum.

If one still was peckish – which may be a surprise –

One could top the whole lot up with two or three mince pies.

You may think me greedy – p’raps I was a bit –

It makes me dribble even now at the thought of it.

“In Baron’s halls the tables groaned” they said in days gone by –

Grandma sat at table’s end, a smile upon her face,

How it changed if someone spoke while Pa was saying grace.

She sat as stately as a queen with Grandpa by her side

And just to see folk happy filled them both with pride.

When the meal was over, mid laughter and much fun,

Ev’ry person lent a hand for work had to be done.

The men all washed and wiped the crocks; the ladies had, you see,

To go into the other room where they prepared the tea.

When t’was done we all trooped in to where the Christmas tree

Reached from floor to ceiling – a lovely sight to see.

There were presents for us all – the cowman, all the lot,

Even dear old Mrs Marsh from o’er the old thatched cott.

The part of Father Christmas was played by Uncle Bern –

He was really quite a sport and gave a splendid turn.

There was string and paper knee deep upon the floor,

We just left it where it was, went out and shut the door.

That was left till later on so’s not to spoil the fun –

Who would want to clear it up? The sport had just begun.

Older folk just lazed around by the fire to browse,

Younger one’s amused themselves – the men, they milked the cows.

Christmas time upon a farm, for workers isn’t funny –

Cattle must be milked and fed; tisn’t all just honey.

But, somehow, they didn’t mind, they did it cheerily,

And when they’d one and got cleaned up ‘twas just in time for tea.

Now if you thought that dinner was such a bright affair

You should have been there teatime, ‘twas quite beyond compare.

The room was decorated with paper chains and holly

And rosy light from candles made it look so jolly.

A very large white Christmas cake gleamed as if with snow –

Jellies trifles, bowls of fruit had rose-tinted glow.

There were crackers which we pulled with gusto and with noise,

Inside were gaily coloured hats for all the girls and boys.

We did justice once again – the kids, their dads and mums –

And sat in our respective seats a patting of our tums.

Then we were called to order for each of us to try

To sing or say or do a piece – or give a reason why.

Some were really clever; some were quite a scream –

My younger sister said a piece ‘bout Strawberries and Cream.

Once again, the decks were cleared and all the men washed up,

The ladies, out in brewhouse, prepared the late-night sup.

Everyone was busy and soon the work diminished

And so, it wasn’t very long until the lot was finished.

To the front room we repaired where ‘pon the chiffonier,

There was fruit and nuts and wine and even Salisbury beer.

But that was all for later on cos, as you must agree,

We didn’t feel that way inclined; no, not even me.

Logs were blazing in the hearth, the table lamps were lit

And then we started playing games and making fun of it.

The parlour games that, nowadays the young folk think so tame,

Were played with gusto and enjoyed by each and all who came.

Postman’s Knock and Blind Man’s Bluff and, maybe, Hunt the Thimble,

Or Spin the Trencher for the sake of those still young and nimble.

Grandpa danced his little jig, in stockings and in breeches –

As he pranced and cocked his leg, he had us all in stitches.

Then he’d sit there in his chair with, maybe, a cheroot

Or smoked his old church warden and p ‘raps cigar, to boot.

We sang, recited and Aunt Ness piano often played,

While Grandpa sang his solo, it was The Anchor’s Weighed.

Uncle Bern then had a go; he stood and filled his chest

And sang with fervour, that old song My Grey Home in the West.

Aunt Nessie sang all sorts but, first upon the list

Always sang us Bless This House – that’s if we did insist.

Good old Douglas then performed his tricks with sleight of hand,

Everyone was most enthralled, we kids just thought him grand.

Articles would disappear before our puzzled faces

Then turn up, surprisingly, in unexpected places.

All the kiddies had such fun and joined in all the games,

They loved the Chinese lanterns with their flick’ ring flames.

Time flew by so quickly and soon ‘twas time to eat

And once again, the brewhouse, heard the sound of many feet.

Seated round the table, with oil lamps aglow,

We looked, we sighed but, with good hearts, we had another go.

Food again in plenty till each sat in his seat

Feeling we were really full; we were quite replete.

Back into the other room for just a final fling –

A few more games, some nuts, a drink – perhaps another sing.

Till, at last, the older folk felt ‘twas time for bed,

And though we were reluctant, no more could be said.

So, we stood and joined our hands and, in the age-old way,

Finished up with Auld Lang Syne, until another day.

Peter’s Passion

Peter showed a remarkable propensity in achieving show quality products with flowers, rabbits and poultry etc. His winning streak was at the Royal Horticultural Society’s chrysanthemum show at Westminster Hall, London. It inspired – if that is the right word? – the following – – –

Peter’s Pa, with professional pride, proceeded to perpetuate in Peter,

A passion for propagation, principally among pigs, poultry, pelargoniums, poppies and pumpkins.

That Pa’s paternal perspicacity progressed was portrayed in particular

When Peter partook, personally, in a panorama of plants placed, for public pleasure, in the precincts of Pimlico.

The “Pride of plants” perfectionists presented a phenomenal picture portraying persistence, pertinacity and poignant pleasure – possible from among plebians and plutocrats alike.

Peter’s primary purpose was pride in perfection when propagating his particular pick of plants, persevering with potassium, phosphates and pesticidal poisons.

Peter’s pals prophetically prophesied a precious prize so Peter, probably precipitately, proceeded to Pimlico, post haste. Peter’s presumption paid. His pot of plants produced a principal prize, a proud possession.

Peter’s prize-winning performance has been prolonged by preponderance of prizes procured at a provincial port and at Pirellis. Peter is the personification of perseverance. Proceed proudly, Peter.

What a Choice for a Birthday Present

Today it is your birthday, Dear and, much to my regret,

Regards your birthday present, I haven’t got one yet.

I know that you’re aware of it, indeed, ‘twas you who said –

“We can’t get it in Eastleigh – we’ll go to town instead”.

The choice of your selected gift made my eyebrows raise –

Fancy saying you would like a brand-new pair of stays.

You say a present of this sort would give you quite a lift –

Yet I’spose its practical – t’would be an all-round gift.

You say we’ll go to Evans’s; imagine my surprise –

Isn’t that the specialists who only sell outsize?

I go in for the quality, that’s why I picked you out,

You were so slim and trim and smart; are you now so stout?

Quality was what I had when we did plight our troth,

Quantity I now have got – indeed, I’ve now got both.

Don’t be vexed by these remarks, e’en though they seem a muddle,

You are plump and comfy; in fact, just right to cuddle.

Anyway, just who am I to pull your leg like that,

For I am bald and double-chinned and getting still more fat.

And yet you say you love me; with me it is a cinch –

Lean or plump I’ll always Dear, love ev’ry cubic inch.

Folk are kind in their remarks for sometimes it’s been said,

“George and Agness aren’t too fat, it’s just that they’re well fed”.

Chaff will never worry me, not to the least extent,

For I’m happy to be plump and, with you, content.

My advice is not to fret, do not stretch your tether –

We will get that pair of stays so pull yourself together,

So, Dear, have a happy day and know I’ll always be

Happy and content to have you here with me.

The Trip to “Lunnon” Town

 

Dear old George and Martha Brown had never been to London Town,

In the village, bred and born, farthest they had ever gone

Was to Merton-on-the-Wold, where so far as I’ve been told,

They had journeyed all the way to the fair; ‘twas market day.

All their lives they’d been content with whate’er the good lord sent.

In their day no bus or car tempted them to travel far,

Television was not known, so they were content at home.

So, imagine Martha’s eyes as they boggled in surprise,

When her George said, out the blue “Martha, gal, just me and you –

“we’m agoine to hev a day right away up Lunnon way”.

Martha, who had seldom been ‘yond the bounds of village green,

Got herself worked up a bit; “Jarge, she said, I’m kinda frit”.

“Don’ ‘e worry, Gal”, says he, “I ‘ull be along o’ thee”.

Them town vellers thinks we’m daft just because I went and laughed,

When I zin ‘em in their spats, umbergigs and bowler ‘ats”.

“I sh’ll wear me Zunday clo’es; in me button’ole rose –

(not fer me they vancy zuits), carderoy an’ button boots,

You must dress up, too, me Gal; we must go alookin’ swell.

You must wear yer ‘at wi’ cherries like ya do when vicar buries,

Them poor volks what’s called up ‘igher – Widow Twankey and the Squire”.

So, they made an early start, riding on the baker’s cart,

Martha, full of trepidation. Fully five miles to the station.

Tickets they then had to buy; then our George let out a cry,

Said to Martha, cock-a-hoop, “Ticket veller’s in a coop”.

But the smile came off his face when the ticket man, with grace,

Said “yes that will be a pound”; George near fell upon the ground.

He then frowned at the expense; “I thought ‘twould be ‘bout eighteen pence,

We’m only goin’ ver the ride” and said to Martha, on the side,

“That veller better think agen; ‘e thinks we wants to buy the train”.

When at last it hove in sight it gave Martha quite a fright,

She let out a hearty scream at the sound of hissing steam.

Driver, he was quite amused; she certainly was not used

To hear a passenger’s loud shrieks – or was it Georges Sunday breeks?

She just clung to George’s arm and said, “I’d sooner be on varm”.

But, as they sped towards the city, flashing countryside so pretty,

Soon absolved those early fears and she wiped away her tears.

Then the rumbling of the points did disturb poor Martha’s joints,

And she said, “oh Jarge, be quick; oi veels I’m gonna be quite zick”.

George then said, half out his wits, “they vines ‘e if ‘e only spits”.

Then, at last, the poor old duffers felt the jolt upon the buffers,

And their thoughts then underwent quite a change of wonderment.

Folk were rushing here and there with not a single thought to spare

For the two old country folk – ‘cept to pass a feeble joke,

George said, “to be’ave that way ‘tis like sheep on market day”.

“Now I knows what ‘e went through when Boney met ‘is Waterloo”.

Soon they found themselves outside and thought that they would take a ride,

To see the sights would be such fun; they felt that life had just begun.

They journeyed up along Whitehall to see the soldiers straight and tall.

George would love to tell his bosses how he’d seen the queens fine ‘osses.

What George couldn’t understand, that, though they looked so fine and grand,

They just dunged as folk went by and didn’t even bat an eye.

The soldiers sat there unperturbed, but Martha seemed a bit disturbed –

She wondered, with a touch of shame, if they also did the same.

George said, “They don’t give two ‘oots, that’s why they wear they ‘igh top boots”.

He said, “They ‘osses stands ver hours; no wonder Queen c’n grow such vlowers”.

“Er gard’ners comes wi’ gert wheelbarrers and they puts it on ‘er marrers”.

Next, they saw Trafalgar Square and spotted Nelson standing there,

Martha said, “I wonder why they ‘ad to put ‘im up so ‘igh”?

George said, “wi’ all they lions round ‘es feared to get down on the ground”.

Then as they were walking by pigeons all began to fly,

Poor old Martha got quite scared; all her cherries disappeared.

As they carried on their walks Martha’s hat had just bare stalks.

George then said, “’tis jus’ past vower, we’ve time to see the Bloody Tower,

Poor old Martha looked aghast and, when she got her breath at last,

Said, “Mind yer langwidge cos I ‘llow, you thinks you’m ‘ome inside the Plough.

Next sight made them look askance; “Whom they folk in fancy pants?

They do look vunny creatures”. They were told they were Beefeaters.

Good old George laughed fit to bust, then he choked and then he cussed,

“I’ve ate beef, both man and boy an’ all I’ve worn is carderoy”.

They saw the spot where, times gone by, folk had been brought out to die,

While folk gathered round to scoff as they saw their heads chopped off.

Thought of this made Martha shiver and she said, with lips aquiver,

“Let us go while now we can; Oi veel’s so sad for poor Queen Anne”.

Then they visited the Tower where Raleigh spent so many an hour

Shut up like a common thief; this, too, brought Martha further grief.

Next to visit was St. Pauls and marvelled at the aging walls.

George’s eyes gave quite a flicker as he said, “Now our old vicar,

If ‘e ‘ad all these ‘ere rooms ‘ould lose ‘isself among the tombs,

And they ‘ould vind that ‘e ‘ad slipped into the cat-infested crypt”.

Martha thought this all quite silly so off they went to Picadilly.

George liked this and said, “Cor lummy, don’ the volks round ‘ere seem chummy”.

One girl offered love and kisses; George said, “No, I’m with the Missus”.

Martha liked this not one whit and said she’d had enough of it –

So then, with no more ado, they made their way to Waterloo.

Journey home was much more calm. Thought of getting to the farm

Made them feel a deep content and, though they’d felt the wonderment

Of a world outside their sphere, home to them seemed much more dear.

Martha’s tongue would tell with glee, at her weekly Sewing Bee

Of the things that she had seen far from their own village green.

George would tell, when in The Plough, of their trip to town and how

Good Queens ‘osses looked so smart and ‘ow ‘ed met that painted tart,

He would be as proud as he nattered in Plough’s company,

Telling all that came to pass and, when they saw his empty glass

They would call the landlord, Ben, to fill their glasses once again.

The Kitchen Ceiling

‘When Father papered the parlour, you couldn’t see Pa for paste’ –

Thus went the song when I was a kid and, though I’m now writing in haste,

Think of me on the morrow – our ceiling has got to come down,

I sit in contemplation; my forehead is creased with a frown.

I think of the job with such horror, but sadly it’s a must –

I’ll be up to my eyeballs in plaster; my nostrils all bunged up with dust.

The lumps will come down in a shower; I’ll be itching all over my chest

Cos, I know I’ll be sticky and sweaty; the darned stuff will lodge in my vest.

Sadly, there’s nothing else for it so will face it with pluck and a grin.

The trouble is, just at the moment, I don’t know just how to begin.

I Wonder What Dickens Would Have Said.

To Christine and Denis –

At times I have met a few scrooges

But this is the worst I have seen –

A card through the door on the mat on the floor

Was to me and to Agnes-Kathleen.

It stated all very good wishes

And even expressions of love

But, having seen that, it knocked me quite flat

And I said, “Good heavens above”.

The senders will have their excuses

For, when the card they despatched

‘Twas done in a hurry and maybe a flurry

‘Cos there no stamp was attached.

I know sending cards is expensive

But, leaving off stamps, I admit,

Is a practice that old Scrooge, from Dickens

Would have given the old chap a fit.

Though Denis and Christine aren’t wealthy

A good many cards they have sent,

But if there are more with no stamps on

It shows a pecunious bent.

I’ll not press the point at the moment –

An oversight it may have been

And so, we’ll forgive and say, “Live and let live”,

• Love from me and Agnes-Kathleen,

P.S.

And so, I’ll say “Please put a stamp on”,

I’m sure you’ll agree it makes sense,

It won’t cost a lot but, if you do not

The recipient pays forty pence.

The Sunday Joint

We’d a laugh at home today – ‘twas quite a funny topic –

The piece of beef we had, you see, was almost microscopic.

‘Tis true, there were but two of us to share the mid-day joint

But, even so, it was so small – and this is just the point –

Because we always feed so well, this little bit of beef

Looked so silly in the tin, quite beyond belief.

I must admit it tasted good and tender, yet, forsooth,

‘Twas just enough to go inside a little hollow tooth.

But, with veg and taters, it gave us quite a start

Cos then we filled the empty space with lots of rhubarb tart.

The weekly joint we buy is such, we have it on a Sunday

Then, with squeak and bubble, we have it cold on Monday.

Oh, and on Sunday eve, my normal bit of supper

Is a nice meat sandwich to have along a cuppa.

Tuesday, sliced in gravy, it is enough once more,

Together, with that gravy and all the veg galore,

To really satisfy us and, if my wife does try,

She minces up remainder and makes a shepherd’s pie.

This week we’ll have a problem cos most of it is gone,

Monday there’ll be ‘nough for two – if one of us looks on.

But I can feel, for Tuesday, I’ll have to bite the bullet,

Cos I can see that all we’ll have is a bit of bread and pullet.

Life will not be quite the same as it has always been –

What we must do, just for this once, put on a streak of lean.

A Much-Kneaded Rise.

Things have changed an awful lot since I was but a lad –

Some of them improvements, others just plain bad.

We’ve got subs, and aeroplanes, radios and cars –

Soon we’ll all be taking holidays on Mars.

There are artificial hearts, awful bombs as well –

Some to help the sick and some to blow us all to hell.

One thing that we used to have I miss more than another

Was the good old wholesome bread baked for us by Mother.

‘Twas brought to mind quite recently, about the staff of life

By something that a colleague said concerning his good wife.

She also had enjoyed, I’m sure, that good old wholesome bread

‘Cos she was sickened by the stuff that’s fed to us instead.

Some of it is doughy and some is like elastic

And some of it is made of stuff that looks and tastes like plastic.

So, Mary said to her dear John, “I’ll tell you what I’ll do,

I’ll try my hand at making bread like Mother used to do”.

She got a bag of wholemeal flour and yeast with which to leaven,

John smacked his lips and said, “My dear, twill be a bit of heaven”.

The dough was made and kneaded and left in warmth to rise

Watched by John and family with eager shining eyes.

They were so excited I assure you I’m not fooling –

In their anticipation they were almost drooling.

The dough rose up so beautifully and Mary, who’s no sloven,

Put it in the baking tins and popped ‘em in the oven.

The door was shut, the heat turned up and they, with bated breath,

Waited hushed in silence; the room was still as death.

Mary was so proud to think she’d give them such a treat –

How they would enjoy the food like Mother used to eat!

But, oh, then oh! Calamity! The oven door she op’ed,

The sight that met poor Mary’s eyes wasn’t what she’d hoped.

All the loaves which should have been so plump and golden brown

Had not come up; instead of that, the blessed things went down.

They were flat as pancakes and Mary was upset,

The fam’ly disillusioned; they very nearly wept.

They felt so sorry for their mum, they said, “Mum, please don’t cry”.

She said, “You cannot eat it”; they said, “Let’s have a try”.

A knife made no impression, so they fetched from the shed

A hammer, chisel and a saw and then tried those instead.

But all of this was to no avail, now, sure as I’m alive,

You’ll see some brand-new paving stones on John and Mary’s drive.

Spite of all her efforts, of Mary’s good intent,

They’ll always have her home-made bread – a lasting monument.

Beccy

Just a puppy, that was all, with freckles on her nose,

Gangling legs, like any pup that’s awkward as it grows,

You could see her like I’m sure, each day you get about –

Yet, what made her so diff’rent? She was, without a doubt.

She came to us when she as weaned, a pretty little thing,

How were we to know, just then, what pleasure she would bring?

She seemed an intruder; already we had Dan

And Dan, to us, was best of all – a lovely friend of man.

Yet, somehow, she wormed her way into ev’ry heart.

Dan was not replaced but she became another part.

Each of them had their place and it was plain to see

They both knew that they were loved by Sarah, Mum and me.

Dear old Dan was older, he’d become quite staid,

Beccy, still a puppy, she just played and played.

She would rush and jump around, full of life and show,

Flomp right down and have a snooze, then have another go.

We would hear a scamper, both came bounding in,

Always hungry and, to Mum, would bring their feeding tin.

A cup of tea, some biscuits or, maybe, juicy bone,

Then flomp down upon the mat and make themselves at home.

Dan, at first resented her; she made him really mad,

But soon he liked to have her near – you see he was her Dad.

They would romp together, growl and have a scrap,

Curl together side by side and have a little nap.

She was most affectionate and sometimes she would come

Just to have a bit of love – while you would scratch her tum.

Do you wonder that I say that she was something more

Than just a pup like any pup you’d maybe see next door?

She wormed her way into our hearts, and I must admit

That, though I did rebel at first, I loved her quite a bit.

Mum? Well yes, she loved her too and, often I have laughed,

The way she treated Becc, at times, seemed just a little daft

Sarah? Yes, she was as bad, when she came in at night

All we heard from Becc and her were squeals of great delight.

So, now that Beccy’s you must surely see

We’re feeling just a little sad, Sarah, Mum and me.

And if there is a special place where all good puppies go

I’m sure she’ll have a special spot – because we loved her so.

The Otterbourne Odyssey

In those days of slothfulness and lack of public spirit

There are among us deserving of great merit.

Some among the young folk work, not for fame or gold,

Others dedicated to the sick and old,

They feel that they are helping ease somebody’s load –

Just to know they’re helping some soul along life’s road.

There is one among us of whom I must make mention

‘Cos he’s a Special Constable, engaged in crime prevention.

His duties often vary – he’s many another role –

He sorts the traffic problem out at ease the awful toll,

He often stops the speedster, sometimes he’ll catch a thief.

His neighbours in the village call him Constable-in-Chief.

Just the other day, I’m told, things got out of hand

‘Cos in the road somebody’d dumped a flipping heap of sand.

Imagine all the chaos and trouble that ensued –

The drivers getting angry and becoming very rude,

They shouted at each other and soon all Otterbourne

Was angered by the awful din of every motor horn.

Les then came into his own; he donned his suit of blue

And showed them he was worth his salt; the traffic soon got through.

Kiddies came from all around and gazed with goggling eye

To see our Les, with flailing arms, getting traffic by.

The elders of the village met that night in The Wite Horse

To have their usual pinta – and talk of Les, of course.

They talked and talked and, finally, decided to agree

To give our Les a medal; it was the O.B.E.

Now this has no connection with the Honour from The Queen –

That fine show of art and skill displayed upon the sand,

They were full of gratitude; they thought it really grand.

This was no mere medal, but mark of the esteem

Of folk who long would talk of it upon the village green,

And just in case you wonder what is meant by O.B.E. –

It’s Otterbourne’s Bull-shiner, Extra-ordinary.

The Reversal

Tho’ I’ve been around some time there are sometimes days

When strange things happen, they really do amaze.

‘Twas today a thing occurred that really made me laugh –

My kid brother was involved; he made quite a gaffe.

From his very early days, even from his ‘teens

He’s been very int’rested in all sorts of machines.

He, it was, back in those days was the moving factor

In persuading our old Dad to buy his first old tractor.

Since that time, both here at home and also overseas

He has driven ev’ry kind of vehicle one sees –

Cars and lorries, bulldozers, diggers and artics

And become proficient; he knows all the tricks.

So, I’ll tell you something – not meant to be perverse –

In a car parked in our drive, he couldn’t find reverse.

He held the gear stick in his hand, did what he thought he should.

But reverse he couldn’t find; his efforts were no good.

He pulled, he pushed, he pressed, he tugged; his language was quite horrid,

But no, reverse he couldn’t find; the car kept going for’ard.

To put it very mildly, he became quite harassed –

And it wasn’t very long ‘fore he became embarrassed.

I said, “Let me have a go”; he viewed that with derision.

It seemed he’d little option, so that was his decision.

He knew my knowledge of machines was almost non-existent.

But he let me have a go cos I was so persistent.

I slipped behind the steering wheel and didn’t fiddle much,

But soon selected what I thought and then let out the clutch,

Would you believe what happened then? Yes, I‘m sure you’ve guessed,

We started going backwards. He stood like one possessed.

I said, it’s really simple, in fact, there’s nothing to it,

So took a moment to explain and show him how to do it.

He begged me not to talk of this, he’d have too rough a time –

And I agreed – but have, instead, composed this little rhyme.

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Taking The Rise

Ken and Joan, quite recently, witnessed an event.

That to them, at that time, appeared quite heaven-sent.

They delight in ragging one, so, with sparkling eyes.

Then indulged and started to really take the rise.

A friend was working on his car and, as it transpires,

Checked the oil and water and also checked the tyres.

They all needed topping up; unfortunately, he found.

All the valves were situated close upon the ground.

This would cause no problem to any who were fit,

But this chap was struggling to make a job of it.

He hadn’t got the savvy or, seemingly the knack

To shift the car a foot or two to save his poor old back.

Ken and Joan immediately spotted his neglect

And their sense of humour came into effect.

They laughed and chaffed and ridiculed something rotten

And of this you rest assured it won’t be forgotten.

The only thing that bothered them, perhaps for bad or worse,

They couldn’t put their thoughts in rhyme, doggerel, or verse.

So, I thought I’d help them out, hence this little ode,

By doing so I will reveal I have a sporting code.

I can see the stupid side of what their friend had done,

And agree it warranted a little bit of fun.

And, if you wonder who it was of whom they do make free,

I can tell you now, of course, the stupid ass was me.

The Rat Race

The experimental beginnings of a new method of power cable impregnation at Pirelli Cable Works, Eastleigh was proving a success and, as a consequence, a new Oil-filled factory was being built. The management were looking for a nucleus of foremen, etc. from among the men who had been engaged on the experimental work. Some of these, conscious of the fact, behaved in such a manner as to inspire the following: –

Although for this I’ll be abused, I must confess I am amused.

Our brand-new factory grows apace and with it runs the Big Rat Race.

Its staff is still but supposition, hence jockeying for best position.

Each day is greeted with the news of chaps attending interviews,

They’re waiting for the final word and all we hear is, “Have you heard” –

Old so and so, who’s now a storeman, will be up there a senior foreman.

It really tickles me to death to hear them saying in one breath,

“Just fancy that; the dirty swine; that job should surely have been mine”.

Some there are expecting lifts will still be working on three shifts,

And some there are, to whom no thanks, will still be working in the tanks.

They’re watching now to see who makes the very slightest of mistakes

And if there is a slight mishap it always is “The other chap”.

The blame is shifted to and fro in hopes that rivals have to go,

They care not for the other man as long as they can pass the can.

It beats me why they have to do it. Surely ‘powers-that-be see through it.

I said at first “I’m tickled pink” but, really, these affairs quite stink.

They undermine all sense of trust and fill me with deep disgust.

(They say “Who is this jackanapes? It surely is but sour grapes!”)

I assure, readers all, it is not that way at all –

I, for one, cannot concede to the struggle on for greed.

I’d sooner work on as I am and for fame not give a damn –

At least I feel I’m not a creeper; I’d rather be an honest sweeper.

I’ll be glad when all is past and we’ve settled down at last,

The rat race we can then ignore and do some honest work once more.

More changes

That I’m sure you must have noticed

In my long and varied life, while I’ve been around

They’ve been many changes, some slight and some profound.

One espec’lly comes to me as I sit and write

May impress my older friends; yes, indeed it might.

As a lad. In hospital, I was quite impressed

By the way the staff behaved and how they all were dressed.

The Matron in her long white dress with starched cap on her head,

The sisters dressed in navy blue, with belts, white, blue and red,

Nurses, usually in white and wearing caps, too,

Stockings, black, of course, and sensible black shoe.

But what impressed me most, was Matron’s disposition –

Brought about, undoubtedly, by her high position.

When she did her daily round, with rustling, well-starched skirt,

All the ward was still as death; ev’ryone alert.

If she heard the slightest noise, she halted in mid-stride

And looked to see the culprit whom she fixed with angry eye,

Her forbidding manner, her cold and icy stare,

Seemed to say, “quiet now; defy me if you dare”.

I know she was efficient, of this there was no doubt,

But loving care seemed lacking; what nursing’s all about.

Sisters, less demanding, yet somehow were affected

By the Matron’s manner, they knew what she expected.

The nurses, though were diff’rent; they laughed and joked, had fun

And mostly had a tenderness and cared for everyone.

When Matron and her retinue left, went out the door,

There were sighs of shear relief; we breathed again, once more,

An old boy said, “The stupid witch” or sounded so to me –

But I am slightly deaf and so, did it start with B?

Today it is so diff’rent, informal, so at ease,

Ev’ryone, from Matron down, do their best to please.

The smiles, the jokes the loving care greets one at the start

And one feels sincerity comes from ev’ry heart.

The residents and relatives and friends who visit there

Are conscious of the fact, efficiency and care.

Their dress is very diff’rent – no starch, and styles vary:

All of us use Christian names, Beccy, Sandie, Mary.

This creates an atmosphere, relaxing and informal,

Everyone can speak and act, perfectly as normal.

That this has the right effect is obvious to all

And I, just as a visitor, am always glad to call.

One thing more that I shall say; Our Matron’s form of dress

Isn’t like, in days of old, designed to just impress –

It’s always very slimming, really meant to please,

She even comes in dressed in shorts that show her shapely knees.

I hope that she’ll not take offence, as some might tend to do. I’ll wish her all the very best and call her just ‘Our Sue’.

The Flowers of Bishopstoke

Brought up as I was in the country, where I’ve spent many bright hours,

I saw and loved all the beauty – the trees and wonderful flowers.

Among them, some of my fav’rites, the poppies, the bluebells, the prims –

Their namesakes have recently helped me. I value them more now, it seems.

Their names have been given to nurses who worked at The Mount on their shifts –

They care for the sick and the wounded, displaying extr’ordinary gifts.

Their care and loving devotion means so much to those folk,

Their smiles and unfailing attention – encouraging them with a joke.

The name of the Poppies are Helen, Sue, Chris and Jill, also Gay,

Their names will always remind us when, at The Mount we did stay.

Then, of course, there are Bluebells, Mary Val and Jan,

Maralyn, Karen and Linda, who help us whenever they can.

Then there is Marilyn, Debbie, Shaunagh and Mary, too,

Jenny and Lynn – under Primrose – caring in all that they do.

The ‘night’ staff are Wendy and Cherry, Fran, Jill, Sandy and Lee

Who calm the folk that are restless with soothing words and some tea.

There also is Rosemary, Suzzanne, Anne and also Marie

Who brightened our whiles with quips and smiles as they brought us our water

and tea.

Two nurses there are who are different, each of them cutting a dash –

One of them sporting a ponytail, the other a beard and moustache.

(I’ll not call them primrose or bluebell; their tempers might wear a bit thin –

I’d be out the door or p’raps on the floor from a jolly good belt on the chin).

I’m sorry – a name I’ve omitted ‘tis Julie; I’m very remiss

But, if she’d allow, I’d make amends now and give her a hug and a kiss.

Like flowers, these folk are all different, but each has their own caring style

That’s meant so much to Agness and me and made our living worthwhile.

I would not forget all the others – the doctors and porters and such,

The therapist who, by their efforts, have helped my dear wife very much.

At times I have been quite a nuisance – of this I feel very sure

But hope they’ll forgive – tho’ not forget – the day that I walked out the door.

All they have done makes us thankful, they’ve lightened our quite heavy load-

With their care and a smile, they’ve made life worthwhile on this difficult part of our road.

Christmas is almost with us; we wish them good health and much cheer

And, as the year ends, we regard them as friends and wish them a Happy New Year.

The Passion Killer

A hearty laugh it has been said is really most rewarding

And so, a tale heard recently I think is worth recording.

Colleague Arnold and his wife had been a week away –

They had been to Devonshire on a holiday.

Weather had been kind to them, and they were brown and tanned,

Time had flown so quickly; they said it had been grand.

Arnold said fate had been kind and then, as if to spite us,

Turned exactly opposite – poor Doll had got phlebitis.

Till then they’d enjoyed the break but then, alas, alack,

This meant that, one day early, they had to come back.

Then next day the doctor said, “My advice to you –

Keep your feet up, ‘cept. Perhaps, when going to the loo”.

Dolly didn’t care for this, ‘twas such a handicap,

But Arnold said, “Don’t worry, Dear, I’m quite a handy chap”.

And so, he cooked the dinner – chicken, Yorkshire pud,

new potatoes and broad beans. Doll said ‘twas very good.

Returning from a holiday, as everyone recalls,

Another job needs doing – the washing of the smalls.

Arnold then assured his wife he could surmount that hurdle

And so collected vests and socks, Doll’s smalls, her bra and girdle.

Though poor Dolly had her doubts, Arn was most emphatic

And put it with no more ado into their automatic.

When the process was complete Arnold said, “That’s fine,

Now to get the lot put out to dry upon the line”.

As he drew each garment out the sight left him perplexed,

He held them up and looked and said, “Well whatever next!”

Vests which once were snowy white were dirty shades of grey,

Knickers, petticoat and bra had gone the same sad way.

When Arn held Doll’s girdle up he let out a groan –

They were grey – and greyer – an awful dark two-tone.

Doll, of course, was not amused when she heard of it,

Poor old Arn went through the mill. She said, “You stupid nit”.

Just at first Arn was nonplussed but then he laughed and laughed –

“I put the whole lot in at once; I must have been quite daft”.

Laughing made the matter worse. Doll was exasperated,

Then she saw the funny side; her anger soon abated.

Now she’ll say in days to come, “Do you remember, Dear,

When you made my smalls look grey, so drab and oh so drear?”

And Arn will say, with rueful smile and maybe some regret,

“Life was not so thrilling then so how could I forget?”

A Visit to Landford Wood

(Dedicated to dear old Mrs White)

Have you been to Landford – to the Chapel in the wood?

I suggest you go there for you’ll get aught but good.

We went there quite recently and had a happy time

So, I thought I’d tell of it – hence this little rhyme.

The building is remarkable, all timber and the style

Is simple but effective. A visit’s most worthwhile.

It’s in a lovely setting with views, mid fields and trees,

The care that’s lavished on it cannot fail to please.

The greetings that await you as you step inside

Are sincere and heart-felt, that cannot be denied.

Our meeting, on a Sunday, was not quite the normal –

There was no special preacher; in fact, ‘twas quite informal.

Members of the Chapel played, sung and then recited –

Those who sat and listened were really quite delighted.

Prayers were said, then we joined in and had a good old sing –

A hymn, some carols; all of which gave honour to the King.

The we had an hour’s break; we’d tea and this and that,

A Christmas cake, mince pies and such and then a pleasant chat.

The washing up was quite a lot but very soon diminished

Cos there were many helping hands, so very soon ‘twas finished.

Then another hour or more of readings, songs, duet.

But what impressed me most – a thing I will ne’er forget –

Was when that dear old Christian, little Mrs White,

Agreed to entertain us; she said she would recite.

Her memory was marvellous, bright and so alive

‘Specially when one knows that she is over ninety-five.

‘Twas about a mother who rose a little late –

Couldn’t get the fire to draw; ‘twas dead there in the grate.

Tommy had the sniffles; baby wasn’t happy –

She stopped from getting breakfast to change a dirty nappy.

Then she went and burned the toast; the eggs were boiled hard,

She had to fetch the water from a tap out in the yard.

Dad was getting snappy – he couldn’t stand much more –

He donned his cap, picked up his coat, went out and slammed the door.

Bobby, too, was grizzling; she gave him quite a slap –

And then she felt so sorry; she loved the little chap.

It really fetched her up quite short, A late start to the day

Meant she hadn’t bothered to find the time to pray.

She knew at once that she was wrong and why she couldn’t cope,

Relying on her strength alone was just beyond all hope.

Then she spent a moment to offer up a prayer

While she hugged young Bobby; ran her fingers through his hair.

A quiet comfort came to her as she looked above

To her Friend and Helper who gave her strength and love.

And though her problems still were there, she coped and through the day

Triumphed just because she’d found the time to pray.

That this was the experience of dear old Mrs White

Was very plain to all of us and she felt it right

To pass it on to others in her recitation

Cos she oft had been so blessed and, with no hesitation

She advised all Mums and Dads, at start of each new day,

Just to stop and think a while and, of course, to pray.

What a blessing this advice to us all might be

If we took it in our hearts and did the same as she.

So, we came away that night with, ringing in our ears

Something that she’d proved so well thro’ all those many years.

And so, we send her many thanks – so near to Christmas Day,

And when it comes, we’ll promise her we won’t forget to pray.

The Little People

Some years ago, there started, as just a simple joke,

What’s become a legend – I mean “The Little Folk”.

They’ve been talked about so much that many people feel

That they really do exist, convinced that they are real.

I am quite a sceptic but, just the other night,

I, too, saw the little folk in quite a different light.

I was on with colleague Ted and, to pass the time,

He had brought some models in, hence this little rhyme.

His hobby is of model trains and he’s enthusiastic,

He makes them up from next to nought – paper, wood and plastic.

The buildings are all but built to scale; they’ve got to be just right

And when he has them, all laid out they’re quite a splendid sight.

There are stations, running sheds, aqueducts and tunnels,

Rolling stock with engines all gay with painted funnels,

Signal boxes by the track, water chutes and sleepers,

Lines that run across the roads kept clear by crossing keepers.

Cattle pens and stockyards, a pub at the approaches,

Cattle trucks and covered goods and even Pullman coaches.

Trees are growing by the track; the church stands on the hill.

Lines run through the forest where rabbits roam at will,

The churches’ lovely spire atop the tow’ ring steeple.

But what brings all this to life are those dear little people.

Passengers on platforms – just like me or you,

Waiting for the next train to go to Timbuctoo.

Stands the guard beside his train, his green flag a lot –

You almost hear his whistle as he starts train off.

The man collects the tickets, the shunter does his bit,

The tapper taps each axle box to see that it is fit,

Driver, in his little cab makes the whistle scream –

Then they’re off with spinning wheels mid clouds of hissing steam.

You to whom I tell this tale may view all this with scorn,

How I wish you’d been there. I saw these people born.

Little bits of plastic and little pots of paint

Grew before my very eyes. It seemed to me so quaint.

Figures only half an inch, dressed in frocks and suits –

You could even see the laces in their boots.

As Ted painted each of these, he brought them all to life –

The businessman, the typist, the farmer and his wife –

All the railway workers, the spotter with his pad –

Just at first, by Ted’s remarks, I thought that he was mad.

But each individual somehow was imbued

With the power of speech. My attention, it was glued.

Conversations then took place as nat’ral as could be,

Oft they talked among themselves but sometimes was to me.

To say that I was int’rested I really must admit –

Soon I found that even I’d become a part of it.

But the villain of the piece of life was almost true –

The ginger headed porter from over platform two.

His remarks were full of wit; at times were almost rude,

Eyebrows lifted in surprise if he were misconstrued.

The mini-skirted dolly bird, the aging country squire,

Coloured just as if they sat before a flaming fire.

Anything that went awry, each untoward to-do,

Was blamed upon poor Ginger from over platform two.

He just couldn’t help it, he just effervesced,

Yes, remarks that came from him o’ershadowed all the rest.

What Ted’s wife, poor Sheila feels, surrounded by these folk,

I just can’t imagine; I hope she likes a joke.

In their dining room at home the layout all is spread

And, of all the children, the biggest one is Ted.

He says he’s building it for them but this I rather doubt

Cos, when they want to have a go, they just get elbowed out.

Yet, I forgive Ted all of this for he has made me see

That all these Little People are real as real could be.

If I reach three score and ten and sometimes reminisce,

One thing Ted can be assured, that I’ll remember this –

He brightened up my duty as no one else could do

By the Ginger-Headed ported fro over platform two.

The Loons

It was out at Durley at the home of folk named Curl

I was recently invited to a ‘do’,

My working colleague, John, was the one who egged me on

And I must confess the notion was quite new.

I’d heard, with reservation of the “Railway Preservation”,

A society who have a special dream,

Who, with brawn and brains, seemed to work with age-old trains

And perpetuate the memories of steam.

I had listened to friend John, who nattered on and on,

And, I must admit, at times I was amused

And so, for many moons, I’d referred to them as “Loons” –

For this I hope that I shall be excused.

To think of folk with brains just playing with old trains

Seemed to me a little bit misguided,

But now that I have been and, from what I now have seen,

I somehow feel they shouldn’t be derided.

For though I couldn’t spend hours and hours on end

On engines or the laying down of rails,

I really must admit, from what I’ve seen of it,

I must admire the spirit it entails.

They really take a pleasure in giving up their leisure,

They work like navvies ev’ry hour they can

And though, among their ranks, there are those who work in banks,

They’re dedicated, ev’ry single man.

Among their members too there’s an osteopath or two

And, from a works that makes electric cable,

There’s John, who’s next to me working on security,

Assisting ev’ry moment he is able.

There were visitors, that day, who came from far away,

One of them was introduced to me,

We had a pleasant chat and talked of this and that –

An engineer who’s from the B.B.C.

As a boy he’d thrilled to engines now long stilled

And the romance of steam was in his bones,

His sons were also smitten and in their eyes was written

That thrill as they could hear the engines tones.

They loved to ride the footplate as they travelled to and fro,

As the engine “Cloister” – eighty-one years old,

Pottered to the end of the line just round the bend,

Her paint and brass work polished up like gold.

The whistle’s piercing blast roused even me at last

As I thought of how this gallant engine toiled

In days that had gone by as she whistled to the sky

As she went her way, with bearings all well-oiled.

In her working day she had puffed upon her way

Serving man with many a slate load,

Until she was, at last, upon the scrap heap cast,

It was, it seemed, the end of her long road.

And then along came those who raised her from repose

And gave her back her pride in life, once more

And now she pulls her coach and feels above reproach

As off she takes her passengers galore.

So, if for varied reasons, those folk work through the seasons

And toil for even greater things to be,

I really must admire their spirit and their fire –

Congratulations, hearty, come from me.

I feel I now should end but must just recommend

That, ‘fore they have another “Open Day”,

Easch and ev’ry chap picks up a bit of scrap

And stacks it in a corner, out the way.

And, to avoid the risk of getting a slipped disc

Some steps cut in the bank would be a boon –

But no more now from me or I shall surely be

Nicknamed something worse than just a Loon.

Our Jim

Can we put a value on the goodwill of a friend?

I know that it’s impossible, therefore I don’t intend

To try and say what it is worth but, if you’ll bear with me,

I’ll try and say, in my poor way, just what it means to me.

I first met Jimmer as a lad, when we were only eight.

We’d come to live at Highbridge Farm; I met him by the gate.

Even in those far off days we each took to the other,

Until he came to be, to me, almost like a brother.

The work on any farm entails a great variety

So, we were glad of any help that we could get, you see.

Now Jimmer’s dad was one of those who worked around these parts

And he was skilled at all those things that I call “nature’s arts”.

He could reap and mow and sow and he could thatch a rick,

He could cut a truss of hay as neat as any brick,

He’d trim a hedge, he’d make a fence, he’d even thatch a cott,

He’d tie the straw and make the spars; he’d do the whole darned lot.

And what is more ‘twas always done with minimum of fuss

And we were always pleased as punch when he did work for us.

But, greater still, he always was so gentle, loving, kind,

The sort who, in these modern times, is very hard to find.

He was loved by birds and beasts of ev’ry sort and sect

And all the folk who worked with him held him in great respect.

He had a sense of humour, too; to me a great delight,

If I began to tell of this, I’d keep you half the night.

In my years of growing up I worked upon the farm

And so, I often used to feel his influence and charm.

I learned so very much from him for he was pleased to show

The way to do so many things – to make a spar or mow.

Now that I am older, I realise that he,

Taught me much that, in my life, was valuable to me.

Thinking of my younger days he always looms so large,

I used to call him “Father” and he called me “Young Jarge”.

Maybe you are thinking that, in my childish mind

I made too much of the old chap; I must, in fact, remind

That now that I am fifty-five and getting on a bit,

My thoughts of him don’t alter, not by one jot or whit.

You may wonder why that I, when starting off ‘bout Jim

Have said so much about his Dad and what I thought of him.

‘Tis partly as a tribute and also cos I know

How young Jim felt for his Dad, those days so long ago.

Also, that, through all those years when we worked together

In rain and hail and snow and sun – ‘fact, ev’ry sort of weather,

I have found that Jim has been so very like his Dad,

And he’s been a real good friend, for which I’m very glad.

He’s his Father’s ready wit; he walks and talks like him,

He has that steady, kindly look, so typical of him.

So, do you really wonder that we’re always pleased to see

His wave when he walks up the drive when he comes to tea.

We only have a quiet time, with minimum of fuss,

Yet we enjoy his company – we feel he’s one of us,

And, though he isn’t perfect – and with this I will end –

I always like to shake his hand and feel he is a friend.

The Suet Duff

Two hoers came over from Dorset to fit in the seasonal slot

They liked it and stayed – or so I’ve been told – maybe it’s true, maybe not.

The air – or something – suited for now their kin and their kith

Are numerous there on the Island, more even than Jones’s or Smith.

Our Christine once was a Morris, of which she’s uncommonly proud,

But now she is married to Dennis and lives on a farm out at Roud.

Christine, being a Morris, whose int’ rest is quite plain to see,

Has probed and has studied those folk of the past and sent a large copy to me.

I don’t know when all of this started but many dung-spreading’s have gone –

The family tree’s now a giant; the branches still seem to go on.

To me, to read of my forebears – where they were born and died

Creates a feeling of int’ rest and also a feeling of pride.

To think I am one of so many (I hope I’m not being a prig)

That have kept that giant a growing – e’ en though I am only a twig.

Chris found that I’m one of her cousins; by research that she has proved,

Not close, I admit, but, no matter, but twenty or more times removed.

When visiting Christine and Dennis we talked of those folk gone before –

Of Jacob and Esau and Martha, of Patience and Andrew and more.

There also was David and Moses, Sarah and Aunt Mary Jane,

Isaac, Rebecca and William, Harry and old what’s his name.

Most of these folk were in farming – some of considr’able repute –

Yeomen and stockmen and breeders – community pillars to boot.

It is said that one family weakness is good country cooking and so

When we were invited to Christine’s we decided at once that we’d go.

She promised a good country dinner, including, and this was not a bluff,

And the sweet, the treat that she’d give us was an old-fashioned plum suet duff.

When it was put there before us my taste buds started to sing –

‘Twas cylindrical shape, rolled up in a cloth and the middle was tied up with string.

‘Twas just like Mother made us when I was still but a kid,

She said “twas a filler for poor country lads” – well that’s what she said – and it did.

Now we are told that such food is not good; It makes us too fat and too weighty,

It’s helped me to do some hard work in my time, and now I am very near eighty.

But even more than that excellent meal we had an enjoyable chat –

We talked of the research the family tree, of farming, of this and of that.

And so, we say thanks to our folk out at Roud; we’ preciate that we have been,

Our thanks come to you from both of us here – That’s me and Agnes-Kathleen.

Our First Camp

It’s a lovely Saturday evening, a breeze blowing from the southwest,

The sun on the clouds is reflected; as a scene, surely one of the best.

The Derbyshire Dales have a beauty that surely could not be surpassed –

A beauty that thrills us as much as it did just the year before last.

But this time it’s with a difference for we’re on a different bent –

We’re not just having Bed and Breakfast – we’re kipping our nights in a tent.

Though we are both in our sixties we’ve never been camping before

And though we may get some odd moments, I’m sure there’ll be laughing galore.

When first the suggestion was muted the fam’ly all thought we were mad

They said, “we just don’t believe it; what’s the matter with Mum and with Dad”.

But then, when the tent we had purchased, I thought old Richard would bust,

He spit and he spluttered and then, lost for words, he stamped on the floor in disgust.

Our Sarah was quietly scornful and hoped we soon would recant

But mum and I’d made our decision and said, “Back out now, no we can’t”.

Jane said, “Now what’s all this nonsense about you two that I hear?”

We said, “My dear, it’s not nonsense; we’ve made that abundantly clear”.

Maisie and Bill were quite doubtful, they thought that our sanity’d gone

But then Maisie said, “They’ll enjoy it; they’ll have some good laughs with our John.

If only the fam’ly had seen us when we first arrived on the site –

It blew and it rained down in torrents; we thought it was in for the night.

Then soon, when it eased up a little, I sat there with fingers that itched,

I said, “I am waiting no longer” and soon our tent it was pitched.

But not ‘fore we met with some problems, cos, ‘fore much time had elapsed

The wind got up even stronger and our poor old tent had collapsed.

I’d not the guys in position; I realised I was quite daft,

But worried? No, don’t you believe it; both of us laughed and just laughed.

But soon it was all in position, the wind calming down, really dropped,

The sun came out and ‘twas lovely; the rain it had definitely stopped.

A good cup of tea and some vittles, while we were admiring the view

And as we looked out before us, ‘twas almost too good to be true.

The hillsides all dotted with cattle; the peaks reaching up to the sky,

The church there away in the distance and stone walling very close by.

We fixed up our sleeping compartment and Agnes said, with a shrug,

“It looks very cosy and comfy; I’ll sleep like a bug in a rug”.

So, soon t’will be coffee and biscuits – then do what has to be done,

A read for a while, then “Goodnight and God Bless” – our camping adventure begun.

The End