************************************************
17th April 1967 - The Beenham Murders
This blog post runs a little out of sinc’ I know, but on the 15th of April it will be my youngest daughters birthday, and although it’s a date that brings happy memories, it’s also a date very near to some extremely sad memories. Because on the 17th of April 1967, the murder of two young girls had a profound impact on my life.
When I was 13 years old, I was put into ‘care’ because it was deemed that I was out of my parents control. (Probably quite right). For many months I hadn’t been going to school, instead, I was going to work full-time because I felt it was a lot more interesting, fulfilling, and made me a good bit of money.
I had a few days at the chicken farm down Loddon Drive in Wargrave, another few at the pig farm down Willow Lane where Paul Daniels & Debbie McGhee now live, and on a Sunday, I had a car-washing round. All good stuff as far as I was concerned, but not as far as the education authority saw it. So, I was condemned to be in the care of the Berkshire County Council until the ripe old age of Eighteen.
I was placed in three care homes, not bad places, but you never like to be away from your family, friends and freedom do you? In those days, it was a case of “You ‘will’ do this” and “You ‘will’ do that”. No questions, and no arguing back, or you were threatened with ‘approved school’ or ‘Borstal’ and not many of us wanted that.
I was one of the very lucky ones because of my school record funnily enough. If you showed that were bright enough to be in the ‘A’ stream at school, (which I was :-) you were given special privileges, like a choice of hairstyle; a choice in the shoes and trousers you could wear, and even how many visits a month you were allowed. A very strict regime was administered, and you did what was asked of you at all times, including the running of the homes. ie; cooking, cleaning, maintenance and gardening.
Much different to care homes these days, where the young folk are treated with kid gloves. Allowed to roam free, stay out late, smoke, swear and spit. Then they wonder why so many turn out to be seriously damaged individuals with no self-respect or sense of identity.
I went into care in January 1964, but by late 1966 I was allowed to have a Saturday job at our local garage, owned by Taff Williams who was a portly, friendly giant of a Welshman. He took me under his wing, and even made an application to try and foster me into his family that consisted of his Wife, his Mother, and two lovely daughters, Jaqueline and Caroline. This was refused on the grounds that I was sitting my GCE’s at the time, and the authorities decided the upheaval would be detrimental to me.
At the beginning of April 1967 I was told I had to quit the job because of the fostering application. That it wouldn’t be ‘right’ to continue, (whatever that meant), so I left the village garage job quite suddenly.
Just a week later though, the village went into meltdown. Two young girls had been found murdered at a local gravel-pit, and one of the girls was Taff’s daughter Jaqueline. The other was her close friend Jeanette Wigmore. It was April the 17th 1967, a date I’ll always remember for more than one reason.
As I’d recently worked at the garage, the police came to interview me, and asked if I’d seen any strangers or ‘strange’ people coming to the garage recently. There was one young chap, and it seemed everyone had already mentioned him. He was a large young fella with ‘learning difficulties’ as we have to say these days, but the police officer interviewing me said he was not suspected.
I was asked to give the minutest details of my recent days there, which I did as best I could. The officer thanked me for being so helpful and got on his way. The next morning however, he was back to ask me more questions, (although it seemed he was asking me exactly the ‘same’ ones he’d asked me the day before). Again, he thanked me and left.
I couldn’t believe how closely I was being drawn into the investigation, and it made it seem even more personal and upsetting than it already was. Then later that day, the officer came back, asked me a few more questions, and then asked me to leave the office while he spoke to the home superintendent, a Mr Charles Usher. I stood outside the door and listened, me being the nosey-parker I am. They say eavesdroppers never hear good of themselves don’t they? I certainly got the shock of ‘my’ short life there and then.
Mr Usher was being asked about my exact movements over the last few days. Was he ‘absolutely’ sure I’d not been able to leave unnoticed? The reason I’d left the Saturday job. Did I leave on bad terms, etc, etc, etc. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. They actually thought that ‘I’ was possibly responsible for the murder of these two young girls.
Both used to come and chat with me in the garage shop, (which for a lot of the time was pretty quiet). They loved to show off their maths ability by shouting out the total before the old till had time to churn it out. Two great girls, and ‘I’ was being touted as the possible suspect.
For several days, I wasn’t allowed to leave the house. In fact none of us were, as I wasn’t supposed to know I was under suspicion, it was made to look as though it was for the safety of all of us.
Nothing was ever said to me by Mr Usher or the Police. They found the ‘right’ suspect. A local thug called David Burgess who was a dumper driver at the pits. He was sentenced to life, but according to a TV programme about prison absconders last year, he’s now on the run from an ‘open’ prison, and the police aren’t really interested in catching him as he’s apparently not much of a threat these days.
I wonder what the Williams & Wigmore families both feel about ‘that’ one? I personally find it sickening, but not surprising. If he’d been sentenced for robbing a bank, the whole of the national police force would be issued with his photograph, and no stone would be left unturned until they’d found him.
Family and social values have been trampled on by successive governments, but two little souls will be remembered every April the 17th for as long as I’m still kicking.
Pete.
P.S.
Just 6 months earlier, October 1966 another young lady was murdered as she walked the toe-path from the village of Beenham down to the A4 bath Rd late at night. She was Yolande Waddington, about 18 years old and a nanny to a family in the village. She was also the daughter of our science teacher at Kennet School, Mr Waddington.
The next morning, we were all told in assembly by the headmaster, Mr Hurd, about the bad news. Then just as he finished telling us, Mr Waddington, who was a quiet, un-assuming, very tall man who wore Jesus-creepers all year round, walked into the assembly and quietly took his seat with all the other staff.
The hall went so quiet you could hear a pin drop, which was never usually the case. He then carried on with his teaching duties as if nothing had happened. But how that must've been cutting him up inside.
After David Burgess was found guilty of the murder of Jaqueline and Jeanette, it was assumed by the villagers that he was responsible for Yolande's murder as well. Though the police maintained they couldn't establish a link, the case was all but closed once burgess was sentenced.
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Saturday, 11 April 2009
Saturday, 14 March 2009
Dave, Me, and the chalk-pit cave
****************************************
Dave, Me, and the chalk-pit cave.
I’ve mentioned before in this blog about my old ‘friend’ Dave. (Dave’s Vault of Evil).
Well, just across the road from Dave’s house was a disused chalk-pit. (One of many in the area). We were a bit bored, so Dave suggested we make a Secret Cave for ourselves by cutting one into the side of the chalk-face. We could keep ‘stuff’ there that we wanted to keep secret from our parents and friends. This was to be ‘only’ know to us. We wouldn’t tell another living soul about it. EVER!
YEP! Seemed like a great plan to me, and off we went with our bowie knives and a hand-axe to burrow away into our future ‘Den’. We spent almost three whole days digging and carving our way into the pit wall, and I have to admit, it looked great.
We cut hollows into the walls so that we could store stuff away. Dave had his side, and I had mine. We stocked it full of apples, cherry’s, pears and damsons which we scrumped from the nearby orchards. We had several bottles of ‘Corona’ lemonade and cherryade, which Dave filched from his Mum’s larder. (They were well-off and she used to stock up with such things). All in all, our Den was a ‘crackin’ little place which no-one knew about, except us.
We built it fairly high up the chalk-face to deter would-be nosey parkers, but we would get covered in chalk each time we went there as we scrambled up to get in. So we had the idea of cutting steps, a bit like a ladder, into the chalk so that we could get up there a lot quicker and cleaner. (Even if it did mean the nosey-parkers might also get up there easier).
It took us a Saturday morning to cut out our steps, and once done, we decided to go back to Dave’s house and get his Mum to cook us some lunch. She was very kind like that. (As most were in those more sociable days).
Lunch eaten, a quickie game of chess to let our lunch go down and it was back to the ‘Den’. Except it WASN’T!…..It wasn’t there any more AARRGGHH!!
Where we’d cut in too deep for our steps, we’d obviously weakened the whole wall and it had all collapsed into a pile of rubble at the foot of the chalk face. Bits of our ‘stuff’ could be seen broken and smattered throughout the heap, making for a very sad day for both of us.
Then, we both looked at each other, realising at the same time that if we’d not gone to lunch, and played our game of chess afterwards, WE might have been ‘smattered’ in the rubble as well. NO. We didn’t carve ourselves out another one. Instead, we found a dirty great big Pine tree near the building site just up the road from ‘My’ house, where we built the best tree-house modern building materials could build.
(All FREE! {:-)
Pete.
******************************************
Dave, Me, and the chalk-pit cave.
I’ve mentioned before in this blog about my old ‘friend’ Dave. (Dave’s Vault of Evil).
Well, just across the road from Dave’s house was a disused chalk-pit. (One of many in the area). We were a bit bored, so Dave suggested we make a Secret Cave for ourselves by cutting one into the side of the chalk-face. We could keep ‘stuff’ there that we wanted to keep secret from our parents and friends. This was to be ‘only’ know to us. We wouldn’t tell another living soul about it. EVER!
YEP! Seemed like a great plan to me, and off we went with our bowie knives and a hand-axe to burrow away into our future ‘Den’. We spent almost three whole days digging and carving our way into the pit wall, and I have to admit, it looked great.
We cut hollows into the walls so that we could store stuff away. Dave had his side, and I had mine. We stocked it full of apples, cherry’s, pears and damsons which we scrumped from the nearby orchards. We had several bottles of ‘Corona’ lemonade and cherryade, which Dave filched from his Mum’s larder. (They were well-off and she used to stock up with such things). All in all, our Den was a ‘crackin’ little place which no-one knew about, except us.
We built it fairly high up the chalk-face to deter would-be nosey parkers, but we would get covered in chalk each time we went there as we scrambled up to get in. So we had the idea of cutting steps, a bit like a ladder, into the chalk so that we could get up there a lot quicker and cleaner. (Even if it did mean the nosey-parkers might also get up there easier).
It took us a Saturday morning to cut out our steps, and once done, we decided to go back to Dave’s house and get his Mum to cook us some lunch. She was very kind like that. (As most were in those more sociable days).
Lunch eaten, a quickie game of chess to let our lunch go down and it was back to the ‘Den’. Except it WASN’T!…..It wasn’t there any more AARRGGHH!!
Where we’d cut in too deep for our steps, we’d obviously weakened the whole wall and it had all collapsed into a pile of rubble at the foot of the chalk face. Bits of our ‘stuff’ could be seen broken and smattered throughout the heap, making for a very sad day for both of us.
Then, we both looked at each other, realising at the same time that if we’d not gone to lunch, and played our game of chess afterwards, WE might have been ‘smattered’ in the rubble as well. NO. We didn’t carve ourselves out another one. Instead, we found a dirty great big Pine tree near the building site just up the road from ‘My’ house, where we built the best tree-house modern building materials could build.
(All FREE! {:-)
Pete.
******************************************
Tuesday, 18 November 2008
ROAM FREE!
*******************************
Roam Free!
This memory takes me back to the time I had my
first 'real' bike given to me. It was my welcome home
present from my Mum and Dad after being away
for a couple of weeks at my eldest sister Mary's
house in Tongham, Nr Aldershot, Surrey. I suppose
I was eight or nine years old at the time.
It was a bad time as my Mum had to go into hospital
and have an operation to remove a lung. Myself, and
my younger brother and sister, Billy and Sally, were
'barracked' out for two weeks in a really 'hot' summer.
Adventuring was very high on the agenda, and thanks
to a neighbours boy who was just a couple of years
older than me, I got plenty to think about.
From playing down at the 'rickety' railway bridge,
where we used to invade some poor chaps spinach
patch, and playing 'chicken' with the steam trains.
(Ashamedly). To messing in the orchards and hop-
fields that were rife in the area at that time. An old
deserted 'oast-house' in the village was one of our
favourite spots for just 'hanging out'.
It was the time of Tizer and Jubblies. Two things
we'd not experienced back home in leafy Wargrave,
so that in itself seemed like we were 'big-time'. As
for bed-time, we had to share beds with my sister
Mary's other four kids in a three-bedroomed house.
My sister Sally naturally shared with our niece
Valerie in her bedroom. But in the boys room there
was my brother Billy and Me. Little Ray, Tony, and
baby Graham who were of course our nephews.
Do you think much sleeping went on? Not a lot.
Those two weeks seemed to last forever, and even
today, I can't believe we could have crammed so
much adventuring into two weeks.
Anyway, when we got back home, we'd all three
been bought something 'special' as our reward for
having to be away from home, and as I said earlier,
mine was a bike. It was a girls bike. 'Pink', and a bit
on the big side. It was our neighbours' daughters' old
bike that she'd grown out of, but that didn't worry me,
I was now independant to the point I could go any-
where I wanted, when I wanted, and I did.
A few weeks later, and I was really starting to miss
the friends I'd made in Tongham where we'd spent
the summer, and I got to conspiring with a good
friend at the bottom of our road, Bob goddard. His
dad used to drive a huge lorry, and Bob would often
go out with his Dad on long lorry trips, so knew his
way about our part of the country well.
I asked him if he knew how to get to Aldershot,
and he did. I asked him if he fancied doing a bike-
ride there on the Saturday, and he did. So we
managed to get a few bits and bobs to eat along
the way and a couple of bottles of water. Then on
the Saturday morning we both sloped off in the
general direction of Aldershot.
I mentioned earlier that it was a particularly 'hot'
summer, and this day seemed to be the hottest. We
thought we'd been going for miles when we ran out
of water, but infact, we'd only gone four or five in the
'right' direction, as Bob had taken us on a rather
longer route than we'd needed to go. He was
following the route that his Dad used to take in his
lorry, but his Dad delivered grain from the BB&O
depot in Twyford, and of course went 'round-robin'
as it were. I know at one point we were pushing
our bikes up Bix-Hill on the north side of Henley-
on-Thames. Completely in the wrong direction.
We stopped at a little shop in Spencers Wood to
tell the shopkeeper there our plight, and hope for
some sympathy, (which we got). Thankfully in the
shape of some Smith's Crisps and a bottle of
Corona Lemonade. This helped us get the rest
of the way to Aldershot, and from there I knew
my way to Tongham and my sister's house.
Sadly, it was now gone two o'clock in the after-
noon. It had taken us 'far' longer than we'd hoped,
and to cap it all, there was no-one in at my sister's.
Our hearts sank as we sat there wondering what
to do. The whole estate seemed deserted, there
didn't seem to be anyone around.
Then a neighbour from accross the way, who I'd
not met before came over to us. Said she recog-
nised me and that my sister and the family were
over the park playing 'Stool-ball'. (Apparently like
rounders but with slightly different rules). My
sister was in the team and it seemed like the
whole village had turned out to watch this 'mom-
entous event'.
We made our way over the park and caught about
half an hour of the game. Enough to see Mary
batting away and running for all she was worth.
(I'd never seen her so active). When she finished
and came over to see Me and Bob who were
sitting with 'Big Ray' (her hubby) and the kids, she
was absolutely flabberghasted, she couldn't
believe we'd made so much effort to get over to
see them on such a hot day.
We got taken back to the house naturally, and got
fed and watered. But there was only time to have
a little natter before we had to start making our
way back home to Wargrave. Only 'this' time,
Big-Ray drew us some directions to follow so that
we'd get home a lot quicker than it had taken us
to get there.
I suppose it was a sign of the times back then, that
our Mum's and Dad's never even missed us. Just
asked if we'd had a good time. Great stuff!
Although we never got to meet the friends I was
originally missing, that day is 'so' ingrained in my
memory that I consider it one of my 'treasures'.
I wonder if old Bob Goddard still remembers?
Or even if he's still around? So many friends now
dropping off the perch, you begin to wonder.
Catch you later.
Pete.
**********************************
Roam Free!
This memory takes me back to the time I had my
first 'real' bike given to me. It was my welcome home
present from my Mum and Dad after being away
for a couple of weeks at my eldest sister Mary's
house in Tongham, Nr Aldershot, Surrey. I suppose
I was eight or nine years old at the time.
It was a bad time as my Mum had to go into hospital
and have an operation to remove a lung. Myself, and
my younger brother and sister, Billy and Sally, were
'barracked' out for two weeks in a really 'hot' summer.
Adventuring was very high on the agenda, and thanks
to a neighbours boy who was just a couple of years
older than me, I got plenty to think about.
From playing down at the 'rickety' railway bridge,
where we used to invade some poor chaps spinach
patch, and playing 'chicken' with the steam trains.
(Ashamedly). To messing in the orchards and hop-
fields that were rife in the area at that time. An old
deserted 'oast-house' in the village was one of our
favourite spots for just 'hanging out'.
It was the time of Tizer and Jubblies. Two things
we'd not experienced back home in leafy Wargrave,
so that in itself seemed like we were 'big-time'. As
for bed-time, we had to share beds with my sister
Mary's other four kids in a three-bedroomed house.
My sister Sally naturally shared with our niece
Valerie in her bedroom. But in the boys room there
was my brother Billy and Me. Little Ray, Tony, and
baby Graham who were of course our nephews.
Do you think much sleeping went on? Not a lot.
Those two weeks seemed to last forever, and even
today, I can't believe we could have crammed so
much adventuring into two weeks.
Anyway, when we got back home, we'd all three
been bought something 'special' as our reward for
having to be away from home, and as I said earlier,
mine was a bike. It was a girls bike. 'Pink', and a bit
on the big side. It was our neighbours' daughters' old
bike that she'd grown out of, but that didn't worry me,
I was now independant to the point I could go any-
where I wanted, when I wanted, and I did.
A few weeks later, and I was really starting to miss
the friends I'd made in Tongham where we'd spent
the summer, and I got to conspiring with a good
friend at the bottom of our road, Bob goddard. His
dad used to drive a huge lorry, and Bob would often
go out with his Dad on long lorry trips, so knew his
way about our part of the country well.
I asked him if he knew how to get to Aldershot,
and he did. I asked him if he fancied doing a bike-
ride there on the Saturday, and he did. So we
managed to get a few bits and bobs to eat along
the way and a couple of bottles of water. Then on
the Saturday morning we both sloped off in the
general direction of Aldershot.
I mentioned earlier that it was a particularly 'hot'
summer, and this day seemed to be the hottest. We
thought we'd been going for miles when we ran out
of water, but infact, we'd only gone four or five in the
'right' direction, as Bob had taken us on a rather
longer route than we'd needed to go. He was
following the route that his Dad used to take in his
lorry, but his Dad delivered grain from the BB&O
depot in Twyford, and of course went 'round-robin'
as it were. I know at one point we were pushing
our bikes up Bix-Hill on the north side of Henley-
on-Thames. Completely in the wrong direction.
We stopped at a little shop in Spencers Wood to
tell the shopkeeper there our plight, and hope for
some sympathy, (which we got). Thankfully in the
shape of some Smith's Crisps and a bottle of
Corona Lemonade. This helped us get the rest
of the way to Aldershot, and from there I knew
my way to Tongham and my sister's house.
Sadly, it was now gone two o'clock in the after-
noon. It had taken us 'far' longer than we'd hoped,
and to cap it all, there was no-one in at my sister's.
Our hearts sank as we sat there wondering what
to do. The whole estate seemed deserted, there
didn't seem to be anyone around.
Then a neighbour from accross the way, who I'd
not met before came over to us. Said she recog-
nised me and that my sister and the family were
over the park playing 'Stool-ball'. (Apparently like
rounders but with slightly different rules). My
sister was in the team and it seemed like the
whole village had turned out to watch this 'mom-
entous event'.
We made our way over the park and caught about
half an hour of the game. Enough to see Mary
batting away and running for all she was worth.
(I'd never seen her so active). When she finished
and came over to see Me and Bob who were
sitting with 'Big Ray' (her hubby) and the kids, she
was absolutely flabberghasted, she couldn't
believe we'd made so much effort to get over to
see them on such a hot day.
We got taken back to the house naturally, and got
fed and watered. But there was only time to have
a little natter before we had to start making our
way back home to Wargrave. Only 'this' time,
Big-Ray drew us some directions to follow so that
we'd get home a lot quicker than it had taken us
to get there.
I suppose it was a sign of the times back then, that
our Mum's and Dad's never even missed us. Just
asked if we'd had a good time. Great stuff!
Although we never got to meet the friends I was
originally missing, that day is 'so' ingrained in my
memory that I consider it one of my 'treasures'.
I wonder if old Bob Goddard still remembers?
Or even if he's still around? So many friends now
dropping off the perch, you begin to wonder.
Catch you later.
Pete.
**********************************
Saturday, 11 October 2008
Tennis, Athletics, Bruce, Mary & Me.
*******************************************
Bruce Mary & Me.
Around the 1961/2 period I encountered a couple of
really decent people who gave me an awful lot of
inspiration towards the way I'd live the rest of my
life. They won't know it of course, but they did.
Up the Wargrave Rec we were used to famous
sportsmen and women visiting us annually because
of the top-quality tennis courts. Wimbledon 'names'
used to pop up there to practice, and their friends/
associates would come with them, making for a
good all-round atmosphere.
Never being one to miss out on a 'good little earner'
I saw a great way to make friends as well as make
a few coppers from this seasonal influx.
At the back of the courts in those days, you had the
long grass, brambles and shrubbery. Not to mention
the allotments the other side of the bramble-hedges,
and these tennis pro's were there to 'practice',
not keep trying to find their over-hit tennis balls.
So me and a couple of other bright sparks would get
there in good time and offer to find their balls for
them while 'they' continued practicing.
"That's very kind of you" they'd say, and they'd start
serving like demons , rallying, lob-shots, passes, all
the match-winning tactics they needed for their
upcoming fortnight of 'hopeful' glory. Keeping us well
occupied, often for several hours at a time.
They'd shout out for us, chat to us during their breaks,
and genuinely get to 'like us' I think, as 'we' did them.
You couldn't help but 'marvel' at the hours, sweat &
'frustration' sometimes that they would put themselves
through just to try to win a ... 'tennis match'?
We didn't know at the time (no Telly Coverage) just
HOW 'important' winning at Wimbledon was. We didn't
even know 'what' or 'where' it was either. All we knew
was, the grown-ups all respected them and looked
forward to their return each year.
We also knew of course, that they were very generous
folk who would always reward us at the end of each
practice. Often with a few bob, but sometimes they'd
give us their practice balls. (Balls of 'any' kind were like
gold-dust' to us in those days. Now, they're just
considered as 'disposables'). They would also, if we were
really lucky, give us one of their old rackets. Ones where
a string had broken, or the frame had cracked slightly.
No good to them, but absolute 'Golden Gifts' to us.
You just couldn't put a value on such generosity. Yet to
them, they probably didn't even realise what a great
'impact' they were having on us. Both with their gifts of
'Goods and Money', and - with their gift of 'Inspiration'.
Anyway, the point of this story is - that also, at around
the same time, good old Arthur Langford could be found
regularly walking his 'chalking' machine round in a very
big oval inside the cricket boundary, sometimes outside
the cricket boundary, 'arcing' it in places.
What was he up to?
He'd also marked out a 'specific' run-up length to the
sand-pit. Much longer than the one we used for our
junior-school sports day. What was he up to again?
We didn't have to wait long to find out. A couple of
strangers to the village, probably from the new houses
that were built on the site of the old 'Hill Lands Hotel'
started coming to the Rec in the evenings, stripping
down to their shorts and tee-shirts, and running and
jumping in a serious manner. for several hours at a
time.
It wasn't long before I stuck my oar in. I noticed that
the chap who was doing all the running, and not
jumping was doing it with no shoes on. That he would
run quite a few laps following Arthurs oval white line
quite slowly, then he'd run a dozen or so laps SO FAST
you could hardly believe what you were seeing.
Now 'I' was a good runner. Even at that age I thought
I was unbeatable. (as you do). Probably due to the fact
that I was never bored, couldn't sit still for five minutes,
and either 'ran' everywhere, or rode my bike 'hell-for-
leather' at all times no matter where I was going. All
good stuff for keeping up my stamina and speed.
(Though at the time I didn't realise that).
When I saw this chap slow down after one of his bursts,
I took my shoes and socks off to run round with him.
He looked at me sideways and laughed, asking me if I
wanted a race. I told him he was the fastest bloke in
the world, that I knew I wasn't going to win, and I don't
'do' losing. He laughed some more and invited me to
just keep up for as long as I could.
A couple of laps at a time was all I could manage for the
first few days, but gradually, I could keep up with him
for longer, and eventually for as long as 'he' just jogged
around his pre-set number of slow laps. Once he sped-up
I'd drop out and go and watch the girl/young lady who was
using Arthur's long jump set-up.
She was a very fast runner as well, but boy, could she
jump? Sometimes the sand-pit wasn't long enough, so
Arthur had to make it bigger for her, and I'd sit there
mesmerised by her 'power' and her dedication. She would
also bring her own friends who would practice with her,
tell her how to improve, sometimes by showing her things
she was doing wrong. They were all very friendly, and I
felt more than welcome in their little group. (Even though
I was only a 'young-un' as they'd call me).
It was a few weeks before I heard them talking about
'The olympics' and how they were all looking forward to
'Tokyo' in 1964.....1964? That was 'yonks' away. Why were
they bothering now? why didn't they just wait 'til 1964?
Naturally, not slow in coming forward in those days, I
thought I'd give them the benefit of my wisdom. That they
shouldn't be wearing themselves out NOW! They wouldn't
have any energy left by 1964 if they kept up doing what
they were doing until then.
For some reason they thought I was a comedian, that I
was saying these things to make them laugh, (which they
did of course), but then went on to tell me of the value of
long-term training. Stamina building. Making your body the
very 'best' it can be. Convincing your 'mind' that you ARE
the very best in the whole wide world. Then if everything
you do over a long time all comes together at the right
time, you 'will' become the Very Best in the World, and you
WILL get a gold medal at the TOKYO OLYMPICS.
Well no, of course 'I' didn't get a Gold Medal at those
Olympics, but the 'Girl' was 'Mary Rand' and she DID get her
Gold Medal at the TOKYO Olympics in the ladies long-jump.
At the time of relaying this story to you it's now 2008 and
I'm 58. There's not many days that go by when I'm not
thinking of the 'example' that Bruce Tulloch and Mary Rand
set me all those years ago.
I wonder what happened to them? I know Bruce Tulloch went
on to run 'barefoot' accross America, and achieved it. But I
believe he later encountered health problems, so hope he's
still OK. As for Mary Rand, I don't know anything more about
her, but hope she's also OK these days.
At secondary school I went on to excel in athletics. Running
of every kind. Long, short, it didn't matter. I didn't need
spikes either, which used to confound the 'opposition schools'
as I'd saunter round 'barefoot' on the 'then' cinder tracks.
My thanks to Bruce and Mary, as I carried those examples
forward into my 'working life' for many years until 'Mother
Nature' decided to give me something else to think about.
Cheers,
Pete.
*****************************************
Bruce Mary & Me.
Around the 1961/2 period I encountered a couple of
really decent people who gave me an awful lot of
inspiration towards the way I'd live the rest of my
life. They won't know it of course, but they did.
Up the Wargrave Rec we were used to famous
sportsmen and women visiting us annually because
of the top-quality tennis courts. Wimbledon 'names'
used to pop up there to practice, and their friends/
associates would come with them, making for a
good all-round atmosphere.
Never being one to miss out on a 'good little earner'
I saw a great way to make friends as well as make
a few coppers from this seasonal influx.
At the back of the courts in those days, you had the
long grass, brambles and shrubbery. Not to mention
the allotments the other side of the bramble-hedges,
and these tennis pro's were there to 'practice',
not keep trying to find their over-hit tennis balls.
So me and a couple of other bright sparks would get
there in good time and offer to find their balls for
them while 'they' continued practicing.
"That's very kind of you" they'd say, and they'd start
serving like demons , rallying, lob-shots, passes, all
the match-winning tactics they needed for their
upcoming fortnight of 'hopeful' glory. Keeping us well
occupied, often for several hours at a time.
They'd shout out for us, chat to us during their breaks,
and genuinely get to 'like us' I think, as 'we' did them.
You couldn't help but 'marvel' at the hours, sweat &
'frustration' sometimes that they would put themselves
through just to try to win a ... 'tennis match'?
We didn't know at the time (no Telly Coverage) just
HOW 'important' winning at Wimbledon was. We didn't
even know 'what' or 'where' it was either. All we knew
was, the grown-ups all respected them and looked
forward to their return each year.
We also knew of course, that they were very generous
folk who would always reward us at the end of each
practice. Often with a few bob, but sometimes they'd
give us their practice balls. (Balls of 'any' kind were like
gold-dust' to us in those days. Now, they're just
considered as 'disposables'). They would also, if we were
really lucky, give us one of their old rackets. Ones where
a string had broken, or the frame had cracked slightly.
No good to them, but absolute 'Golden Gifts' to us.
You just couldn't put a value on such generosity. Yet to
them, they probably didn't even realise what a great
'impact' they were having on us. Both with their gifts of
'Goods and Money', and - with their gift of 'Inspiration'.
Anyway, the point of this story is - that also, at around
the same time, good old Arthur Langford could be found
regularly walking his 'chalking' machine round in a very
big oval inside the cricket boundary, sometimes outside
the cricket boundary, 'arcing' it in places.
What was he up to?
He'd also marked out a 'specific' run-up length to the
sand-pit. Much longer than the one we used for our
junior-school sports day. What was he up to again?
We didn't have to wait long to find out. A couple of
strangers to the village, probably from the new houses
that were built on the site of the old 'Hill Lands Hotel'
started coming to the Rec in the evenings, stripping
down to their shorts and tee-shirts, and running and
jumping in a serious manner. for several hours at a
time.
It wasn't long before I stuck my oar in. I noticed that
the chap who was doing all the running, and not
jumping was doing it with no shoes on. That he would
run quite a few laps following Arthurs oval white line
quite slowly, then he'd run a dozen or so laps SO FAST
you could hardly believe what you were seeing.
Now 'I' was a good runner. Even at that age I thought
I was unbeatable. (as you do). Probably due to the fact
that I was never bored, couldn't sit still for five minutes,
and either 'ran' everywhere, or rode my bike 'hell-for-
leather' at all times no matter where I was going. All
good stuff for keeping up my stamina and speed.
(Though at the time I didn't realise that).
When I saw this chap slow down after one of his bursts,
I took my shoes and socks off to run round with him.
He looked at me sideways and laughed, asking me if I
wanted a race. I told him he was the fastest bloke in
the world, that I knew I wasn't going to win, and I don't
'do' losing. He laughed some more and invited me to
just keep up for as long as I could.
A couple of laps at a time was all I could manage for the
first few days, but gradually, I could keep up with him
for longer, and eventually for as long as 'he' just jogged
around his pre-set number of slow laps. Once he sped-up
I'd drop out and go and watch the girl/young lady who was
using Arthur's long jump set-up.
She was a very fast runner as well, but boy, could she
jump? Sometimes the sand-pit wasn't long enough, so
Arthur had to make it bigger for her, and I'd sit there
mesmerised by her 'power' and her dedication. She would
also bring her own friends who would practice with her,
tell her how to improve, sometimes by showing her things
she was doing wrong. They were all very friendly, and I
felt more than welcome in their little group. (Even though
I was only a 'young-un' as they'd call me).
It was a few weeks before I heard them talking about
'The olympics' and how they were all looking forward to
'Tokyo' in 1964.....1964? That was 'yonks' away. Why were
they bothering now? why didn't they just wait 'til 1964?
Naturally, not slow in coming forward in those days, I
thought I'd give them the benefit of my wisdom. That they
shouldn't be wearing themselves out NOW! They wouldn't
have any energy left by 1964 if they kept up doing what
they were doing until then.
For some reason they thought I was a comedian, that I
was saying these things to make them laugh, (which they
did of course), but then went on to tell me of the value of
long-term training. Stamina building. Making your body the
very 'best' it can be. Convincing your 'mind' that you ARE
the very best in the whole wide world. Then if everything
you do over a long time all comes together at the right
time, you 'will' become the Very Best in the World, and you
WILL get a gold medal at the TOKYO OLYMPICS.
Well no, of course 'I' didn't get a Gold Medal at those
Olympics, but the 'Girl' was 'Mary Rand' and she DID get her
Gold Medal at the TOKYO Olympics in the ladies long-jump.
At the time of relaying this story to you it's now 2008 and
I'm 58. There's not many days that go by when I'm not
thinking of the 'example' that Bruce Tulloch and Mary Rand
set me all those years ago.
I wonder what happened to them? I know Bruce Tulloch went
on to run 'barefoot' accross America, and achieved it. But I
believe he later encountered health problems, so hope he's
still OK. As for Mary Rand, I don't know anything more about
her, but hope she's also OK these days.
At secondary school I went on to excel in athletics. Running
of every kind. Long, short, it didn't matter. I didn't need
spikes either, which used to confound the 'opposition schools'
as I'd saunter round 'barefoot' on the 'then' cinder tracks.
My thanks to Bruce and Mary, as I carried those examples
forward into my 'working life' for many years until 'Mother
Nature' decided to give me something else to think about.
Cheers,
Pete.
*****************************************
Monday, 22 September 2008
Farewell, Brother Dave.
---------------------------------
Farewell, Brother Dave.
This week the first of my ten brothers and sisters
died of a heart-attack at the age of 68.
He was Dave, and he died on September 17th 08.
As a young lad he was my Hero of course.
Ten years older than me, and a dedicated 'Teddy-
Boy' he was a bit of a 'Geezer'.
He bought me a bright red blazer and black jeans
when I was 5 or 6 years old, and he used to smother
my hair in Brylcreem and style it into a proper Teddy-
Boy Quiff with a DA at the back.
Then he used to take me into Reading town centre
to tour 'The Cafe`s'. Sampling the Pepsi's and 7-ups
in each. Of course, I used to get all the attention
from the Teddy-Girls who thought I was 'lovely' at
the time, and I naturally revelled in all this attention.
It wasn't until I got older that I realised what Dave's
ploy was. Doll me up to look like a 'mini-ted'. Get all
the Teddy-Girls to crowd around me. Suddenly, Dave
was the focus of ALL their attention. (What a lesson
in self-marketing?)
He used to be the talk of our village often because of
the outrageous clothes he wore. he would make waist-
coats up himself out of patches of brightly-coloured
silk cast-offs. On one occasion, he ripped down our
curtain pelmet to wear as a 'Giant Kipper-Tie'.
No,Dave wasn't the most understated chap in the village.
He worked for a while on the railway, and each night
for about a fortnight, he would walk up from the station,
(which was about a mile down the road) with a railway
sleeper on his shoulder. These were our fuel for the
winter. But I still don't know HOW he managed to carry
them that far.
He did have a bit of a reputation as a 'hard man'. Not
many would dare argue with him. But to me he was a
gentle giant who was extremely caring and protective.
He was a master at playing cards, and took every
opportunity to teach us all the different games and
tactics so that WE wouldn't get beat.
He loved his music, and introduced us all to it by buying
this huge stand-up gramaphone to play his rock'n'roll 78's.
We all had to learn 'the Jive' and spent hours helping him
'perfect' his technique.
He just loved board games of every kind. Was very good
at crosswords too. Infact every Sunday Morning, he and I
would sit round the kitchen table with the 'News of the
World' completing the crossword that always had what at
the time seemed like a 'huge' cash prize which was going
to change our lives.
We're talking mid to late 50's here, and the prize was
probably £1,000. With houses costing an average of £500-
at the time, that was a lot of money to win.
(We also did the womens fashion competition. But don't
tell anyone).
Dave was a very generous brother, and each week he'd
bring back the 'Dinky' toy cars for me and younger brother
Bill to play with. He bought a 'Scalextric' set when they
first came out as well, and each week he'd buy us some-
thing new to add to it.
Now, our house was a bit of a focal point. Think 'Madness'
and their record 'Our House' and you've got it in one.
Each bonfire night on November the 5th, we'd have a dirty
great bonfire in the back garden with loads of friends and
family attending 'the show'. I was Mr Bossy-Boots and liked
to be the one setting off the fireworks. (Yes even at the
age of 9, I was a little precoscious).
Anyway, myself and a gaggle of others had been doing the
old 'Penney-For-The-Guy' routine to get money for fireworks.
(As you did back then. No ageism in those days matey). We
had a massive collection all piled into a big cardboard box.
On the night, the fire burned fiercely, the spuds were thrown
in, and the old Guy had seen the last of his days. NOW! Time
for the fireworks.
The first dozen or so; roman candles, fountains, jumping jacks,
catherine wheels, all looking good.
So now it was time to let a few rockets loose into the night sky.
Place milk bottle firmly in the ground. (check)
Place rocket into bottle (Check)
Light blue touch paper and stand well clear (Check)
CLUNK!! Milk bottle falls over. Rocket takes off.
Straight towards the big cardboard box full of our fireworks.
Yes, you guessed right. The whole lot went mental.
We all scattered as far as possible from the mayhem. (Though
it really was a GREAT 'unintended' show). But that was it. Our
much anticipated, wonderful firework display which should have
lasted at least an hour. Up in smoke within just a few minutes.
We all consoled ourselves with the fact that we still had our pop
and baked potato's to look forward to, but really we were all
rather GLUM.
Then we heard the front gate screetch.
(It was metal, and did screetch).
Who was that coming down the path?
More to the point, WHAT was he carrying on his shoulder?
It was our Dave who had just got back from Reading with another
HUGE box of fireworks for us.
How GREAT did we all feel?
Hopefully Dave knew how much we appreciated him then, and
hopefully he'll be looking down now, remembering so many fond
memories of our childhood that can never be erased.
God bless you Dave, and may you be forever happy wherever
you are.
Pete.
---------------------------------------
Farewell, Brother Dave.
This week the first of my ten brothers and sisters
died of a heart-attack at the age of 68.
He was Dave, and he died on September 17th 08.
As a young lad he was my Hero of course.
Ten years older than me, and a dedicated 'Teddy-
Boy' he was a bit of a 'Geezer'.
He bought me a bright red blazer and black jeans
when I was 5 or 6 years old, and he used to smother
my hair in Brylcreem and style it into a proper Teddy-
Boy Quiff with a DA at the back.
Then he used to take me into Reading town centre
to tour 'The Cafe`s'. Sampling the Pepsi's and 7-ups
in each. Of course, I used to get all the attention
from the Teddy-Girls who thought I was 'lovely' at
the time, and I naturally revelled in all this attention.
It wasn't until I got older that I realised what Dave's
ploy was. Doll me up to look like a 'mini-ted'. Get all
the Teddy-Girls to crowd around me. Suddenly, Dave
was the focus of ALL their attention. (What a lesson
in self-marketing?)
He used to be the talk of our village often because of
the outrageous clothes he wore. he would make waist-
coats up himself out of patches of brightly-coloured
silk cast-offs. On one occasion, he ripped down our
curtain pelmet to wear as a 'Giant Kipper-Tie'.
No,Dave wasn't the most understated chap in the village.
He worked for a while on the railway, and each night
for about a fortnight, he would walk up from the station,
(which was about a mile down the road) with a railway
sleeper on his shoulder. These were our fuel for the
winter. But I still don't know HOW he managed to carry
them that far.
He did have a bit of a reputation as a 'hard man'. Not
many would dare argue with him. But to me he was a
gentle giant who was extremely caring and protective.
He was a master at playing cards, and took every
opportunity to teach us all the different games and
tactics so that WE wouldn't get beat.
He loved his music, and introduced us all to it by buying
this huge stand-up gramaphone to play his rock'n'roll 78's.
We all had to learn 'the Jive' and spent hours helping him
'perfect' his technique.
He just loved board games of every kind. Was very good
at crosswords too. Infact every Sunday Morning, he and I
would sit round the kitchen table with the 'News of the
World' completing the crossword that always had what at
the time seemed like a 'huge' cash prize which was going
to change our lives.
We're talking mid to late 50's here, and the prize was
probably £1,000. With houses costing an average of £500-
at the time, that was a lot of money to win.
(We also did the womens fashion competition. But don't
tell anyone).
Dave was a very generous brother, and each week he'd
bring back the 'Dinky' toy cars for me and younger brother
Bill to play with. He bought a 'Scalextric' set when they
first came out as well, and each week he'd buy us some-
thing new to add to it.
Now, our house was a bit of a focal point. Think 'Madness'
and their record 'Our House' and you've got it in one.
Each bonfire night on November the 5th, we'd have a dirty
great bonfire in the back garden with loads of friends and
family attending 'the show'. I was Mr Bossy-Boots and liked
to be the one setting off the fireworks. (Yes even at the
age of 9, I was a little precoscious).
Anyway, myself and a gaggle of others had been doing the
old 'Penney-For-The-Guy' routine to get money for fireworks.
(As you did back then. No ageism in those days matey). We
had a massive collection all piled into a big cardboard box.
On the night, the fire burned fiercely, the spuds were thrown
in, and the old Guy had seen the last of his days. NOW! Time
for the fireworks.
The first dozen or so; roman candles, fountains, jumping jacks,
catherine wheels, all looking good.
So now it was time to let a few rockets loose into the night sky.
Place milk bottle firmly in the ground. (check)
Place rocket into bottle (Check)
Light blue touch paper and stand well clear (Check)
CLUNK!! Milk bottle falls over. Rocket takes off.
Straight towards the big cardboard box full of our fireworks.
Yes, you guessed right. The whole lot went mental.
We all scattered as far as possible from the mayhem. (Though
it really was a GREAT 'unintended' show). But that was it. Our
much anticipated, wonderful firework display which should have
lasted at least an hour. Up in smoke within just a few minutes.
We all consoled ourselves with the fact that we still had our pop
and baked potato's to look forward to, but really we were all
rather GLUM.
Then we heard the front gate screetch.
(It was metal, and did screetch).
Who was that coming down the path?
More to the point, WHAT was he carrying on his shoulder?
It was our Dave who had just got back from Reading with another
HUGE box of fireworks for us.
How GREAT did we all feel?
Hopefully Dave knew how much we appreciated him then, and
hopefully he'll be looking down now, remembering so many fond
memories of our childhood that can never be erased.
God bless you Dave, and may you be forever happy wherever
you are.
Pete.
---------------------------------------
Thursday, 5 June 2008
THE GHOSTS OF THE ROMAN WALK, WARGRAVE.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Ghosts Of The Roman Walk. Wargrave.
I’m probably about ten years old now and I’ve been down the village with my older brother George. It’s dark, getting late, and extremely foggy. (Never thought I’d be looking back at ‘foggy nights’ with affection, but we just don’t get them now).
Halfway up the road at the junction of School lane, Victoria road and Dark lane was one of the very few street lamps at that time in the village, and it’s where a ‘congregation’ would form regularly at nights to discuss all manner of things. Usually mischievous, but nothing too serious.
Anyway, this night in particular, there were two of the local ‘great story-tellers’, Mick Jones, and Eric Llewellyn. Both were quite a bit older than me, but fascinating to listen to. They seemed to always have the ‘perfect’ night time stories that would send shivers up your spine and give you nightmares for weeks.
Mick Jones was particularly keen on the little War Magazines that were prevalent at that time, and would often relay the stories to us, with many extra ‘gory bits’ added for good measure.
Eric was more of the local ‘murder, mystery and suspense’ story-teller. He was obviously very interested in local history, but used to love to ‘embellish’ the truth somewhat. Just to make his stories seem more scary than Mick’s I should think.
It was one of Eric’s ramblings that set me off on one of my frequent trips into fantasy land. He was telling of the history of ‘The Roman walk’ at Wargrave, and why it got it’s name.
According to ‘Eric-the-fibber’, battalions of roman soldiers would walk through the village on their way to Linden Hill.
(Though we never did find out WHY they used to march to Linden Hill)
Apparently they used to use The Roman Walk to hold ‘Orgies’ and secretly worship the Devil in Black Magic ceremonies. He would go into great detail about WHAT actually went on there. So much so, that he was really believable.
He also went on to say that the Walk was still haunted, and that regularly, if you settle down nice and quiet, you’ll hear them marching, flame torches will be lit, and you’ll be able to see for yourself EXACTLY what used to go on in those days.
George and Myself got home very late that night, much to the annoyance of my Dad, but he was pretty much used to it by now. I went to bed to settle down into my late night reading, but all I could think about was Eric’s fantastic tales.
That was IT! the next night I went down to The Roman walk to keep watch. I settled in the tunnel that runs under the Roman walk about halfway down, where a tree trunk used to lay across he path. I waited, and waited, and waited and…….
you guessed it. No Roman Soldiers turned up. But what DID happen as I got more and more tired was……….
The trees started looking at me. They started bending in my direction, pulling faces and ‘talking’ to me. I’m pretty certain that I also saw a few of them actually MOVE. As I looked up into the wintry sky the twigs on the branches formed fingers that were curling and beckoning me, while at the same time creating quite a noise in this ‘dead’ of night.
Because I was down in the tunnel, I felt trapped. Too scared to leave incase ‘the trees’ got me. But then I would also hear all the other noises of the night as the nocturnal wildlife took over the area.
I felt stuck. I knew I had to get back home as it was getting late now. But my imagination and my tiredness had got the better of me and I was just TOO scared to move. You can imagine my relief as I heard voices coming along the walk. Not just any old Roman voices, but voices I recognised instantly. Stan Povey and his older brother Gilly were making their way back home. They lived at the far end of The Roman Walk and used it all the time.
I think I might have startled them a bit as I jumped out from the tunnel in the dead of night, but they were good enough to walk me back to the relative ‘civilisation’ of the Wargrave Village High St.
When I told them WHY I was there, they looked at each other, nervously laughed, and changed the subject quick.
Did they know something I didn’t?
Catch you later,
Pete.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Ghosts Of The Roman Walk. Wargrave.
I’m probably about ten years old now and I’ve been down the village with my older brother George. It’s dark, getting late, and extremely foggy. (Never thought I’d be looking back at ‘foggy nights’ with affection, but we just don’t get them now).
Halfway up the road at the junction of School lane, Victoria road and Dark lane was one of the very few street lamps at that time in the village, and it’s where a ‘congregation’ would form regularly at nights to discuss all manner of things. Usually mischievous, but nothing too serious.
Anyway, this night in particular, there were two of the local ‘great story-tellers’, Mick Jones, and Eric Llewellyn. Both were quite a bit older than me, but fascinating to listen to. They seemed to always have the ‘perfect’ night time stories that would send shivers up your spine and give you nightmares for weeks.
Mick Jones was particularly keen on the little War Magazines that were prevalent at that time, and would often relay the stories to us, with many extra ‘gory bits’ added for good measure.
Eric was more of the local ‘murder, mystery and suspense’ story-teller. He was obviously very interested in local history, but used to love to ‘embellish’ the truth somewhat. Just to make his stories seem more scary than Mick’s I should think.
It was one of Eric’s ramblings that set me off on one of my frequent trips into fantasy land. He was telling of the history of ‘The Roman walk’ at Wargrave, and why it got it’s name.
According to ‘Eric-the-fibber’, battalions of roman soldiers would walk through the village on their way to Linden Hill.
(Though we never did find out WHY they used to march to Linden Hill)
Apparently they used to use The Roman Walk to hold ‘Orgies’ and secretly worship the Devil in Black Magic ceremonies. He would go into great detail about WHAT actually went on there. So much so, that he was really believable.
He also went on to say that the Walk was still haunted, and that regularly, if you settle down nice and quiet, you’ll hear them marching, flame torches will be lit, and you’ll be able to see for yourself EXACTLY what used to go on in those days.
George and Myself got home very late that night, much to the annoyance of my Dad, but he was pretty much used to it by now. I went to bed to settle down into my late night reading, but all I could think about was Eric’s fantastic tales.
That was IT! the next night I went down to The Roman walk to keep watch. I settled in the tunnel that runs under the Roman walk about halfway down, where a tree trunk used to lay across he path. I waited, and waited, and waited and…….
you guessed it. No Roman Soldiers turned up. But what DID happen as I got more and more tired was……….
The trees started looking at me. They started bending in my direction, pulling faces and ‘talking’ to me. I’m pretty certain that I also saw a few of them actually MOVE. As I looked up into the wintry sky the twigs on the branches formed fingers that were curling and beckoning me, while at the same time creating quite a noise in this ‘dead’ of night.
Because I was down in the tunnel, I felt trapped. Too scared to leave incase ‘the trees’ got me. But then I would also hear all the other noises of the night as the nocturnal wildlife took over the area.
I felt stuck. I knew I had to get back home as it was getting late now. But my imagination and my tiredness had got the better of me and I was just TOO scared to move. You can imagine my relief as I heard voices coming along the walk. Not just any old Roman voices, but voices I recognised instantly. Stan Povey and his older brother Gilly were making their way back home. They lived at the far end of The Roman Walk and used it all the time.
I think I might have startled them a bit as I jumped out from the tunnel in the dead of night, but they were good enough to walk me back to the relative ‘civilisation’ of the Wargrave Village High St.
When I told them WHY I was there, they looked at each other, nervously laughed, and changed the subject quick.
Did they know something I didn’t?
Catch you later,
Pete.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Saturday, 31 May 2008
Hamilton Rd.....The Flint Rock Face.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hamilton Rd. The Flint Rock Face.
Hamilton Rd in Wargrave, Berks, is a nice smooth surfaced road these days. But back in the 50’s it was an old Flint road.
Not just little flints either. These were industrial sized flints.
They must have ripped the car tyres of the unsuspecting stranger to pieces. But to the locals, they knew to keep over to the left as you came up the hill, as it was a little sandier over there. It was certainly the route we all walked up and down, or rode our bikes.
Now our Mum had never learned to ride a bike. But knocking at the door of forty, she was given one by one of the people she ‘did for’ down the Loddon drive. It was an old ladies all black bike. Very good condition too. She was over the moon.
The trouble was, as she couldn’t ride a bike, we kids had to teach her. Our plan was to go to the top of the road, sit her on it, and we three youngest would guide her down the hill.
Plans, as you know, never quite go as you’d like. Mum and her bike gathered a bit too much momentum and got away from us, sending poor old Mum right into the bushes half way down.
When you’re a Mum of 11 kids, you’re made of stern stuff, and she got straight back on her bike, determined not to be beat. I don’t remember how many times we repeated the torture, but after falling off too many times to calculate, covered in cuts and bruises, she eventually made it on her own from top-to-bottom of the road. She was now, an ‘independent’ cyclist. Skilled in the art of bicycle riding and ready to get to work in double-quick time.
It was a proud moment for all of us. We’d taught our Mum to ride a bike. Great! But there was just one thing. She might have mastered the art of bicycle riding, but she never did master the art of ‘BRAKING’.
The bike had perfectly good brakes. Maybe they were TOO good, I don’t know. But Mum was just too darn scared to apply them. It got to be a standing joke in the village. “Look out, Ven’s on her bike again”. She had been accident prone all of her life. If anyone was going to get run over, fall over, or slip into the river, it was our Mum. But she just bounced back up every time and kept on going. Narrowly missing the ‘Grim Reaper’ on many occasions.
After a few months of crashing her prized possession, she agreed that maybe she should give up the bike, and go back to walking. (Which she did). She gave me her bike, which I immediately painted every colour of the rainbow, (multi-coloured chevrons up the back mudguard), and took to the dirt-tracks up the back of the Estate, and just past ‘The Old House At Home’ in Sherlock Row. It was a ‘Hercules’ bike by name, and certainly a ‘Hercules’ by nature. No matter how hard I treated that old bike, the only thing that ever broke was the tyres.
Can we still say the same thing about bikes these days?
(Maybe if you pay over £1,000- for one you might.)
As for my old Mum? Maybe me taking her bike off her hands gave her just a few more years on this mortal coil. But I bet she took the fondest memories of that old bike with her,
(as will I.)
Catch you later,
Pete.
Click the Header to visit the main blog, and please leave your comments below.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hamilton Rd. The Flint Rock Face.
Hamilton Rd in Wargrave, Berks, is a nice smooth surfaced road these days. But back in the 50’s it was an old Flint road.
Not just little flints either. These were industrial sized flints.
They must have ripped the car tyres of the unsuspecting stranger to pieces. But to the locals, they knew to keep over to the left as you came up the hill, as it was a little sandier over there. It was certainly the route we all walked up and down, or rode our bikes.
Now our Mum had never learned to ride a bike. But knocking at the door of forty, she was given one by one of the people she ‘did for’ down the Loddon drive. It was an old ladies all black bike. Very good condition too. She was over the moon.
The trouble was, as she couldn’t ride a bike, we kids had to teach her. Our plan was to go to the top of the road, sit her on it, and we three youngest would guide her down the hill.
Plans, as you know, never quite go as you’d like. Mum and her bike gathered a bit too much momentum and got away from us, sending poor old Mum right into the bushes half way down.
When you’re a Mum of 11 kids, you’re made of stern stuff, and she got straight back on her bike, determined not to be beat. I don’t remember how many times we repeated the torture, but after falling off too many times to calculate, covered in cuts and bruises, she eventually made it on her own from top-to-bottom of the road. She was now, an ‘independent’ cyclist. Skilled in the art of bicycle riding and ready to get to work in double-quick time.
It was a proud moment for all of us. We’d taught our Mum to ride a bike. Great! But there was just one thing. She might have mastered the art of bicycle riding, but she never did master the art of ‘BRAKING’.
The bike had perfectly good brakes. Maybe they were TOO good, I don’t know. But Mum was just too darn scared to apply them. It got to be a standing joke in the village. “Look out, Ven’s on her bike again”. She had been accident prone all of her life. If anyone was going to get run over, fall over, or slip into the river, it was our Mum. But she just bounced back up every time and kept on going. Narrowly missing the ‘Grim Reaper’ on many occasions.
After a few months of crashing her prized possession, she agreed that maybe she should give up the bike, and go back to walking. (Which she did). She gave me her bike, which I immediately painted every colour of the rainbow, (multi-coloured chevrons up the back mudguard), and took to the dirt-tracks up the back of the Estate, and just past ‘The Old House At Home’ in Sherlock Row. It was a ‘Hercules’ bike by name, and certainly a ‘Hercules’ by nature. No matter how hard I treated that old bike, the only thing that ever broke was the tyres.
Can we still say the same thing about bikes these days?
(Maybe if you pay over £1,000- for one you might.)
As for my old Mum? Maybe me taking her bike off her hands gave her just a few more years on this mortal coil. But I bet she took the fondest memories of that old bike with her,
(as will I.)
Catch you later,
Pete.
Click the Header to visit the main blog, and please leave your comments below.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Monday, 26 May 2008
DAVE'S VAULT OF EVIL.
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The Wargrave Manor House.
From a very young age, (as I remember) the Manor House grounds at Wargrave were always accessible to the villagers.
Although we didn’t have right-of-way, there was a kind consideration from the owners at the time, who didn’t feel threatened in any way by allowing walkers, children and possibly ‘poachers’ to roam the land.
I never even realised until I was in my teens that the land we used as an extended playground WAS infact ‘private’ land at all. (Of course, these days you can’t even take photo’s within spitting distance without a burly, armed security guard questioning your motives).
There was a lad who I shall only call Dave in this blog entry, because if he’s not in a maximum security prison serving life for multiple murder or torture right now, he might Sue me, (or worse).
He was the chap who had the BIG bowie knife, a rip hook in one hand and a real ‘Colt 45’ in the other. (With real ammo too, which in those days you could buy from ‘Hammants’ at Henley perfectly legally). He also had the attitude and ‘mentality’ to match. He was about five years older than me, but I still think he was pretty lucky to count me as his friend. All the other lads kept well clear, to their credit.
Dave had a couple of sheets of corrugated tin at the bottom of his garden, which were propped up and used for target practice with his Colt 45. Fine, but he used to get me to hide behind it, pop my head up, and then move one way or the other. The game was, that he had to guess which way I’d moved and then try to hit me. The bullets would comfortably pierce the tin, but had slowed down enough not to pierce ME! It did used to sting quite badly, but you didn’t dare come out until Dave had tired of his target practice.
That’s just the kind of lad he was, bless him.
If you were to be stranded in some remote location with no hope of rescue and NO food, Dave would be the last person you’d need around, because he’d definitely EAT you.
Back to the Wargrave Manor grounds, and the field to the left of the main gate as you look at it. Inside, what looked from the road like just any other clump of blackberry bushes, was the entrance to an old air-raid shelter. Dave decided this day to hack his way through the brambles to the opening, which was covered with yet another piece of old corrugated tin.
Amongst all of Dave’s regular ‘exploring regalia’, he had a torch. So it seemed like a great idea to go down and explore. We might find all sorts down there. Dead bodies, hidden treasure, who knows? So we crept down very carefully with ME obviously leading the way, hacking at all the cobwebs and stuff with my trusty hawthorn branch. (Always carry a hawthorn branch when you’re an exploring kid. It’s strong, springy, and very hard to break).
There seemed to be several compartments down there. It was bigger than we thought it’d be, so we were having a good ‘mooch’ around. Then Dave said he was just going back to the entrance to get his bag of ‘regalia’. I didn’t suspect a thing, and stood there waiting. Not long I might add, as the ‘Evil Dave’ decide to turn off his torch, bolt for the exit, and cover it up with the tin, making it pitch-black down there. I shouted and shouted for Dave to stop messing about, but he didn’t answer, or wouldn’t answer.
To say panic set in would be a bit of an understatement. I was terrified of spiders at the best of times, and this was my worst nightmare. I fumbled and felt my way around for what seemed like forever, shouting out to Dave all the time, with no answer. Eventually I found the exit steps and climbed them as fast as I could. Only to hit my head on the tin, which was secured SOLID. I pushed and pushed with no joy whatsoever. I shouted and screamed at the top of my voice hoping to attract the attention of the people who lived in the house on the opposite side of the road, but no luck.
Eventually, I heard a little snigger from above, and realised that Dave was actually SITTING on the tin so that I couldn’t move it. He thought it was extremely funny, and couldn’t stop laughing all the way home. I, on the other hand, had nightmares for months after.
But STILL I would go back and call for him to go ‘adventuring’ with.
Some of us never learn I suppose. As you probably have already guessed, there’s more to come from the ‘Dave’s vault of evil’ in future posts.
Catch you later,
Pete.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Wargrave Manor House.
From a very young age, (as I remember) the Manor House grounds at Wargrave were always accessible to the villagers.
Although we didn’t have right-of-way, there was a kind consideration from the owners at the time, who didn’t feel threatened in any way by allowing walkers, children and possibly ‘poachers’ to roam the land.
I never even realised until I was in my teens that the land we used as an extended playground WAS infact ‘private’ land at all. (Of course, these days you can’t even take photo’s within spitting distance without a burly, armed security guard questioning your motives).
There was a lad who I shall only call Dave in this blog entry, because if he’s not in a maximum security prison serving life for multiple murder or torture right now, he might Sue me, (or worse).
He was the chap who had the BIG bowie knife, a rip hook in one hand and a real ‘Colt 45’ in the other. (With real ammo too, which in those days you could buy from ‘Hammants’ at Henley perfectly legally). He also had the attitude and ‘mentality’ to match. He was about five years older than me, but I still think he was pretty lucky to count me as his friend. All the other lads kept well clear, to their credit.
Dave had a couple of sheets of corrugated tin at the bottom of his garden, which were propped up and used for target practice with his Colt 45. Fine, but he used to get me to hide behind it, pop my head up, and then move one way or the other. The game was, that he had to guess which way I’d moved and then try to hit me. The bullets would comfortably pierce the tin, but had slowed down enough not to pierce ME! It did used to sting quite badly, but you didn’t dare come out until Dave had tired of his target practice.
That’s just the kind of lad he was, bless him.
If you were to be stranded in some remote location with no hope of rescue and NO food, Dave would be the last person you’d need around, because he’d definitely EAT you.
Back to the Wargrave Manor grounds, and the field to the left of the main gate as you look at it. Inside, what looked from the road like just any other clump of blackberry bushes, was the entrance to an old air-raid shelter. Dave decided this day to hack his way through the brambles to the opening, which was covered with yet another piece of old corrugated tin.
Amongst all of Dave’s regular ‘exploring regalia’, he had a torch. So it seemed like a great idea to go down and explore. We might find all sorts down there. Dead bodies, hidden treasure, who knows? So we crept down very carefully with ME obviously leading the way, hacking at all the cobwebs and stuff with my trusty hawthorn branch. (Always carry a hawthorn branch when you’re an exploring kid. It’s strong, springy, and very hard to break).
There seemed to be several compartments down there. It was bigger than we thought it’d be, so we were having a good ‘mooch’ around. Then Dave said he was just going back to the entrance to get his bag of ‘regalia’. I didn’t suspect a thing, and stood there waiting. Not long I might add, as the ‘Evil Dave’ decide to turn off his torch, bolt for the exit, and cover it up with the tin, making it pitch-black down there. I shouted and shouted for Dave to stop messing about, but he didn’t answer, or wouldn’t answer.
To say panic set in would be a bit of an understatement. I was terrified of spiders at the best of times, and this was my worst nightmare. I fumbled and felt my way around for what seemed like forever, shouting out to Dave all the time, with no answer. Eventually I found the exit steps and climbed them as fast as I could. Only to hit my head on the tin, which was secured SOLID. I pushed and pushed with no joy whatsoever. I shouted and screamed at the top of my voice hoping to attract the attention of the people who lived in the house on the opposite side of the road, but no luck.
Eventually, I heard a little snigger from above, and realised that Dave was actually SITTING on the tin so that I couldn’t move it. He thought it was extremely funny, and couldn’t stop laughing all the way home. I, on the other hand, had nightmares for months after.
But STILL I would go back and call for him to go ‘adventuring’ with.
Some of us never learn I suppose. As you probably have already guessed, there’s more to come from the ‘Dave’s vault of evil’ in future posts.
Catch you later,
Pete.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sunday, 25 May 2008
THE BULL AT WARGRAVE ON THAMES.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Bull at Wargrave on Thames.
The Bull at Wargrave came to figure prominently in my younger days, (from the age of about 8 upwards). because my Mum started working there as chambermaid, cook, barmaid, bottle-washer and chief confidante` to ‘Madge’, wife of Len Gibbs the landlord at that time.
It very soon became almost my second home, and I was always made to feel welcome in their private quarters. Len was a particularly ‘protective’ light over me. Always seemed to be giving me ‘good advice’ about what I should, or more to the point, should NOT do. Not in a bossy, condescending way, but more as a favourite uncle would. (Or should).
Knowing that I was a fidget-bum. Not able to sit still for five minutes at a time, (unless I was reading or writing of course) Len would find me jobs to do around the place. Weeding, tidying the garage, cleaning his beautiful, treasured JAG, (The excellent Mk 9 ) or just sweeping the yard out the back. Anything really, just so that he’d have an excuse to give me a couple of bob for my efforts. (I got to learn the REAL value of work from Len).
The Bull at Wargrave was a very popular retreat or stop-over for the good, gracious, rich and famous in those days. I don’t know if it was because Len was a top-notch Freemason, but something attracted them. (Usually fairly anonymously, as my Mum was often asked to be ‘discreet’ about their famous guests).
Now….My Mum, albeit our very humble status in life, was a staunch ‘Conservative Party’ supporter. She was a member of the local ‘Conservative club’ and wouldn’t have a word said against them. (Harold Macmillan was God in her eyes.) So you can guess the excitement when she found out that Sir Alec Douglas-Home was going to be staying over at the Bull. (This was early sixties, before he became Prime Minister.)
It’s all she would speak about at home, before, during and after the visit. Undoubtedly leaving a mental scar on me for the rest of my days. (Only joking folks).
The other ‘mental scarring’ I received from the days spent in the bosom of the Gibbs family which included their grown-up daughter Vanda, and Len’s brother (whose name escapes me right now) was the time they got a new dog. A collie by the name of TESSA! Not the best choice in the world for a ‘pub dog’, but a lovely ‘lassie’ she most certainly WAS.
I was made ‘chief looker-afterer’ of Tess’ and would take her for long walks every day to give her some much needed exercise. We became ‘an item’, so much so that I couldn’t even walk past the window of the Bull without Tess’ running riot inside and creating mayhem.
Len loved Tess’ and he felt very protective towards me, but Tess’ was wrecking the pub. Drinks would go flying, glasses smashed, all sorts of havock was caused as soon as I got within her ‘radar’. After a while, Len and Madge realised the BIG mistake they’d made replacing their old Alsation with a ‘COLLIE’ and plans were made to re-home Tess’ to a farm many miles away. They took me to one side and explained the situation to me and how they hated what they were doing, but had no choice.
I remember that first night going home with the news ‘ringing’ in my head that Tess’ was going. I was always a regular ‘Sunday-school-goer’ and remembered what we were always being told there. That if you prayed really hard, you’d be heard and helped. I remember ‘praying’ myself to sleep that night. Asking God to keep Tess’ here, and not let them send her away.
The next day? Good news, Len told me they were going to give it another try, just to see if Tess’ could be ‘trained’ not to go mental all the time, and that I could take her for walks still. (Coincidence? I don’t know). But what I do know is, that over the next weeks, this happened THREE more times.
Three more times I prayed myself to sleep asking Tess’ to be saved, and she was. Until the day she escaped out of the yard to chase after me up the Wargrave High St, nearly causing a nasty car accident.
It was then that Len REALLY sat me down to explain WHY they had to send Tess’ away. It was for her OWN GOOD. That she could have been seriously injured or killed just then. Or that somebody else could have been. That where they were planning to send her was a farm out in the middle of nowhere and she could have ALL the freedom to run that she liked there.
That night I didn’t Pray myself to sleep. I just lay there realising that Len was right, no matter HOW unhappy I felt about it.
The next day, I went down to the Bull and it was ‘silent’. No Tess’, and no Len, as he’d taken Tess’ to her new home. Somehow the Bull at Wargrave lost a little of it’s spirit.
Tess was replaced by a Bassett Hound. Can’t remember the name. I never took it for walks. But it was a friendly, lazy old soul that used to just look at you with those big old brown eyes as if to say; “I hope you’re not thinking of taking ME for one of those ‘walk’ things”.
Catch you later,
Pete.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Bull at Wargrave on Thames.
The Bull at Wargrave came to figure prominently in my younger days, (from the age of about 8 upwards). because my Mum started working there as chambermaid, cook, barmaid, bottle-washer and chief confidante` to ‘Madge’, wife of Len Gibbs the landlord at that time.
It very soon became almost my second home, and I was always made to feel welcome in their private quarters. Len was a particularly ‘protective’ light over me. Always seemed to be giving me ‘good advice’ about what I should, or more to the point, should NOT do. Not in a bossy, condescending way, but more as a favourite uncle would. (Or should).
Knowing that I was a fidget-bum. Not able to sit still for five minutes at a time, (unless I was reading or writing of course) Len would find me jobs to do around the place. Weeding, tidying the garage, cleaning his beautiful, treasured JAG, (The excellent Mk 9 ) or just sweeping the yard out the back. Anything really, just so that he’d have an excuse to give me a couple of bob for my efforts. (I got to learn the REAL value of work from Len).
The Bull at Wargrave was a very popular retreat or stop-over for the good, gracious, rich and famous in those days. I don’t know if it was because Len was a top-notch Freemason, but something attracted them. (Usually fairly anonymously, as my Mum was often asked to be ‘discreet’ about their famous guests).
Now….My Mum, albeit our very humble status in life, was a staunch ‘Conservative Party’ supporter. She was a member of the local ‘Conservative club’ and wouldn’t have a word said against them. (Harold Macmillan was God in her eyes.) So you can guess the excitement when she found out that Sir Alec Douglas-Home was going to be staying over at the Bull. (This was early sixties, before he became Prime Minister.)
It’s all she would speak about at home, before, during and after the visit. Undoubtedly leaving a mental scar on me for the rest of my days. (Only joking folks).
The other ‘mental scarring’ I received from the days spent in the bosom of the Gibbs family which included their grown-up daughter Vanda, and Len’s brother (whose name escapes me right now) was the time they got a new dog. A collie by the name of TESSA! Not the best choice in the world for a ‘pub dog’, but a lovely ‘lassie’ she most certainly WAS.
I was made ‘chief looker-afterer’ of Tess’ and would take her for long walks every day to give her some much needed exercise. We became ‘an item’, so much so that I couldn’t even walk past the window of the Bull without Tess’ running riot inside and creating mayhem.
Len loved Tess’ and he felt very protective towards me, but Tess’ was wrecking the pub. Drinks would go flying, glasses smashed, all sorts of havock was caused as soon as I got within her ‘radar’. After a while, Len and Madge realised the BIG mistake they’d made replacing their old Alsation with a ‘COLLIE’ and plans were made to re-home Tess’ to a farm many miles away. They took me to one side and explained the situation to me and how they hated what they were doing, but had no choice.
I remember that first night going home with the news ‘ringing’ in my head that Tess’ was going. I was always a regular ‘Sunday-school-goer’ and remembered what we were always being told there. That if you prayed really hard, you’d be heard and helped. I remember ‘praying’ myself to sleep that night. Asking God to keep Tess’ here, and not let them send her away.
The next day? Good news, Len told me they were going to give it another try, just to see if Tess’ could be ‘trained’ not to go mental all the time, and that I could take her for walks still. (Coincidence? I don’t know). But what I do know is, that over the next weeks, this happened THREE more times.
Three more times I prayed myself to sleep asking Tess’ to be saved, and she was. Until the day she escaped out of the yard to chase after me up the Wargrave High St, nearly causing a nasty car accident.
It was then that Len REALLY sat me down to explain WHY they had to send Tess’ away. It was for her OWN GOOD. That she could have been seriously injured or killed just then. Or that somebody else could have been. That where they were planning to send her was a farm out in the middle of nowhere and she could have ALL the freedom to run that she liked there.
That night I didn’t Pray myself to sleep. I just lay there realising that Len was right, no matter HOW unhappy I felt about it.
The next day, I went down to the Bull and it was ‘silent’. No Tess’, and no Len, as he’d taken Tess’ to her new home. Somehow the Bull at Wargrave lost a little of it’s spirit.
Tess was replaced by a Bassett Hound. Can’t remember the name. I never took it for walks. But it was a friendly, lazy old soul that used to just look at you with those big old brown eyes as if to say; “I hope you’re not thinking of taking ME for one of those ‘walk’ things”.
Catch you later,
Pete.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
BLACKBIRDS UNDER MY WING...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Blackbirds under my wing.
This post is way ‘off-kilter’ here, but something’s just this minute happened and I feel the need to write it down.
Outside the window, near to where I sit at this computer writing away for a lot of my time, is our extension flat-roof.
All kinds of birds accumulate there waiting to be fed by me at regular times of the day. We also have four regular squirrels at present, (mum’s about to have more soon) who also come to be fed. On ‘cream biscuits’ believe it or not, they’ve gone off of the plain ones unless I refuse to give in to their head leaning and pleading looks through the window at me.
These birds and animals all co-exist very well with our cat who also likes to use the roof for ‘access’ and ‘sunbathing’.
Altogether they all get on famously without too much arguing.
Next door, they have this large tropical tree. I don’t know what it’s called but it has very long (about a metre) pointed leaves. Looks like a giant spiky chestnut shell. Our pair of Blackbirds started building a nest in the top of it a few weeks ago, and it was good to see them industriously working away at the task.
Last week though, I noticed this ‘huge’ magpie arrive on the roof. Have you seen how BIG these birds have got right now? (As big as a Duck). Anyway, it wasn’t wanted, and the other birds all made a fuss every time it appeared.
I was sat here typing away when all of a sudden, all hell broke loose, with the Blackbird’s in particular screeching at the top of their voices. I looked out of the window to see this giant Magpie trying to get to the top of the spiky tree where the blackbird’s nest was. They were attacking the Magpie with a vengeance but it wasn’t giving in at all. It was focused on those eggs (or chic’s), so drastic action was called for.
Now I NEVER would usually do this, but I quickly got my son’s BB gun and gave the magpie a sharp ‘jolt’ in the backside. It was enough to make it fly into the nearby Giant Sycamore at the bottom of our garden, but STILL the blackbird’s wouldn’t let it rest. They kept harassing it, trying to get it to fly away, but it wouldn’t. That is……wait for it….until the FOUR Squirrels all started attacking the magpie as well. Yes, honestly….They went to the aid of the Blackbird’s.
End of story?…. Not quite.
This morning, just after feeding the bird’s and sitting down to check my E-mails and Twitter updates. The Blackbird’s were on the roof creating a real fuss again. I looked up, and both of them were looking in at me ‘screeching’ at the top of their voices. I quickly got up to see what the matter was, and yes, you guessed right. The ‘Fat Duck’ Magpie was back. Sat on the corner of the roof, looking up at the nest in the top of next door’s spiky tree.
I didn’t get the BB gun out this time. I got the large fairy liquid bottle, now filled with water, and gave it a BLAST! to scare it away. (Which it did thankfully). But I have to say, I felt really proud that the Blackbird’s actually looked to me as some sort of ‘protector’.
OK, got that off my chest. Must get back to work.
Catch you later,
Pete.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Blackbirds under my wing.
This post is way ‘off-kilter’ here, but something’s just this minute happened and I feel the need to write it down.
Outside the window, near to where I sit at this computer writing away for a lot of my time, is our extension flat-roof.
All kinds of birds accumulate there waiting to be fed by me at regular times of the day. We also have four regular squirrels at present, (mum’s about to have more soon) who also come to be fed. On ‘cream biscuits’ believe it or not, they’ve gone off of the plain ones unless I refuse to give in to their head leaning and pleading looks through the window at me.
These birds and animals all co-exist very well with our cat who also likes to use the roof for ‘access’ and ‘sunbathing’.
Altogether they all get on famously without too much arguing.
Next door, they have this large tropical tree. I don’t know what it’s called but it has very long (about a metre) pointed leaves. Looks like a giant spiky chestnut shell. Our pair of Blackbirds started building a nest in the top of it a few weeks ago, and it was good to see them industriously working away at the task.
Last week though, I noticed this ‘huge’ magpie arrive on the roof. Have you seen how BIG these birds have got right now? (As big as a Duck). Anyway, it wasn’t wanted, and the other birds all made a fuss every time it appeared.
I was sat here typing away when all of a sudden, all hell broke loose, with the Blackbird’s in particular screeching at the top of their voices. I looked out of the window to see this giant Magpie trying to get to the top of the spiky tree where the blackbird’s nest was. They were attacking the Magpie with a vengeance but it wasn’t giving in at all. It was focused on those eggs (or chic’s), so drastic action was called for.
Now I NEVER would usually do this, but I quickly got my son’s BB gun and gave the magpie a sharp ‘jolt’ in the backside. It was enough to make it fly into the nearby Giant Sycamore at the bottom of our garden, but STILL the blackbird’s wouldn’t let it rest. They kept harassing it, trying to get it to fly away, but it wouldn’t. That is……wait for it….until the FOUR Squirrels all started attacking the magpie as well. Yes, honestly….They went to the aid of the Blackbird’s.
End of story?…. Not quite.
This morning, just after feeding the bird’s and sitting down to check my E-mails and Twitter updates. The Blackbird’s were on the roof creating a real fuss again. I looked up, and both of them were looking in at me ‘screeching’ at the top of their voices. I quickly got up to see what the matter was, and yes, you guessed right. The ‘Fat Duck’ Magpie was back. Sat on the corner of the roof, looking up at the nest in the top of next door’s spiky tree.
I didn’t get the BB gun out this time. I got the large fairy liquid bottle, now filled with water, and gave it a BLAST! to scare it away. (Which it did thankfully). But I have to say, I felt really proud that the Blackbird’s actually looked to me as some sort of ‘protector’.
OK, got that off my chest. Must get back to work.
Catch you later,
Pete.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Wednesday, 21 May 2008
De` Ja` Vu`?.. Coincidence?.. Or Gift?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
De` Ja` Vu`?.. Coincidence?.. Or Gift?
I don't remember the start of this dream, but I do remember being on the back of an old truck as it drove into the village of Wargrave where I grew up.
The buildings looked old, grey and a bit deserted. There were just a few cars in the High St and were of the late 50's period, but were rusted away, decomposing where they stood.
The truck pulled up just outside the Greyhound pub car park in School Lane, and I sat there watching just a few people
walking around. Mostly looking drawn, grey and unkempt.
One young girl about 18 years old was pushing a large 'Coachbuilt' pram up the road with her baby, and a little toddler also sat in the pram. (I somehow got the feeling that this was my older sister Mary, pushing myself and my younger brother Bill in our old pram.)
As I looked down Church St toward the doctors and the Old Bakery, (there in the 50's), I saw two children coming up the Road. One was
on a child’s scooter, and as he got nearer I could see it was an old friend, Steve Kirby, who was about nine or ten years old with the haircut he adopted later in life at the age of about 17 or 18.
As he scooted past, I shouted out; "Kirby".
He looked at me quizzically as if he'd recognised me somehow. (Though I was the age I am now, 57).
He couldn't have recognised me.
Unless, he had just experienced De`- Ja`- Vu or something similar.
I woke up with this 'vivid' experience and feeling that he'd actually 'visited' me in my dream. That he was trying to explain something to me.
I was thinking maybe he'd died, and had called in to see me while on his final journey.
Or was it my subconscious mind explaining exactly HOW De` Ja` Vu works?
I gave him a call a couple of weeks later because the dream was sitting heavily on my mind. Living in Wales now, we don’t keep in contact as often as we should.
The news wasn’t good. He’d had to go and have tests to prepare him for a liver transplant. Afterwards, they continued on up to Blackpool to visit their family. While there, Steve had a brain haemorrhage which almost wiped him out.
He spent several days in hospital and has had to revisit several times since. He’s not as badly affected as some. But his ‘spirit’ seems to have taken it’s leave. (Hope it’s temporary).
But how strange that as children growing up together, we retain this almost sub-conscious link where we can visit each other in dreams at times of stress or need.
Has anyone else had similar experiences?
I know I’ve had many. So please let us know in the comments to this post. (COMMENTS link below).
Pete.
Please click the main Header to read the main Blog.
Call back often, and pass it along. Thankyou.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
De` Ja` Vu`?.. Coincidence?.. Or Gift?
I don't remember the start of this dream, but I do remember being on the back of an old truck as it drove into the village of Wargrave where I grew up.
The buildings looked old, grey and a bit deserted. There were just a few cars in the High St and were of the late 50's period, but were rusted away, decomposing where they stood.
The truck pulled up just outside the Greyhound pub car park in School Lane, and I sat there watching just a few people
walking around. Mostly looking drawn, grey and unkempt.
One young girl about 18 years old was pushing a large 'Coachbuilt' pram up the road with her baby, and a little toddler also sat in the pram. (I somehow got the feeling that this was my older sister Mary, pushing myself and my younger brother Bill in our old pram.)
As I looked down Church St toward the doctors and the Old Bakery, (there in the 50's), I saw two children coming up the Road. One was
on a child’s scooter, and as he got nearer I could see it was an old friend, Steve Kirby, who was about nine or ten years old with the haircut he adopted later in life at the age of about 17 or 18.
As he scooted past, I shouted out; "Kirby".
He looked at me quizzically as if he'd recognised me somehow. (Though I was the age I am now, 57).
He couldn't have recognised me.
Unless, he had just experienced De`- Ja`- Vu or something similar.
I woke up with this 'vivid' experience and feeling that he'd actually 'visited' me in my dream. That he was trying to explain something to me.
I was thinking maybe he'd died, and had called in to see me while on his final journey.
Or was it my subconscious mind explaining exactly HOW De` Ja` Vu works?
I gave him a call a couple of weeks later because the dream was sitting heavily on my mind. Living in Wales now, we don’t keep in contact as often as we should.
The news wasn’t good. He’d had to go and have tests to prepare him for a liver transplant. Afterwards, they continued on up to Blackpool to visit their family. While there, Steve had a brain haemorrhage which almost wiped him out.
He spent several days in hospital and has had to revisit several times since. He’s not as badly affected as some. But his ‘spirit’ seems to have taken it’s leave. (Hope it’s temporary).
But how strange that as children growing up together, we retain this almost sub-conscious link where we can visit each other in dreams at times of stress or need.
Has anyone else had similar experiences?
I know I’ve had many. So please let us know in the comments to this post. (COMMENTS link below).
Pete.
Please click the main Header to read the main Blog.
Call back often, and pass it along. Thankyou.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sunday, 18 May 2008
THOSE OL' GREY/PINK BOYS TROUSERS.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Those Ol’ Grey/Pink Boys Trousers.
In the 1950’s money was tight, and for our large family it was tighter than for most. But my Mum WAS very good at all the home-craft things that Mum’s ‘were’ good at in those days. Like making jam, sewing, cake-making/decorating, knitting, etc, etc.
Infact, each year the village would hold it’s annual ‘Flower Show’. Some villages still do, but it’s a dying tradition due to the enormous bills that the ‘Health & Safety’ guru’s put on the organisers, by way of ‘third-party-insurance’.
(I know, it’s a joke, but that’s today’s society for you).
To get back to the point. My Mum used to enter these flower show competitions where the best prize you could win was a ‘Rosette’ for 1st, 2nd or 3rd, (Very coveted rosettes they were too in their day) and she would always come away with several 1st place rosettes. Especially in the cake-making/decorating, jam, and dress-making sections. It got to the point where she was ‘expected’ to win.
(The Wargrave flower show was hardly 'The Chelsea Flower Show' but still.)
Naturally, this brought attention from the ‘better-off’ women of the village to request ‘favours’ from my Mum. Which she duly complied with, and was usually rewarded for the efforts, building up quite a reputation as a ‘good’ seamstress and general ‘sewer-upper’. As well as provider of some of the best home-made jams and cakes anywhere.
(Wedding cake? No problem, and decorated to perfection.)
Now, as part of her ‘reward’ for doing a favour to ‘one’ of the villagers, she was given a good amount of this high-quality material that was left over from the job in hand. GREAT! But what to do with it, that was the question?
My brother Bill and I were at junior school, and as such only had short trousers. We’d been pestering Mum to get us some ‘long’s’ for ages, but she just couldn’t afford it so we’d wear these shorts that were getting tighter and tighter as we grew.
Now in those days we ‘never’ had a telly. (Only got our first ‘Decca’ radio in about 1954). As you can guess, a lot of sewing, jam making and cake-making went on. The sewing usually got done in the evenings until long after we kids had gone to bed.
One Monday morning, our Mum told us we didn’t need to put on our shorts, she’d got some ‘long’s’ for us. Bill and I looked at each other, well pleased and couldn’t wait to see our new trousers. When we did, our jaws must’ve nearly hit the deck. She'd made them for us out of the left-over material that this other villager had given her as reward for doing one of her ‘favours’. Nothing wrong there. They fitted great. But the material was ‘pure 50’s’. That itchy-grey, wool/cotton material that was generally ‘grey’ but with flecks of ‘pink’ and ’white’ running through it. I’m sure whatever she’d made from it for the villager was fine. But for two lads who had to now wear ‘trousers’ made of the same material to school?…….No!…No!…No!
As you can guess though, we ‘did’ wear them to school, and for days we had to defend ourselves against jibes of ;
“Your Mum made your trousers….Hah Hah Hah”.
I steadfastly stuck to my story that our local ‘Tally-Man’, Mr NorthEast, (Genuine name by the way) had sold them to my Mum on ‘tick’. That they’d come straight from ‘Tutty’s’ the department store in Reading, Berks, where most of the lower class used to get their stuff from using credit vouchers.
Eventually, the jibes died down, and everyone got used to Bill and I wearing our strange ‘grey-pink’ boys long trousers.
Anyway, I’d convinced myself that ‘they’ were just jealous, and we were naturally very proud of ‘Our Mum’s’ ability to make almost anything from scraps of old material.
Could their Mum’s do it??
I don’t think so. Which is why they all used to come to ‘our house’ to get things like that done.
Who else could have such ‘vivid memories’ of one pair of Ol’ school trousers?
If nothing else, we were left with those, and ‘memories’ as you know, are ‘Golden’.
Catch you later,
Pete.
Please click the main Header to read the main Blog.
Call back often, and pass it along. Thankyou.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Those Ol’ Grey/Pink Boys Trousers.
In the 1950’s money was tight, and for our large family it was tighter than for most. But my Mum WAS very good at all the home-craft things that Mum’s ‘were’ good at in those days. Like making jam, sewing, cake-making/decorating, knitting, etc, etc.
Infact, each year the village would hold it’s annual ‘Flower Show’. Some villages still do, but it’s a dying tradition due to the enormous bills that the ‘Health & Safety’ guru’s put on the organisers, by way of ‘third-party-insurance’.
(I know, it’s a joke, but that’s today’s society for you).
To get back to the point. My Mum used to enter these flower show competitions where the best prize you could win was a ‘Rosette’ for 1st, 2nd or 3rd, (Very coveted rosettes they were too in their day) and she would always come away with several 1st place rosettes. Especially in the cake-making/decorating, jam, and dress-making sections. It got to the point where she was ‘expected’ to win.
(The Wargrave flower show was hardly 'The Chelsea Flower Show' but still.)
Naturally, this brought attention from the ‘better-off’ women of the village to request ‘favours’ from my Mum. Which she duly complied with, and was usually rewarded for the efforts, building up quite a reputation as a ‘good’ seamstress and general ‘sewer-upper’. As well as provider of some of the best home-made jams and cakes anywhere.
(Wedding cake? No problem, and decorated to perfection.)
Now, as part of her ‘reward’ for doing a favour to ‘one’ of the villagers, she was given a good amount of this high-quality material that was left over from the job in hand. GREAT! But what to do with it, that was the question?
My brother Bill and I were at junior school, and as such only had short trousers. We’d been pestering Mum to get us some ‘long’s’ for ages, but she just couldn’t afford it so we’d wear these shorts that were getting tighter and tighter as we grew.
Now in those days we ‘never’ had a telly. (Only got our first ‘Decca’ radio in about 1954). As you can guess, a lot of sewing, jam making and cake-making went on. The sewing usually got done in the evenings until long after we kids had gone to bed.
One Monday morning, our Mum told us we didn’t need to put on our shorts, she’d got some ‘long’s’ for us. Bill and I looked at each other, well pleased and couldn’t wait to see our new trousers. When we did, our jaws must’ve nearly hit the deck. She'd made them for us out of the left-over material that this other villager had given her as reward for doing one of her ‘favours’. Nothing wrong there. They fitted great. But the material was ‘pure 50’s’. That itchy-grey, wool/cotton material that was generally ‘grey’ but with flecks of ‘pink’ and ’white’ running through it. I’m sure whatever she’d made from it for the villager was fine. But for two lads who had to now wear ‘trousers’ made of the same material to school?…….No!…No!…No!
As you can guess though, we ‘did’ wear them to school, and for days we had to defend ourselves against jibes of ;
“Your Mum made your trousers….Hah Hah Hah”.
I steadfastly stuck to my story that our local ‘Tally-Man’, Mr NorthEast, (Genuine name by the way) had sold them to my Mum on ‘tick’. That they’d come straight from ‘Tutty’s’ the department store in Reading, Berks, where most of the lower class used to get their stuff from using credit vouchers.
Eventually, the jibes died down, and everyone got used to Bill and I wearing our strange ‘grey-pink’ boys long trousers.
Anyway, I’d convinced myself that ‘they’ were just jealous, and we were naturally very proud of ‘Our Mum’s’ ability to make almost anything from scraps of old material.
Could their Mum’s do it??
I don’t think so. Which is why they all used to come to ‘our house’ to get things like that done.
Who else could have such ‘vivid memories’ of one pair of Ol’ school trousers?
If nothing else, we were left with those, and ‘memories’ as you know, are ‘Golden’.
Catch you later,
Pete.
Please click the main Header to read the main Blog.
Call back often, and pass it along. Thankyou.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Monday, 12 May 2008
Henley Regatta -The Fair & Rastus.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Henley Regatta -The Fair & Rastus.
Growing up in the village of Wargrave in the 50’s was a
full time adventure, and unlike today, a totally ‘white’ one. By that I mean there were no coloured people in the community. There were foreign residents, but all were white. So when a young lad called ‘Rastus’ started as an apprentice chef at the St George & Dragon Hotel it really was a novelty. He instantly became the talk of the village.
Call me ‘pushy’ if you like, but whenever anyone new came to the village, I was generally the first one there to claim them as ‘my mate’. The village was then, and probably still is a magnet for overseas visitors, and back in the day, there were several railway coaches down at the railway siding that were permanently hired out as ‘holiday homes’.
People from all over the world would take their vacations camping in these fully equipped train carriages, and I was a bit of a ‘goal poacher’ as far as befriending the kids that holidayed there. So when Rastus came on the scene it was only natural that ‘I’ got to him first. Albeit that he was 16 and I was only 11. (I always thought I was 17, even at the age of eight. Still do)
Everybody in the village took to Rastus as he had the wickedest grin and greatest sense of humour. Wherever he went, he lit up the place. He was an orphan from a children’s home in Somerset, so it was even funnier to hear him speak in a strong west-country accent. But growing up in an orphanage environment made him very street-wise, and for a slightly built chap, he was as tough as old boots. Which brings me on to our visit to the Henley Regatta Fair.
Rastus, being a worker, had bought himself a little BSA bantam to race about on. He used to let us ride it up the ‘Straight Mile’ on the way to ‘Crazies Hill’ next to the Wargrave Manor grounds after it got dark. One of the best feelings in the world is the very first time you ride a motorbike and you feel that power ‘dragging’ you through the air at what seems like phenomenal speed, but probably only 20 or 30 miles per hour. Naturally, I was always begging him to take us on the back somewhere, just to get that ‘rush’.
The summer before I left Wargrave in 1963, Rastus said he’d take me on the motorbike to the Henley Regatta Fair. He’d pay if I wanted to go. Naturally, I didn’t need asking twice, but then he gave me a crash helmet to put on. In those days, only ‘squares’ wore crash helmets. Wearing them was a personal choice which not too many people took up. So at first I said “no way”, but then he said I’d definitely need it and he wasn’t taking me unless I put it on. (So I did).
We arrived at the packed fair that was in full swing, and because we were on a motorbike, could park up right next to the fair. But instead of just leaving the helmets on the handlebars which was the ‘usual’ thing to do in those days, Rastus said we needed to take them with us.
Now I don’t know if you’ve read my previous post about the Henley Royal regatta Fair, but I did mention the overpowering and bullying tactics of the ‘Hooray-Henry’s’ at the fair. We wanted to get onto the dodgems, and we wanted to ‘stay’ on them for several goes, so when our chance came we made a bee-line for a car and got in with a bit of bumping and bashing.
OK, we’re going round hell-for-leather, whacking the Hooray’s as hard as we could, (when we weren’t getting whacked first that is.) then Rastus told me to put my hand inside the helmet and grab the webbing inside as tightly as possible, we were staying on this little missile and no Hooray was going to get us out.
The cars stopped. The usual bashing, thumping and screaming started as the Hooray’s ran riot grabbing all the cars for themselves. (Until they got to ours that was).
Rastus was first to take aim and fire with his helmet, and in a state of sheer panic, I followed suit. We were swatting them like flies until they gave up and we got another ride in the same car.
This was fine until it came to the end of the second ride, because they were about to employ ‘new’ tactics. They came at us with brollies this time, so instead of hitting them with my crash helmet, I put it on my head to protect it while I just lashed out in defence. Rastus, on the other hand took a different tack. He gave me his helmet to hold and then started to set about them like a whirling dervish.
Kids think these days that Bruce Lee was fast, and he was. Well Rastus was certainly the fastest I’d ever seen in my life and he frightened the life out of the Hooray’s.
Strangely enough, the dodgems seemed to return to some form of order and normality after that, and we stayed on for several more rides before the money ran out and we high-tailed it back to the Bantam and off home.
Happy days.
Pete.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
PLease leave a comment, and click the header above to link to main Blog. Thankyou.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Henley Regatta -The Fair & Rastus.
Growing up in the village of Wargrave in the 50’s was a
full time adventure, and unlike today, a totally ‘white’ one. By that I mean there were no coloured people in the community. There were foreign residents, but all were white. So when a young lad called ‘Rastus’ started as an apprentice chef at the St George & Dragon Hotel it really was a novelty. He instantly became the talk of the village.
Call me ‘pushy’ if you like, but whenever anyone new came to the village, I was generally the first one there to claim them as ‘my mate’. The village was then, and probably still is a magnet for overseas visitors, and back in the day, there were several railway coaches down at the railway siding that were permanently hired out as ‘holiday homes’.
People from all over the world would take their vacations camping in these fully equipped train carriages, and I was a bit of a ‘goal poacher’ as far as befriending the kids that holidayed there. So when Rastus came on the scene it was only natural that ‘I’ got to him first. Albeit that he was 16 and I was only 11. (I always thought I was 17, even at the age of eight. Still do)
Everybody in the village took to Rastus as he had the wickedest grin and greatest sense of humour. Wherever he went, he lit up the place. He was an orphan from a children’s home in Somerset, so it was even funnier to hear him speak in a strong west-country accent. But growing up in an orphanage environment made him very street-wise, and for a slightly built chap, he was as tough as old boots. Which brings me on to our visit to the Henley Regatta Fair.
Rastus, being a worker, had bought himself a little BSA bantam to race about on. He used to let us ride it up the ‘Straight Mile’ on the way to ‘Crazies Hill’ next to the Wargrave Manor grounds after it got dark. One of the best feelings in the world is the very first time you ride a motorbike and you feel that power ‘dragging’ you through the air at what seems like phenomenal speed, but probably only 20 or 30 miles per hour. Naturally, I was always begging him to take us on the back somewhere, just to get that ‘rush’.
The summer before I left Wargrave in 1963, Rastus said he’d take me on the motorbike to the Henley Regatta Fair. He’d pay if I wanted to go. Naturally, I didn’t need asking twice, but then he gave me a crash helmet to put on. In those days, only ‘squares’ wore crash helmets. Wearing them was a personal choice which not too many people took up. So at first I said “no way”, but then he said I’d definitely need it and he wasn’t taking me unless I put it on. (So I did).
We arrived at the packed fair that was in full swing, and because we were on a motorbike, could park up right next to the fair. But instead of just leaving the helmets on the handlebars which was the ‘usual’ thing to do in those days, Rastus said we needed to take them with us.
Now I don’t know if you’ve read my previous post about the Henley Royal regatta Fair, but I did mention the overpowering and bullying tactics of the ‘Hooray-Henry’s’ at the fair. We wanted to get onto the dodgems, and we wanted to ‘stay’ on them for several goes, so when our chance came we made a bee-line for a car and got in with a bit of bumping and bashing.
OK, we’re going round hell-for-leather, whacking the Hooray’s as hard as we could, (when we weren’t getting whacked first that is.) then Rastus told me to put my hand inside the helmet and grab the webbing inside as tightly as possible, we were staying on this little missile and no Hooray was going to get us out.
The cars stopped. The usual bashing, thumping and screaming started as the Hooray’s ran riot grabbing all the cars for themselves. (Until they got to ours that was).
Rastus was first to take aim and fire with his helmet, and in a state of sheer panic, I followed suit. We were swatting them like flies until they gave up and we got another ride in the same car.
This was fine until it came to the end of the second ride, because they were about to employ ‘new’ tactics. They came at us with brollies this time, so instead of hitting them with my crash helmet, I put it on my head to protect it while I just lashed out in defence. Rastus, on the other hand took a different tack. He gave me his helmet to hold and then started to set about them like a whirling dervish.
Kids think these days that Bruce Lee was fast, and he was. Well Rastus was certainly the fastest I’d ever seen in my life and he frightened the life out of the Hooray’s.
Strangely enough, the dodgems seemed to return to some form of order and normality after that, and we stayed on for several more rides before the money ran out and we high-tailed it back to the Bantam and off home.
Happy days.
Pete.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
PLease leave a comment, and click the header above to link to main Blog. Thankyou.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Friday, 9 May 2008
WILLY-THE-WITCH....BABY-KILLER.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Willy – The – Witch.
YES, every village has to have one, and we had ours.
This little old lady, always dressed in black as I recall, with long flowing dresses and coat. She used to ride her old lady’s ‘sit-up-and-beg’ black bike with a basket on the front almost everywhere. (You’d seldom see her walking.)
As a very young child I found her very scary indeed. Especially as somewhere in the background of ‘grown-up-talk’, I’d here the rumbling that some old lady dressed in black was going around pricking babies with a big needle and killing them. I know I used to have nightmares about this, but more to the point, I thought this little old lady on her bike was the culprit.
With her bent over posture, and large hooked nose, peddling furiously around the village, she was the prime suspect in my very young eyes. Her image engraved on my memory for the rest of my days.
As I grew older and able to explore more of the village, I found out that she lived in a ‘shanty shack’ right down the other end of Loddon Drive. Having found this out, I’d entice a few other kids including my younger brother and sister to accompany me down there to ‘spy’ on her. I was going to solve this ‘murder mystery’ all on my own. (With a little help from my friends of course. ‘coward’)
We’d creep about behind bushes, whispering to each other and making coded hand signals to tell each other she was on the move. Though most of the time she’d sit either in the garden around a fire she’d keep going. Or on hot sunny days, she’d sit on her veranda reading books. She never seemed to have visitors, and struck a very lonely figure.
Because she wore black all the time, had a bent over posture, a raggedy face with a large hooked nose and sat around a fire most of the day and evenings, we decided she must be a ‘WITCH’, and duly christened her ‘Willy-The-Witch’.
Now Willy loved her own company and was a very private person indeed. So whenever she caught us ‘snooping’ for clues to the child-murders I was convinced she was guilty of, she’d start shouting and screaming at us to get away from her house, and the area itself. Often chasing us up the drive with her big stick.
It got to the point (I’m now ashamed to say) where we’d bait her, calling her ‘Willy-the Witch, baby killer’ as she rode past us in the village on her bike. Or as we were running away from her screaming outbursts when she caught us spying on her at her ‘shanty shack’.
To compound our theory that she was a witch, you’d often see her visiting the graveyard below the Piggott C of E junior school. (Bottom of the old chalk pit). Where she would vanish for ages into the little ‘baby-cottage’ that was in the grounds. (Sadly no more, just a memorial bench)
We were convinced this was her ‘other house’ and maybe she cast spells in there, being that it WAS in the corner of the graveyard. Some of us would creep down there as it started to get dark, to see if we could catch her up to no good. But often scarpering hot-foot away from there as fast as we could the moment we’d hear some strange noise, or feel the bats winging past our heads. (Naturally believing what our Mum’s & Dad’s had told us about bats getting tangled in your hair if you stayed out after dark).
Willy-The-Witch had such a profound impression on my life as a child, that when I’d tell my youngest daughter Corrinne bed-time stories, they would always be about ‘Willy-The-Witch’. I would cast my mind back to a particular adventure in my life as a youngster, then adapt it around Willy. Always with a BIG! SURPRISE! at the end as Willy did something really scary.
I know. Some of you are saying I was cruel. But Corrinne absolutely loved them, and I used to have to come up with a FRESH story every night, from about eighteen months, right up until she was about five years old. If I started to repeat myself somewhere along the line, she’d remember and tell me so in no uncertain terms.
How did I manage it? I guess I had a remarkably adventurous childhood as they were all ‘truth-based’ stories. But sadly, as is usually the case, a couple of older girls who used to come round and play with Corrinne decide to tell her that there was no such person as Willy-The-Witch, and that I was ‘lying’ to her.
She told me she didn’t want to hear any more Willy-stories and denied ever being enthralled by them. Though now that she’s grown up. (All of sixteen years old) She reluctantly admits that maybe she ‘does’ remember them more fondly than she let on. (So I didn’t damage her for life as some of you may be thinking).
Willy-The-Witch obviously wasn’t a baby-killer, but later on in life I did read in our local rag, The Evening Post, that in the early fifties there WAS a ‘notorious’ Reading woman who was discovered as a baby-killer. So it’s likely that the gossip I was hearing from the ‘grown-ups’ about a woman dressed in black killing babies, was actually about her.
The moral of the story?
Don’t encourage your children to eavesdrop on your gossip. Their interpretation of what you’re talking about, might not be as accurate as you’d think, and could affect THEM for the rest of their lives. (Only joking).
Catch you later,
Pete.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
PLease leave a comment, and click the header above to link to main Blog. Thankyou.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Willy – The – Witch.
YES, every village has to have one, and we had ours.
This little old lady, always dressed in black as I recall, with long flowing dresses and coat. She used to ride her old lady’s ‘sit-up-and-beg’ black bike with a basket on the front almost everywhere. (You’d seldom see her walking.)
As a very young child I found her very scary indeed. Especially as somewhere in the background of ‘grown-up-talk’, I’d here the rumbling that some old lady dressed in black was going around pricking babies with a big needle and killing them. I know I used to have nightmares about this, but more to the point, I thought this little old lady on her bike was the culprit.
With her bent over posture, and large hooked nose, peddling furiously around the village, she was the prime suspect in my very young eyes. Her image engraved on my memory for the rest of my days.
As I grew older and able to explore more of the village, I found out that she lived in a ‘shanty shack’ right down the other end of Loddon Drive. Having found this out, I’d entice a few other kids including my younger brother and sister to accompany me down there to ‘spy’ on her. I was going to solve this ‘murder mystery’ all on my own. (With a little help from my friends of course. ‘coward’)
We’d creep about behind bushes, whispering to each other and making coded hand signals to tell each other she was on the move. Though most of the time she’d sit either in the garden around a fire she’d keep going. Or on hot sunny days, she’d sit on her veranda reading books. She never seemed to have visitors, and struck a very lonely figure.
Because she wore black all the time, had a bent over posture, a raggedy face with a large hooked nose and sat around a fire most of the day and evenings, we decided she must be a ‘WITCH’, and duly christened her ‘Willy-The-Witch’.
Now Willy loved her own company and was a very private person indeed. So whenever she caught us ‘snooping’ for clues to the child-murders I was convinced she was guilty of, she’d start shouting and screaming at us to get away from her house, and the area itself. Often chasing us up the drive with her big stick.
It got to the point (I’m now ashamed to say) where we’d bait her, calling her ‘Willy-the Witch, baby killer’ as she rode past us in the village on her bike. Or as we were running away from her screaming outbursts when she caught us spying on her at her ‘shanty shack’.
To compound our theory that she was a witch, you’d often see her visiting the graveyard below the Piggott C of E junior school. (Bottom of the old chalk pit). Where she would vanish for ages into the little ‘baby-cottage’ that was in the grounds. (Sadly no more, just a memorial bench)
We were convinced this was her ‘other house’ and maybe she cast spells in there, being that it WAS in the corner of the graveyard. Some of us would creep down there as it started to get dark, to see if we could catch her up to no good. But often scarpering hot-foot away from there as fast as we could the moment we’d hear some strange noise, or feel the bats winging past our heads. (Naturally believing what our Mum’s & Dad’s had told us about bats getting tangled in your hair if you stayed out after dark).
Willy-The-Witch had such a profound impression on my life as a child, that when I’d tell my youngest daughter Corrinne bed-time stories, they would always be about ‘Willy-The-Witch’. I would cast my mind back to a particular adventure in my life as a youngster, then adapt it around Willy. Always with a BIG! SURPRISE! at the end as Willy did something really scary.
I know. Some of you are saying I was cruel. But Corrinne absolutely loved them, and I used to have to come up with a FRESH story every night, from about eighteen months, right up until she was about five years old. If I started to repeat myself somewhere along the line, she’d remember and tell me so in no uncertain terms.
How did I manage it? I guess I had a remarkably adventurous childhood as they were all ‘truth-based’ stories. But sadly, as is usually the case, a couple of older girls who used to come round and play with Corrinne decide to tell her that there was no such person as Willy-The-Witch, and that I was ‘lying’ to her.
She told me she didn’t want to hear any more Willy-stories and denied ever being enthralled by them. Though now that she’s grown up. (All of sixteen years old) She reluctantly admits that maybe she ‘does’ remember them more fondly than she let on. (So I didn’t damage her for life as some of you may be thinking).
Willy-The-Witch obviously wasn’t a baby-killer, but later on in life I did read in our local rag, The Evening Post, that in the early fifties there WAS a ‘notorious’ Reading woman who was discovered as a baby-killer. So it’s likely that the gossip I was hearing from the ‘grown-ups’ about a woman dressed in black killing babies, was actually about her.
The moral of the story?
Don’t encourage your children to eavesdrop on your gossip. Their interpretation of what you’re talking about, might not be as accurate as you’d think, and could affect THEM for the rest of their lives. (Only joking).
Catch you later,
Pete.
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PLease leave a comment, and click the header above to link to main Blog. Thankyou.
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Thursday, 8 May 2008
THE HOME GARDENING CLUB.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Home Gardening Club.
After the war, when life could only get better. Everyone was
encouraged to garden at home and grow their own food.
Council houses were built with large gardens and at least
'one' fruit tree to get people started.
A sort of 'Home gardening club' really.
I mentioned in one of my first posts that my dad was a gardener/
handyman. Well, gardening really WAS his forte`. His fingers
were so green they almost lit up in the dark. Our back garden at
home was filled to overflowing with every traditional vegetable
known to man, with pride of place being given to the runner beans,
sprouts and cabbage. The potato's which took up about a third
of the garden were a 'given' anyway, and we had two apple trees
that produced bumper crops of the tastiest apples imaginable.
Having said that, in the early days, we had an orchard almost next
door, (before development became the 'buzz-word') and we kids
would go scrumping there to get the 'cookers', plums, cherries,
damsons, gooseberries, etc, etc, etc. So basically we were
virtually self-sufficient.
You don't really see it now, what with the 'Nanny-State' protecting
us all from ourselves as they like to. But in the 50's & 60's it wasn't
at all unusual for people to leave boxes of surplus vegetables & fruit
on the path outside their house for any passers-by to take if they
needed it. Now that really WAS a 'Home Gardening Club', where
the whole village shared in each others good fortune. Those who
weren't quite as greenfingered could still benefit from those who
were. The home and garden were one and we all benefitted.
Another benefit of the home gardening club was that the streets had
a 'sweetness' about them. Yes, the back gardens were full of every
kind of veg, but the front gardens were very proudly tended indeed.
Folk were so pleased to be alive. To be able to afford to actually
'live' a little now in their nice new council homes, that the front gardens
were proudly displayed with the strongest scent of 'English Country
Garden'. Lupins and Lavender being the most prolific as I remember.
That's not to say that the private houses weren't just as fragrant, they
were, which made life then seem so much better maybe.
These days, now that everyone has two cars or more. Those sweet-
smelling front gardens have been replaced with hard core, block-
paved, flood promotion areas for the cars to park. In most suburban
areas and villages alike, the car has become God and must be
protected and molly-coddled at all costs. The gardeners club is just
a distant memory, much like the bumble bee whose numbers are
drastically declining lately. Without Bees and the like, we have no
flowers, fruit or veg. What will we eat?? Are we witnessing the end??
It's OK Peep's, we've still got our cars which we can keep at the front
of our house, as near as we possibly can. We can just look out of the
window now and worship it anytime we feel low or in doubt about our
own mortality.
(Cars 1....Bees 0) (Block-pavers 1.....Gardening club 0)
(Multi-nationals 1.....We, the public......0) Who's winning?
Answers below in the 'comments' section if you please.
Catch you later,
Pete.
To those of you who arrived here after doing a 'gardening' related search, and you're particularly interested in the mechanics of gardening, I've included this Youtube video I found recently.
The chap actually looks very much like my old Dad funnily enough. (Though my Dad would have been 102 now so it's not him) But please do click and enjoy.
(Don't forget to come back here though when you've finished. LOL)
Please visit the main blog by clicking the header above.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Home Gardening Club.
After the war, when life could only get better. Everyone was
encouraged to garden at home and grow their own food.
Council houses were built with large gardens and at least
'one' fruit tree to get people started.
A sort of 'Home gardening club' really.
I mentioned in one of my first posts that my dad was a gardener/
handyman. Well, gardening really WAS his forte`. His fingers
were so green they almost lit up in the dark. Our back garden at
home was filled to overflowing with every traditional vegetable
known to man, with pride of place being given to the runner beans,
sprouts and cabbage. The potato's which took up about a third
of the garden were a 'given' anyway, and we had two apple trees
that produced bumper crops of the tastiest apples imaginable.
Having said that, in the early days, we had an orchard almost next
door, (before development became the 'buzz-word') and we kids
would go scrumping there to get the 'cookers', plums, cherries,
damsons, gooseberries, etc, etc, etc. So basically we were
virtually self-sufficient.
You don't really see it now, what with the 'Nanny-State' protecting
us all from ourselves as they like to. But in the 50's & 60's it wasn't
at all unusual for people to leave boxes of surplus vegetables & fruit
on the path outside their house for any passers-by to take if they
needed it. Now that really WAS a 'Home Gardening Club', where
the whole village shared in each others good fortune. Those who
weren't quite as greenfingered could still benefit from those who
were. The home and garden were one and we all benefitted.
Another benefit of the home gardening club was that the streets had
a 'sweetness' about them. Yes, the back gardens were full of every
kind of veg, but the front gardens were very proudly tended indeed.
Folk were so pleased to be alive. To be able to afford to actually
'live' a little now in their nice new council homes, that the front gardens
were proudly displayed with the strongest scent of 'English Country
Garden'. Lupins and Lavender being the most prolific as I remember.
That's not to say that the private houses weren't just as fragrant, they
were, which made life then seem so much better maybe.
These days, now that everyone has two cars or more. Those sweet-
smelling front gardens have been replaced with hard core, block-
paved, flood promotion areas for the cars to park. In most suburban
areas and villages alike, the car has become God and must be
protected and molly-coddled at all costs. The gardeners club is just
a distant memory, much like the bumble bee whose numbers are
drastically declining lately. Without Bees and the like, we have no
flowers, fruit or veg. What will we eat?? Are we witnessing the end??
It's OK Peep's, we've still got our cars which we can keep at the front
of our house, as near as we possibly can. We can just look out of the
window now and worship it anytime we feel low or in doubt about our
own mortality.
(Cars 1....Bees 0) (Block-pavers 1.....Gardening club 0)
(Multi-nationals 1.....We, the public......0) Who's winning?
Answers below in the 'comments' section if you please.
Catch you later,
Pete.
To those of you who arrived here after doing a 'gardening' related search, and you're particularly interested in the mechanics of gardening, I've included this Youtube video I found recently.
The chap actually looks very much like my old Dad funnily enough. (Though my Dad would have been 102 now so it's not him) But please do click and enjoy.
(Don't forget to come back here though when you've finished. LOL)
Please visit the main blog by clicking the header above.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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