Woodcroft.......Capturing history for the next generation. The joys of winter!

The stream we called Little Blackpool, in winter . 

 I must admit when I first saw  these photos, which have been collected as part of the ongoing story of our childhood, that I was so very moved. I had a lump in my throat.
Here is the very stream we all knew and loved, and where we spent many, many happy hours, oblivious of the time, till our parents called us in for meals.
Peter Fisher, who has collected these photos, and catalogued them, with Ken Stott, (who is still travelling to see people,  one as far away as the Isle of Wight(!), and videoing their recollections of those days,) said to me when we all met,
" I remember my mum, coming up to the end of the streets, and shouting "Peeeeter! Peeeter!" in a loud voice which slid up to a higher pitch towards the end.  And he pretended not to hear........as many of us did I suppose! We were enjoying ourselves too much!

Two of the five trees in the fields which are now covered with houses. 

 We would awaken in winter, and sense it had snowed in the night. There was a bright glow showing at the edges of our curtains and a quiet stillness, as normal sounds outside were muffled. The whole landscape had taken on a magical quality. If it was a school day, we had to wait until we got home in the evening before we could go sledging. This meant being wrapped in multi-layers! No thermal clothing then, no fancy boots or jackets, but two sweaters, worn over a vest, a pair of leggings (girls)  two or three pairs of socks, as wellington boots were not exactly designed to keep your feet warm. Scarves, bobble caps, woolly bonnets and mittens or gloves, all in wool, as leather was too cold, put in place, and off we  would go.

Looking across to the five trees from the top of the streets where we lived, now a sea of houses . 

 Of course in the dark winter evenings, we sledged down the back streets, mainly those of Thorn Street, and Woodcroft Street. East Street was challenging! Being one of the steepest. The front of East Street had grassy tufts growing down its length, between overgrown cobbles, which hindered a good  

fast run, unless the snow was quite deep and compacted. A tuft sticking up in the snow could tip up the  sledge My dad made one which he painted red, and found some old metal runners to finish it off. It was a flyer!    

 At times we hitched more than one sledge together and went down in a long line, until occasionally we all fell off! 

Phrases like " I'm going to go down belly flat this time" spring to mind, as we ran along each pushing our sledge to gain momentum, before flinging ourselves flat on top as it took off, then whizzing down at a terrific lick to the bottom. And none of us in those days would have even seen a bob sleigh team in action.     But the sense of speed gathering and the swish of the snow track were a delight!

Once at the bottom we set off to climb back to the top and begin again. 

Eventually, it inevitably was time to go indoors. Gloves were peeled off and hung near the roaring coal fire, the same for the socks. By now the wellingtons had ceased to even let the layers of socks keep feet and toes warm. 

This led to chilblains, horrors! 

Hands tingled as they thawed and often the pain was quite strident as the warmth returned. I used to soak mine in a bowl of warm water and hated the sensation. But it didn't deter us from repeating the exercise night after night until the pristine snow turned to mush.     

   

Pickles's farm.Demolished to make way for buildings.

Sledging in the fields behind the streets of Woodcroft, before these spaces were built on.

 If the snow arrived just before the weekend, we then went out and sledged during the day, not being any school. Newly fallen snow, which had not been disturbed, lay in the fields. We loved to be the first to make imprints with our footsteps, running free, and filling our lungs with the icy cold air, which then was breathed out like trails of vapour. Why is it that it always seemed to snow in winter then? That winter did arrive, and there was a definite pattern to the rhythm of the seasons, which governed our lives and pastimes.

Looking towards the woods owned by Cicely Brooks

So, as I looked at the photos, once more I am so very thankful for a childhood that was happy, and I am glad that our history is being recorded and saved. A worthwhile work still in progress.