............It was a beautiful day...........! Summer returns for a short while.......

Canada geese flying over the garden this morning

My last sunflower! Monday 26th September. 2011 

 Edward Thomas, a favourite poet of mine,  has a line in one of his poems which reads,
" I cannot bite the day to the core."
And on a day like this one I feel exactly the same.
From the moment I awake to see the sun shining in a clear blue sky, I itch to be outside in the garden. Even before breakfast I step out into the fresh autumnal air and take a stroll up the path to look at the shiny rainbow colours of the light reflecting in the dew on the grass.
Often I take a photo to try and capture the essence of the way it seems.
As I wandered there this morning a gaggle of Canada geese, honking noisily flew overhead, stretched out in a line. The usual "V" formation  at the front.
Why do they fly in formation?
A wonder of nature.
I reached the end by the back fence, the garden being about 40 metres long, and looked at the few remaining apples on our two trees. They have been deliciously sweet and juicy this year.The best we have ever known.
There is a different smell about the autumn. The colours are beginning to change and the horse chestnut trees are already decked in leaves which have crinkly nut brown edges, and dropping their "conkers" encased in prickly green shells. Or the shells having burst open, the round shiny chestnuts are scattered here and there.
Why is it that it is always a joy to walk in piles of leaves! The scrunchy, scuffing "about-ness" which we make as we swish along.    
       

Garden in August.

 'October' by Rose Fyleman

The summer is over,
The trees are all bare,
There is mist in the garden
And frost in the air.
The meadows are empty
And gathered the sheaves--
But isn't it lovely
Kicking up leaves!

John from the garden
Has taken the chairs;
It's dark in the evening
And cold on the stairs.
Winter is coming
And everyone grieves--
But isn't it lovely
Kicking up leaves!

The rich red colours of the maple leaves.

 So, the sun climbed up the sky and it shone warm on my face and arms. I revelled in the glory of this unexpected finger of summer creeping in to surprise us all. And I thought of Edward Thomas.

Rambling nasturtiums.  

Sunset on Sunday 25th September. 

"And shall I ask at the day's end once more
What beauty is, and what I can have meant
By happiness? And shall I let all go,
Glad, weary, or both? Or shall I perhaps know
That I was happy oft and oft before,
Awhile forgetting how I am fast pent, ................................
 I cannot bite the day to the core."

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.

That darn cat! (Or.......return of the Tiger.....again!)

                                          

  It is a well-known fact in our house that Tiger always has some kind of sixth sense whenever we are off to other places for a few days, or a week or more......I don't even have to get out the cases for him to somehow know that things are afoot. All my best laid plans can come unstuck if I forget to make sure I cut off his escape routes, or his hiding places!   

Come the morning of  the day when I take him to Posh Paws Cattery, I sometimes 

have had to phone them and say " I will be coming later today, he has gone to ground" Then I attempt to coerce him back indoors with bribery and corruption! Tempting titbits, a rattle of a favourite cat biscuit packet, and even on one famous occasion I switched on our electric carving knife, leaving the back door open, and sure enough, he came hurtling down the garden path and into the kitchen, to come to a halt at his dish and find it empty......not replete with the remains of the Sunday roast!
Well, it worked didn't it! Just don't report me to the RSPCA!   
He has his various strategies for coping if I manage to close all the external doors before he can bolt outside and disappear over next door's hedge! Or on the garage roof! 

    

You can't catch me!

One of his best hiding places is under the pine stacker-beds in the loft!  He knows that I cannot lift them and fish him out at the same time! It takes two of us and Timelord being at work until the day of the holiday,I am the one who takes Tiger to his billet.  

Posh Paws itself is at the end of a rural country lane near Lichfield and as you can see in the  

 photo I took this morning, it consists of a number of pine chalets, enclosed with a fence, and the owner's housetop is peeping above the dense hedgerow.Each pen has an inside space and an outside "run" which Tiger likes.  He never makes a noise when we are making our way there in the car, enclosed in his cat basket. And goes straight into his pen. When I go to collect him, he is not really bothered about coming home! The owners look after their charges very well.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             

An outside "run"

Tiger in his pen. Too cosy to move!

So, I was driving along earlier today, surrounded by the onset of the autumn colours, russet red berries now on the hawthorn, flame orange red on the rowan tree, lime tree leaves beginning to turn yellow, and bracken in the hedge going brown. I thought about all the miles we drove yesterday, home from a family wedding in Yorkshire. We passed through several English counties along the way, and rolling fields newly cropped, with their hay bales dotted about. Some fields have round ones, some rectangular, and others I saw had them stacked like a game of Jenga!  Novel!  But autumn is definately here to stay, and September around the corner....... a sense of summer finally beginning to fade..........and at least, I for one, feel as if we, at least here where we live, have enjoyed a bit of summer this year. So, Tiger is now home, having inspected all his favourite places in the garden, and  is curled up, completely oblivious, (yet!) of the fact that he will make the same journey again soon, when we take ourselves off to (hopefully!) autumn glory in the Lake District!      

"Rising early in the morning, we proceed to light the fire" Apologies to G and S!!

1950's. East Street
The daily ritual of lighting the fire each morning.


My sister has recently been to Rossendale from Yorkshire to take part in the filming of the dvd about Woodcroft in the 1950's and early '60's. A documenting of our childhood. 
(This particular photo was taken outside the house, number 12 East Street, in June 2008, when I met up with my childhood friends. I am on the left and  Maureen (née Fisher) on the right. I was born in that very house and stand beneath the bedroom window!)    

Shirley then had the excitement of a tour around the house where we used to live! (She writes her own blog about Woodcroft at (http://woodcroftfolk.blogspot.com/2011_05_01_archive.html)  The owner had come outside and asked why people were there with cameras and sound equipment, resulting in an invitation to go inside.
She then took them round the house as it is now. A day to remember for her for a long time to come.

Here I am on the right sitting on the wall outside!  

Inevitably, it sparked off more memories for me as I looked back through time. And thinking of each room in the house, two up, two down, an out-kitchen, and a toilet down the yard.The attic, which was hot and musty in the summer, and freezing in the winter, then the damp dark cellar, where the coal was stored, with various household cleaning tools at the top of the cellar steps. Brushes, buckets, and mops. 
The door to the cellar was to the right of the fireplace in the living room. A fireplace looking something like the one in this picture, but obviously still intact!  
There was no central heating, which set me thinking about how we got hot water into our taps in the kitchen and also the bath, which sat in glorified state in a corner of our back-bedroom.        
   We did not have an immersion heater, nor an electric wall water-heater in the small out-kitchen. So how did we get the hot water?
Then I remembered...............
At the back of the fire grate, behind the fire itself, there was a small water tank. It was known as the "back boiler". When the coal fire was burning away merrily in the hearth, it heated the water contained inside. There must have been a cold water supply pipe, or the tank wouldn't have functioned. There was a flue which was behind it and also at two sides, so air could circulate. Then the hot water would be carried by convection through such pipes as there were, to the kitchen taps, and the bath taps.
We only ever had a bath once a week up there, and when we were small, in a tin bath in front of the fire. The upstairs bath probably needed so much hot water that eventually it ran cold. (Which inevitably it did, meaning that if you had put too much cold with the hot, there wasn't enough left to warm it back up! And you ended up with a lukewarm bath, brrrrr!) 
So, for my dad, who was first up each morning, about 6.15am, as he caught the early X43 limited  service stop bus to Manchester at 7.05am. It was a chilly start in the autumn and winter. 
No fire, and no hot water, so washing and shaving took place in the kitchen, having boiled the water in the kettle. 
Before all that took place, there was the matter of cleaning out the fire-grate of all the previous day's ashes. No good doing that in a suit!
These were deposited in the dustbin, or ash bin, as the "dust men" then were known as "th'Ash chaps" in common parlance. 
Having cleaned out the grate, the fire would be "laid", using small wood pieces, kindling, which could be bought for the purpose. These came in bundles tied with a band of wire. They were also stored at the top of the cellar steps. There were one or two shelves there.
Old newspaper was scrunched up and layered with the wood. The coal was put on top, using "slack" and "cobs". Some coal was known as "nutty slack" !! Cobs were more expensive. 
If you were in a hurry, you could use "fire lighters". I liked the smell of them, as they gave off a tarry odour. 
Once lit, dad would sometimes put a large metal square, like a lid, up against the fire grate, and put paper over this too,(this was not then immediately up against the fire itself!) It had the effect of "drawing" air into the flue more quickly, and it had to be watched carefully, as many a time the paper set on fire! And at other times set the chimney on fire, as the soot would burn. You would be told about this by neighbours, who could clearly see flames coming from the chimney pot! We did have chimney fires, but doused the coal and waited! Others were not so lucky, necessitating a visit by the fire-brigade, which events were always of great excitement.  
Once the fire was crackling and burning, the initial sooty smoke having given way to yellow, red and orange flames, the sound was cheery and made a comforting glow in the hearth.
So, when we came downstairs, we were met by a warming room. 
In winter, the fire was "banked" up before going to bed, and the fireguard replaced. Then at least the downstairs room remained heated for awhile longer. 
But I loved to sit by the fire, and watch the flickering of the flames, and even now, a cosy coal, or log, fire crackling in the grate, can be so relaxing. No need for anything else for a time.........
          

Washing day in the 1950's

Washing Day 1950's. East Street. 

One of my abiding memories of the small out-kitchen in East Street was wash day. 

I would come home from school to either a line of washing strung outside.......sheets smelling of fresh air...........clothes stretched out and pinned on with the old fashioned dolly pegs. 

Inside, if it was a damp day, or a wet one, the clothes maiden, as we called it, (the old fashioned equivalent of the airer) stood in front of the fireplace, and if there was a cheerful blaze, the clothes which were hung on there to dry, steamed and gave off a soapy fresh smell.  It was the  preparation for the washing which mystified me. First of all mum would have the laundry in the sink, and scrub and rub with soap. This she did, even when, later on, we had an early type of washing machine,which was a top loader and lid, and an integral mangle.  The  whites were soaked in bleach, and rinsed out. There was an old fashioned boiler in the kitchen, rather like a large Burco boiler, into which the clothes placed with wash soap, and the water then heated. When the half lid was lifted the kitchen filled with a steamy cloud. After this process, the rinsing would take place. 

For this there was a "dolly tub" and a "posser". There is a dolly tub in this picture, (which is not of our actual kitchen, likewise the other one) and a posser with several legs. Our posser had a metal end like a bell, which had holes round the sides. As the clothes were rinsed a dolly blue bag was put in with them to aid the whitening process.  They  were used before we had modern laundry detergents with optical brighteners.   A factory-produced block was the "modern" (mid-19th century onwards), commercial version of older recipes for whitening clothes, with names like stone blue, fig blue, or thumb blue. It disguised any hint of yellow and helped the household linen look whiter than white. The posser was employed to help squeeze the water out of the laundry, by pushing it down and mashing it! I used to love doing this! The water all poured out of the holes as you lifted it back up again.  On to the mangle, where the clothes were passed through and the handle turned manually. Sheets needed a lot of muscle! After all of that, they were pegged out to dry. On extremely wet days I can remember the humidity in the living room, as the clothes were drying.
The water from the dolly tub would be poured out in a soapy froth down the yard from the back door, and made it's way in a small bubbly stream down the steep back street. We always had clean bed linen and clothes. But wash day was hard work. And as today we can forget about clothes as they are washed and dried, it's good to remember that it wasn't always so easy. 

It will be 21 years next Sunday since mum died, and she was a mum in a million.  

A Pause for a few days of summer ..................................

Tranquil gardens in Vaison-la-Romaine, Provence, France. June 2011  

Our garden here in England. June 2011 

It is well known in our house, and among our friends that for the past 8 years I have packed my bags and gone off for a week into an "off the beaten track" place called Nyons in Provence, France.

It began as I wanted to improve my spoken French and have some insights into the culture and traditions. 

The first time it was a total shock to my system to have 2 hours each morning and the same again in the afternoons, of "Immersion" French.

We used to laughingly call it "French Boot Camp"

As not only are there (extremely good) lessons, there is also the homework!

http://lapetiteprovencale.free.fr/

Surprisingly enough, I found my French, and my confidence to converse, had improved after the first year.

So passing on, I eventually met another lady, who travelled on my flight a few years ago, who was taking  the same course. We became friends, and up to this year, have gone together. As we lived, then, fairly close to each other, we began to have lessons with a French tutor during the weeks we were back at home.   This still continues for me, as Cecilia has moved an hour or so's drive away

.http://www.linkedin.com/pub/thierry-viennois/8/335/609

(I can recommend Thierry to anyone wishing to further their studies.)

Timelord then was home alone.........................however this year, he accompanied me, as my friend could not go, having had to reschedule due to having an operation the week we were booked to stay. I have enjoyed showing him all the places I have come to know and love, and he has enjoyed meeting the people there.    

I was still doing some French, mainly this time, a continuation of work begun with Thierry, of translating my father's "Journal of the Blitz", into French. Danièle said to me at the end of the week, " I feel as though I have spent a week with your father as well as you. " 

 Something Thierry has often said. 

Then when "lessons" were ended we would go out either to the old town, or Danièle and Mike would take us to places of interest.    

There are a few English people living in the area, who come to Danièle for French lessons, so she has formed a very informal anglo-french club where there are mutual discussions in both languages, in order to benefit both nationalities!

Last year Cecilia and I were co-opted to the anglo-french match of pétanque, (like boules, or maybe the same!) 

This becomes very competitive and the rules very strictly observed! Measuring tapes are used to adjudicate whose boule is closest to the, (what the English would call the "jack")

    

 http://www.petanque.org/news/rules/95.shtml

It is a bit like watching the English explain the rules of cricket to the French!!

However, my husband found he had a propensity for dropping the boule close to the cochonnet! And so began  a very enjoyable match! Lots of French swear words were heard muttered under the breath when Timelord's boule could not be dislodged from its pride of place!   

Expressive French gestures, like shoulder shrugging and colloquial phrases appeared! 

We won!! 

But I have to say, no thanks to my puny efforts...........!    

I loved the blue skies, the scents of the lavender, the rustle of light in the olive groves and the pastel coloured walls of the provençale houses with their lovely tiled roofs. 

The luminosity of the heat...........................

Some of the French people I have come to know ask me now " When are you going to come and live here?" 

That is a good question...................it is always good to be under sunny skies, warmth and beautiful scenery, but as we  began our descent into Birmingham airport yesterday evening, after a journey involving a coach, the TGV, and two flights, via Zurich from Lyons to Birmingham, I looked down at the patchwork quilt of English fields far below. And during the short drive from the airport, with the cow parsley white in the hedges and the lush greenness all around, I thought, "This is home". 

And  when I toured the garden all the roses had come into bloom alongside the poppies and the geraniums. 

Of course we arrived to sunshine and warmth........................and there isn't much difference in the temperatures today. It is 28C.  

The patio door stands open, and Timelord  is in the summerhouse reading, " comme d'habitude" as the French  would say.

But he has incorporated some French into his vocabulary, not I hasten to add, the "Zut alors " type! 

So, who knows, he may return with Teapot encore une fois!!        

At  the very least for another match of Pétanque......................." La Revanche!"     

Sheila's story of her childhood in Woodcroft, in her own words. (Permission granted to post it)

 Sheila Scott, née Hewitt. 

(This picture is Sheila holding a ball out for a walk with the Stott's.)    

"I was born in Rossendale General Hospital.  It was a very quick birth and made Mum ill.  When she went into the main ward the nurses handed my Mum the wrong baby.  Luckily even though she had only seen a quick glimpse of me at birth she knew this was the wrong baby.  Once seen never forgotten. LOL.

I don’t remember the Coronation celebrations as I was only about 18 months old.

My Mum got a job before I started school.  So Marian Waller looked after me.  She lived at 22  Thorn Street.  She started my liking of embroidery.  Her father lived with her and Harry, as well as daughter Margaret and son David.  If I was quiet I was allowed to play in the hall and stairs.  May sound odd for a kid to want to do that, but at home there was no hall and the stairs were narrow and dark.  At Marians it was big and light with a vestibule.  Up stairs they had a bathroom with a green suite.

My home 13 East Street, had a kitchen come living room.  I remember coconut matting and rag rugs, coal fire with a large guard round it with a brass top,  and two fireside chairs.  A pot sink.  A store cupboard under the stairs.  A kitchenette cupboard where Mum did all her baking.  A large brown wireless playing Sing Something Simple on Sunday night which made me feel sick because it was school the next day.  I did enjoy listening to The Navy Lark and Jimmy Clitheroe on Sunday afternoons.  I remember getting our first fridge.  We had a fish tank.  The story goes that I was mad at my brother Craig and threw my teddy at him.  He ducked and the teddy knocked the fish tank off.  Water and fish all over the floor.

We had a front room where there was a television.  My Dad was a TV repair man till he hurt his back carrying one.  When you see the size of the old ones no wonder that happened.  There was also a green suite with an American rocker chair.  A utility sideboard and a small display cabinet in the corner.  We had a vestibule built round the front door.  The front door wasn’t used much because our front street was unadopted.  Which meant it was a dirt road with grass growing in it.  It was also quite steep and the sun didn’t shine on our side so the flags soon became slippy.

We had 2 bedrooms upstairs, Mum & Dad  had the front one while I shared the back one with my brother Craig until my Dad converted the attic for Craig.  My Dad missed his attic as that was where he would make bits of furniture and toys for us.  I still have the dolls cot he made me.

We had no bathroom.  There were 2 tin baths hung on nails in the back yard.  A small one and a large one for Mum & Dad.  The toilet was outside.  It was a tippler toilet with a wood surround, and the toilet paper made from squares of newspaper threaded on string and hung behind the door.  It was dark in there even though my Dad painted the walls white.  When I was about 2, I would get one of my shoes and say, “shoes on, splash.” And throw it down the toilet and wait to hear the splash.  It became a race for my Mum to get there before me to stop me.  No spare money meant fishing the shoe out and cleaning it.  When I was about 8, Dad took a large cupboard out of the kitchen and plumbed in a bath.  He made a top to slide over and a box to cover the taps.  This made it into a seating area.  When it was bath time the top would be slid off and put against the back door window, for more privacy.  A few years later Dad changed it all again into a shower and changing cubicle.  Now that was good.

We had a communal bonfire in Pickles’ field.  All the kids collected wood.  Some of the older boys sneaked over the river into Brooks Woods for old tree branches.  The week before Reedsholme big boys would come and try to steal our wood.  The slipper shop would give us off cuts on bonfire day.  Goodness knows what toxic fumes we breathed in.   We had a Guy Fawkes and would sit with him outside the factories and on the form outside the Co-op.  Made quite a bit of money, which went for toffees to be handed out at the bonfire.  The fire could only be lit by Martin Hoare.  The kids would meet him after work on the day and walk him home, hoping he would be quick and eat his tea.  A few Mums would have made potato pie for us all to eat around the fire.

  

(Sheila, in the middle, with friends on her birthday.)    

The back street for East St. & Thorn St. was ideal for sledging down.  Not too steep, but steep enough for a decent speed.  There was a street running along the bottom but luckily not many cars around, and then there were railings before Holmes Terrace houses. 

I believe Peter Fisher went down head first on his sledge and his head got stuck in the railings.  It needed the firemen to get him free.  The street became very slippy and was hard work for our parents to walk up and down.  They used to put ashes down to give them grip, but that would spoil our sledging.  My Dad made a sledge for my brother and I.  He made it from a dining chair back and an ironing board.  It could easily fit 3 on.  Worked well but was heavy to pull back up to the top.

When Marian was looking after me she would sometimes go to Pickles farm.  There was one door which I was told there was a bull behind it.  I never saw the bull but it scared me going past.  At the end of the yard was the pig sty with lots of baby pigs.

In the summer we would fill an old medicine bottle with water and a stick of hard liquorice.  Then a few of us would walk past Pickles' farm and up the lanes.  The liquorice flavoured the water and was for our ‘pic nic’.   It never lasted very long.Mondays was washing day.  The streets would have the lines strung across and hung with sheets.  Woe betides any coal man who came on Mondays to deliver coal.   These same washing lines would sometimes become big skipping ropes turned by a couple of Mums for all the kids to skip into.

The milk was delivered by horse and cart.  The farmer Irvin Nuttall sometimes had a ginger bread which he would share with the kids.  Irvin and his 2 sisters, Nelly and Hilda, came to live next door at number 15 East Street.  Nelly and Hilda taught me to crochet.

The rag and bone cart would come and in exchange for rags Mum would get a donkey stone to edge her clean steps. 

Little Blackpool was a stream that ran into the factory lodge.  It was a magical place.  We built dams which were not appreciated they the men from the factory, caught sticklebacks and had a wonderful time.  Our wet and dirty socks would be hung on the bushes to dry hoping Mum wouldn’t notice.

Once we found a snake on the path to the stream.  Some factory men were near by at the lodge.  They said it was a grass snake. We would pick flowers for our Mums.  In the middle of the field were the 5 trees. My brother Craig, (front left in photo) knew how to climb them, so he showed us.  It was good having a big brother.  Farmer Pickles didn’t mind us going in his field as long as at mowing time, when the grass was growing and ready to cut, we kept to the same paths.  At mowing time some of the men who lived in the streets would help cut the grass."

The last photo is those very same fields, filled with wild flowers.