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June 19 2012
My tea estate Manager, Swynn Dyer, was married. Betty, his wife, was a somewhat 'pukka memsahib' who ran an immaculate bungalow on which she furnished great care and attention. The garden might well have been in the depths of the English countryside and was an oasis of Englishness
MYNA FAULT
While enjoying tea on Betty's veranda one day I remarked on a hill myna bird that she kept in a cage.
"Joe", as the bird's name was, was Betty's pride and joy.
Swynn had little time for the noisy bird. While Swynn was at work Betty allowed the myna free range of the bungalow and compound. It was totally tame and came when called.
As I sat on the veranda, the myna obviously appreciated attention for very soon it was talking busily and was able to mimic Betty amazingly.
Shortly after I had moved into my bungalow Betty's elderly Mother died suddenly and Betty had to return to U.K. at short notice. Swynn asked me whether I would mind looking after the bird.
"Just keep it on your veranda in its cage. There's no need to let it out unless you want to. Betty, of course, spoils the damned creature rotten - I'd wring its neck" he added menacingly.
I agreed to take Joe for the period Betty was away.
The cage was set up in the shade on my bungalow veranda.
By this time tea was being plucked daily in the garden and the factory was very busy processing the leaf. I used to work irregular hours depending on whatever problem I might or might not have in the factory. In consequence, it was my custom to return to the bungalow at irregular hours. I would go up to the veranda, switch on the large ceiling fan, collapse into a comfortable old wicker armchair and call for Abdul, my new bearer.
Abdul would bring me a very welcome ice-cool fresh lime or lemon drink.
I was surprised to find that within a day or two Joe could so accurately imitate my call to Abdul, that from the servant's quarters across the bungalow compound, Abdul could not tell whether the call came from me or the bird.
Abdul however, was far from impressed. It transpired that, left on the veranda to his own company, Joe, presumably, soon became bored. To brighten his life he took to regularly calling Abdul - more often then not when I was not there. Abdul would promptly arrive with a cool drink on a tray to find that I was not there. Not surprisingly, Abdul became very angry with the bird on such occasions and understandably used to swear at the bird for the unnecessary journey.
Of course, it was not long before Joe was also happily imitating Abdul swearing at him.
There was, in the circumstances, very little I could do about it.
Eventually Betty came back from England and Joe was returned to the Burra Bungalow.
Several days later Swynn was making an inspection of the processing in the factory. When we had returned to my factory office to taste tea samples of the manufacture in progress he said
"I never thanked you for looking after Betty's wretched bird."
"No problem" I said "I quite enjoyed his company".
"I think the bird enjoyed his stay" said Swynn with something of a twinkle in his eye, "However I had to explain to Betty what 'Hutt - Sarlar' meant".
He went on to explain that every time he returned to the bungalow and called his bearer, who was also called Abdul, Joe immediately retorted with this particularly offensive Indian oath as unfortunately he now did when Betty called him.
Swynn rightly guessed precisely what had happened.
He said "Anyhow don't worry about it, I told Betty it was a term of endearment used among the servants!"
I just hoped she never used it as such!
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June 17 2011
TRIAL AND ERROR
I suppose that I should have been grateful that my parents were so concerned with my wanderings about Skegness that they felt I would be better off sent away to school. They both worked hard and had limited time to look to my childhood needs. At the time I most certainly did not want to go to any boarding school and it was with some trepidation I heard what they planned.
I was to be sent to a privately run school as a weekly boarder. Donington was some 10 miles the other side of Boston and took over an hour to get there in Stepfather's old Hillman.
I would have been rising 7.
To me Donington seemed like the other side of the World.
The Donington school was run by the local Doctor's wife in a large house overlooking the Market Place. It had one large cold dormitory in the attic which ran the length of the building and housed about 16 boys in fairly Spartan conditions. In addition there were several day pupils.
The school was run by the Doctor's wife as headmistress. She had one younger female assistant and a 'domestic' who did all the housework and the cooking.
The house had an extensive stable block at the rear which was no longer in use other than one former stable which had been converted into the Doctor's surgery.
[Years later in dealing with a surveyor who had lived all his life in Donington I discovered that the Doctor had something of an alcohol problem and was renowned for doing the majority of his surgeries in the back bar of the Red Cow public house just opposite the school]. All I remember from the time was that the Doctor had very little to do with the running of the school. Probably just as well.
I did not stay very long at the school and remember nothing about lessons. My clearest memories are long tedious walks across the surrounding fen landscape and, extraordinarily, a visit to the local gas works. There was a commonly held belief that the emissions from the works were "good for one's chest"!
There is however one incident which is crystal clear in my mind:
Some items of food were probably either rationed after the War or simply in short supply.
In particular cheese.
The cook had painstakingly skimmed the milk for several days and had made a soft cottage cheese. This cheese was hung in a large muslin cloth to drain. About the size of a football it was tied to a projecting iron hook in the stable yard wall.
Sensibly the cook had tied it above the reach of small children.
I watched fascinated as the water slowly dripped from the glistening muslin. Unfortunately, nearby was a piece of elm blown down from one of the nearly trees which shaded the stable yard. I was the only pupil about and before long I was poking the distended muslin with the stick with entirely predictable results. Suddenly the bag burst and the whole contents were spread all over the blue brick flagstones - just as the cook arrived.
I recall reluctantly taking part in an end-of-term play which was watched by a number of parents packed very tightly in the front drawing room of the house. Mother came to the play and took me home.
The school moved to a larger house in Damgate but by then Mother had decided that Donington was not for me. I was not making what she regarded as sufficient progress. [Three different schools in three years - was it any wonder?]
She had arranged a private tutor - which sounded rather ominous.
My tutor was a gentleman is his 40's. Edgar Lyman was a Ukranian Jew. I suspect he was a wartime refugee. He laid claims to be an 'academic' and had not served in the forces during WWII and may well have also been a Conscientious Objector.
My mother engaged him to teach myself and two other boys: David Fergie was the Son of a local shopkeeper and Graham Palmer was the Son of the S.U.D.C. Foreshore Gardens Supervisor.
Lyman conducted lessons in the small back lounge of the Waldorf Hotel.
The day would start with prayers including a hymn sung falteringly by the three of us while Lyman hummed the tune. The back lounge of the hotel had a hatch through to the adjoining still room. Stepfather was at the time an enthusiastic member of the St. Matthews Church choir and on occasions I remember Lyman's humming being supported by Stepfather singing the base part behind the closed hatch.
Of formal lessons I remember very little other than we spent a good deal of our time drawing and painting and very soon I became quite competent with oils even winning a couple of local art competitions.
Lyman acquired two further pupils and the back lounge became somewhat overcrowded.
Soon Lyman acquired the tenancy of The Beacon at Chapel St. Leonards.
The Beacon was half way between Chapel St. Leonards and Chapel Point. It was a large Victorian house built on top of the sand hills overlooking the beach which could, as its name might suggest, be seen from all directions.
Chapel St. Leonards village comprised little more than a few houses and bungalows some of which were holiday homes, a large hotel and a village centre consisting of a small row of shops with an arcade in front. There was a penny arcade. In the summer the village was full of day trippers and holidaymakers who enjoyed the simple pleasures of a beach holiday. In the winter it was deserted and when the north winds blew the sand off the beach and sand hills looked more like a Wild West film set. To the south of the village the beach was bordered by large sand hills which had been partly built as sea defences but had also been enlarged by sand blown off the beach. These hills were perhaps 40' high in places and constantly being eroded by the high tides. There were no 'hard sea defences. The sand hills to the north of the village, in the middle of which The Beacon stood, were not so high as those to the south of the village but they were much wider - perhaps up to 400 yards in places. The only 'hard' defences were at Chapel Point. All along the sand dunes the high tides eroded cliffs of varying height while at the same time windblown sand replenished the sand lost to the tide; it was a self-maintaining system which had survived without hindrance from man for several decades. Indeed the hills were locally referred to as 'The Roman Bank'.
The Beacon had a huge, largely un-kept, garden and a number of outbuildings. The house had no heating other than open fires. On these we burned driftwood which we three boys collected off the beach. Lyman's cooking skills were extremely basic and we lived mainly off sandwiches and a weekly visit to the fish and chip shop in the village. One of Lyman's extra-curricular activities was snaring rabbits, some of which we three boys hawked round the village. I ate rabbit stew till I was sick of the sight of it.
Lessons were held in the house in front of the fire in winter. In summer we were taught in an outhouse which also served as Lyman's studio. He himself both painted and made sculptures which he sold with limited success locally. He carved wood washed up on the beach as well as making sculptures out of concrete.
David, Graham and myself formed Lyman's regular clientele. There were other boys who came and went in quick succession and even at one stage a couple of girls.
While Lyman did teach us the basics of maths and English; much of our lesson time was once more devoted to painting and drawing. However, much to our delight, for most of the time we were allowed to roam the sand dunes unsupervised.
On the higher dunes south of the village we would find an area where the sea had eroded the dunes so that there was a near vehicle sand cliff of up to 40' and 'ride' down from the top on a root of sea thorn. Luckily no one got buried although Graham and I did on one occasion have to frantically dig David out with our bare hands.
Between the Beacon and Chapel Point there was an outfall to a large drain which served the hinterland aided by a big diesel pump behind the dunes. The drain outfall across the beach was made of wood being about 20' high and approximately the same width. It was particularly dangerous (and perhaps fortunately, frightening) when the tide was coming in. In the summer we used to jump off the outfall quite oblivious to the danger.
I enjoyed the freedom Lyman allowed us: Beach combing, making numerous dens, tree climbing, paddling in the sea, catching edible crabs and razor fish and Lyman's successful attempts to teach us to swim when it was warm in the summer.
I do not recall Mother ever visiting The Beacon which may have been just as well.
I used to travel to Chapel from Skegness on the Lincolnshire Road Car service bus which took almost three quarters of an hour to do the 8 miles. I travelled to Chapel Monday mornings and came home Friday nights by myself - as a 7 year old.
I remember my Mother complaining that my overcoat was ingrained with salt and sand as well as being almost permanently damp. Unknown to her I had usually made great efforts to dry out the coat in front of the blacksmith's forge just down the lane from The Beacon on my way to the bus.
I suspect she soon came to the conclusion that, once again, my education was not progressing as she wished for by the end of the first summer we went to Norwich to be interviewed for my entry to Taverham Hall.
Lyman ultimately achieved notoriety in later life by being found guilty in Lincoln Crown Court of a substantial fraud involving a great deal of money for which offence he served a long spell in Lincoln jail.
Notes:-
Surveyor, Nelson White of White, Sons and Lumby who had an office in the market place at Donington followed the Doctor's tradition and also did much of his professional work in the back bar of the Red Lion.
The Vine only opened in the summer.
The 1953 East coast floods swept away most of the original sea bank which was replaced by a hard sea defence
RC.
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June 17 2012
CHARLEYABELL
ADDLETHORPE SMALLHOLDING
It was a scorching hot summer's day - not a cloud in the sky.
A bluebottle buzzed noisily, coming to rest on a swill bin full of waste collected from Mr. Edgeington's fish and chip cafe´ in Skegness High Street. After one or two further short flights the bluebottle settled on a particularly succulent piece of fish remnant and all was quiet.
Although, in fact, all was not quiet on the smallholding. A gentle sea breeze stirred the leaves on a massive ancient grey willow which had grown nearby, probably since the area was grazing marsh reclaimed from the North Sea. In the other direction could be heard distant announcements preceded by an electronic chime from Butlin's Holiday Camp regularly exhorting their visitors into some further organised activity. Periodically an aged De'Haviland Rapide, doubtfully airworthy by to-day's standards, took off labouring into the sky from the Butlin's grass strip to take ‘trippers' for a ten minute flight over Skegness.
Apart from the unmistakable odour from a large muck hill no one would have guessed that there were some 200 pigs and around a thousand poultry on the smallholding. Pigs in the yards and sties slept through the mid-day heat disturbed only very occasionally by squeals of young pigs playing. The pigs which were kept outside had retreated to shaded areas next to the buildings where they lay motionless stretched out in the cool. There was an area near one of the buildings where a hosepipe had leaked for some time and the ground had become soft, cool and muddy; this was an area especially favoured by the pigs who stretched out contentedly on the soft damp ground. The only movement was the occasional flap of an ear or twitch of a tail to disturb some errant insect. A few hens scratched about the yard scavenging the odd piece of grain in the shade of a wheat straw stack clucking quietly among themselves.
All was thus relatively peaceful. Rusty, an Alsation/Labrador cross dog lay asleep near his kennel by the gate where he was tethered on a long stout chain. His ears pricked up and he opened one eye. Soon he was on his feet barking furiously at a vehicle approaching unsteadily from the Addlethorpe Mill direction along the very bumpy access road to the smallholding.
The vehicle was a Hillman 5 cwt ex-Army WWII pickup which Stepfather had acquired at a disposal sale. Originally finished in a matt khaki, Stepfather had hand painted the outside only with a particularly bilious lime green. The cab had a round observation opening in the passenger side roof, the cover of which rattled incessantly. The rear of the vehicle was covered by a canvas tilt and with the tailboard suspended on two chains could just carry four galvanised dustbins of food waste.
It was the period when rationing continued after WWII. Indeed, the post war period was in many respects even more severe than during the actual conflict.
My Mother ran a boarding house and Stepfather acquired the Addlethorpe smallholding. The two businesses complemented each other. Mother's clients greatly appreciated food produced on the smallholding and also that, unlike other Skegness boarding establishments, she rarely asked them for any contribution from their ration books. Her guests not unsurprisingly returned regularly each year.
Stepfather, prior to marrying my Mother, had farmed Brickyard Farm, Sapcote, a small dairy unit near Hinkley in Leicestershire. He had served as an eighteen year old boy in the Great War as an ammunition wagoner at Passchendaele, a subject that he only ever talked about to me twice but which had clearly been a profound experience. He had no conscience about being exempted from WWII as a farmer.
He had married a local girl who had tragically died of cancer before there were any children.
Brickyard Farm was typical of small dairy farms built throughout the Leicestershire countryside in the late 19th: century; the whitewashed farmhouse was surrounded by the farm buildings and a Dutch barn. The house was small, lit by paraffin lamps, had one hand pump in the kitchen over a large Belfast sink and elm draining board. There was another larger pump in the farmyard. The principle heat in the house came from a cast iron solid fuel range in the kitchen. There was one double seat earth closet across the yard from the back door of the farmhouse.
At Sapcote Stepfather milked some twenty-five Red Poll cows by hand and managed the farm almost singlehandedly. His solitary life was only interrupted socially by his being a member of Sapcote cricket club. He was also a keen chorister at Sapcote Church and knew most of The Ancient and Modern Hymnal by heart. He had an elder Brother, George and a younger Stepbrother, Bill. Stepfather's Mother had died in childbirth and his Father had re-married. Perhaps, not surprisingly, he was a somewhat reserved, shy character who, only when angered would have much to say on any subject.
Quite why Stepfather and Mother decided to get married I find difficult to understand. Their compatibility was far from obvious. My Mother and I lived during WWII at Fields Farm which adjoined Brickyard Farm. Why my Mother moved there is not clear. She was a complicated character who managed to hide my illegitimate birth from me and others till after she died. She was however a very different character to Stepfather. During the War she kept house for Bert Lucas, the tenant of Fields Farm. Her only common interests with Stepfather appeared to be playing bridge and attending local whist drives. At what stage they decided to marry I have no idea. However, after Mother had moved to the Belgrave Hotel at Skegness and even after their wedding in June 1945 at Spilsby Stepfather continued to occupy Brickyard Farm for some time. During this period he made occasional trips in his ancient Hillman saloon to Skegness usually towing a pig trailer loaded with black market farm produce.
To reach the Addlethorpe smallholding one approached along a long narrow strip of land bordered on either side by deep dykes. Although well drained the area was low lying and the land heavy with the consequence that vehicles often become stuck en route. Stepfather managed to acquire (free) much of the rubble of the Tower Cinema which had been bombed during the War. The front of the cinema had originally been Art Deco style and covered in white tile. This rubble was laid in two leaks down the smallholding approach road and although very uneven was a great improvement. The most serious attempt to level the surface was Stepfather running his spud-wheeled Fordson Standard tractor up and down the strip. Some future archaeologist will no doubt ponder how hundreds of Art Deco tiles got in the middle of Addlethorpe Marsh.
Mother and Stepfather's daily routine at the smallholding was as follows:
After breakfast Stepfather would set off round Skegness on his 'swill round', picking up waste food from cafes, boarding houses, hotels, schools, holiday camps, the Hospital etc.. The waste was collected in galvanised dustbins hauled down the smallholding where it was cooked in large steamers. Depending on the time of year Stepfather might make up to three collection trips in the morning and one in the afternoon. In latter years Mother managed to persuade him to return to assist serving lunch to her guests. After lunch had been cleared Stepfather and Mother would both go down the smallholding.
On arrival Mother would open the gate and release Rusty, making much fuss of the old dog. Rusty had been given to Stepfather by an owner who could not cope with the dog. Rusty was very fierce but ideal as a yard dog. Although the smallholding was left unattended at night Rusty's reputation kept all prowlers away. He was well known to allow anyone in and then corner them against the muck hill making sure never to go to the full extent of his chain and preventing the intruder escaping. Several times Stepfather had had to 'rescue' travelling agricultural salesman from the top of the muck hill. Neither did Rusty reserve his wrath solely for visitors; when it came time to put him back on his chain before we returned to Skegness he would bite any of us - and did regularly.
Considering their busy lifestyles Mother and Stepfather achieved a remarkable division of labour to ensure the two businesses worked efficiently. At the Hotel Stepfather was eventually persuaded to serve guests at table. At the smallholding Mother had charge of the breeding sows and litters which would often involve her sitting up all night with a farrowing sow. The sows she knew individually by name. Any sow having difficulty farrowing Mother would sit beside the animal calming it. As the piglets arrived she would carefully put them in a warm box till the sow had finished farrowing before allowing them all to suckle.
Mother also took charge of catching, killing, plucking and dressing any poultry required for the hotel or to meet "business favours". She also collected the eggs and washed them before they were collected by the local packing station.
Stepfather did most of the mucking out and any arable work as well as taking pigs to Boston or Louth markets and transporting the Landrace and Large White boars about the district to service sows elsewhere. In addition he hand milked Buttercup, a single Jersey cow which was kept for milk and dairy products (cream, homemade butter, ice cream and cheese) used in the hotel.
Stepfather rented the smallholding from Bob Stowe who farmed nearby as well as running a butchers shop on Roman Bank. The land on the smallholding was very heavy and had originally been used by Bob Stowe as lairage grazing in connection with his butchery business. At the time Skegness Urban District Council were attempting to eliminate 'back of shop' slaughterhouses and the lairage had become surplus to requirements.
Bob Stowe and Stepfather did not get on. I recall witnessing several heated exchanges across the dyke that, perhaps fortunately, separated Stowe's farm from the smallholding. Much of the argument centred round Stepfather's plans to erect buildings and run the land as a livestock unit. Fortunately the Agricultural Holdings Act 1948 was in the course of passing through Parliament which clarified matters in Stepfather's favour in that a landlords consent to improvements could not be unreasonably withheld. It was a time of shortages: Production was king
The holding originally comprised three bare fields totalling 23 acres plus the access track. The field nearest the track Stepfather split into three with 6' chicken wire and pig netting fences - Known as "The Yard", "the bottom field" and "the top field". Apart from a Nissen hut in the top field all the buildings were in the yard. In addition there were two arable fields where Stepfather grew either beans or barley which were consumed on the holding. He occasionally put one of the arable fields down to clover or Lucerne from which he took a hay crop for Buttercup and let the cow graze the land with the poultry from the top field.
In the period after the War building materials were in short supply and builders themselves heavily engaged rebuilding bomb damaged properties and/or erecting thousands of council houses throughout the country to house people who had been bombed out. Stepfather had a friend, Billy Jackson from Friskney. Euphemistically known as a 'General Dealer', Billy was always on the lookout for buildings and building material: As military establishments became decommissioned Billy had the necessary contacts to be able to buy ex-WD surplus. This included Nissen huts.
Stepfather and Billy managed to buy two surplus Nissen huts at Gibraltar Point.
It so happened I was on holiday from school when they went to dismantle and collect the huts and I went with them. We approached Gibraltar Point via unmanned barbed wire road blocks and passed a line of redundant army vehicles awaiting disposal. We were met by a War Department official who pointed out two huts near the present day Skegness Sailing Club clubhouse. Cash changed hands and the official drove off. Neither Billy nor Stepfather had any experience of dismantling the huts and they both wandered round the huts contemplating where to start.
What the official had omitted to tell them that there was a family of Londoners' squatting in one of the huts. Billy entered into' negotiations' and soon a little more cash changed hands and the problem was resolved. By the end of the day Billy and Stepfather had dismantled both huts. Billy took one and sold it on to a Friskney farmer at a handsome profit and Stepfather hauled his off with borrowed tractor and 4 wheel dray to the Addlethorpe smallholding. Stepfather soon had a concrete base laid but after a while he discovered that erecting the hut frame single handed was a near impossibility. As soon as he assembled a second frame; the first fell down etc.. With what seemed to my innocent young ears a great deal of cursing he finally had the hut erected and it did not seem long before internal sty walls were built of concrete blocks and pigs were in residence. Where the lying areas were positioned in the sties Stepfather laid Bellamy's Mineral Water bottles within the concrete and it seemed incredible to me how the sows always chose the 'insulated' areas to lie on. Later Stepfather's copious thirst for mineral water was found to be symptomatic of diabetes for which he was years later diagnosed.
Just inside the gate he built three very low pigsties. Bricks were limited in supply hence the small size. They had a single sloping corrugated asbestos sheet roof which was only about 6' at the front and sloped down to the rear - cleaning out required midgets, or as I soon discovered, me.
Outside the brick built piggery was a large concrete apron on which stood the swill cooker. This was a 3' diameter cylinder about 6' high heated from underneath by a coal fire. It pivoted in the middle so that the cooked waste could be tipped into a Victorian cast iron bath that Stepfather had miraculously found at Billy Jackson's. The cooker had a lid with a weight to set the pressure. It worked on the principle of a giant pressure cooker. It was basic but effective. The chief drawback being that the swill had to be lifted head height to load the cooker which led to one or two memorably smelly 'accidents' with the more liquid waste. There was at least one cooker-full processed during the day and also another overnight. Everything was cooked and on occasions the contents smelled quite appetising. Rusty was always solely fed with bits from the cooker - and thrived on it.
Semi-open yards used in the summer to fatten hog pigs and in the winter to house dry sows. They were timber and tarred corrugated iron structures. Being close to the swill cookers any pigs in these yards were always the first to be aware of an imminent feed and their excited calls would set off squeals of anticipation from every other pig on the smallholding.
Nissen huts brought from RAF Ludford high in the Lincolnshire Wolds. One was almost always used for poultry but the other had various uses including rearing calves on several occasions (Mother's project).
Next to "The Office" was a corrugated iron lean-to which housed a well used Fordson Standard tractor. Building 8 had originally been a wooden chicken shed for laying hens which, after a concrete floor had been laid, became "The Office". It had a Calor gas double ring, telephone, a table and chairs including a couple of ancient deck chairs in which Stepfather occasionally had "forty winks" when Mother was away. What few papers and files Stepfather maintained were kept in the original laying nest boxes.
..
Last to arrive, acquired from Jack Brittain in yet another cashless deal to cover the use of Stepfather's Landrace boar. This was a showman's traditional caravan which had spent many years prior to WWII being towed about the countryside by a steam engine as part of a thrashing set. It was hand built of hardwood and had an intricate mahogany interior with brass fittings. It was occupied by various people who Mother "employed" to help as required on the smallholding or hotel. Many of whom were people displaced from London by the Blitz and for whom Addlethorpe was their first experience of rural life. For most of them it was just too remote and they soon moved on. Mother's employment arrangements tended to mean that she gave them free lodging in the caravan and as much milk and eggs as they wanted (which she reasoned they would likely steal in her absence anyway) - no money changed hands and I doubt if there were any records of employment.
Much of the time I was away at boarding school but I vividly recall several incidents:
Pig breeders were quite a social community, regular contacts being made through the many breed societies and markets. Before the days of hybrid breeding; great importance was laid on retaining the pedigree blood lines of breeds that then existed, many of which have now disappeared or are on the verge of extinction; Large Black, Berkshire, Wessex, Large White, Middle White, Welsh, Gloucester Old Spot, Tamworth and others that I have long since forgotten. As I write it is reported that less than a hundred Essex breeding animals survive - there were times when Stepfather himself had more than that at Addlethorpe.
Most of the larger breeders had an annual pig sale. These were popular events attended by most pig farmers in the area taking the opportunity to acquire new stock. Some of the smaller breeders would combine their sale to include animals from other herds.
The Dennis's of Kirton regularly held an annual pig sale to which Stepfather always went. John Dennis ran a herd of Essex and Stepfather had bought many pigs at different sales over the years. The Dennis sale was a large affair which, as well as hundreds of sale pens full of pigs, also included a well stocked beer marquee where all victuals were free to those attending the sale. Often, as much business was done in the beer tent as elsewhere at the sale. It was usually a very convivial meeting of pig breeders from far and wide most of whom knew each other.
Whilst Stepfather had a prodigious capacity for Bellamy's Ice Cream Soda he lacked a similar capacity for alcohol. He enjoyed a drink but usually reserved such for special occasions - no doubt an annual Essex pig sale qualified as such a special occasion.
At one particular sale having, no doubt, spent far too long in the beer tent with friends, Stepfather made his way towards the crowd surrounding the auctioneer. Stepfather was well known to the auctioneer who introduced him to the rest of the crowd. Stepfather being somewhat shy remained at the back of the crowd and studied his sale catalogue. The sale moved on pen by pen. After a while Stepfather raised his hand bidding for a particular lot he had selected from the catalogue which was soon knocked down to him at what Stepfather thought was a very reasonable price. It was only after the crowd moved on that Stepfather discovered that he had misread the catalogue and had purchased two young Tamworth gilt pigs.
Tamworths, as well as being bright ginger in colour, are famed as being not only the ultimate escapologists of the pig world but also being the fastest porcine runners. Indeed, as the crowd of bidders moved on the two young Tamworth gilts were already trying to climb out of the pen. The pigs were quickly loaded and taken to Addlethorpe where they regularly dug themselves out under the foundations of their sty and eventually were allowed to wander at will around the farmyard. At the time Stepfather had acquired an Airedale dog, Scot. Scot was about 6 months old who, perhaps fooled by the Tamworth's colouring, developed a special affinity with the two young pigs with whom he would play for hours tearing about the farmyard.
In due course the Tamworths were put to the boar and as they neared the point of farrowing became increasingly reluctant to participate in Scot's energetic games. One of the Tamworths soon learned that a degree of peace could be obtained by burrowing under the straw stack. However, by this time Scot had grown to his full size and was a powerful dog. It was not long before he learned to drag the unfortunate Tamworth from its hide. Matters came to a head when Stepfather arrived one afternoon to discover a distressed Tamworth hopping round the yard on three legs. He immediately dispatched the unfortunate creature with his 12 bore and if Scot had not fled at the sound of the gun might well have allocated the second barrel to him. The casualty was hung up in the tractor shed by its back feet and left to drain. In the cool of the summer evening Stepfather butchered the carcass and it was taken to the hotel where numbers of unsuspecting guests were very grateful of such tasty pork, albeit three legged.
Ever after when Stepfather attended pig sales he would be sent off with Mother's admonition to make sure what he was bidding for.
The Connels' had been bombed out of Chigwell. Mr. Connell had done some military service during the War and received a small War Pension. What precise injury he had sustained no one ever knew and Stepfather maintained he was essentially bone idle and simply did not want to work. Mrs. C., by contrast, worked energetically non-stop. A slight woman with a broad Irish accent. Mother gratefully employed her in the hotel where Mrs. C. willingly turned her hand to any job required of her. The Connells' had been squatting in a bomb damaged property near the clock tower on Skegness South Parade but it was not long before the local council evicted them.
Mother offered them the showman's caravan at the smallholding. Mrs. C. soon had the showman's caravan immaculate and very comfortable. If it was not convenient to get a lift to or from Skegness with Stepfather Mrs. C. would walk the mile and half up to Roman Bank and get the bus. As well as working for Mother she did any shopping required herself and under protest placed bets for her husband at the local bookies. Meanwhile Mr. C. did absolutely nothing. The limit of his activity was to amble down to Addlethorpe windmill where he had a daily newspaper delivered to enable him to study the horses.
Stepfather asked Mr. C. if he could 'keep an eye' on the yard when he let the boar out to cover any in-season sow. Mr. C. asked what the pay would be. Stepfather, just managing to retain his temper, pointed out that the couple were already occupying a caravan rent free as well as having all the eggs and milk they needed not to mention the odd chicken. In addition Stepfather explained Mother was also employing Mrs. C.
Soon after, one Sunday afternoon as Mother and Stepfather drove down the lane to the smallholding to their great amazement they saw a small crowd of people outside the smallholding gate. It soon became apparent that the crowd of some dozen adults and children were watching the boar perform his duty with a sow in the yard. The boar's efforts were accompanied by general cheers and ribaldry from the onlookers and it was also clear that several of the crowd were strongly under the influence of alcohol.
Mother took immediate charge of the situation and after enquiring what was going on threatened to set a very angry Rusty on them. In a very short time everyone except the Connells' was making a very hurried exit down the lane. Enquiries of a less than fully coherent Mr. C. revealed that he had felt entitled to invite his friends to watch the boar on a ticket paying basis as it was the only way he could make it pay.
Soon after this incident Mr. C. disappeared. Mrs. C. wished him good riddance and it seemed that they were not in any event actually married. Mrs. C. stayed on in the caravan for some time and on occasions the hotel was full of guests I often spent several nights staying in the caravan. Mrs. C. came from a remote rural area of Ireland and was entirely at home at the smallholding. She had an almost never ending store of tales from her rural childhood upbringing. She greatly missed Ireland to which she eventually returned. She was of doubtful literacy and certainly not a letter writer and, sadly, we never heard from her again.
Stepfather always kept two boars, one Danish Landrace and the other Large White. Boars will, if left together, naturally fight. On one occasion Stepfather had to shoot one after a boar fight and on another occasion a boar seriously injured a pony belonging to my Stepsister necessitating much trauma and vet. expenses.
However, like most animals, if properly handled, boars can be as docile as any other animal.
Jo was such an animal: Unusually, he had been hand reared. Normally boars were bought in sales when they had reached maturity so that they could be immediately used.
Jo was allowed to wander about the yard and loved nothing better than being rubbed between the ears after which he would squeak affectionately and lie down so that he could have his stomach rubbed. You could call him by name and he was as obedient as any dog and loved being fed titbits by hand.
He enjoyed his trips out in the pig trailer in the knowledge that he was off to perform for some of his local harem.
On one occasion when there was little work for him he wandered off and spent three days munching his way through a field of beans before we found him.
This should have been a warning to us that he was developing a wanderlust.
One sunny afternoon Stepfather found that Jo was not snoozing in his favoured place on the west side of the straw stack and it soon became obvious he had absconded. Stepfather was not particularly concerned and explained Jo would either find his own way home or someone would 'phone having spotted him.
About 1.30 in the morning the ‘phone rang in the hotel . It was the police. They had found Jo. He was on a caravan park not far from the smallholding. Stepfather woke me and we went down the holding and hitched up the pig trailer before driving to the caravan site as directed by the police. Not far from Butlin's we drove to the centre of a caravan park where there was a large crowd in the middle of which Jo chattered to the assembled crowd. Much to the alarm of the caravanners he kept going up to various members of the crowd in the hope of being given some titbit. Most of the assembled company were miners from Derbyshire and any approach by Jo caused considerable alarm. Somebody had however had the good sense to give Jo their left-over fish and chips which Jo was gratefully eating as we arrived. The crowd parted at our approach to reveal people armed with deckchairs, cricket bats, wickets or anything with which they could defend themselves against the boar. As we arrived Jo instantly recognised the truck and trailer and came happily trotting towards us. Stepfather gave him a handful of calf nuts and rubbed him between the ears. I dropped the ramp on the trailer and Jo gleefully climbed aboard chuntering quite happily. The crowd were amazed how such a great beast (he would have been 4' at the shoulders) could so easily be handled. A retired miner insisted on recounting to Stepfather how he had been fast asleep with his wife to be suddenly awaked by the rocking of the caravan. Peering from the caravan window he spotted Jo rubbing himself contentedly against the corner of the caravan. He had raised the alarm and marvelled how Jo just stood patiently and watched with interest as more and more pyjama clad caravanners appeared. His mining mates ribbed him with the usual "earth moving" jokes - not appreciated by his wife.
Mother was a skilled hand at catching and killing poultry. I can only assume that she acquired such skills during her own childhood from her parents when she must have spent time on various farms near Haynes. I was often required to help and it may be she too similarly acquired such skills as she helped Grandfather James.
Even when she only proposed to catch one chicken she would lure the flock into whatever building was being used as a chicken house by the simple expedient of leading them in with a bucket of corn some of which she would throw on the floor of the chicken hut. While the chickens were eating she would pick out which bird(s) she wanted making sure I also understood. We would then, very slowly, drive the flock up to one end or corner of the building. There was no flapping about and the whole philosophy was to keep the birds calm.
Mother had had a 'crook' made from a piece of 6' aluminium tubing. With this she would slowly approach her intended victim and put the crook round either its neck or legs depending on whichever was easier. Having checked the bird she would deftly wring its neck. If we were catching several birds then as she dispatched them she would put them in a corn sack so as not to frighten the other birds.
If she were catching ducks which spent most of their time outside and were often wet and muddy she would get me to spread a bale of wheat straw over a chicken shed floor and leave the ducks to forage about in the straw for grain for a couple of hours before catching them. This ensured that the ducks were good and clean before she caught them. She was particularly careful to make sure that she killed ducks when they had no pen feathers.
Stepfather's fowl catching technique was however very different - he chased them round the chicken hut until, eventually, he caught one - often flying by him at head height which required all his former cricketing skills. If he had to catch several fowl we had to take a break to let the dust settle in the chicken shed so we could see our quarry. Helping him was more fun but one needed a bath afterwards!
Both geese and turkeys were kept on the holding. These fell easily to Mother's chicken crook but were more of a challenge to kill. The simplest expedient proved to be to hold the bird head down, put the yard broom across its neck which was held down by Mother's foot, Then, holding it by the breast and feet to give it a short sharp pull to dispatch it.
Inevitably I was taught to both pluck and dress birds which I could do entirely proficiently by the time I was 12 but I never was able to keep pace with Mother's work rate.
Most Wednesdays Stepfather took pigs to Boston market. As well as the livestock market there was a produce, dead stock and poultry market where everything was sold at auction by Jack Killingworth. If there was any item that Stepfather thought a 'good buy' he would often buy it on the spur of the moment. One Wednesday afternoon he arrived back at Addlethorpe with a large cardboard box full of day old Guinea fowl poults. Mother found two or three broody Rhode Island Red hens who each 'adopted' a clutch of Guinea Fowl chicks. The rest had to take their chance in a paraffin heated incubator. Despite the predation of the smallholding cat some 60+ chicks were soon feathered and darting speedily about the yard. By the end of the summer the birds could fly up to 50 yards.
Mother's technique of luring them into a chicken shed did not work and there was no way anyone could catch the birds by chasing them. By the autumn they were clearly in prime condition for the table. Various attempts were made to catch them but they always evaded capture. They also reacted to being continually harassed by retreating into the field of Stepfather's tic beans or perching high in the willows that grew along the dyke side. Stepfather attempted to stalk them with his shotgun but they soon found sanctuary in the inner recesses of the bean field.
Finally Mother and I were given the job of beating the beans while Stepfather waited at the headland with his gun. The beans were about head high for me and it was with great difficulty that Mother, who carried my toddler Stepsister in her arms forced a way through the beans. We pressed on through the crop and there was the frequent sound of Stepfather's gun in the distance. When we emerged from the crop, scratched and dusty, Stepfather had an impressive pile of Guinea Fowl at his feet.
Most autumns' Mother had guests who came for a week's duck shooting at Gibraltar Point. Having well hung the Guinea Fowl she served them up as 'pheasant' and not one wildfowler noticed. The remaining birds were sold in the Boston dead-stock market.
The few birds that escaped Stepfather's gun could sometimes be heard, almost mockingly, roosting in distant willow trees making their characteristic warning call "Come quick, come quick, come quick . ." For several years occasional birds turned up in the bag of neighbouring pheasant shoots.
In view of the fact that rationing continued after the War it was hardly surprising that animal foodstuffs were in short supply. This meant that every opportunity had to be taken to utilise any food source. As well as general food waste (swill) Stepfather collected stale bread from a bakery and gallons of sour milk from Skegness Co-op Dairy. He was then offered the spent malt grain from Bateman's Brewery at Wainfleet. During the summer his fattening pigs were fed a mixture of bread, sour milk and brewers grain which was often heavily fermented. The young porkers thrived on this mixture and when not feeding spent most of their time asleep in a drunken stupor.
On one occasion Stepfather returned from Boston market with the trailer filled with sacks of rejected Sanatogen vitamin pills. These were fed ad lib to laying hens who produced eggs with spectacular orange coloured yokes for a period. Sadly, no more "Snatch again" came Stepfather's way.
Stepfather was on excellent terms with Alistair Crosby, the Skegness vet. but only called him out professionally for dire emergencies. Otherwise, Stepfather used a number of home-made remedies including a bright purple solution of potassium permanganate which was painted on to cuts and bruises when pigs had been fighting. This last treatment would be evident by the presence of purple pigs running round the holding. At the other end of the spectrum of home-made remedies; Mother used to scrub any in-pig gilts going to market with warm water and Omo washing powder and then powder them with flour to ensure they looked at their very best. Chickens that took to feather pecking were treated to a covering of Stockholm tar which though crude was effective.
Any animals which required putting down went by courtesy of Stepfather's shotgun for which purpose he kept a supply of LG cartridges
When piglets reached 8 weeks they were weaned and castrated. Castrating pigs was done by Stepfather with the help of someone to hold the piglet which turned out to be me as soon as I could hold a small pig upside down by the back legs with the pig's head gripped firmly between my knees. Stepfather 'operated' armed only with a bowl full of Dettol solution and an Ever Ready single-sided razor blade. Normally he would have completed the operation almost before the inverted piglet was aware what was going on. Rusty and Scot scrapped over the surplus testes cast on to the floor. Scot usually had to wait until Rusty had had his fill but as we would do several litters together this was not a problem.
Despite scrupulously cooking all swill the herd twice got swine fever involving all the pigs being destroyed. Jo, who was away servicing sows elsewhere survived an outbreak but had a pretty frustrating life when he eventually returned 'home' to find no other pigs on the holding. The holding also suffered an outbreak of fowl pest. Although the Government had compensation schemes for such events Stepfather took the effect of such outbreaks badly. On one occasion, I recall, he became quite depressed; even re-joining St. Matthew's Church choir after an absence of five or six years.
When Stepfather finally moved from Brickyard Farm he brought with him Judy, a much loved Welsh Collie. Judy had been taught to herd cattle but would, perhaps understandably, have nothing to do with pigs and as a result became overweight and very much a family pet. She travelled everywhere with Stepfather and woe betide anyone who attempted to get into his truck which she saw as very much her personal territory. She made daily visits to the smallholding but always went back to the hotel each night. While at The Belgrave Hotel there was a particularly rampant dog next door who when Judy came into season would try every means to get into the Belgrave's garden, including climbing over the fence. Stepfather decided that the best course for Judy was to shut her up in the "Office" at the smallholding where she could also escape the attentions of Scot or Rusty. To make doubly certain of matters Stepfather tied her to the leg of the large kitchen pine table he used as dining table-cum-desk. The following afternoon we met Judy coming down the lane to greet us still fastened to the table leg which she had plainly gnawed through. There was also a large hole in the corner of the former chicken hut that served as the office where Judy had pulled off several planks to escape. Rusty did not stir from his kennel on our arrival where he slumbered with the canine equivalent of a broad smile on his face and had clearly been the found by the feckless Judy. Fortunately, by then Judy was old and no whelping followed.
As a small boy Stepfather's Fordson Standard spud wheeled tractor was a great attraction and I would be only eight when he first let me drive it. He and Jimmy Coupland, who lived in a cottage by Addlethorpe mill, were leading bales of clover from the field beyond the top field. The bales were too heavy for me to lift and though they originally put me on the trailer to stack the bales I was not strong enough to manage the job. This meant that with Jimmy on the trailer Stepfather had to fork up all the bales and keep climbing on and off the tractor as we moved down the field. He showed me how to depress the clutch with my right leg which required almost all my weight. I then had to select first gear and very gently take my foot off the clutch. I stopped the tractor when Stepfather or Jimmy shouted "Whoa". I followed Stepfather's instructions, all went well and I felt very proud.
Starting the tractor was often fraught. It started with a handle on petrol and then one changed over to paraffin. It was an imported Lease-lend model and, I suspect, little maintained as vehicle parts were in very short supply. It seemed to either start second or third crank or not at all. If it did not initially start Stepfather would curse it soundly them go off and do something else, returning to start it later. On some occasions this took numerous 'goes' and often by the time he had it started he had forgotten what the job was he was originally going to do - which made him even angrier.
Later Stepfather acquired a Series 1 Land Rover which he used to allow me to drive about the smallholding and down to Addlethorpe mill to collect barley meal. I remember him supervising my first trip to the mill yard where I parked so close to the mill that he was unable to get out of the passenger door. It required two circuits round the yard before I got it right!
Postscript:-
I recently returned to the smallholding to revisit old memories.
I parked my car where the lane left the public road and walked down the lane. The grass had grown over and there was little sign of where the original two leaks existed but occasionally a large lump of white tile showed through the grass sward. When I got to where the showman's caravan had stood everything had been cleared and all the land was in arable production. It was late autumn and the land had been drilled with winter wheat. As I walked up the side of the dyke where once Rusty had cornered intruders against the muck hill I could see through the young wheat shoots that there was the odd sign of its former occupation. Fragments of brick and concrete, a galvanised bucket handle, a short length of rusting chain (Rusty's ?), Nissen hut fastening nails, a pony's shoe, a boar's copper nose ring and the remains of a child's plastic dummy which was probably my Stepsister's.
I kept the copper ring as a keepsake of days long gone and as a tribute to all the hard work of Mother and Stepfather which I probably never appreciated at the time.
RC
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June 16 2012
The "Long Pull".
Section 175 of the Licensing Act 1964 made it a criminal offence for landlords of Clubs and Pubs to serve over the measure ordered by customers. Any landlords found guilty of such offence could be ordered to pay a fine up to £500.
What's it all about?
The "long pull" dates back to days of austerity when unscrupulous landlords struggled to keep their pub viable (and full of customers) by serving more beer than the customer had requested.
The custom had grown for the customer to order a pint of ale, drink three quarters thereof and then order another half pint in the same glass. This second glass the landlord filled to the brim but only charged for a half pint.
In days when pub rents reflected the fact that landlords were ‘tied' to only sell beers from the brewery who owned the pub the practice became known as "Brewer's Halves" but as the number of tied houses diminished so did the old practice.
Parliament under the Deregulation and Contracting Out Act 1994 finally recognised the reality of the situation and decided that the long pull should not be a criminal offence.
It is thankfully still possible, especially in rural areas, to seek out pubs where Brewer's Halves are served.
RC.
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May 12 2012
THE NELSON, BURNHAM THORPE.
The Nelson's apparent sole claim to fame was that Admiral Nelson was born in the nearby Thorpe Vicarage. The pub was, from the outside, only what could be described as an ordinary village pub. It was whitewashed, pantile roof and out buildings which suggested that it may once have been a beer house where beer had been brewed on the premises.
It was till recently a tied house owned by Green King. In the 70's as the number of agricultural workers on the surrounding land declined the Nelson showed only a very modest profit for the brewery and it was soon on Green King's list of properties to be disposed of.
The locals were however in uproar and, led by the licensee, Les' Winters a campaign was launched to save the pub. Eventually the brewery did a deal with Mr. Winters whereby he agreed to sell Green King, Abbott and IPA ales but was not required to be restricted to what the brewery might require him to sell had the pub remained formally tied. Les' was in his 50's and the brewery ambitiously granted him a 21 year lease which appeared to suit all parties.
My Father-in-Law, Aubrey Patrick and I had established a long tradition of going together for a drink on Saturday nights to a pub "of character" while My Wife, Eileen and Mother-in-Law stayed at home catching up with the family gossip.
We arrived at The Nelson about 7 p.m.. The lights were on in the pub but there were no cars in the car park. Through the front door we were met by another door that bore a frosted glass panel proclaiming Public Bar, there did not appear to be any other public rooms.
We went into the public bar. By the light of a single light bulb suspended from the smoke stained ceiling we saw that there were 4 large pine settles and a number of wooden chairs, thee large tables and two smaller ones. One of the small tables was covered with dominos which were firmly stuck to the table with dried beer. Some 7 or 8 men were sat behind pint glasses of beer. There was however no bar. We sat down on one of the vacant settles and were soon in conversation with the locals. The walls were clad with numerous Nelsonian memorabilia
No licensee appeared and just at the point I was about to make enquiries how one got a drink the gentleman sitting next to me introduced himself as Les' Winters.
He explained the history of the pub and that it was run primarily for the locals; thus he restricted his stock to items of their choice. The drinks on offer were Green King IPA but this Les explained was nearing the end of the barrel and was for locals only till the brewery brought another barrel. Otherwise he had draught Guinness and Abbott. "For the ladies" he had a modest stock of Mansfield Brown Ale. This last item I much later discovered was the tipple of his elder spinster Sister with whom he shared the pub.
Les' carried no spirits other than his home-made "Nelson's Blood". This was a rum based mixture with cloves and other (unknown and undeclared) additives supposedly based upon the traditional belief that after Nelson had died of wounds at Trafalgar his body had been preserved in a spirit filled barrel. Several of the locals had got a small "chaser" of Nelson's Blood to help their IPA down.
Aubrey opted for a pint of Abbott and a Nelson's Blood chaser. Even though it was early days of the breathalyser, IPA at 5.% a.b.v. seemed quite enough. I did however buy a bottle of Nelson's Blood for Aubrey to take back to Skegness.
Before long Jim was drinking Nelson's Blood and having the Abbott as chasers. He was in addition generously sharing out the bottle I had bought which spurred Les' to fetch a large white enamel jug of Abbott ‘on the house' which was also passed round.
It was developing into a very jolly evening
About 9.p.m.a group of four or five smartly dressed couples came in through the bar door. They were obviously Londoner visitors or second home'ers.
Les' introduced himself and one of the group asked the girls of the party what they would like to dink which turned out to be one soft drink and three gin and tonics. Les explained he did not have either. They finished up very self consciously supping a Mansfield Brown Ale each and left as soon as their menfolk had got their pints of Abbott down.
Murmers of "Hooray Henrys'" and "foreigners" from the locals spurred Les to fetch another "on the house" jug of Abbott. The bottle of Nelson's Blood was empty and it seemed a good time to go home while we could still find it
Roy Church
THE BRISLEY BELL.
Ada and Henry Griegs had held the licence at the Brisley Bell for many years. Ada was the first woman in Norfolk to hold a Justices full on-licence when she took over aged 22 from her Father in 1922. Shortly after she married Henry Griegs although she remained the sole Licensee.
My first associations with the pub were in the early 1980's when I used to walk my spaniel dogs on Brisley Common, one of the few registered commons in Norfolk. One could walk southward from the WWII pillbox standing beside the B1145 to Beck farm buildings and Old Hall Farm or do a circular walk to the north of the road. The common rights were owned and utilised by local farmers who grazed sheep and cattle on the common for much of the year and in addition often taking a crop of hay.
The pub stands at the north side of the B1145 and in the early ‘eighties was in need of some maintenance. Adjoining the pub were some disused outbuildings in a dilapidated state which provided doubtful shelter for users of the very primitive toilets therein. The only indication to passing strangers that it was a pub was a very modest battered sign facing the main road. It was nonetheless a popular pub, not least with the Brisley Cricket Club who had a small ground fenced off from the common. The Cricket club thrived and the venue attracted village cricket teams from much of Norfolk and although the standard of cricket may not necessarily have been memorable Ada's simple hospitality was well known and appreciated.
One warm summer evening having walked my two dogs down to Old Hall Farm and back I fancied a pint. It was not yet 7 p.m.. The car park was empty and there was no sign of any drinkers in the pub.
I knocked on the door which I later learned was kept unlocked throughout the day. No one answered and I went in.
The front door led to a room at the western end of the pub. There was no bar. In earlier days the adjoining room had been used as a dining room or as a function room for Cricket matches.
There was no one to be seen, neither landlord nor client. The public bar was a small room in which there was an eclectic and crowded collection of chairs and tables - but no bar.
Eventually Ada appeared from the direction of the cellar. She wished me good evening, welcomed the dogs with much fuss and asked me where I was from. It soon became clear that she knew several of my neighbours and this led on to questions about where I had gone to school, how long had I known Norfolk, what did I do etc. etc. and when I said that I had spent five years at Taverham then Ada remembered more boys than I did. By this time both my dogs were fast sleep. I tactfully interrupted Ada's recollections of even more Taverham boys who lived in the Bell's vicinity and politely asked if she might get me a beer.
She and Henry kept a very limited stock of draught beer and Henry's task was to man the cellar. When a client made an order Ada would shout the order down to Henry which would be followed by Henry chalking the order up on a blackboard before he drew the same from the barrel. Henry very rarely appeared in the bar and only when the pub was brimming with customers would he get involved in bringing the beer into the bar.
Several local customers arrived on foot and clearly treated the Brisley Bell as an extension of their home. As well as clients from local farms Ada's regulars included a High Court Judge, a London Newspaper editor, a writer and an artist. Everyone was on first name terms and I was made very welcome.
The next time I called at the Bell was late at night while returning from Kings Lynn on a very stormy night. As I reached Brisley Common a light shone forth from drawn curtains at the pub and looked most inviting. I pulled up in the pub car park where there was one other car parked. I opened the door to the bar and adjusting my eyes to the light quickly saw that the room was full to bursting in front of a roaring log fire. Once again I was warmly welcomed by Ada who introduced me to the rest of the drinkers several of whom I had met previously.
There was one somewhat rickety armchair next to the fire and I plonked myself down in the same to enjoy my pint.
The chap sat next to me said.
"You know you are sitting in John's chair?"
I apologised and assumed John had gone to the toilet.
No one said anything further on the matter and I began to search my fellow drinkers without conclusion as to who might be John.
I said to Ada "Does John want his chair?" whereupon there was a hushed expectant silence in the room.
After a pause Ada said that she did not think John would be wanting his chair as he had been in Brisley churchyard some 5 years!
Guffaws all round - it was obviously a long standing joke oft' shared by the regulars.
I later learned that it had long been tradition for Brisley Bell drinkers to bequeath a chair and/or table to the pub in their last Will and Testament.
SCREMBY HOUSE
Scremby House was situated some three miles north east of Spilsby in the Vale of Partney on the southern end of the Lincolnshire Wolds. Scremby House overlooked the A158/A1115 crossroads. It was an impressive Queen Anne period house standing in parkland having formerly been one of the principal houses on the surrounding Gunby Estate owned by the Massingbird family. The house was used during WWII to accommodate RAF officers and NCO's from the nearby Firsby (Great Steeping) airfield following which it was left empty and boarded up for a number a years.
In the mid-'fifties an enterprising couple, Mr. and Mrs. Simpson, having started a successful small restaurant business in nearby Burgh-le-Marsh, leased Scremby House which they advertised as a country club and restaurant.
At the time I was stationed at Sobraon Barracks in Lincoln doing my basic infantry training with the Royal Lincolnshire Regiment. Scremby crossroads was on my route back to Skegness where my parents lived and occasionally I called in on the newly opened premises.
'New' was something of a misnomer: The Simpson's, obviously somewhat strapped for capital, had carried out minimal improvements to the property, no doubt, relying on their skill as hosts and the goodwill of their clientele. The property had no mains electricity having been supplied power during its military occupation from an ancient Lister generator in an outbuilding which had long since given up the ghost. The property was lit by a selection of paraffin lamps very much as it would have been over the preceding 100 years. Indeed, entering the old house was like stepping back in time.
Mrs. Simpson slaved away in a huge kitchen dominated by an ancient solid fuel Aga range. Service was slow but the food was wonderful. Mrs. Simpson specialised in local Lincolnshire dishes and soon deservedly earned a great reputation. The speed of service was not an issue in pre-breathalizer days. Many convivial hours could be spent at Mr. Simpson's bar.
I decided it would be a good place to take my then current girlfriend, Jean. She was a Nottingham girl from a strictly urban background and had no experience of such rural style of living.
It was November and we arrived at Scremby House on a dark evening as the cold north wind howled off the Wolds. Entering the building we were met with the welcome sight of a huge log fire and the all encompassing smell of cooking food, beer and paraffin. Mr. Simpson greeted us and found us a comfortable upholstered settle and table near the roaring fire. I had a pint of Bateman's best my girlfriend drank brandy and ginger. We ordered our meal and another round (or two) of drinks.
Mrs. Simpson eventually bought the meal which was, as usual, first class.
After finishing the meal I joined Jean in a brandy and we decided to set off back to Lincoln. Jean said she wished to 'use the facilities'. Typically, there were no notices indicating where such might be. She discretely asked Mrs. Simpson who explained that "the girls" went upstairs and "the boys" across the yard. Mrs. Simpson went on to say that the plumbing was not working which required Jean to take a bucket of water upstairs with her to flush the toilet. Jean complied with the instructions and soon returned explaining that all was well - albeit not a practice at which she had much experience.
I said I would just nip out the back to "the boys".
From previous visits I had noted there was an old fashioned earth closet across the yard distinguishable by the vents cut in the top of the privy door. However, seeing it in the daylight was one thing; as I stepped out into the yard my kerosene lamp blew out and I was surrounded by pitch blackness. I groped my way across to the outbuilding and felt my way along the wall till I came to what was unmistakably the privy door which I opened and went in. Inside it seemed even darker. I felt my way round the wall till I found what was a toilet seat. In fact the seat was set in a scrubbed pine bench.
Whether it was the meal, the cold, the beer or the dark; my body decided I needed to urgently attend the call of nature. I hurriedly sat down and performed the necessary task.
The next problem was to find the toilet paper.
I felt along the wall to my right but found nothing other than a nail on which normally there was squares of carefully torn paper. There was no paper, neither roll nor torn newspaper
By now my eyes were becoming accustomed to the darkness and I could just make out the dim light from the house across the top of the privy door. I could also distinguish a small red light to my left.
While I was trying to work out what the light was a nearby voice said.
"Looking for the paper mate?"
There was a man sat immediately (about two feet away) to my left smoking a cigarette who illuminated the scene with his lighter and passed me the sole roll of toilet paper.
The privy was a traditional 'three-holer' and my fellow user was sat on the adjoining place.
Scremby House was something of a novel experience not only for Jean. Real rural living
R.C. November 2002.
Footnote: The Simpson's moved on to become the licensees of the Red Lion at Partney and by the mid-sixties Scremby House had been demolished.
May 7 2012
WIND, WIRE & WINKLES
I arrived at Skegness on a cold windy March day in 1945.
My Mother had acquired a share in a boarding house and we had made what seemed to me an interminably long journey from Sapcote near Hinkley with all our worldly possessions in an ex-Army lorry. Mother's partner in the boarding house venture was a businessman who had been dubiously rumoured to have made considerable wealth on the Black Market during the War. He had provided the 3 ton ex-Army lorry together with the petrol (which was rationed) for the journey.
Mother had been helped by two old friends, Mary and Walter Wilmer, who, before the War had been her neighbours at Holywell in Huntingdonshire.
To a five year old, the trip of about 100 miles had been long and arduous. I had sat in the back of the canvas covered lorry with Mary Wilmer while Mother, Walter and the driver had ridden in the cab. I recall it being bitterly cold despite being wrapped up in several blankets. The canvas tilt flapped noisily and it had been necessary to make stops en route to re-fuel and let the engine cool, notably at the top of the hill out of Grantham.
We arrived about mid-afternoon at the Belgrave Hotel which was opposite what is now the children's play area on South Parade. I recall the lorry being unloaded of everything required for our new life; furniture, carpets, soft furnishings, cooking utensils, crockery and cutlery as well as a huge tarred wicker trunk full of clothes. To me it seemed a confusing if not frightening time. I had little appreciation as to why we were moving. While the truck was being unloaded Mother made tea and found some home-made cake which was left over from the journey. We sat in the bare boarded curtain-less front room and I have a lasting memory of being frightened by screaming seagulls swooping outside the window - not something I had ever heard before.
Eventually, Walter and the driver decided they would go and have a look at the beach. They took me with them and we drove down the Tower Esplanade which finished abruptly at the Boating Lake Café, beyond which were lines of barbed wire effectively preventing anyone going on to the beach. There was however, a narrow opening through the wire opposite the end of the esplanade guarded by two soldiers who sheltered from the rough weather in a small wooden hut nearby.
Walter was an old soldier who had fought in both the Boer War and Mesopotamia. He went over and chatted to the soldiers guarding the entrance to the beach soon returning to say that we were permitted to drive along the beach, provided we kept away from the sand dunes.
Earlier in the War when a German invasion had been anticipated, much of the East coast of England was protected with mines and barbed wire. Skegness, being an open, gently shelving sand beach had been anticipated to be a likely landing site and had been defended accordingly.
I remember clearly that first sight of the beach. Indeed it was my first sight of the sea. The tide was out and the sea seemed grey, cold and far off. The pier had had a 20 yard section dismantled which Walter explained to me and the driver was not the result of enemy bombing but was done to prevent it being used to assist in any German landing. The area between the tide-swept beach and the boating lake was blown sand hills to the south of the esplanade. To the north of the esplanade the tide came up to the concrete sea wall that protected the waterway and amusement park. Coils of continuous barbed wire stretched away as far as the eye could see in both directions. I do not recall seeing any weapons along the sea shore. Presumably, as the threat of invasion had receded, resources had been re-deployed to support the D Day landings.
We drove down the beach to the edge of the sea. Very excited, I sat in the warm cab.
On the way back across the beach the lorry got inextricably stuck in a creek, the bottom of which held a lot of black silt. Walter disappeared to find help. The driver and I sat in the cab. I remember the tide was coming in although not yet flooding the creek in which we were stuck. Soon Walter re-appeared with the lifeboat tractor and driver. I had never seen a crawler tracked vehicle before and my initial thoughts were that it was some sort of World War I tank. By the time we were pulled clear of the mud the tide was beginning to flow under the lorry and it was starting to get dark. I felt very relieved to be back in The Belgrave where Mother had lit a welcoming fire in the front room.
My first visit to the beach had been a salutary lesson.
In fact, parts of the sand dunes were kept wired off for some time even after VE day. Inevitably, because of the drifting nature of the sand dunes; many of the mines that had been laid proved almost impossible to locate and remove. Parts of the dunes were wired off for two or three years. I recall being taken for walks along the seaward side of the boating lake and watching what I assume were R.E.M.E. personnel at work de-mining the area.
Removing all the mines must have been an almost impossible job. Local children were constantly warned not to touch anything suspicious they found on the beach or when digging in the sand. Despite such warnings, there were sadly several tragic deaths of both children and adults.
I recall two occasions when large marine mines were washed up on the beach - huge spheres with projecting spikes - just like those which appeared in post-War boy's comics. I remember one occasion when Mother and I watched from the safety of the Belgrave's top floor front bedroom one such mine being blown up on the beach. There was a great bang that made the windows rattle and a spectacular cloud of smoke as well as a huge quantity of sand being blown into the sky. It certainly served as an effective deterrent from straying on to the beach.
Gradually the foreshore was cleared, as far as practicable, to allow Skegness to once more welcome its summer visitors on which the local economy relied.
By summer 1946 the pier had re-opened to the public.
The pier had been constructed in two parts. In 1881 the steel structure extending seawards from the sea wall next to the amusement park was opened. This portion was typical of many seaside resort piers being cast iron stanchions piled into the sand and fastened together with iron cross-ties over which the decking was laid. On such an exposed coast the structure was always at risk from the adverse weather conditions. Gangs of workers were employed each summer to keep the ties between the stanchions in good order and to paint them with tar.
The part of the pier which extends back towards the town was completed some time after the steel structure. This was a 1930's covered amusement arcade to which entry was free. A visit to the steel part of the structure which extended over the sands required an entrance fee (3d. immediately after the War), paid at a small kiosk at the entrance to that part of the pier. As young children we soon learned that, if we played on the beach nearby and kept an eye on the kiosk attendant, that eventually he/she would be temporally absent from the kiosk due to the call of nature. That was an opportunity to quickly sprint up the steps, climb over the turnstile which had been locked and hurry away to the pier head. The tongue lashing we often received when we left the pier was well worth the risk.
By 1947 the theatre on the end of the pier had been re-opened. There was a café and nearby an open area, protected from cold sea breezes where a three piece orchestra played to an audience comprised mainly of the elderly. I recall it being a somewhat highbrow selection of music - definitely not designed to attract small children. There was a public toilet at the pier head which discharged direct into the sea - a factor to be considered when swimming off the beach, or for the men periodically painting the pier struts below.
Over the top of the theatre was an observation deck where the Coastguard kept watch. As children we would climb the circular cast iron stairway and watch the Coastguard surveying the sea in the hope that he might let us have a look through his telescope or binoculars. Rarely did he. Indeed, he was plainly happier in his work when not distracted by small boys whose noses pressed un-endearingly against his nice clean widows.
The landward end of the pier, being enclosed, was a venue where local children spent their time when the weather was too rough to be on the beach or sand hills.
At the entrance to the pier was a kiosk used by Wrate's Photographers. Wrate's had a number of photographers at strategic points on the foreshore and the North and South Parades who used to take 'snaps' of visitors as they walked along the front. The photographers would be dressed in blazers luridly coloured in black, orange and green stripes. When photographed the subject would be given a numbered card which would tell them when they could view the photo at the pier kiosk. Shots taken in the morning would be ready for collection by 4 p.m.. The photographers used all sorts of tricks to get photographs taken, and, despite what must have been a high wastage, it was obviously a business that made money. The photographers soon got to know the local children and we would only get 'snapped' at the beginning of the season or when a new photographer was employed.
As well as the usual fairground-type side shows, the covered area of the pier arcade housed many and varied 1d. slot machines including 1930's versions of "What the Butler Saw". Even though the attendant made valiant efforts to keep small boys away; the latter were inevitably a great attraction to us. The peepshow machines worked through a series of photographs being viewed in sequence through a lens. Some were more exciting than others. As small boys we soon identified what was considered to be imperative viewing for the initiation of any new members to gangs of local lads.
'One arm bandit'-type slot machines had not reached Skegness. The public's gambling habits were met by a simple machine which allowed a steel ball to be fired vertically round a circuit after which it had the opportunity of falling into one of 7 cups - Five "Win" in the middle and one "Lost" at either end. Despite the 5 : 2 odds in favour of the player, the ball seemed somehow to nearly always fall in one of the two "Lost" cups.
My Stepfather had purchased an old Fordson Standard tractor for work on his smallholding. The machine required extensive overhaul which he did himself with the aid of a mechanic friend. He proudly showed me what he was doing in the belief that such mechanical things interested me. He showed me the powerful 9" magnet from the tractor's magneto which he demonstrated to me by lifting numerous ball bearings off the garage floor. He even let me have a go myself.
I was impressed. I got to thinking. . . .
Unknown to Stepfather, I 'borrowed' the magnet.
I set off for the pier arcade and met up with a friend. We carefully planned the operation. He was to keep 'KV' while I 'worked' the slot machine. We inserted a hard earned 1d. into the machine and I carefully led the ball with the magnet through the glass to a position opposite "Win", then took the magnet away. The ball went into the "Win" cup, I turned the handle, got a 1d. prize and a free ball. The free ball was duly led to the Win" cup in a repeat performance. It worked time and time again. I was enthralled. I had soon made nearly a shilling. At this point there came a hand on my shoulder which I thought was my friend's. I was just at the crucial point of dropping the ball into the "Win" cup and did not turn round.
The hand however proved to be that of the arcade attendant: My friend was nowhere to be seen. Very soon I was being briskly escorted down Scarborough Avenue to the old Police Station on Roman Bank. I was frog-marched, gripped firmly by my coat collar into the front of the station where I was stood facing a small kiosk opening beyond which sat a stern red faced Police sergeant. I got a very severe lecture, cuffed smartly round the ear and the magnet was confiscated.
Stepfather spent days looking for the magnet which was almost impossible to replace due to wartime restrictions. I regret to say I never told him what had happened to it.
Underneath the pier there was a small cinema. It showed ancient black and white cartoons featuring Laurel and Hardy, Popeye, The Three Stooges and a selection of early American comedians. The projection machine regularly broke down to much cheering/jeering. The show lasted half an hour and cost 6d. entry. Every half hour there was a 5 minute interval following which the film was re-started. One could go into the show at any time and stay as long as one wanted. It was quite common, especially on wet days, to see the show several times.
As tourism re-established itself after the War, visitor numbers soon increased. The hub of beach activities was the esplanade access to the beach. Many of the visitors were day trippers arriving by train or coach. Most of them made a bee line to the beach where they spent the whole day.
The Boating Lake Café had an ideal position at the beach end of the esplanade. It did a roaring trade selling simple fare. Visitors purchased large jugs of tea (made with dried milk and sugar already added) together with four mugs. It cost about 2/6 and there was 1/- deposit on the jug and mugs. As small boys we always kept a very keen eye for any jugs or mugs left on the beach. The 1/- deposit was 're-invested' on the boating lake, funfair or pier. Visitors who might innocently fall asleep in the sunshine were at risk of losing their deposit to some of my less scrupulous playmates! Food comprised only thick sandwiches filled with margarine and red sweet jam of no distinguishable flavour.
Mr. Moir was a fierce unfriendly Londoner who ran a cockle stand on the esplanade and also a shop in the Tower Arcade. He had a son Kenneth who he employed occasionally, despite it being well known that Ken was not too bright. One of us would often buy a saucer of cockles and persuade Ken that the shellfish were bad and that he should throw them away. When he did so we shared them out as soon as he was out of sight.
We noticed that Mr. Moir's cockle stall sold winkles. We knew that the vertical sides of the nearby waterway were covered with winkles. One of my more enterprising friends decided that if Mr. Moir could sell winkles then we could. We spent several days hanging precariously over the near vertical sides of the waterway and soon collected a small sack full. We persuaded my friend's Mother to boil them. My Mother had refused. When boiled the cockles smelled horrendously 'fishy'. (Obviously, my Mother knew more about winkle cooking than we did!) Nonetheless, we were soon sat optimistically on the end of the esplanade with a number of paper bags full of "Fresh Cooked Winkles" at 1d per bag.
I assume that Mr. Moir did not take kindly to our friendly competition and very soon "The Man from the Council" (beaqch inspector) appeared. He said he would take the lot. Our initial delight at such an instant sale was short lived when he explained he was confiscating them. That was the end of yet another money-making scheme.
I recall watching with awe the first candy floss machine which was set up next to Mr. Moir's cockle stall. The floss appeared as if by magic. Fascinating to watch. Occasionally, if there were some left over at the end of the day, the stallholder might be persuaded to let me have one. By which time it tended to be somewhat deflated and very sticky. I often got more stuck to my face than in my mouth!
Many visitor's idea of a day at Skegness was simply to hire a deckchair and spend the whole day relaxing on the beach. As the tide went out a number of 'local fishermen' would utilise old wheeled stage'ings which had originally been used with Victorian bathing machines. These were manhandled over the beach to provide 'bridges' over the creeks that ran along the beach. "Donations" were sought by an appropriately placed flat cap on the approach to a 'bridge'. The 'local fishermen' were in fact demobbed soldiers who could find no employment. Half buried in the sand dunes near the Fairy Dell paddling pool there were the derelict remains of three old bathing 'machines' which we used as dens.
Though many visitors paddled genteelly in the sea; very few swam.
Not all beach users however followed such sedate behaviour. Soon after the War crude sand yachts appeared briefly on the beach. They were built on car or small truck chassis and powered by clumsy gaff rigged sails with a jib. Despite their heavy build; on windy days they sped alarmingly about the hard sand area of the beach. Before long there were several incidents of visitors being run down or having a "near miss"and the sand yachts soon disappeared. I had in the meantime pestered one operator till I finally got a ride. It had no brakes and seemed to travel at breathtaking speed. I recall it being an exciting experience which I did not volunteer to repeat.
Any Lifeboat launch during the summer became a major attraction. The first people would know of a launch was the maroons (rockets) being fired from the green opposite the old lifeboat station on South Parade. Local children, unlike the visitors, knew exactly what was going on as soon as the maroons were fired. We would head immediately for the lifeboat station. Crew and beach members would quickly arrive on foot, by bike or car. In the lifeboat station the boat tractor would be started and warmed up [It was powered by a petrol-kerosene engine made by Bristol]. After 'cutting the corner' at the clock tower, (the boat was excused by tradition from having to 'keep left' round the clock tower) the boat on its carriage would head down the esplanade with the characteristic "tak-tak-tak-. . . ." of the tractor's wooden blocked tracks hitting the tarmac. When the tractor reached the beach the track chatter lessened. The nearer to the beach it got the more the crowd on onlookers following the boat swelled. The tractor driver and the beach crew would frequently shout to people to stand back - often with little courtesy! The boat crew would be donning their yellow oilskins and thigh boots while riding on the boat or as they walked along.
The boat would be manoeuvred down to the water, the crew climbed aboard and the carriage backed into the surf.
Even in the calm of summer the actual boat launch off the carriage had a certain drama:
Soon the tractor was uncoupled from the carriage drawbar and the slack on the launch cable was taken up. The life boat engine was started, evidenced by a puff of blue smoke from the stern exhaust. The tractor driver stood at the controls looking behind him watching the coxswain intently.
When all was ready the coxswain checked that the two bowmen, who, on his command would have to release the bow securing chains, were ready. They would nod their acknowledgement and hold up their thole pin hammers. The coxswain would look again at the tractor driver who would also nod in acknowledgement.
The coxswain raised his arm above his head and concentrated on watching the surf which would be breaking against the bow of the boat. Even in calm conditions in the warmth of a summer's day the coxswain's raised arm was an unspoken signal to spectators to hush. When he judged the right moment the coxswain would suddenly lower his hand - the bowmen would hit the tholes releasing the securing bow chains and simultaneously the tractor would roar and leap forward up the beach. The boat quickly gathered speed as it slid off the carriage mounting the first wave of surf as the propeller thrashed in the shallow water.
Summer launches always produced a cheer from the spectators at this point.
The area between the esplanade and what is now the Seacroft car park was sand dunes, some of which would have been 30' high. The first development of the area was the erection of a bandstand on the site of what later became the Festival Centre and roller skating rink. Listening to local and visiting brass bands was very popular among visitors.
The bandstand was constructed of 6' long and 3' diameter concrete conduit pipes half buried on end in the sand on top of which was laid wooden decking. Because of the shifting nature of the sand, the decking was constructed some 3' above the sand. As young children we used to crawl under the decking while the bands were performing. The decking was fairly open to allow the sand to drop through. An occupation that always gave rise to boyish hilarity was to climb under the decking taking a long piece of marram grass. When the musician overhead was playing one poked the marram grass up the available trouser leg. Real success was judged by being able to disturb a player during a solo. The local bandsmen soon however assessed the problem and used to retaliate by pouring flasks of hot tea through the gaps in the boards.
Many of the sea front hotels, including The Belgrave, had been used to billet soldiers in preparation for the expected German invasion earlier during the War. By 1945 the threat of invasion was, presumably, reduced and in consequence many of the hotels were de-commandeered. There were however still several Territorial infantry regiments and RAF units who used to drill occasionally on the Seacroft car park by a dilapidated row of beach huts. When the parade had fallen out, groups of local young boys used to ape their seniors by 'drilling' each other using chestnut fencing staves instead of rifles. It was only the 1953 East Coast floods that finally obliterated the markings on the former drill square. The floods also demolished the beach chalets in the area which had always been popular with visitors as in that part of the beach the tide came regularly up to the steps immediately outside the beach huts.
The 1953 East Coast floods caused substantial damage to the foreshore. The South Bracings, started as part of the 1951 Festival of Britain had only just been completed. It was designed to, above all, make the sea appear closer to the visitors. Originally there were grandiose plans for the development; even, at one time, involving a marina. When the sea broke through in 1953 it did so with a vengeance. It swept away almost the whole of the Bracings concrete sea wall and filled the boating lake and Fairy Dell with sand, flotsam and sea water. The Bracings had to be rebuilt virtually from scratch and the grandiose plans substituted by a modest car park and model train line
The area of sand dune and marsh at the southern end of Seacroft Esplanade running parallel to the Seacroft Golf Course was a wild and remote area where I enjoyed spending my time. In the thirties it had been used for racing cars on. No doubt very much a sport of the rich in those days. The wooden markers which indicated the ends of the oval race track were only removed in the 'eighties by the Lincolnshire Wildlife Trust who I doubt appreciated their historical significance. During the War the Army built a rifle range just off the end of Seacroft Esplanade and also used much of the area as a live firing 2" mortar range. For many years one could find craters left behind by mortar bombs. A few of the larger craters can still be traced, although most of them have been filled with silt from incoming tides.
One day I noticed an old man carefully searching the sand at the rifle range firing butt. The butt comprised a 30' high brick wall with the firing side backfilled with sand. Curiosity got the better of me and finally I asked him what he was doing. He showed me a handful of spent .303 and 9 mm. bullets which he explained he sold to the scrap dealer on Wainfleet Road. On my next visit I filled the saddlebag of my bike and having delivered the booty was rewarded with 2/-. I did several trips but soon my saddlebag was showing signs that it was not designed to carry loads of lead. One day, half way down High Street the bag split and after that I lost my enthusiasm for lead recovery.
As a 10 year old I would walk or cycle down to the Seacroft foreshore accompanied by Mother's old Airedale. I greatly enjoyed the isolation of the place. I used to help myself to whatever could be purloined from Mother's hotel kitchen while she was "doing the beds" and then spend the whole day at Seacroft. I had a pup tent which lived well hidden in the depths of the sea thorn bushes. Trips to Seacroft were very happy times. I enjoyed my own company in a world of make-believe shared only with Jill, Mother's faithful old dog which spent most of the day catching rabbits.
Many local people collected flotsam timber off the beach as fuel or to build with. At the back of Lifeboat Avenue there stood for many years, hidden behind 1930's-built bungalows, a 'living hut' made entirely out of driftwood. It was latterly used as a garden shed before being knocked down to make way for some ubiquitous B & Q type shed - it should have been listed as a piece of Skegness history.
The beach also yielded 'coal'. Some was from ships that had foundered in the area but there was also a never ending supply of the peaty remnant of the pre-Ice Age forest, which had one time grown between Skegness and the present German coast. Nonetheless, the coal burned well and was keenly collected by Skegnesians after high winter tides with an onshore wind. On one occasion a whole deck cargo of grapefruit arrived on the beach to the delight of the local population.
Other activities on the beach included trips in the Grace Darlings. These were three de-commissioned former RNLI lifeboats. All the fittings had been stripped out and they were fitted with slatted seats down each side. The boats ran on kerosene engines and took visitors out to the 'Seal Islands' i.e. the area around Gibraltar Point at low tide. I think the trips were 5/-, far too much for young local boys with little or no pocket money.
Most of my summer holidays as a young boy would be spent on the beach or foreshore. I would leave The Belgrave telling my Mother that I was going to play in the Fairy Dell, which was only 200 yards from the hotel. I did indeed play in the Fairy Dell but also wandered much further afield. With other boys I spent hours climbing up the side of the Axenstrasse, on the boating lake, in the funfair, on the pier and even occasionally venturing to Thompson's Amusement Park at the far end of North Parade.
In the summer when the weather was warm I rarely wore shoes. We paddled and swam in the creeks on the beach. We soon learned that they were warmest when the tide was flooding in the late afternoon. Towels or swimming costumes we never bothered with. To this day I do not find it necessary to use a towel to dry my feet after paddling in the sea: Like all true Skegnesians, we would walk though the dry sand till our feet were dry(ish) and roll our socks back on (if we had any).
Old habits die hard!
Even now, on the rare occasions I walk across the beach on a cold winter's day with the stinging sand blowing against one's legs I am reminded of so many memories of my boyhood - days in short trousers.
In 1978 a severe storm finally demolished most of the pier, leaving the pier head stranded and forlornly surrounded by water. The pier head suffered the final indignity of being burned by vandals before any refurbishment could be funded. Eventually, on safety grounds, the remains were demolished.
Ironically the pier almost has 'the last laugh': Obviously the pier had had the effect of a breakwater since it was built in 1881. When the pier head was finally removed the sea reacted with the result that once again The Bracings are being eroded and the whole coastline running south to Gibraltar Point is changing.
Roy Church. October 2000
Editor's note: Skegness is an unsophisticated coastal resort in Lincolnshire which had been virtually closed down by WWII military activities and the period of austerity which followed. This tale from Roy recalls how the town then was and also the freedom enjoyed by the children of that era
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AUSTERITY FOR REAL
CHAPTER I ARRIVAL
In the summer of 1945 I was six years old.
My Mother had formed a partnership with a road haulage operator from Sapcote in Leicestershire to run a guest house on South Parade at Skegness. My Mother's financial partner Jack Brindlay had avoided war service and was rumoured to have amassed considerable wealth by his wartime dealings on the black market. Other than providing his share of the finance in the business Brindlay took no part in the running of the guest house.
Number 30, South Parade at Skegness was one of a long row of terraced three story guest houses overlooking the foreshore gardens and boating lake. Like many properties throughout Skegness the freehold of such premises was vested in the Earl of Scarborough. The Leasehold Reform Act had not even been thought of and the benefits of the Earl of Scarborough controlling development throughout the town were happily accepted.
Number 30 bore the somewhat ostentatious name of The Belgrave. During the period a German invasion was anticipated many properties including The Belgrave had been taken over as billets for RAF and Army personnel and were in poor condition reflecting the fact that no maintenance had been done for six years.
The Belgrave was three storied and in addition had a basement. It had 7 bedrooms and the basement provided a kitchen, scullery and a room used as a lounge. The guest's dining room was on the first floor overlooking the back garden and the nearby Lincolnshire Road Car bus station. In the garden was a corrugated asbestos hut where Mother and I slept when the guest house was full of guests. To transport the food to the dining tables there was a noisy rope operated lift which operated between the scullery and the dining room.
Mother and Brindlay acquired the leasehold of The Belgrave early in 1945 the aim being to get it into use for Easter. Mother quickly made friends with the local tradesmen who together with a selection of Mother's more practical friends soon had the property habitable. I remember in particular finding a 2" mortar bomb under a loose floorboard that presumably had been hidden as a memento. As Easter approached the combined smell of wood stain, lacquer, distemper and paint gradually subsided. Mother had advertised in the local visitors guide as well as several local papers including Leicester Mercury and the Nottingham Evening Post. The house was full for Easter but the Whitsun holiday was less successful.
In 1946 summer many people did not have money for sophisticated holidays and Mother's "value for money" principle was very popular which was just as well as the visitor season at Skegness was confined to Easter, Whit' and the school summer holidays. "Cash was king" and much local business was done on a barter basis. It was not unknown for her farmer visitors to pay for their week's lodging with half a side of pork!
Mother also had access to farm produce through Charles Abell, a Leicestershire farmer whom she later married. This was a distinct advantage over her competitors and her reputation soon spread amongst her clients to the point that she also opened for Christmas. Sleeping in the corrugated shed (euphemistically referred to as The Summer House) at Christmas is however my lasting memory of Christmas at The Belgrave
Many of Mother's visitors became "regulars" and many families simply booked their next year's holiday as they booked out. Some families had children of my age who virtually grew up with me and with whom I formed associations for many years.
I cannot clearly remember what commodities were rationed although I clearly recall sweets being de-rationed which was one of the last items to be de-rationed. Sweetshops thereto had provided some sweets off ration but generally speaking these were not very attractive and tended to be made from weird ingredients many of which were bi-products of food processing. Tiger nuts that really tested one's dental capacity were available and also almost equally challenging, liquorice roots.
Despite the fact that Mother and Charles Abell married at Spilsby in June 1945 it was some time before Stepfather took up permanent residence with Mother. He was tenant of a small dairy farm near Sapcote where he had been our next door neighbour. He had previously been married and had lost his first wife to TB.
At Brickyard Farm Stepfather led a somewhat lonely life and had very much withdrawn from a social life. The farm was small but supplied a living based on a small herd of Dairy Shorthorns which Stepfather milked by hand.
Considering my Mother and Stepfather I always marvelled at how two people so different should marry.
Stepfather had a well used pre-war Hillman and a pig trailer with which he used to regularly bring Mother cream, cheese, eggs poultry, hams on which Mother's guests dined better than if they were at home. The guests used to hand over their ration books to Mother on arrival but it was only very rarely she used any of their rations. In the circumstances it was perhaps no wonder her visitors returned year after year.
In an attempt to get Stepfather to move to Skegness Mother suggested he rent a large allotment between Saxby and Beresford Avenues. A tenancy was acquired and before long the allotment had a jersey cow, a herd of pigs and large numbers of poultry including Khaki Campbell ducks. What did not go to The Belgrave went to Boston Market which Stepfather visited each Wednesday.
Stepfather was, perhaps understandably very reluctant to become involved in the running of The Belgrave and after a short while to evade action from Skegness Urban District Council who considered, rightly, that Stepfather was not complying with the Allotment's Act Stepfather found a smallholding comprising some 30 acres of land near Addlethorpe Mill some 5 miles from The Belgrave.
The holding comprised bare pasture in 3 fields. The land was owned by Bob Stow who was essentially a Skegness butcher but who had used the land as lairage. The land was very heavy silt and all enclosed by wide dykes.
Access to the land was via an unmade single track with deep dykes either side.
Stepfather's business plan was to keep pigs and both breed and fatten. His products were weaner pigs, porkers, bacon pigs and in-pig gilts. There was to be a selection of poultry including turkeys and very fierce and noisy geese. In what seemed to me a very short time Stepfather had erected a brick piggery and bought three ex- War Department Nissen huts which he also converted to piggeries.
Not only were human foodstuffs difficult to obtain but animal feed was also difficult and very closely regulated. The answer Stepfather reasoned was to take advantage of Skegness's holiday resort status and collect food waste from hotels and other food outlets. Even in those days he had to have a licence to collect food waste and it was required to be cooked for which purpose he acquired two 40 gallon coal fired pressure cookers
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Austerity 2
War scars.
WWII had not passed Skegness by. Although not affected like Midland industrial cities and towns careful observation and enquiry would reveal quite a lot of activity in Skegness during the war.
The beach was mined and the public excluded therefrom by uninterrupted miles of barbed wire running from Chapel St Leonards to Gibraltar Point. Any access points were controlled by military police. Similarly the foreshore gardens and attractions were wired off and only cleared through the summer of 1945 leaving the risk of mines being washed up which they continued to be till 1948.
Skegness was en route for German bombers headed to heavy industries in Lincoln, Coventry, Grantham, Nottingham. A ‘decoy' town was erected at Gibraltar Point which was lit up as flights of enemy bombers crossed the coast. The decoy was built mainly from timber and paper mashé and heavily armed with ‘ack ‘ack. There seems little evidence that German navigators were fooled by the decoy and bearing in mind under the paper mashé it was so heavily armed I suspect they knew only too well it was a decoy.
The clock tower was presumably a target as houses on either side on South Parade and Grande Parade were bombed and one bomb dropped near the Arcadia Theatre. Miraculously the clock tower survived undamaged. It seems likely that the bombers used the clock tower as a ‘marker' then released their bombs. Hildred's Hotel, The Trustee Savings Bank, Smith's Roller skating rink (later Smith's Bazaar) and the glass arcade on the north side of Lumley Road were all hit in the same pass as was the front of the Tower Cinema. This last destruction proved to be fortunate for Stepfather as he was able to acquire the brick rubble and white facing tiles from the damaged building to "bone up" the track to the Addlethorpe smallholding. Though the smallholding is long gone there are still pieces of white tile scattered along the former access track to the smallholding. Some archaeologist will one day ponder what tiles are doing in the wilds of Addlethorpe Marsh.
Another bomber who had not found his target in the Midlands chose to jettison his load on a newly built hotel and the indoor swimming baths on Scarborough Avenue. This raider also hit the pier from which a section had already been removed as part of the measures to deter German beach landings. The only person who suffered any hardship from the raids was the Coastguard who had a lookout on the end of the pier and now found he had two stretches to cross on a rickety plank.
On reflection one might have some sympathy for the Germans in that very little in Skegness could be termed a prime bombing target
During the inter-war years a group of well-to-do motor racing enthusiasts used to meet on the beach off Seacroft Esplanade. During neap tides there was a large area of dried out sun baked mudflats. There was no formal course, simply a post in the ground marking each end of the circuit. The enterprise was very much a playground for the rich and was curtailed by WWII
A rifle range was erected almost opposite the end of Seacroft Esplanade with firing points at 100 and 200 yards. Remains of the brick butt still survive. Much of the former motor racing track became a 2" mortar range and the whole area was pitted with mortar bomb craters.
Once the barbed wire had been removed and the area de-mined the rifle range area became a popular play ground for local children. The tailfins of 2" mortars were a regular and prized find. Occasionally the Army had to be called out to deal with unexploded mines or mortars when the bomb disposal team rounded up all the local children to watch from a safe distance. This practice had the desired effect of local children being very careful with any explosives they found on the beach There were occasional fatalities as the sea uncovered mines. Collecting lead rounds from the rifle range butts was an accepted method of raising some pocket money from Mr. Dennis the scrap merchant off Wainfleet Road.
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Austerity 3
The Physical Entity
While most of the beach was wired off and many hotels had to be refurbished after their military residents had left, the 1945 summer season was disappointing for the tourist industry despite valiant efforts by Skegness Urban District Council. The Midlands coal industry was going through social change; privatisation and annual paid holiday known as ‘Wake Week' were in prospect. While few people came to stay many people took their first opportunity to visit ‘Skeg' as a day tripper travelling mostly by train or coach. I recall Saturday mornings when Skegness railway station had every platform in use disgorging hundreds of folk keen to get a look at the sea after 6 years with no holidays
By 1946 more guest houses and hotels opened up but the majority of Midlanders' still came by coach or train. The Lawns bus park would fill completely and I can remember counting 16 identical Barton Buses from Long Eaton parked side by side. Holidaymakers for the week had luggage and this gave rise to a service quickly developed by Skegness children to provide a ‘luggage delivery service' for visitor's luggage, much to the annoyance of Skegness taxi drivers (of which there were no more than a handful). Any child that could convert a set of old pram wheels into a luggage ‘truck' was soon in popular demand to porter luggage to the appropriate hotel or guest house. One quickly learned the street names, especially those to be avoided, i.e. a long way from the railway station or bus park!
Most day trippers made a bee line for the beach where gradually more and more was opened up and declared free of mines. Unemployed de-mobbed soldiers bridged the creeks across the beach so that pedestrians could reach the shoreline for a paddle. The bridges comprised timber wheeled platforms which had originally been used by the Edwardian bathing huts of which two remained, albeit very dilapidated and half buried by blown sand on the seaward side of the Fairy Dell. A few people paddled but very few swam - it was all very genteel. The men offering the services of the bridges would put a cap out on the sand at the more prominent crossing points where generous minded public would hopefully make a contribution of a few pence.
During the war Butlin's Holiday Camp had been commandeered as a "stone frigate by the Royal Navy as a training establishment known as The Royal Arthur. Any luckless ratings who passed through will remember above all sleeping in summer chalets which were ill equipped for cold winters on the East Coast. Even to-day a keen eye will spot chalets throughout East Lindsay district that have had a second life as a garden shed or summer house. Billy Butlin also owned the funfair between the pier and the Tower Esplanade which partly opened in 1946.
Skegness's swimming pool was built in the early 1930's at the height of popularity for outdoor lidos. It was a massive 110 yards long and some 25 yards wide. With two shallow ends it had a spring board, water slide and high board about 12'. The diving boards were situate in the middle of the pool where the water struggled to be more than 6'6" The pool always opened on the first of May when the water was very cold. The water was salt water pumped from the sea, filtered and chlorinated in the pump room at the northern end of the pool. It was noticeable how "well covered" children learned to swim first as their thinner brethren did not have the stamina to stay in the near freezing water. When the pool was busy local boys circumvented the pay kiosk by climbing over the wall from the adjoining Compass Gardens
Donkeys soon reappeared on the beach although not having been worked for 6 years they were initially something of a handful and could often be spotted rider-less galloping wildly down the beach. As small boys we quickly learned to keep clear of the rear hooves of the animals. They were kept each night on some rough grazing off Roman Bank at the back of Key's Garage and each morning driven at a frantic gallop with much shouting and waving of sticks to the beach by boys on bikes. The public, gently perambulating up Lumley Road quickly learned to take cover at the sound of the approaching rodeo.
The seaward side of the foreshore boating lake had built up substantial sand hills as a result of being mined and no one using the area for the duration of the war. Indeed the sand had been driven by the wind to the extent that the ornamental island was in fact no longer an island. The area being near the Boating Lake Café, Tower Esplanade and public conveniences was very popular with the older generation many of whom spent the day in a deckchair listening to the strains of the Skegness Town Band. The boating Lake Café dispensed large jugs of tea and thick spam sandwiches. Local boys kept a keen eye on the visitors who occasionally forgot to return their jug and claim their deposit. Nearby were shellfish stalls, Fravigar's Ice Cream and before long machines which almost magically made candy floss. The band concerts became so popular that the council went to the expense of building a bandstand. It was a simple decking structure on 36" diameter concrete pipes laid on their end. It offered the opportunity for us local boys to crawl under the decking and poke pieces of marram grass up bandsman's trouser legs which was considered great fun especially if it were at the point a bandsman was concentrating on the music. Sadly the bandsmen retaliated by pouring flasks of hot tea through the decking boards.
All Skegnesians could tell the difference between Fravigar's ice cream and that of their main rivals The Skegness Ice Cream Co.. While the majority of the produce was plain the ice cream the Skegness Ice Cream Co was reputed to use lots of ‘secret' flavouring and food dyes with the result that some of their lines not only tasted pretty odd but they also had a near psychedelic appearance.
For those who could not afford ice cream there were drinking water fountains at strategic points round the town and foreshore. The town centre was dominated by a large underground public convenience where drunks from nearby Hildreds used to sleep off the effect of too much Bass. Gangs of young children would dare each other to bang on the cubicle doors and wake the slumbering occupants.
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Austerity 4.
The Skegnesians'
Post War Skegnesian's pulled few punches about their social aspirations. Trippers were a commodity from which Skegnesians had to earn their livelihood. Other than unemployed servicemen almost everything was in short supply which included cash and jobs. The town was notable in that there were very few wealthy residents - retirees or at work.
After 6 years of war the town looked careworn and run down. Paint for example was a luxury many residents decided they could manage without for the time being and even those who sought to smarten the place up managed to do so with sandpaper and gloss paint only.
There was a very fine line between buskers and beggars. The latter tended to congregate at the railway station, by the Baptist Church outside the Lawn's bus park and the Drummond Road bus station. Genuine buskers used to set up on the beach till apprehended by the S.U.D.C.'s Beach Inspector. Occasionally buskers would be very good and attracted large crowds. I recall two competing Punch & Judy shows who, much the worse for beer, had a fight on the beach to much cheering from the assembled audience.
The local council had lots of work to do but no money; the pier needed refurbishing by way of putting back the section removed to prevent German landings. Workmen clambered all over the pier with altogether little thought as to their personal safety. It was quite common for groups of paddlers to watch workmen struggling to re-fit the iron tie bars that kept the pier together as the waves washed under the pier.
On arrival many trippers from the Midland mining areas sent their children and wives to the beach while the men folk assembled for a ‘serious' drink in the Red Lion, Walnut Shades, Hildred's Hotel or the Marine where they would spend the rest of the day visiting the beach only to sleep off the effects of too much alcohol. Some indeed never made the trek to the beach and spent the whole day drinking Hole's Beer in The Lumley Hotel a mere 100 yards from the railway station.
Throughout the town and foreshore for those wanting non alcoholic refreshment were water drinking fountains. They comprised a marble column about 4' high which had a brass stud on the side which one pressed to get a jet of water to spurt from the top. They were free.
Two ex-servicemen, "Titch" Johnson and Fred Miller ran the boating lake and as Mother's hotel fronted the lake I spent much of my holiday time there. "Titch", as his nic-name would imply, was short but very fit. Fred was the opposite; a massive man who struggled to fit himself into a rowing boat. Both were very good to me as a small boy and appeared to consider it their duty to teach me to row.
"Clapper" was a product of pre-Social Security days: All through the summer he would stand at various vantage points throughout the town selling newspapers from a sack. Despite a substantial impediment to his speech he would call out (almost in his own language) to would be purchasers "Nott'm Pope, Nott'm Pope". Fortunately many of Clapper's clients recognised the newspaper if not the newspaperman's call. If sales were not going at the speed Clapper anticipated they should he would put down his newspaper bag and clap loudly at passers by including children - hence his nic-name. He was however somewhat frightening to small children.
Horse drawn landaus plied their trade from Tower Esplanade; a remnant of Skegness's classier inter-war days. The Compass Gardens between the clock tower and Butlin's amusement park comprised an area planted with a spectacular display of roses. The reason for such roses was that each evening the coachmen used to shovel all the horse droppings on to the gardens. The gardens took their name from a concrete compass laid into the ground with a perimeter circle with brass inlays of the names of cities all round the world. As a small boy it took me a long time to work out that the gardens only showed direction - not distance!
Mr Fox was an elderly gentleman who ran an ancient bus between the clock tower and Thompson's Fairground at the north end of North Parade. The bus had been one time before WWII a charabanc which had provided ‘tours' round the resort for Skegness's "better class" of visitors. The ‘chara' had originally been built on a chassis powered by a noisy Morris Commercial engine but during the war years Mr Fox too old for military service had spent his time rebuilding it to what was affectionately known as The Toast Rack. It had uncomfortable wooden slatted benches full width of the body but no sides. Mr Fox's call of "Penny all the way" would soon fill the seats and after a handle start the vehicle would groan its way round the clock tower and up North Parade. As small children we used to congregate at the back of the bus and wait till the arthritic Mr. Fox was about to let the clutch in at which point we scrambled into the back seats reversing the procedure as the bus came to a halt at The Pier or Thompson's amusements. Mr. Fox stoically put up with the antics of small boys seeming to regard us as a natural hazard of his business.
Skegness was an excellent venue for window shopping. Most of the shops were in Drummond Road and privately owned, several by Jewish families who had arrived at Skegness after being bombed out of the East End of London. Vendors ranged from people with baskets of cheap goods for which one had to haggle; to the posh end of the market with Inis Bentley's Antiques and John Nelson the jeweller.
Mrs. Wrate ran a post office and a photography service. The latter comprised a studio portrait enterprise where much of the work was still in sepia or hand tinted but the business also included "walkie" photographs taken mostly by temporally employed Cambridge under graduates. These young men would be kitted out with a half frame 35mm camera and a blazer in lurid stripes more suited to deckchair manufacture. The lengths the photographers would go to get a good snap was quite amazing including , I recall, tame parrots and a monkey borrowed from Butlin's Amusement Park. The photographers would hand out a receipt for the snap and the recipient would collect the photos from a small kiosk next to the Pier steps. If required, the snaps could be enlarged although they were accepted to be "cheap and cheerful. I imagine the photographers were paid piecework despite which it appeared to be a very profitable line.
Opposite the Baptist Church was the Skegness Rock Factory. On the Lumley road frontage sticks of rock in varied bilious colours were stacked as high as a shop assistant could reach. The frontage of the shop was shuttered and had no glazing as was the frontage to Beresford Avenue. It was open to all weathers and did not start serious rock production until the school summer holidays. When the season got going there would be large hand painted placards on the nearby pavement announcing when the next batch of "Skegness Rock" was to be made and inviting the general public to come and watch for free!
The Rock factory manager was something of a showman and would cheerily invite passing member of the public tempted by a sample of rock to come and watch the process Using coloured slabs of toffee, green for the "Skegness" lettering, pink for the outside and white for the inner portion the warm rock would be manipulated so as to form a large cylindrical slab of rock into which the lettering had been built. As soon as the rock had cooled enough it was passed to an army of girls who rolled it out by hand on to long aluminium topped tables. At this stage swarms of wasps seemed to appear from every direction which the women much to our admiration totally ignored. When the roll had extended to the length of the table it would be cut in half and the two pieces rolled side by side by the girls (known as ‘Rock Pullers') till the rock reached the length of the table etc etc. Eventually the rock was rolled down to its required diameter following which it was left to cool. Unlike most of the visitors, local children did not clear off at the end of "the rock making show" as we knew that there was every possibility of being thrown nuggets of waste rock from the ends of the rolled lengths.
Smiths Bazaar was a large open plan fancy goods shop next to the bomb damaged Tower Cinema. Before WWII it had been run successfully as an indoor roller skating rink which accounted for its all-pervading smell of "3-in-one" oil and preponderance of loose parquet flooring tiles. Initially after the war it had been run along the lines of a modern day car boot sale where individual traders each brought along the goods and rented a length of counter. Obviously the Smith Family soon decided it was in their best interest to run the premises as a large shop. Their other competitors were Marks and Spencer, Woolworths, Keightley's and Crofts but Smith's great advantage was that they were near to the beach and foreshore.
Skegness had its own lifeboat and pre WWI a paddle steamer had plied between Grimsby, Cleethorpes, Skeg', Boston and Hunstanton. However, even in summer The Wash is infamous for short seas and rough boating. The Edwardian demand for gentile boating soon abated and after one or two spectacular groundings the steamer service disappeared from the scene.
The paddle steamer was followed by a somewhat eccentric entrepreneur who ran trips along the beach to Gibraltar Point in an amphibious ex-Army DKW. I was taken on the craft by one of my Mother's generous guests and remember the operator telling his passengers that they should not be over concerned to note that the craft leaked quite appreciably - so long as the engine kept driving the pumps - we would be o.k. he explained. He proceeded to enthusiastically demonstrate his confidence in the craft by driving it 100 yards through the breakers into the sea and turning off the engine so that we could see the craft did indeed leak. I recall everyone being very relieved when the engine finally fired up again at the third or fourth attempt.
The next venture to encourage boating at Skegness was for the council to run three ex- R.N.L.I. former lifeboats off the beach. Known collectively as "The Grace Darlings" they were former Watson Class open lifeboats which had been de-commissioned and converted for the holiday trade. The boats were powered by the original lifeboat kerosene powered engines and all the fittings of the boat had been removed and replaced wooden slat seats. Having had all their RNLI equipment removed they were very light and provided a very ‘bumpy' ride for up to 30 paying passengers. Nonetheless they provided interesting rides out to "Seal Island" alias Gibraltar Point. I was fortunate in that Freddie Miller was detailed to look after one of "The Darlings" one summer which guaranteed me plenty of trips whichotherwise I would not have been able to afford. Bitten fingers of visitors over zealous to feed the seals, I recall, were common.
Sadly the boats came to a tragic end: Left chocked up on the beach near the Fairy Dell the 1953 East Coast floods swept all three boats to oblivion. Occasionally small pieces of a Grace Darling will still appear from where the wind has eroded old sand hills.
Crudely home made sand yachts made a brief appearance. One ride was enough for me and very soon there was a predictable serious accident and the Skegness U.D.C. banned them from the beach.
The pubs of Skegness say much about the pre-war holiday makers. They fell into two classes: Pubs for the masses which tended to be very large and which were owned by local or Nottingham breweries (Holes, Hewetts, Home). The North Shore had a visitor's bar which must have been 100' long and was regularly full to bursting including numbers of tripper's children. The Ship at the end of Burgh Road was also a bar for serious drinkers as was The Royal Oak at Ingoldmels. The Forty Club off Castleton Boulevard catered for Skegness's few well off as did the Conservative Club on Scarborough Avenue for those, even fewer, with political ambition.
Eduardo Galone ,like many of his Italian countrymen regarded the prospect of being ruled by Mussolini with some alarm and in consequence joined the ranks emigrating to England. Most of his countrymen joined the brick making industry in the Peterborough/Bedford area which coincided with the inter war building boom. Eduardo however was a skilled ice cream maker having learned his trade from his Grandfather and he started a small business at Welford Road in Northampton in 1935 and within a year or two had opened Skegness's only ice cream parlour opposite Smith's Bazaar at the top of London Road. The ice cream parlour was finished in bright green marbled glass had a kiosk opening on to the pavement. Inside was Skegness's first expresso type coffee maker which as one passed the parlour could usually be heard burbling away behind the counter. The kiosk was manned by a large Italian lady with an equally large voice calling to all passers by (even me) "Ices Madam, ices Sir, tea and coffee served inside" Often I used to divert down Arcadia lane rather than risk being called out.
The Skegness lifeboat followed traditions from days when it was a rowing boat launched by local fisherman off the beach. In the days before the RNLI it was funded by dubious salvage rights and local donations. About the turn of the 19th century a purpose built boat house had been erected about half way between the clock tower and the Lincolnshire coach station. The modus of operation was that when the boat was called out it was pulled out of the boathouse on to South Parade and then went via Tower Esplanade down on to the beach. The Coxswain always great play of the fact that the boat had 'privilege' not to have to keep left round the clock tower on its way down to the beach. When the boat returned from a call it would enter the boathouse from Drummond Road.
The Coastguard would report any incident to the RNLI Secretary who, in consultation with the Coxswain would decide on whether they would launch. If affirmative, ear shattering rockets referred by all locals at "The Maroons" would be fired from the waste ground in front of the boathouse. The crew (minimum 6) would arrive on foot, bike, car and the tractor driver would start up the tractor engine, which, being kerosene/petrol would take a few minutes to warm up. The crew meanwhile would be putting on their sea gear which was no more than Sou'ester, oilskins and thigh boots. The Ann Allen had been launched before WWII and was almost an open boat and although it had dispensed with oars still had a jib and mainsail which were used regularly. The engine was a modestly powered petrol/kerosene 4 cylinder unit. The crew were in the open most of the time and when the sea was rough it called for great stamina especially when they might be at sea for as much as 12 hours.
Locals could judge the progress of a launch from the characteristic tak . .tak . .tak . . of the wooden blocks on the tractor and carriage crawler. You could tell when it was at top speed going down South Parade and when it got to the beach the sand would deaden the noise.
Launching a 47' Watson Class lifeboat called for skill, leadership and teamwork. Much hinged on the competency of the Coxswain. The Grunhill Family had been associated with the Skegness boat The Anne Allen for several generations. It was said that they had ‘emigrated' in the late 1800's from inshore fishing the Norfolk coast and had fished off the Skegness beach since.
The boat was loaded on to the carriage bow pointing (backwards")away from the tractor. The tractor itself was on crawler tracks.
On a launch the beach launch team would usually be first to reach the shore and subject to the approval of the Coxswain they would identify a suitable launching point. This would have to be away from creeks and mud and preferably on hard sand. The Coxswain would order his crew aboard and the tractor driver would back the carriage into the waves with the boat stern-first secured to the trailer by chains. The limiting factor was how far into the waves the tractor could go before it got swamped. The Coxswain stood in the stern of the boat with a clear view of the tractor driver.
When the Coxswain felt he had sufficient depth of water to launch he would signal to the tractor diver. At this stage the tractor driver would by pulling a rope lanyard uncouple the trailer drawbar and edge the tractor towards the beach. The tractor was still connected to the boat and trailer by a long steel hawser which passed under the boat from the back of the trailer and which was doubled back to the stern of the boat. Next the tractor took up the slack in the hawser and as the hawser tightened it locked the brakes solid on the crawler section on the trailer. It was a moment of great tension as the Coxswain watched the waves breaking on the shore trying to judge the best moment to launch the boat from the trailer. Two (bowmen stood with their thole pin hammers above their heads indicating their readiness - when to Coxswain dropped his raised hand they would have to instantly free the boat from the trailer. By this time the tractor driver would be stood at the steering wheel so he could get a clear view of both Coxswain and Bowmen while the tractor roared at maximum revs.
Suddenly and with a loud shout the Coxswain would drop his hand and a great plume of exhaust would shoot from the tractors exhaust pipe and as the Bowmen freed the boat it would shoot bow first into the water. In the summer the trippers would give the boat a hearty cheer as the boat's propeller thrashed at the water driving the boat to deeper water. By contrast at a winter launch there were very few spectators other than the official beach party.
I recall asking Father-in-law, who served many years on the lifeboat, how, in view of their very rudimentary instruments they found their way back on dark nights to Skegness beach.
"Steer North or South till you smell the fish and chips"
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Austerity 5
The ‘Archaeological' Remains
Despite it being some seventy odd years since Skegness reverted to being a seaside resort there are still signs for the sharp eyed which indicate the past.
The military remnants are understandably few: There is a car park at the south end of the boating lake which used to be a parade ground for RAF and Army. Most of the Army presence was at Gibraltar Point.
Just beyond the southern end of the Seacroft Golf Course off Gibraltar Point Road was a concrete ramp facing out to sea on which two 6" naval guns were sited to prevent anticipated German landings in the wash. The guns were camouflaged to look like a large hotel.
Incredibly, as soon as VE Day was announced most of the Army were demobbed immediately and most of Gibraltar Point left unattended. The authorities appeared to be more concerned about squatters taking over the empty Army accommodation and unexploded mines on the beach. I recall Stepfather taking me to Gibraltar Point to find other than Waite's Farm the place was completely deserted and abandoned vehicles left everywhere
Where the present birdwatcher's car park stands was a "decoy" township complete with streetlights which covered the marsh next to the River Steeping between the sea bank and "the point" at the southern end of the area. What is now the visitor's centre remained in the Coast Guard's occupation throughout The War. Near Skegness sailing clubs boathouse stood several Nissen huts the bases of which can still be seen in the undergrowth which for many years inexplicitly included two gooseberry bushes.
My Stepfather purchased the disused huts for use as piggeries making "a contribution" to the occupiers to persuade them to move on or squat somewhere else.
The only accepted resident occupant was an elderly member of the Grunhill family who lived in a former bus on the sand dunes between the sea bank and the present car park. Before the war he had been an unofficial marsh warden taking visitors, mostly Cambridge under grads' wildfowling or bird watching. This involved him in long tales as to how dangerous it was to wander about the mudflats without a guide - it all helped the contribution made by his clients. The old chap had no transport and used to rely on others to give him a lift into town. His staple diet was rabbits, potatoes and wildfowl. His hobby was collecting unexploded ordnance which he painted and proudly put on display in front of his bus home. In due course Grunhill reached the point that he could no longer manage such a solitary life and Skegness U.D.C. moved him into old people's accommodation where after several years the council discovered that the bombs etc. Grunhill had made into a display in the centre of the sheltered accommodation were still live which gave rise to a major emergency involving police and the Army Bomb Disposal Team when Mr Grunhill died.
Remains of tank workshops still exist in the sand hills near The Point although their neighbours are now natterjack toads.
The butt of the rifle range is partially hidden in the sand hills opposite the southern end of Seacroft Esplanade and where occasionally the tide still washes up tail fins of 2" mortar bombs.
In the town the only sign of the war was bomb damage. The likelihood is that such bombs as were dropped on Skegness were to prevent in-flight accidents in German bombers while flying back home. At the end of the War bomb damage was evident at:-
The old indoor swimming baths (formerly the Turkish Baths)
Tower cinema
Smith's Bazaar
The kiosk next to Galones Ice Cream Parlour
Next to The Arcadia Theatre
South Parade adjoining the clock tower
The National Savings Bank
Lownes Fancy Goods
The Tower Gardens Arcade
The Tower Gardens Pavilion
Other signs of earlier years range from the mundane to the extraordinary:
In Victorian times the sea often came up to the South or North Parades and the steel balustrade fencing was erected from Thompson's Fairground to the seaward end of Lifeboat Avenue - today there are still occasions when the sand at the top of Lifeboat Avenue is moved by the wind to reveal the old railings.
The Fairy Dell paddling pool off South Parade had a covered seating area known as the Axenstrasse, named it would appear, by the S.U.D.C Surveyor who spent many of his inter-War holidays on the Italian Lakes. Generations of Skegness boys climbed up the side of the Axenstrasse and a few (me included) fell into the boating lake below. The Axenstrasse was sadly demolished as being an unacceptable health and safety risk.
Outside the Roman Bank frontage of the Red Lion Hotel at the bottom of Lumley Road stood a limestone full sized carved lion which despite it standing guarding the pavement and providing scope for boy's imagination for nearly a hundred years suddenly became a health and safety hazard and was sold to the owner of a Thai Restaurant at Sutton-on-Sea.
After the War Skegness supported two blacksmiths, one at the bottom of King George Street run by Sam Clarke and one on Roman Bank. The latter run by a Mr. Moreley specialised in shoeing the horses drawing landaus as well as a number of tradesmen who still delivered by horse and cart. Mr Clark who welded with both gas and electric was regarded as more modern.
Like most towns Skegness has seen supposed "progress". Hildred's and much of The Lawns bus park was swept away to make way for the inevitable shopping centre and car park. The Ship pub is derelict.
The Beeching Plan eventually reduced the rail connection to almost nothing
The A 52 Boston to Skegness road which, in the days of poor headlights and ineffective brakes, used to put the Fear of God into Mother's visitors. Many of my Mother's boarding house guests would set off home to The Midlands well before lunch in order to put the dykes of the area behind them before dusk. The Croft Bends and The Friskney "Snake" were the site of many aspiring Sterling Moss as well as numerous accidents. Today's drivers tear along recent road improvements perhaps wondering why there are so many large lay-bys along the route which only appear to provide access to fields of cabbage
For small children brought up in hard times window shopping was for many all the shopping they did. Most of the shops in High Street and Lumley Road were privately owned and in contrast to to-day the one thing they offered was pride in good service which may be why I so well remember shops that appealed to me
Toys from Smith's Bazaar which included Brittain's 1/72 scale die-cast models of army lorries, tanks, field guns and boxes of lead soldiers as well as a comprehensive range of farm animals and equipment. Especially favoured was a Fordson major on ‘spud' wheels. Lownes also stocked toys but it was the one place shop window viewing was discouraged by two very stern elderly sisters that owned and ran the place.
Receiving second hand toys bore no stigma whatsoever and I remember being thrilled when my Mother bought me a wind-up Hornby "O" Gauge train set for Christmas. It was a modest 0 - 4 - 0 engine, 3 trucks and a single circuit of track. From this I progressed to a 4 - 4 - 2 engine and slowly amassed a larger collection of rails. With the help of the owner of The Doll's Hospital in High Street I gradually moved on to Hornby "OO" which I had laid out off the cellar of the Waldorf Hotel among its crumbling foundations.
Sheath knives one could buy from Mr. Dent in High Street. Boys felt little inhibition about going to school with a William Rogers ‘I cut my way' 6" bladed sheath knife strapped to one's belt.
Austerity 6.
Summary
Skegness was originally a ness (long strip of sand) settlement from which locals fished The Wash. Prior to the coming of the railway Skegness was isolated and in fact the main seaside resort locally was Freiston Shore where the rich stayed at The Plummers Arms now behind the sea wall. In early Victorian times much of the Freiston Shore was uninterrupted sands rather than mudflats as far as the eye can see to-day.
Skegness had few pretentions to be ‘up market' although the period between World Wars saw some ‘upper class' hotel development, one presumes, in anticipation of moneyed clients. The Seacroft Hotel (originally The Seacroft Hydro) must be a case in point and to a lesser extent The County, The Imperial, The Pier, The Crown and The Vine. The Vine had been one of the first hotels to open its doors to visitors and was well established by the time the pier was built in 1881.
Skegness's hey day must be the early 1950's: The 1940's saw legislation requiring the industries of The Midlands to grant paid holiday to their employees which provided an unprecedented boom to Skegness's economy. However, by the late 1950's relaxation of exchange control gradually meant that more and more of Skegness's visitors travelled abroad taking advantage of cheap package holidays. By the late 60's many hotels had converted into self contained holiday flats but this did not make up for the loss of overall numbers of visitors.
The reorganisation of local government in 1974 saw the demise of Skegness Urban District Council and it seems likely that being a small part of East Lindsey District has acted as a disincentive for public investment in the town. There has been talk of developing a marina on Skegness's foreshore for 60 years but nothing has come of such plans or is likely to in view of the nature of the shifting sands.
Ironically the town has almost gone full circle cheap car ownership may well yet see the days of "trippers" return.
RC
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Mum's Cooking
My Mum was a very good cook.
Throughout her life she had friends who, I am sure, often appreciated her cooking as much as her company. She however, in return, certainly drew great satisfaction from seeing her guests enjoy the food she had prepared. She was no gourmet herself in that for much of my memory she suffered chronically with gastric ulcers which led her to adopt a somewhat unusual diet of sponge cake filled with home made strawberry jam, sandwiches and rice pudding.
She would have been 10 years old at the cessation of the First World War which probably accounted for her unswerving philosophy of 'waste not: want not'. Every left-over was, only with great reluctance, thrown away - at the very least it was fed to chickens, pigs, cats or dogs; some or all of which she always managed to keep throughout her 81 years. Leftover potatoes and vegetables were liable to be fried up as 'bubble and squeak', meats made into various rissoles, fish to fishcakes etc. etc.
I recall one occasion where she found a 'nest' of Guinea fowl eggs. [Flocks of Guinea fowl quite naturally tend to lay a great pile of eggs when they are not brooding a clutch - usually in the thickest clump of undergrowth they can find - often nettles] There were about a hundred eggs, obviously laid over some considerable time such that some would definitely have been bad. Mother carefully collected them up in a metal bucket, took them home, meticulously scrubbed them and then 'X-rayed' them by the light of a 100 watt light bulb! In the days when she used to keep geese and ducks, these eggs too she never let go to waste. However, usually because of their strong flavour, she would have to utilise them in her well loved fruitcake mixes.
My earliest memories of Mum's cooking are from the days when we were evacuated during World War II to Fields Farm, Sapcote. Fields Farm was an isolated farmstead where Mother cooked and kept house for the bachelor farm tenant.
She used to make milk fudge from dried milk. In view of the fact that the farm ran a herd of Ayrshire dairy cattle Mother always had a surplus of dried milk which was subject to strict wartime rationing. Inevitably sweets were also rationed and Mother's plain milk and chocolate fudge were the only sweets I tasted during my infant years.
The rarest treats Mum made in sweet rationing days were peppermint creams. From where she managed to obtain the necessary sugar I have no idea. The peppermint creams were always made for Christmas and their manufacture was something of a ritual. The mixture was made up carefully, heated and even more carefully cooled. I believe that if it was either cooled too fast or too slow then the result was a disaster. In the first instant the sweets turning out as tooth-breaking rocks and the second as a glutinous mess which could not be lifted from the plate. Mother always used a pair of old Dresden Indian Pattern meat dishes on which to 'settle' the peppermint creams - quite why it had to be those particular plates I have not the vaguest idea. When, as it usually did, all went well, the results were mouth watering snow-white creams most of which Mum sent to her special friends as Christmas presents "as repayment for favours" - much to my personal disappointment.
Despite such intricacies as were required for her sweet making; Mother was essentially a 'plain' cook. She would have been appalled with to-day's 'trendy' cooks and their artistic placing of spots of coloured sauces etc. etc.. A gravy boat full of thick rich gravy made directly from prime meat stock was very much her style - if her gravy was allowed to cool in the gravy boat it had to be removed with a spoon! She preferred full plates to artistry. She always claimed that galleries were the places to see art and that dining rooms were for eating!
In the late 1940's Mother ran a guesthouse and later a 24 bedroom hotel on the Lincolnshire coast. Fortunately for her, Stepfather ran a diary farm and was able to meet Mum's demands for eggs, pork, bacon, poultry, milk, cheese which transformed her guest's menu. All the produce was fresh and the cheese and butter made at home. I remember vividly hours spent laboriously cranking the handle of her butter churn watching the cream though the glass and wondering if it was ever going to turn to butter!
In theory her holiday guests were suppose to hand over their ration books to Mother at the start of their week's holiday. Often in practice she never bothered - especially with her 'regulars'. Needless to explain, many of her guests came year in year out during those austere post-war years.
Despite these huge advantages Mother had over her commercial competitors, she was not averse to the odd culinary deception:
During the winter months she used to accommodate parties of wildfowlers who spent their evenings at Gibraltar Point vainly endeavouring to shoot wild duck or geese. For these 'sporting guests' Mother would put 'pheasant' on the menu. Braces of pheasant were totally unavailable through butchers. However, Mother instructed Stepfather to shoot several of the farm guinea fowl [in reality it was in fact the only way to catch them]. These she hung for some time to 'ripen' before serving them to her guests. After due warning about the shot in the meat the guests consumed the birds quite happily in the full belief that they were pheasants. She would also boil ox hearts and having pressed and pickled them serve them up as 'pickled beef' to the more urban of her guests. Writing to-day I am perhaps thankful that the British public had not developed a taste for curry - there is no telling down what avenues such an opportunity for culinary disguise might have led my Mother!
In the 1940's regulations regarding the slaughtering and butchering of animals were very lax by to-day's standards: In the countryside it was common practice for farm labourers to keep pigs at the back of their cottages and feed the animals to very heavy weights. It was a common sight to see large pig carcases hung up on an outside wall 'to set' in the cool of the north side of a country home. Mother, likewise, would arrange with Stepfather to occasionally kill a pig for the hotel guests. Immediately after pig had been killed in the pre-freezer era all the offal had to be consumed before it went off. This meant that the guests had pigs fry, sausages, chittlings and liver for breakfast, pork for lunch and brawn, haselet and pork pies with salad for high tea. I assume that at such times any guests who did not like pork products simply had to abandon their holiday. Mother herself hand made the pork pies which were delicious. The production of brawn was a somewhat grisly business using the extremities of the pigs anatomy - best not thought about. Once made however, brawn looked remarkably appetising. The excess fat was either rendered down as lard or kept as suet for steamed puddings - jam rolly-polly and 'Spotted Dick'.
Not all Stepfather's butchering was planned: On one occasion his large Airedale dog bit the leg off a Tamworth pig. After Stepfather had butchered the luckless animal no one noticed that the meat hung in Mother's still-room had a leg missing.
Mum also developed a consummate skill in knowing how hard she had hit a pheasant that chose to leap out in front of her car. Anything that was just dazed, she would spring out of the car and quickly wring the bird's neck. Any bird she hit at speed she would not bother with. Such 'free food' was not to be wasted.
Such thinking extended to her occasional walks in the countryside. Whenever I was required to take any of the family dogs for a walk I was always instructed to take some sort of bag in case I were to come across mushrooms, green walnuts for pickling, wild damsons or bullace, blackberries, crab apples, hazel nuts, beech nuts, sweet chestnuts - she used them all in some recipe or another. Fresh moorhen and pigeon eggs she always rated highly for cooking and for making souffle's.
In 1947 a ship was lost in the North Sea off the Lincolnshire coast. It had been carrying grapefruit as deck cargo. In the post war period grapefruit was to all intensive purposes unobtainable except at exorbitant prices. I had, as a small boy, never even seen one.
Following the shipwreck I was dispatched to the beach with my Stepsister's pram and brought about 6 pram loads home. The hotel guests got grapefruit for breakfast, lunch and tea. Despite this Mother decided that the only way to 'use' the fruit was to bottle it. She had hoarded numbers of pre-war Kilner preserve jars and the outer still-room at the hotel was soon a production line reminiscent of any busy food factory - even the guests were called on to give a hand. (I suspect they 'volunteered' in preference to being given even more grapefruit to eat!). One of the slight problems Mother had was that, despite having the preserve jars, the rubber sealing rings for them were unobtainable. However, such a matter was not such as to baulk Mother when she got going - she had several of the lady guests cutting an old tractor inner tube up and soon had the fruit safely bottled.
One evening late in the summer there was a loud explosion from Mother's store room. Immediate investigation revealed that the seal on a preserve jar had failed and had allowed the fruit to ferment following which the jar had exploded. Indeed, closer inspection revealed that most of the other jars were also fermenting. Mother decanted the whole lot into another large container (a former 10 gallon battery acid carboy) and made 'Grapefruit Wine'. It was the driest wine most people said they had ever tasted and some unkindly suggested there must have been some battery acid left in the carboy! It was all drunk by Christmas nonetheless.
In her retirement Mother went to live in rural Gloucestershire. Her last days were spent in a comfortable flat in a rambling village rectory in the countryside. She always enjoyed entertaining any member of the family and would be keen to provide a meal. It always seemed that she thought we should all be ' fed up a bit' as if we had been on some starvation diet elsewhere. Some of her dishes were unique. In particular I remember well her rice pudding: Cooked very slowly for a long period, it was near solid, having to be cut with a knife, like cake. It had a thick dark brown skin which she topped with home made blackberry vinegar and custard! The blackberry vinegar was one of her personal recipes.
For some years Eileen, my wife, never discovered why the children were often and unusually such a handful after they had had tea with their Grannie till she caught Mother decanting about half a bottle of sherry into the trifle with plenty of home made strawberry jam to disguise the sherry!
With the advent of bulk buying and freezers, her culinary enthusiasm was fortunately more or less contained by her modest economic means. Nonetheless, I am sure that had an infantry company needed to camp in the rectory garden overnight she could have easily fed them without having had to leave her flat. She had a huge chest freezer that contained numerous cuts of meat, chops, steaks, garden produce, fruit, pies, mince pies (for the next Christmas), cakes, ice cream and more. Much more.
In her later years when she had finally given up driving a car; I recall taking her out for a ride in the nearby countryside. We passed a field of vining peas being harvested. When she saw several tons of de-podded fresh peas being discharged into the waiting lorry at the roadside I was told to go and offer the driver a £1 for a bucketful - which he duly (and amusedly) obliged.
After Mother died in March 1989, clearing her freezer was akin to a cross between a history lesson and a geography lesson. My Stepsister reckoned that some of the foodstuffs must have been frozen for 5 or 6 years.
When we finally cleared her furniture and household effects; there, under her bed, were a couple of hundred Bramley apples carefully laid out on newspaper - just in case we fancied one of her well known baked apples stuffed with dried fruit and topped with cream or ice cream and a small tot of brandy.
It was a touching memory of an inimitable cook
R.C. 15.07.02.
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