Just how do you mark the sacrifice of the Great War?

It is and was of course a question of great importance given the sacrifice in lives, the loss in treasure and the total disruption to millions of people.

The porcelain companies were quick to respond to what would clearly be a big market and began making small china memorials, each with a different badge or coat of arms for towns and cities across the UK.

It is a story I keep coming back to.*

It was only an extension of the items that they had been selling since the start of the war and replaced peace time models which had focused on thatched cottages, Blackpool Tower and countless other “souvenirs of a seaside holiday.”

The new range used tanks, ambulances and battleships and with the conclusion of the fighting they turned to memorials, like this one for Matlock Bath.

I am always surprised that after a century so many have survived.

They are after all made of china, which can be chipped or worst still dropped and smashed.

And after the war some will have been relegated to cupboards or the space under the stairs only to be thrown away with the onset of another world war or the death of the owner.

But there are still enough to give traders a lucrative business..

I had thought that this one might well have been just a standard piece made distinct by the addition of the Matlock transfer, but not so, it is based on the actual memorial in Matlock Bath at 44 N Parade, Matlock Bath, Matlock DE4 3NS, and records the 22 men from the Great War and the 10 from the Second World who died.

It was unveiled and dedicated on May 19 1921.

Location; the Great War




Picture; crested china war memorial, from the collection of David Harrop

*Crested China; https://chorltonhistory.blogspot.co.uk/search?q=crested+china

Stories from the family locker, part 1 George Gill’s discharge papers, 1917

I am as guilty as the next person for discarding letters, official documents and even old family pictures which all help tell the story of my family and their place in the history of the last couple of centuries.

Not that I do that now.  Every scrap of paper, note, receipt and picture is carefully scrutinised and evaluated for its value and because you never know what will be important I pretty much keep the lot.

As I see it our history is just as important as that of a duke, politician or general and deserves to be remembered.

But I also know that much has been lost and what we have stretching back into the early 19th century is a fragment of what once there was.

Most of it has come down to us more by accident than design which makes it all the more important that we all share what we have.

So I was pleased when Graham posted this discharge paper of his grandfather’s on facebook.  It is dated 1917 and is the first I have seen of a soldier who was discharged before the end of that war.

Five of my close family served in the Great War and only one of their discharge certificates has survived, and this was dated 1922, long after the conflict was over.
Graham’s grandfather had enlisted just two months after the outbreak of the war and so was one of those thousands of young men who volunteered to serve their country at the very beginning.

Like all military documents it is full of detail, ranging from his age, height and distinguishing features, to the duration of his military service and the cause of his discharge.

And amongst the details there are reference s to his regiment, place of enlistment and discharge.

Few I suspect have survived and of those that have most will be in museums or are in private collections and are rarely seen today.

So with that in mind I have decided to begin a new series on the treasured family objects which tell a story and invite people to share their own.

It can be a picture, an official document a memory or even a bill.  It doesn’t matter as long it helps shed light on your family history or the bigger story.

And I would like to thank Graham who often supplies me with documents from his family history and is the first to respond to my request for materials relating to the Great War for a new book.

Picture; courtesy of Graham Gill

On being ten with a hayloft as a playground

When you are ten, away from your friends and spending the long summer holiday with your grandparent’s time can hang heavy, especially as they had yet to own a TV.

I remember endless hours spent playing beside the ornamental ponds imagining them to be a series of secret lakes which hid mysterious monsters. Or looking down into the apparently bottomless well in the greenhouse with the pungent odour of growing tomatoes and wondering who would rescue me if I fell in.

But these were as nothing compared to what greeted me in the hay loft above the barn at the bottom of the garden. There was still a powerful lingering smell of hay which combined with the heat from the slates and the fustiness of the crumbling mortar made this a place with a difference. If I was particularly daring I would open the loft hatch allowing fresh grass scented air to invade the room and look out across the fields. This was daring given the drop to the lane below seemed enormous.

On other days I just walked the country lanes, empty of everything but the occasional bird. There can be no greater sense of freedom than to be alone with just the hum from the telegraph wires and the blistering heat.

I don’t ever remember getting lost, but then I don’t suppose I ever went too far and never underestimate the homing powers of a ten year old who had not eaten since breakfast. Not that I remember many of the meals.

Our bread was baked at home on a huge black range. It was strong brown bread which granddad buttered before he cut a slice. The vegetables were also home grown and more than anything I remember her peas which Nana cooked using cloves which was fine until you ate one by mistake.

They had bought 170 and turned into bedsits with their living accommodation at the back of the house. I however got to stay in the front room and can still remember what seemed the long and scary walk from their kitchen. The candle I took with me cast small pools of dim light and I was never quite sure what lurked in the corners of the passageway. True there was some safety when I got to the light switch by the front room but then there was still a night of darkness to endure punctuated only by the headlamps of passing cars.

Despite my night time fears this was a good place to grow up, and a world away from how my grandparents had lived close to the centre of Derby. In their two up two down terraced house in Hope Street people lived on top of each other, knew each other’s secrets and were even aware when they visited the outside lavatories in the back yard.

Chellaston and in particular 170 Derby Road were different. Our neighbour kept pigs at the bottom of his garden, there were fields behind us, and everywhere there was grass, trees and open land. But I suppose these very things that had brought my grandparents to the village also brought others. They were in fact partly responsible having sold two of the three fields behind the house to a local builder who quickly filled them with houses.

The summer of 1961 was my last holiday there. I have to say the intervening years have wiped my childhood memories. The trolley bus terminus at Shelton Lock is fenced off and the disused weed infested canal has gone and 170 Derby Road is no more.

We were lucky to visit just before it was demolished. In its empty, abandoned and neglected state it seemed much smaller than I remembered. Nor did the garden seem to stretch forever while the stables had shrunk.
But I guess that is why we treasure those long ago memories belonging as they do to a time when the sun always shone, our grandparents were always cheerful and the worst that could befall a ten year old was a Sunday when it rained.

Picture; from the collection of Andrew Simpson

Pictures from an Eltham bus ........ nu 13 ....... "quick snap of the Grove Market development..."

The top deck of a London bus has to be a pretty neat way of seeing the world below.

And when it is the same bus at about the same time every day then you have got yourself a project.

All you need is a camera and the patience each week to record the same spot.

It helps if there is a major new development underway like the one in the High Street and the rest as they say is Larissa Hamment’s “Pictures from an Eltham bus.”*

And today Larissa sent me this one with the comment, "Quick snap of the Grove Market development...."

Now if like me you are longer in Eltham its good to get Larissa's updates.

I have to say I am not over keen on the new development which seems to dominate the area.
But then I guess there will be those who were unhappy when the old houses came down to make way for the shopping centre.

And it is one of those things that I just don't remember those houses, although we were in Well Hall just before the market was built.

All of which just leaves me to say I do like the half timbered property even though it probably not much older than me.

Location, Eltham High Street, Eltham, London








Pictures;  2017, from the collection of Larissa Hammen

*Pictures from an Eltham bus, https://chorltonhistory.blogspot.co.uk/search/label/Pictures%20from%20an%20Eltham%20Bus

Another excellent blog on BHC from the Together Trust

History is as I always say messy and I am never surprised when one piece of research leads to another.

So back many years ago when I first started on the journey of discovery about my own British Home Child I came across the Together Trust.

It was one of those random shots in the dark.  My great uncle was migrated by Middlemore on behalf of the Derby Union which is nowhere near Manchester which was the original home for the Together Trust.

But I now live in Manchester and curious to know how other cities dealt with child care  I came across the Manchester and Salford Boys’ and Girls’ Refuges which began in 1870 and is now the Together Trust.

The rest as they say is a shed load of blog stories about the Trust and a new book on the story of this children’s charity by me and their archivist Liz Sykes which will be published to commemorate their 150th anniversary in 2020.*

And in the course of the research for the book I have learnt lots more about the state of child care, and the migration of young people in the late 19th century.

Liz publishes a regular blog which is always informative, fascinating and sends me off in all sorts of enquiries.**

The latest is on Marchmont, and the records of the visits made on behalf of the charity to youngsters placed in the surrounding area.***

“The charity retains books on all of the young people who were emigrated across to Canada and provides a service to close relatives, who want to discover more about their ancestor. Interested individuals can find out more by contacting the Together Trust.”***

Now given that some people have had some difficulties in tracking relatives via other agencies I am always impressed by the efforts made by Liz to help descendants of children migrated by the Trust, and there are those who have told me hoe helpful she has been.

So that just leaves me to look over the blog story again and suggest you do too.

Pictures; courtesy of the Together Trust; 

*A new book on the Together Trust 

**Getting Down and Dusty, 

***Records at Marchmont


****Contacting the Trust 

One family’s war......... stories behind the book nu 20

Now neither my parents or grandparent talked about either of the two world wars they lived through.

From Uncle Fergus 1918

Not that there is anything strange in that.

They went and fought or made the best of staying at home and like many they coped with the loss of a loved one.

But we were lucky, of the eight who served in those two world wars we lost just the one.  He was my uncle Roger who died far away in Thailand in a prisoner of war camp.

The rest which consisted of my great grandfather, my grandfather, two great uncles and two uncles,  as well as my mother all came safely home. But of my cousins in Germany fighting on the other side, I have yet to discover their fates.

Uncle George, 1918

But because those wars were never spoken of much that they experienced is lost to me.

And so like others you try to piece together the stories from the handful of pictures, the small collection of official documents and their letters home.

We have only one full set of military records for one of the six who served during the Great War and that was because he had enlisted in Canada.

The remaining five are fragmentary or were lost when the records office was destroyed during the Blitz.

So I know so little.  But then almost out of the blue you make a discovery which was there all the time I just hadn’t made the connection.

I knew my grandfather was in Cologne in 1920 because it was there that he met and married my grandmother who was German.

And given that the Allies had moved into Germany at the end of the war I rather think he will have been there from 1918 which was just when my uncle serving with a Highland Regiment also arrived.

Great grandfather, Montague Hall, 1916

This I know because along with a Christmas card he sent my father in the December of that year he also wrote a long letter.

It was dated December 12th 1918. The Great War had ended just a month before and uncle Fergus and his battalion of the Black Watch were in Cologne, relieved no doubt that the fighting was over.

On that Thursday in December he wrote that “Cologne was a lovely city with some fine cinemas” but they were prohibited from fraternizing with the civilians which for a young man of just 21 was a bit of a bore given the attractive young women he came across.

But duty was never far away and preparations were a foot because “we are crossing the Rhine tomorrow” and there was a determination “to show the rest of the division the way as we proved to be the finest marchers during the trek to Germany.”

Extract from grandfather's discharge papers, 1922

At the time they never knew each other and would not even be aware of each other till my father met my mother sometime in the late 1940s.

Of course they may have missed each other entirely and the historian in me demands a degree of objectivity but ever the romantic it would be fun to think that they inhabited the same German city at the same time.

Location Cologne

Picture; With Best wishes for a Happy Christmas and a Victorious New Year, December 1918, Uncle George, 1918, Montague Hall our great grand father, 1916, discharge papers for William Henry Hall, our grandfather, 1922, from the collection of Andrew Simpson

Following the Gore Brook south from Gorton towards Chorlton

I am looking at some splendid pictures of the Gore Brook which were taken by JBS and posted on the facebook site MANCHESTER A PICTORIAL AND FILM HISTORY.

Now I know some people still deride social networking sites like facebook but they are a wonderful way of communicating with people across the planet and have that other benefit that they are almost instant.

What I also like about them is the opportunity that provide for people to post historical pictures which might not otherwise be seen by more than a handful of people.

The MANCHESTER A PICTORIAL AND FILM HISTORY site is particularly good because it also attracts those who want to share their own images.

And so to those of the Gore Brook by JBS, posted recently.

The Gore Brook is I think the longest of our small rivers staring at Gorton Reservoir and making its way south and west till it eventually joins our own Chorlton Brook but these are fed by smaller streams which rune in from Ashton, Denton and Droylsden*

All of which is less about showing off my knowledge of our water courses or for that matter representing the research of others and more about emphasising the large number of streams brooks and natural gutters which crisscrossed south and east Manchester.

These of course were vital when the area was still open fields and provided water and a natural set of boundaries.

Most are now buried deep underground and come up in short stretches.  Our own Chorlton Brook flows in the open from Hough End to the Mersey.  The Gore Brook or Platt Brook is also open for some of its length.

But all of them are lost for some of their journey, and a few are so completely lost that they have been forgotten about entirely.  The Rough Leech Gutter which meanders from Sandy Lane across Chorlton and out to Turn Moss is just one such water courses, others like those that flow across what is now Chorlton Park have vanished.  They may have dried up or bubbly away in some old brick culvert.

And some have yet to pass out of living memory.  The local historian Philip Lloyd remembered, that in the 1940s the Longford Brook flowed above ground by the Swimming Baths on Manchester Road, and again across part of Longford Park. And his mother told him that on quiet Sundays at the start of the twentieth century the enclosed Brook could be heard as it flowed under the road by Egerton Road North.

Pictures; between Old Hall Lane and Brighton Grove via St James Church Rusholme in Birch Park and the entrance to Birch Park ,Brighton Grove, courtesy of JBS, May 2013

*Dick Lane Brook from Aston, the Moss Brook from Droylsden and an unnamed one from Denton, Ashworth, Geoffrey, The Lost Rivers of Manchester, Willow Publishing, 1987.

Did you have someone at the Royal Arsenal? .............. a fascinating online history of a munitions factory

Now I like the way that the internet has made it possible for historians to both share their research and dig deep into the archives. 

Years ago I accessed all the early reports from the Poor Law Commissioners’ from 1838 through to 1854 which were invaluable for getting an understanding of both the Poor Law and life in our rural communities.

Ordinarily these would have been difficult to access and in fact my copies were originally on a dusty shelf in a university in the mid west of the USA, but through Google books they were available in an instant.

All of which is a lead in to a wonderful new site I came across yesterday on the story of the Royal Arsenal in Woolwich.*

It is run by Steve Peterson who is keen to receive contributions from anyone who had a link with the munitions factories.

And that for now is that.  I am hoping that Steve will add a story about his site for the blog in the future.

In the meantime I fully recommend a visit.*

and leave you with Steven explaining why he set up the site.

"Growing up as a Thamesmead kid I used to explore the East Arsenal in the late 1980’s early 90’s and also used to participate in a scheme run by the metropolitan Police called Thamesmead Adventure in the Royal Arsenal danger area and firing range/proof butt waste land.

I was always fascinated by the Arsenals ruins.  

I used to dig up live bullets, empty shells, grenade shrapnel and cannon balls.  I wanted to know the in's and out's of the Arsenal, exploring in the summer school holidays and after school mapping it out in my head from bomb shelters to railway tracks to the odd shaped blast mounds of the Danger buildings.  

It was the ultimate adventure, exploration and excavation growing up looking for the next unusual find with no answer to what it once was buried in half a century's worth of nature overgrowth.

 Later to be confirmed 'what once was' the largest most dangerous secret factory in Europe.

I attended the Woolwich walk in 1995 when the Royal Arsenal was open to the public for the first time ever for one day on the Western side.Location, Woolwich"

Picture; courtesy of David Harrop and Steve Peterson

*Royal Arsenal History, http://www.royal-arsenal-history.com/

Reflecting on nine years of being a descendant of a British Home Child

It is odd what you come across in the deep recesses of the hard drive.

Back in 2012 I spent a few months giving talks on British Home Children fired by the discovery of my own BHC four years earlier.

Looking again at the Powerpoint it suffers from my lack of detailed knowledge and is less balanced in its interpretation of the causes of migration and its impact on those sent to Canada.

But it was a genuine and honest attempt to bring the story to a British audience, who at best knew a little about the young people migrated to Australia but next to nothing about those who crossed the Atlantic.

Today I would do it a little differently, not that I would change my opinion that the policy was wrong but offer a more balanced approach, which in part is the result of nine years of research digging deep into the records of the Chorlton Union and the work of the Manchester and Salford Boy’s and Girls’ Refuge.*

In the process you come to live with those who made the decisions and broadly supported the policy along with those at the time who opposed it and above all you walk with the parents and young people who were at the heart of BHC.

Through the case studies, the charity’s reports and a shed load of statistics, pamphlets and newspaper articles the context becomes clearer.

Now for those who have been beavering away in Canada none of this will be new or a surprise, but it amounts to a growing revelation for me and continues to alter my understanding of the policy.

But what I would retain from that old powerpoint is the opening which describes the levels of child poverty and neglect in Britain today and explores how we would approach the problem.

At the time it was a useful way of introducing the topic to an audience who knew little about the subject and had only a vague knowledge of life in the late 19th century.

What was also a great help then and remains so are the various BHC help sites which offer a mix of news, advice and above all a realization that our story is broadly that of many others, and the frustrations of missing archives are shared with lots of people.

The sites have grown as has the awareness of BHC and I couldn’t continue without a refenece to Perry Snow who has a long track record in researching and bringing out of the shadows the story of Home Children.

He was one of the first people to offer advice soon after I started the research.

And along with the sites there are the friends I have made and the colleagues I have worked with.  Some like Lori go back a long time to the very beginning of my discovery of our BHC, others like Sandra, Karen and Marion came later.  

Along the way I have had the opportunity to read the books some of them have written on the subject, and in the case of Susan spent two very pleasant days showing her the sights of the twin cities.

From Norma I got the story of her two relatives who like my great uncle were migrated by Middlemore and have been introduced to the writing of Art Joyce.

So as they say it has all been a win and nine years on there are still discoveries to be made about the subject and my own great uncle Roger.

And long may it all continue.











Pictures; from the powerpoint British Home Children – A Story Only Partly Told, 2012

*A new book on the Together Trust, https://chorltonhistory.blogspot.co.uk/search/label/A%20new%20book%20on%20the%20Together%20Trust

In search of the Black Brook as it flows through Chorlton

It exists that much I know, because it is there in contemporary accounts from the 19th century and even showed up in a joint local authority report on “strategic flood risk assessment.*

It seems to have run along what is Upper Chorlton Road, crossing north of the Library and then out to Longford Hall feeding a largish pond not far from where Longford Road joins Ryebank Road.

Our local historian Thomas Ellwood mentions it in one of his articles in 1885 linking it to a “footpath from West Point to Brooks’s Bar as a means of communication between Hulme and the village, along which a brook ran, afterwards arched over and utilised by Mr. Brooks as a main sewer for his property, which he drained into the watercourse called Black Brook. The brook frequently flooded the footpath during heavy rain, and old William Hesketh, who lived at the Pop Cottage, was often awakened at night by the cries of travellers for help and guidance through the water.”**

And just a year later turns up in a letter to the Manchester Guardian from a T. Clarke of Athelstone House, High Lane, who drew a connection between the watercourse and “fevers of a malignant character.” “If you take the Manchester Road, in the Black Brook, immediately by the ‘Oswald’ you will have a place of danger and offence.  I believe the ‘The Oswald’ has several times been visited by fevers of a malignant character”***

‘The Oswald’ or Oswald Field was roughly a little north of the library and extending to Oswald Road. From the early 19th century there was a row of cottages here and by the 1880s Oswald Lane ran from Manchester Road up to Oswald Road.

Today only the little stretch of that original Oswald Lane from Manchester Road survives having been re cut in the 1980s, but its old route is preserved in the footpath which continues on to join Oswald Road.

Looking at the 1841 OS it is possible to see the course of the Black Brook, hugging the edge of Oswald Field before running into the biggish pond and onto Longford Park.

By then it was fully culverted. Tracking it back further east is difficult.  It flowed for a while along what id Manchester Road and must have headed north to towards Upper Chorlton Road, but this would take it directly across the path of Longford Brook.

And that is the problem.  That wonderful book The Lost Rivers of Manchester by Geoffrey Ashworth mentions a Black Brook but that is much further east and any way becomes Cringle Brook out by Burnage which leads me to another communication with the Environmental Agency and a closer scrutiny of the SFRA document.

Meanwhile someone will write in to tell me the exact course and the mystery will be solved.

Picture; Oswald Fields, from the OS map of Lancashire, courtesy of Digital Archives, http://www.digitalarchives.co.uk/

*Manchester City, Salford City and Trafford Councils Level 2 Hybrid SFRA, Maps Index, Final March 2011
**Thomas Elwood, History of Chorlton-cum-Hardy, Chapter 6, Roads, December 12th 1885
***The Sanitary Condition of Chorlton-Cum-Hardy, Manchester Guardian May 19th, 1886.

A Tale of Two Countries ...... by Norma Davis Cook ... .... part four

Bert and Ted remained close to each other the rest of their lives.  Like most twins, they took great delight in tricking people (such as unsuspecting grandchildren) by switching identities and pretending to be each other.  

Bert and Mary Davis

The twins both enjoyed fishing at the “salmon pool” in the Saint John River above Hartland.  It was a sad day for Bert when Ted passed away in 1985, followed soon after by Ted’s wife, Dorothy.

I remember my grandfather as someone with a great sense of humor, in spite of suffering from asthma and arthritis.  In his eighties, he had to get both hips replaced.

Mary

He loved to tell about the time he met a huge black bear out in the garden while still getting around with two canes after his surgery.  Bert made his way back to the house as fast as he could—“just a’canin’er”—in his words.

It was touching to see how Bert took care of his wife, Mary, whose vision had deteriorated to the point of blindness in later years.  He took on household chores that most men wouldn’t have done and spoke with obvious pride about his homemade bread.

The passing of Bert and Mary’s only daughter, Jennie Elizabeth Kimball in 1990, was a hard blow, which probably hastened Mary’s own death three years later, on August 5, 1993.  With the love and support of his family, Bert went on to live several more years, until his death on January 20, 2002 at his home in Waterville, NB.  He was nearly 101.

Bert

The original intent of sending British children to other countries was to give them a chance at a better life than was possible in their present circumstances.

Bert and Mary took on that challenge and built a life that was shared together for nearly 68 years.  Their legacy of hard work and determination lives on today in those who knew and loved them.

In spite of all the hardships and heartaches experienced by so many British Home Children, including my grandparents, I believe our family’s story is just one example of how God can take the tangled threads of our lives and weave them into a beautiful tapestry.

Ted and Bert

© Norma Davis Cook, 2017

Location; Canada

Pictures; from the collection of Norma Davis Cook

I would just like to thank Norma for sharing these stories.

Of endings and new beginnings at the bottom of Edge Lane

Now subways have always appealed to the child in me although they are only pale imitations of the two foot tunnels under the Thames where I grew up and the Underground.

When I was younger those foot tunnels were magic and the adventure began with the descent in the lift or better still the spiral staircase and then the long walk under the river, with the floor gently sloping down before rising again as we reached North Woolwich.

Most of the time, you were pretty much on your own with just the echo of your own footsteps and perhaps a conversation from two strangers far away at the other end of the tunnel.

And in its own way the Underground could also be seductive, whisking you all over the city and beyond on journeys deep below the surface which only came out into daylight for brief moments or at the very end of the line.

And along with the speed and the darkness there was that smell particularly strong in the summer which was blown towards you as the tube hurtled into the station.

By comparison the subway linking two sets of pavements is small beer and as I get older they are places to avoid. They are dark and lonely and at times threatening, but are ones which generations of planners have thought were alright to make us use, thereby freeing up the surface for traffic.

Andy Robertson has been down at the Stretford end of Edge Lane commenting that “there is 6 months worth of ‘improvements’ going on at Chester Road/Edge Lane so I thought I'd investigate. The subway from the Metro Stop to old town hall is still open but the one on the other side is now blocked off. Went under the tunnel for probably only the third or fourth time in my life.”

All of which is three times more than me.

But I notice that at on one side of Edge Lane work is in progress and there is a big hole, but I am too lazy to check out the planning site to find out what exactly is going on or what the improvements promise.

I am confident someone will tell me, and in the meantime I also know that Andy will be back to record the progress.

And a thank you to Pawel who did the business and checked out the planning portal for Trafford, which said the improvement works are "in the form of highway alignment changes, filling of existing substation crossing points, provision of controlled crossings, traffic signal improvements, footway and carriageway improvements, installation of features, planting of trees and shrubs and other various public realm enhancements. | Junction Of Chester Road, Kingsway And Edge Lane, Stretford, M32 0LG"*

So there you have it and thank you Pawel.

Location; Edge Lane

Pictures; down on Edge Lane, 2017 from the collection of Andy Robertson

*Planning Application Summary, Trafford Council, 88926/EIASCR/16, http://publicaccess.trafford.gov.uk/online-applications/applicationDetails.do?activeTab=summary&keyVal=OA8XGSQL01000

So what was he doing in Haywards Heath in the arms of a Red Cross nurse?

Now this postcard has set me thinking.

The caption is easy enough to follow........... “The Manchesters are holding their own at Haywards Heath.”

It leaves little to the imagination but perhaps offers up a challenge to historic accuracy.

I am pretty sure that none of the eight Pals’ Battalions went through the army camp at Haywards Heath on their way to France and the Western Front in September and November 1915.

Their route took them from the North West to Grantham and then Salisbury with some then making the short journey to Southampton and the rest to Folkestone or Dover.

It could of course be the Regulars are the Territorial battalions but as yet I haven’t done the research.

Or it may just be an enterprising postcard company cynically using the Manchester’s and no doubt substituting the names of the Lancashire Fusiliers or the West Kent’s to a standard image of a soldier and a nurse.

That way you can be pretty sure that someone will buy a card.

All of that said I like the image which David Harrop sourced for me and which was the final picture postcard to make its way into the book Manchester and the Great War which was published in February of this year.

But that is another story.

Location; Haywards Heath

Picture; “The Manchesters are holding their own at Haywards Heath” from the collection of David Harrop

*A new book on Manchester and the Great War, https://chorltonhistory.blogspot.co.uk/search/label/A%20new%20book%20on%20Manchester%20and%20the%20Great%20War

A Tale of Two Countries ...... by Norma Davis Cook ... .... part three

By  the time Bert had turned eighteen and his contract was fulfilled, he decided to stay at the farm and work for wages. The Clendennings had no children of their own and were quite satisfied with Bert, so they decided to request a girl from the Middlemore Home.  Mrs. Clendenning was very specific in stating her wishes:  “Will you please send me a nice smart little girl, age 11 or 12 years old, good looking with dark hair.  I will adopt her and give her a good home.”  In May of 1920, twelve-year-old Mary Priscilla Pitt joined the Clendenning household.

Albert (Bert) Davis

Mary had been born to Charles and Elizabeth Pitt of Dudley, England, on August 4, 1907.  Dudley was located in an area known as the “Black Country”, due to the coal mining and iron industry that employed many of the men.

Charles Pitt had been a deaf-mute from the time he was a child, but was able to work as a laborer in the boiler yard of the iron works.

He and Elizabeth had a second daughter, Sarah Elizabeth, who only lived a few months.  Later, a third little girl was born, named Violet May.

In 1918, Elizabeth Pitt died, leaving Charles unable to care for their two daughters by himself.  He made the trip to Birmingham to place his little girls at Middlemore.

The admission record revealed their destitute condition and also hinted at their ethnic heritage by describing Charles as “mulatto”.  After living at the Home for two years, Mary was sent to Canada without her little sister.

Helping with housework was something Mary probably would have been accustomed to, but her poor eyesight prevented her from performing her chores satisfactorily.  At the annual inspection in 1924, it was noted that Mary was not receiving any wages and the recommendation was made to transfer her to the home of a doctor’s family in Nova Scotia, where she stayed several months until reaching her eighteenth birthday.

Jane (Davis) Ayres

Upon her return to Carleton County, she and Bert were married on September 16, 1925.  They lived in Waterville, Carleton County, NB for all their married life and had five children, with four sons still living.
Mary’s sister, Violet, had stayed at Middlemore until she was fourteen, and then was discharged to return to her hometown of Dudley, where she lived with her mother’s younger brother, Harry Farley.  It is uncertain whether her father, Charles, was still living by then. Violet had lost contact with Mary over the years of separation, so she wrote to Middlemore Home for help in tracking down her sister.  In 1928, Violet journeyed to Canada, where she got reacquainted with her sister and went on to build a life for herself with a husband and children.

Jane (Davis) Ayres kept in touch with her sons over the years, sending special gifts at Christmastime.  Her husband, William, had served in the First World War and died shortly afterward.  Jane passed away in 1936.

© Norma Davis Cook, 2017

Location; Canada

Pictures; from the collection of Norma Davis Cook

The Odeon reveals a few secrets ....... the ongoing story of its demolition

Now I have seen plenty of pictures of Central Ref over the years but never one framed by a demolition site.

But in the course of recording the end of the Odeon that is exactly what Andy has done.

There in the background is the Library and in front of it a pile of rubble, a JCB and a bit of the inside of the old cinema.

Because this is the moment when Derek the Demolition man has started on the facade of the cinema and in the process opened up the inside to anyone who cares to gaze up into the spaces which most haven’t seen for decades.

I spent many happy hours in there as did my kids.

It was here that I saw West Side Story, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid and on one memorable afternoon when I should have been listening to a lecture on American Foreign Policy between the wars I watched Woodstock and wished that I had been there in that field with Country Joe and the Fish instead of a food factory by the river Thames.

But I suppose three days in a field on Max Yasgur’s farm in Orange County, New York listening to everyone from Janis Joplin, Santana, the Who and Jefferson Airplane along with Jimi Hendrix, Joe Cocker, and Canned Heat was never going to happen.

So sometime on a warm September day in 1971 I swapped Mr Wilson for Melanie, Country Joe and lots of happy young people in a field.

And while the Odeon was not that field we had the bonus of choc ices and Kia-ora drinks with the full knowledge that afterwards there was the promise of a few pints and a takeaway.

It has taken sometime for the demolition men to begin on the facade but soon even that will be gone allowing Derek the Developer to impose another new development and leave me to mutter something about abandoning hope and magic for a pile of steel and glass.

And yes I am well aware that at the end the Odeon was not a shinny example of a cinema at its best but it still had something that none of the modern multiplexes can emulate.

And that just leaves me with Andy's comment and question, "looking pretty grim. can you spot the gentlemen's facilities?"

Location; Manchester






Pictures; the Odeon, 2017, from the collection of Andy Robertson

A Chorlton bank and a pub ......... “no one expects the Spanish Inquisition”

It remains one of my favourite Monty Python throw away comments and it struck a chord as I came across these pictures taken by my old friend Tony Walker.

They are familiar enough places but both look very dated and are as remote from today as any one of those early 20th century postcards I often post.
But back in the the 70's I just took them for granted and then they had changed.

I used the bank from time to time and in the same way  fell across the doors of the Lloyds when we were eating at the little Italian restaurant on Wilbraham Road or for a thank you drink on election night.

Now my branch of the Midland was in town so I only used it only occasionally and of course in those days before internet banking your branch of a bank was still an important place.  The staff knew you and the bank manager was privy to your innermost financial secrets.

In the same way my local had been the Trevor where we were known, served a little quicker and on occasion when Stan felt like it allowed to stay just a tad longer after closing time.

All of which meant that the Lloyds was another place which was a different experience.  It still had the small rooms off the main staircase and a bar which from memory was quite small.

And in the way of things I didn’t expect either to change.  They were what they had always been since I arrived here in the winter of 1976.

Looking at the two pictures and comparing them with what they had looked like just sixty years earlier it is clear that they had been done no favours by the respective design teams and builders.

In 1975 the bank was just an anonymous slab from which to display its name, and the Lloyds despite the summer sun looks tired and ugly.  As Kemp's the Chemist the building on the corner of Barlow Moor and Wilbraham Roads had something while the Lloyds back in 1900 looked impressive.

Still both pictures are now history and just perhaps in another fifty years there will be those who see something about the two.  We shall have to see.

Pictures; from the collection of Tony Walker

A Tale of Two Countries ...... by Norma Davis Cook ..... part two a ship journey and a new life

On board the ship, the children were confronted with sights and sounds and smells that they had never experienced before.  Seasickness was common for the first few days, but most of the travelers recovered quickly.  The chaperones assigned older children to help look after the younger ones.  Entertainment was provided by the crew members and some of the other passengers. 

SS Carthaginian, date unknown

Nearing the shores of Canada, fog set in, causing a delay in their arrival.  On June 8, 1912, the Carthaginian docked in the port of Halifax, Nova Scotia.   An official from Middlemore, Mr. George Jackson, and his wife, accompanied the children destined for New Brunswick.  Others in the group were distributed throughout Nova Scotia.

Traveling by train to Carleton County, Albert and Edward were met at the station by the couples who had applied to take them into their homes.  Mr. Jackson’s instructions had been to place these boys near each other because they were twin brothers.  Albert (Bert) went to Howard Brook with the Clendennings; Edward (Ted) was placed in the neighboring community of Carlisle with the Sharpes.  The two families were related, so it was assumed that the boys would be allowed to maintain contact with each other.

The port of Halifax, date unknown

Unfortunately, there were many long, lonely days before they ever saw one another.
Soon after his arrival in Howard Brook, Bert was taken to the little country school and dropped off for the day. Nervously opening the door, he was met by the curious stares of ten little girls, the only other students in the class.   It had been some time since the lad had even seen a girl; at the Middlemore Home back in Birmingham, the boys and girls were kept in separate wings.  Bert immediately turned around, slammed the schoolroom door and ran all the way back to the Clendennings.  Of course, they insisted on taking him to school once again and making him stay there all day.

Ted, the elder of the twins, had been born with a weaker constitution than Bert, so he was not suited for the intense physical labor of farming.  By the time he was fifteen, Ted was eager to be done with farm life.  He had run away a few times, but was always found and forced to return.
In the summer of 1916, both boys were visited by their mother’s sister, Edith, with her husband, Stephen Long.  The twins were surprised to learn that their aunt and uncle had been living in Saint John, NB but were moving back to England with their three little boys.  Edith told her nephews that, if she had only known what was happening, she would have taken them into her own home.  How different their lives might have been!

CPR station, Woodstock, NB

When Edith arrived back in England, Jane was able to receive a first-hand account of the boys’ welfare, which prompted several letters to Middlemore, pleading for the twins to be returned to their family.  Jane had gotten married to William Ayres, the butler who worked at the estate where she was a cook and they were both eager to reunite the family.  Her request was denied, due to the fact that the boys still had a few years remaining to finish their contract with the Canadian farmers.

The sending agencies for British Child Migrants generally investigated each applicant who wished to receive a child.  Inspections of the placements were scheduled every year, usually in the summer, but the child was often not available to be questioned.

Because of Jane’s anxious pleas, the inspector made sure to speak directly with Ted on his next round of visits.  It was obvious to him that the young man would be better off somewhere else, so approval was given for a transfer.

After the harvest was finished that season, Ted went to stay with Robert and Georgia Clendenning—more relatives of the couple for whom Bert worked.  It wasn’t long before the inspector received a telegram from Ted with the encouraging message that his new placement was a great improvement.  His clothes had been mended, he had new gum rubbers for his feet, and it felt like home.

One of the unexpected results of being transferred to the Clendenning home was that Ted got acquainted with their granddaughter, Dorothy, who would eventually become his wife.
Over the next few years, Ted moved from one job to another, spending some time in the United States, as well as in Montreal, Quebec, where he trained to be a mechanic.

Ted and Dorothy were married on August 11, 1928.  They lived in Connecticut during the early part of their marriage, and then returned to New Brunswick to raise a family of ten children.

© Norma Davis Cook, 2017

Location; Canada

Pictures; courtesy of Norma Davis Cook

Searching for a bit of history up beside the Cat and Fiddle

Now I have to say Andy got a better day when he was up by the Cat and Fiddle than we did.

In our case we were passing through obeying the instructions of the sat nav which not for the first time took us on a long and roundabout route home.

Added to which what had been a hot sunny day turned into a grey dismal one with the clouds looking heavy and threatening.

No sooner had we left the area and the sun came out again, the temperature climbed and all was well.

What I didn’t know was that we had been on the boundary between Cheshire and Derbyshire and that close by was not only a picturesque old bridge with a coaching history but evidence of an industrial past.

Andy told me that “on Monday we had ‘half a day-out’. 

Went to Cat & Fiddle on A537 Macclesfield to Buxton Road for a cuppa and the facilities but it was closed. 

Looking for a place to eat our emergency sarnies we turned down this track less than a mile away and it led to Derbyshire Bridge which was (still is?) boundary between Cheshire and Derbyshire. 

There was also a decent toilet there and a free, deserted car park.

Turns out this track was the original Macclesfield to Buxton coach road (2nd image from bottom). 

The bridge looks quite interesting. 
Coal was mined not many yards from here. An innocent day out and you still accidentally stumble upon history!”

That said it appears that the Cat and Fiddle no longer sells beer.

It had opened in 1813 and closed in 2015, and there appear to be no plans to reopen it.

So it was perhaps fortuitous that I decided not to suggest we call in , after all it had been my choice to use the stat nav.

But given Andy’s pictures of the bridge and the surrounding countryside I think we should go back, receded perhaps by some solid research into the story of coal mining in the area and of course something of the coaching past.

We shall see.

Location on the original Buxton to Macclesfield road

Pictures; on the original Buxton to Macclesfield road, 2017 from the collection of Andy Simpson