In the summer of 1847 Alexander Somerville had come looking for potato blight, that disease which had ravaged the crops of Ireland and had been reported just a little further south in Derbyshire and what he found were a group of farmers and labourers all too happy to show him we were blight free.
Here were many of the people I had come to know, including James Higginbotham, farmer on the green, Lydia Brown whose farm was just a little to the east of the Bowling Green Hotel and old Samuel Nixon, market gardener and landlord of the Greyhound just over the river.
It is a remarkable piece because Somerville reported and in places quoted what they said. Nothing quite fits you for hearing their voices, talking of farming issues, joking about what newspapers publish and complaining about their landlords. These are the authentic voices of 175 years ago.
Nor is that quite it. For when Somerville and Higginbotham inspect the potato field I know where it was.
It is the strip of land that ran from the Row along what is now the Rec beside Cross Road, and when they stood admiring the Rose of Sharon apple trees and the Newbridge pears we are just behind the Trevor Arms on what is now Beech Road.
It doesn’t take much imagination to recreate that orchard scene with the smell of William Davis’s smithy hard by and perhaps even the noise of the children in the nearby National school on the Green.
Likewise I am pretty sure I can locate the large bank of earth with ash trees which Lydia Brown was so unhappy about and fully understand why she might contemptuously refer to George Lloyd the landlord as Squire Lloyd because of his refusal to allow her to cut the trees back.
Above all it is that calm and steady confidence of the farmer that shines through.
Along with Higginbotham’s pleasure that the weather has won out there is the certainty of a life time of experience that allows George Whitelegg to assert that he didn’t believe in blight. Whitelegg ran the Bowling Green Hotel farmed 36 acres and later would go into speculative building.
Mr Higginbotham was 'only afraid that the blight might come. When it does come it will be time enough to raise the alarm'.
Mr Whitelegg, of Chorlton, told me that 'he was a potato grower, had heard of the blight, had looked for it, could not find it, and did not believe in it'.
Crossing the green meadows I was told at Brook Farm to go down a path under some trees and examine a field; 'for' said the workman who bad me to go, 'it is best for those who want to find the potato disease to look for it themselves and find their own disappointment.'
I told him that I did not want to find it; that I should be well satisfied to find that the blight was not there, to which he replied briefly, 'then, sir you get satisfaction. The best grown potatoes in this part of the country are in that field, and never since the day that you and were born did the plants look better.'
I found them after close examination to be all that he described them.
A large bank of earth with ash trees growing upon it – trees which are not only objectionable as all other kinds are in and around cultivated fields but positively poisonous to other vegetation, ran through the ground causing much waste of land, waste of fertility, and doing no good whatever.
Squire Lloyd is the landlord. Mrs Brown a widow is the tenant. She keeps the farm in excellent order so far as the landlord’s restrictions will allow. But neither herself nor her workmen must 'crop or lop top' a single branch from the deleterious ash trees.
Again I was in the green meadows, where the rain that had newly fallen, and the fresh wind that was blowing, and the luxuriant herbage on every side, and the wild flowers prodigal of bloom, all proclaimed that the insurgents now in rebellion against bountiful Providence must soon be defeated and humiliated.
At Jackson’s Boat where I crossed the Mersey into Cheshire by the bridge which has superseded the boat, the bridge keeper, Samuel Nixon also publican of the Greyhound, said 'I have been a farmer all my days and never saw anything that can grow out of land look better. It is only int paper; they must have something to say in paper.'**
Now that is what I call history.
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| Mr Higginbotham ploughing Row Acre, 1893 |
It is a remarkable piece because Somerville reported and in places quoted what they said. Nothing quite fits you for hearing their voices, talking of farming issues, joking about what newspapers publish and complaining about their landlords. These are the authentic voices of 175 years ago.
Nor is that quite it. For when Somerville and Higginbotham inspect the potato field I know where it was.
 |
| Row Acre, Chorlton Row, and the village 1854 |
It doesn’t take much imagination to recreate that orchard scene with the smell of William Davis’s smithy hard by and perhaps even the noise of the children in the nearby National school on the Green.
Likewise I am pretty sure I can locate the large bank of earth with ash trees which Lydia Brown was so unhappy about and fully understand why she might contemptuously refer to George Lloyd the landlord as Squire Lloyd because of his refusal to allow her to cut the trees back.
Above all it is that calm and steady confidence of the farmer that shines through.
 |
| When Mr Somerville came to Chorlton-cum-Hardy, 1847 |
Mr Higginbotham was 'only afraid that the blight might come. When it does come it will be time enough to raise the alarm'.
Mr Whitelegg, of Chorlton, told me that 'he was a potato grower, had heard of the blight, had looked for it, could not find it, and did not believe in it'.
Crossing the green meadows I was told at Brook Farm to go down a path under some trees and examine a field; 'for' said the workman who bad me to go, 'it is best for those who want to find the potato disease to look for it themselves and find their own disappointment.'
I told him that I did not want to find it; that I should be well satisfied to find that the blight was not there, to which he replied briefly, 'then, sir you get satisfaction. The best grown potatoes in this part of the country are in that field, and never since the day that you and were born did the plants look better.'
 |
| Looking out towards the green from Mr Higginbotham's farmyard, circa 1880 |
A large bank of earth with ash trees growing upon it – trees which are not only objectionable as all other kinds are in and around cultivated fields but positively poisonous to other vegetation, ran through the ground causing much waste of land, waste of fertility, and doing no good whatever.
Squire Lloyd is the landlord. Mrs Brown a widow is the tenant. She keeps the farm in excellent order so far as the landlord’s restrictions will allow. But neither herself nor her workmen must 'crop or lop top' a single branch from the deleterious ash trees.
Again I was in the green meadows, where the rain that had newly fallen, and the fresh wind that was blowing, and the luxuriant herbage on every side, and the wild flowers prodigal of bloom, all proclaimed that the insurgents now in rebellion against bountiful Providence must soon be defeated and humiliated.
 |
| The bridge Mr Somerville crossed to visit the Greyhound, 1865 |
Now that is what I call history.
Location; Chorlton
Pictures; Ploughing Row Acre before it became the Recreation Ground, 1896 Mr Higginbotham's farmyard, circa 1880s, from the collection of William Higginbotham, detail from the 1854 OS map for Lancashire by kind permission of Digital Archives, http://www.digitalarchives.co.uk/ and the old bridge across the Mersey, circa 1865
*Somerville, Alexander, A Pilgrimage in Search of the Potato Blight, Manchester Examiner, June 19th, 1847
**Chorlton Row, is now Beech Road
**The Greyhound is now Jackson's Boat
Pictures; Ploughing Row Acre before it became the Recreation Ground, 1896 Mr Higginbotham's farmyard, circa 1880s, from the collection of William Higginbotham, detail from the 1854 OS map for Lancashire by kind permission of Digital Archives, http://www.digitalarchives.co.uk/ and the old bridge across the Mersey, circa 1865
*Somerville, Alexander, A Pilgrimage in Search of the Potato Blight, Manchester Examiner, June 19th, 1847
**Chorlton Row, is now Beech Road
**The Greyhound is now Jackson's Boat
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