Some of my yesterdays

This is where it all happened - although it wasn't quite as built up when I was doing my thing. Red dots and circles indicate some of the places mentioned.

Having had a far longer past than I will a future (sad but true), it's inevitable that, every now and again, I'll reflect on the seven plus decades I've got behind me. For the most part, the reminiscences of my childhood are still vivid. Like most of us of a certain age, I can probably recollect with far more accuracy that which happened in my early days than the events of more recent times. At least, I think the clarity is still there - or is there a touch of self-delusion? Who can possibly know? But I do not view yesteryear through rose-tinted spectacles: there is nostalgia, of course, but no sentimentality. It was the way it was and that's how we accepted it.

In two previous posts, I've touched on various part-time jobs I had in my youth (here and here) and, just to test my memory, I thought I'd try and jot down all those jobs I could remember. I've surprised myself at the list and it's been fun revisiting the people and places involved. I consider myself extremely lucky to have had all those experiences: I wouldn't have missed a minute of them. Here they are:

Football Argus Paper round The very first Saturday job I can remember was delivering a few Football Argus's in the late afternoon around the streets and pubs of Bedwas. I was 8 or 9 at the time and did get a few 'coppers for sweets'. I'm not sure how long this lasted but, at this distance, I'd guess for the length of the football season. 

Butchers' Boy: Off and on for a couple of years before I left Bedwas Junior Mixed, I had a Saturday job at Morgan's the Butcher in Church Street. As well as taking orders out on an old-fashioned shop bike with a basket, I helped make sausages, faggots and black puddings (getting blood for which in a bucket from the slaughterhouse behind Lewis's). And sweeping up the sawdust from the floor and cleaning down the counters.

Delivery boy/packer: During the summer of 1959, just before I went to Bassaleg Grammar School, I had a job at the Home and Colonial Store in Caerphilly. My Aunty Phyll got me the job and it was a mixture of bike deliveries and helping with packing various goods (dried peas, currants, raisins etc) from tubs into smaller packets. Pushing a heavily laden delivery bike up the Mountain Road in Caerphilly was not an easy thing to do and I can still remember feeling affronted that one customer did not even say "thank you" after I'd obviously struggled up the hill with her groceries. One day I'll tell about the Pea Magnet Saga and the Great Penrheol Delivery Boy Kidnap Incident. I still bear the mental scars from both.

Exactly the type of bike I used for deliveries. No gears, brakes only on the front wheel and a less-than-comfortable leather saddle. And let's not forget the wicker basket at the front.

Various jobs on farms: Like most of my contemporaries, I don't remember ever getting regular pocket money from my parents and, if we wanted some cash, we had to earn it. Hence we offered our services to whoever needed a (cheap) pair of hands. In reality, this meant one of the many small farms around Bedwas and Rudry. We'd do anything if there was a few coppers at the end of it and we laboured in the fields picking vegetables (my worst ever experience was picking potatoes in the cold and wet on Ty Sign Farm), helping with animals, milking, harvesting apples, hay making, picking stones from the fields - anything at all and in all weathers. 

Milk round with Mr Lewis: I've dealt with my time on the milk round with Mr Lewis at length previously (here) and, if you are interested, I will refer you to that post.

Milk round with John Davies: When Mr Lewis sold his round, due to ill-health, it was taken over by David Davies (Dai Dai the Milk) and I briefly worked with him. But I soon moved on to help his son, John, on his round that took in Rudry, Draethen, Lower Machen and Machen proper. I really enjoyed this time as the route was very rural and took us around some fantastic countryside. Sitting on the back of a van in the fresh air and racing around the lanes - what's not to like?  It was during our Sunday break for breakfast that I first encountered the Archers and poached eggs with HP sauce! I still like them both.

Sunday paper round: I did this for about three years when I was in the Sixth Form. It involved an early start (6am, sometimes a killer after a raucous Saturday night out in the pubs and at the Palais in Caerphilly. Confession time: I was an underage drinker, as were all of my 'gang'), picking up a trolley load of papers from Mr Jones' Paper Shop in Bedwas and then delivering them around some streets in Trethomas. I can still remember the route: Pant Glas View, Central Buildings, Bryn-y-Fran Avenue, Birch Grove, Elm Grove, Ash Grove and Hazel Grove. When I 'retired',  my brother and my elder sister inherited the round: the nearest we've ever got to having a family business.

Working on a farm at Cefn Mably: This was a mixed arable/dairy farm called Cefn-llywd, owned by George Huish and run by his son, Roger. I was there for a full summer holiday and some weekends. I enjoyed it as the work was varied - milking the dairy herd of friesans, tending to sheep and pigs, hedging, tractor driving, hay making etc. However, what I didn't like was the fact that it was 10 miles from home and involved negotiating many hills on an antiquated push-bike with only three gears. On the positive side, I can still remember the taste of the wild strawberries I used to pick as I pushed my bike up a hill near the Maenllwyd Inn in Rudry.

Working at the British Legion, Trethomas: For a year or two, around 1964/1965, I worked behind the bar at the British Legion in Trethomas when George and Alma were the stewards. Almost invariably, my good friend, Malcolm from Rhiwderin (who never did get the hang of playing Bingo), was on the same shift so it was never dull. It was the days of pounds, shillings and pence and I was very adept at adding up orders for multiple drinks. I'm not sure I could do that now. Certainly not at the British Legion as it's been demolished for quite a while.

Working on the Bedwas and Machen Urban District Council: When university students living in Bedwas or Trethomas were looking for jobs during the summer holidays, there were a few 'usual' places that took us on. One of these was the 'council' - the now defunct Bedwas and Machen Urban District Council. I spent the summer of 1966 working for them and got to grips with the full panoply of services offered by the council. Some of the things I got involved with were grave digging, laying kerbstones and paving slabs, collecting rubbish, repairing drains, replacing broken window panes, cleaning buses and acting as a labourer for a stone mason. The latter was an old communist called Dick Jones who was a fascinating character. He was part of the Socialist contingent that fought in the Spanish Civil War against Franco and had spend many years in the 1930's travelling around the USA. I really enjoyed both hearing about his exploits and helping him build a bus shelter in Machen, that is still standing after 52 years. I always metaphorically salute Dick every time I pass it.

The old offices of Bedwas and Machen Urban District Council. The yard I worked from was to the right. The JP's courtroom was on the left and that was the scene of the infamous 'Air Gun Trial', where several youthful miscreants were subjected to a mock trial by the then JP, Kenwyn Lewis. But that's a story for another day - possibly, maybe.

Working on the Xmas Post: Another of the 'usual' places for hiring students was the Post Office over the Xmas period, dealing with the 'Xmas rush' of cards. I started doing this in 1966 and continued through 1967 and 1968. We were there for about a week each session. The days started with sorting out the mail into rounds and then going out delivering around Bedwas and Trethomas. For a couple of years, I was assigned what was known as the 'Mountain round' which involved delivering mail to all the farms and houses on Bedwas mountain. It was quite an onerous task, walking, perhaps, 5 - 6 miles with a heavy postbag, sometimes on lanes, sometimes on tracks and sometimes on shortcuts across fields. But it was money and it helped offset the overdraft I had accrued during the previous term. A happy time with a great bunch of regular postmen, all uniformly sarcastic and cynical! 

BOCM, Bassaleg: I'd almost forgotten this one. Labouring at British Oil and Cake Mills near Bassaleg railway station. I was only there filling in for a few weeks and the work entailed watching over milling, rolling and pelleting machines and a bag filler. Nothing too onerous and I can still recall the noise and the dust. The pay was rubbish.

Working up the Plant: Or to give it its formal name British Benzol and Coal Distillation Co. Ltd. At one time, this was THE place for students to work in the summer holidays. The Plant comprised of a series of coking ovens and an associated 'by-products' complex that recovered various chemicals from the gases produced in forming the coke. It was shift work and students helped out wherever a pair of hands was needed. I worked there for two summers (1967 and 1968) and, on one shift or another, was involved in most of the areas. Sometimes I worked on the ovens where the coal was burnt to form the coke. Sometimes I worked over on the by-products, mainly doing quality control checks on some of the processes and bagging chemicals as they were formed. Sometimes I worked hosing red hot coke down with water. Sometimes I worked on routine maintenance - greasing conveyor belts and clearing up spillages. A bit of everything really. I enjoyed working on the ovens more than anything else as it was quite exciting and moderately dangerous, with so much hot coke around. Every now and again, I'd work a 'doubler' - two shifts back to back. In theory, this meant a 16 hour working day but, in practice, the foreman allowed you to slope off early on the second shift. The money was good and I can remember the thrill of getting £20 in my pay packet when I had done a doubler. And it was in a pay packet - a brown envelope that we picked up at the cashiers' office on a Friday lunchtime. It was a great place to work and, someday, I might elaborate on some of the things that happened on some of the shifts.

A couple of photographs taken with my old Zenith E SLR camera and processed by me. The shady figure is me on the top of the ovens when crushed coal was being poured into the open oven from the mobile hoppers. The brush was used to make certain that it all went in. The flames were an occupational hazard.

All the coal is now in the oven and the lids are being pushed back on. It was hot work and we had to wear wooden clogs as ordinary boots tended to melt in the heat! On more than one occasion the bottom of my trousers caught fire - another occupational hazard. Training? Minimal. Health and Safety? Almost non-existent.

Working at the Alcan, Rogerstone: Alcan Industries were based in a large works along the banks of the Ebbw River in Rogerstone and produced aluminium sheets etc from ingots. I worked there for the summer of 1969. Shift work again and students were employed to fill in wherever needed during staff holidays. I remember that, at the students' induction day, we were told not to be 'political' with the regular workers. I got involved in a wide variety of tasks - stretching aluminium sheets on a large machine, 'helping' fitters and turners with lathe work, carrying tools for mechanics as they repaired machines, working with a thermal lance to unblock the doors on the remelt furnaces etc. It was in the days when long hair for men was still a novelty and I have a vivid memory of running the gauntlet of ribald women on a packing line. Men do not have the monopoly on crude remarks or suggestive gestures! I blush as I recall what they shouted at me! It scarred me for life.

Working in the Family Loaf bakery: This was, in fact, the last temporary job I had as an undergraduate student, as after it I moved into the heady world of being a post-graduate. The bakery was on the Wern Estate in Rogerstone and involved working night shifts during September 1969. Forget the artisan baker, this was bread making on an industrial scale using the much-derided Chorleywood Process. I sweated between the proving and baking ovens, knocked cooked loaves out of their tins and operated a slicing machine. It was hot work but well paid. On some shifts, 'proper' bakers made us fruit loaves and other fancies to take home - all 'under the counter', of course, but ignored by the management. A perk of the job.

All these jobs helped me to develop skills that didn’t get taught in school, such as how to fake a smile (useful) or get on with someone difficult (a vital life skill). I learnt about the tedium of menial work and the ghastliness of some people, but also the value of physical labour and the camaraderie of work. I met some amazing people and learnt that wisdom and intelligence were not the preserve of the formally educated. Away from the critical gaze of my family, I got a taste of independence, responsibility and a sense of self-worth that I hadn’t known before. And along the way, I picked up a range of skills that have stood me in good stead over the years. I learnt that a bit of graft and getting your hands dirty won't kill you and how to just get on with it without complaining. Life lessons that I'll always remember with fondness and not just a little pride: I did all that and survived.

Our life in cars: Part 3

My third and final post on the cars in my life. The first post covered the cars we had when we were a single car family and the second covered those cars that were 'non-company', that is, we paid for them ourselves. And now we come to the series which includes, but is not restricted to, some cars provided by the companies I worked for.

A confession: of all the cars we have owned over the years, this one is my favourite: a Citroen 2CV. Powered by a massive 649cc air cooled engine, with a gear stick that stuck out of the dashboard, front brakes that you could see (and replace) when the bonnet was opened, sliding windows and door opening by courtesy of a pull string. And it's crowning glory, the fabric roll-top roof. If you want thrills, try driving along the outside lane of the M25 at 70mph in windy conditions. A white knuckle experience. In those pre-Health and Safety days, it was possible to drive with the roof 'down' and the children standing on the back seat with their heads exposed to the elements. Happy days. It was my final pre-company car and it was downhill from there on.

From the ridiculous to the sublime: from a 2CV to a Rover 2000. A car with electric windows, sunroof and a host of other 'useful' features. And a ride like sitting in an armchair on wheels.

In fact, we liked this model so much that we went for something identical when we were allowed to change the car - in those days we could change vehicles every 20,000 miles. And this was before company cars were classed as 'taxable benefits'.

Our next change took to us to our first four wheel drive - a Ford Maverick. The thing I remember about this one is that it was surprisingly unstable at cornering, with the back end being rather wayward even at modest speeds.

We now progressed to a big beast, an Isuzu Trooper. Seven seats, which were useful on many trips with our children and their friends. It introduced us to one of our lifelong vices - a liking of heated front seats! It was a manual change with a ferociously powerful clutch. So much so that a back operation made driving it very difficult and lead to a premature change of model.

Our next one was a Mercedes C200 and our one and only automatic, due to my back operation. A wonderfully comfortable car with, guess what, heated leather front seats. Our vice was indulged big time. We did over 120,000 miles in this and I took it with me when I left full time employment - not as a freebie, I would add. We parted with it when the gearbox started rattling and there were traces of water in the engine oil.

The demise of the Merc lead us to the Volvo V40 Estate. Lots of room and lots of gadgets. An altogether pleasant driving experience which we enjoyed so much....

.....that we exchanged for another one. Sadly this one ended up in a front end shunt (not our fault) and was written off as beyond economical repair by our insurance company. A shame really as it had a good few miles still in it.

From the Volvo, we moved onto a Passat 2TDi Estate. Bought with 25,000 miles on the clock, we sold it at 120,000. Not trouble free motoring, but it was certainly comfortable and roomy.

And this brings us to our latest, a Qashquai TDi. With as many gizmos, beeps and driving aids (it's even got radar in the front) as the 2CV didn't. But will I look back on it with the same fondness as I do for the 2CV? Time will tell.

Our life in cars: Part 2

Continuing our drive through the highways and byways of our car ownership, we reach the point where we moved from being a one-car family to being a two-car family. Domestic circumstances were such that Mrs P and I needed our own transport. Our last 'solo' car was the white VW Polo and now I'll deal with the strand of cars that were our 'own'. The other strand had many company cars and I'll deal with them in another post. Going through the cars we've had, I'm struck with how sensible they all are: some might even say boring. We just don't go for anything flash, preferring function over form every time.

Another car we bought from new (I think), a Peugeot 205. Nothing remarkable about it, really, although the rather garish green upholstery has left an indelible mark on my subconscious. Perhaps I didn't drive it enough for me to form any sort of bond with it? Actually, thinking about it, didn't it have a very noisy diesel engine that rattled like a set of joke false teeth?

Our next car was a little bigger and was like driving around in an armchair, a Rover 214. A soft, wallowing ride that was so comfortable. This one ended up with our son and came to a rather ignominious end, which we'll not dwell on.

And now we went to the Far East when the Rover roved away: a Hyundai Accenture. Built like a tin can and with very little in the way of sound proofing, it was not one of life's pleasures to drive. Having said that, it was reliable and economical to own. I understand that Hyundai have long since upped their game and their standards are much better than they were on this model. Let's face it, they had to improve for the survival of the company.

One good thing about the Hyundai is that I remembered that we got a better than expected price for it when we part-exchanged it for another Rover; this time a Rover 25 hatchback. We had this for a quite a long time and it served us well. Two trips to Tuscany were met with aplomb and it ended up being a bit of a workhorse, with its usual share of mechanical ups and downs. Long before this one, the novelty of DIY maintenance had lost its attraction and deep and meaningful relationships were fostered with local garages.

And that brings us up to the present with our Nissan Micra. Small. manoeuvrable and eminently suitable for the narrow lanes around us in this part of Cornwall. I suppose, sometime soon, we really need to seriously address the issue of whether we still need two cars. At the moment, Mrs P and I go off in different directions simultaneously often enough to justify our own transport but for how much longer?

Our life in cars: Part 1.

We've just changed our 'main' car and its replacement has got more electronic bells and whistles than it took to get Neil Armstrong to the moon and back. Sensors all around, innumerable 'driving aids' and, would you believe, it comes with its own radar system at the front. I'm not a petrol-head but I can't help comparing this 'red beast' with my first car, bought around 1966, and the others that followed it. A good exercise for the grey matter and an excuse for a trip down memory lane. Here's the list, as accurate as I can make it.

My very first car - a black Standard 8. It took me, and many others, back and forth Aberystwyth many times. Sometimes we even made the trip without something dropping off or going wrong. It introduced me to the wonderful world of basic mechanics. It came with windscreen wipers, indicators and that was it in the way of equipment. No heater and no boot. To keep costs down the body shell was pressed as a whole and access to the boot was via the back seat. It ended up going to Pesci's in Caerphilly as scrap. I still owe Miss Laws the £20 it cost me.

'Our' first car: an Austin 1100 at a good price from Aunty Gladys in North London. We ran out of petrol the first time we drove it on a motorway. Not much more equipment than the Standard 8, although it did have a heater and a screen wash, albeit from a plastic bag dangled precariously in the engine compartment. I learnt to change a clutch, a starter ring and front-wheel drive constant velocity joints on this one. And I had to sell my first 35mm camera (a Zenith E) to raise funds to pay for repairs after running into a tree in Plymouth. Happy days.

Next came a Saluki Bronze Ford Escort Mark 1. This served us well during our two years living in Scotland and ferried us (and Harry Cat) up and down the M6 many times without too many problems. It even got us across France into Northern Italy once. Compared to our previous cars, this had a touch of luxury in that it had a radio and a (stick on) heated rear screen. I remember  problems with rust (6 inches of water sloshing around inside many times) and the fun of replacing a gear box and clutch.

Our first foreign car - a Lada Riva made in Russia and the butt of many jokes (What's the difference between a Lada and a golf ball? You can drive a golf ball 200 metres). It was basically a Fiat 127 made on the Volga with improved brakes and suspension to cope with the Russian roads. It looked and drove like a tank but took us on a camping holiday in France, with the exhaust system dropping off when we were there. Driving on and off a cross-channel ferry without an exhaust is not an experience I care to repeat. Neither would I care to repeat a disastrous episode when I managed to crack a brake cylinder block when changing a set of front drum pads. It's funny what you remember, isn't it? Bought cheap and sold for a pittance.

Then along came a Talbot Solara. Not a car known for its build quality but it did us for a while. The paint work was rubbish and the gloss gradually took on a matt appearance. And let's not forget the numerous rust spots. I became pretty good at using fibre glass filler and spray paint.

Despite its shortcomings, I remember that we got a good deal when we part-exchanged it against a Powder Blue Ford Escort Mark 2. The model we had was at the bottom of the range but it was reliable, albeit a rubbish starter on cold mornings. due to its over-square engine.  So much so that I went through a phase of taking the spark plugs out at night to guarantee that I could get to work the following morning. It was the first car that we had as a family and took us on a couple of gite holidays in France. More happy days.



An Alpine White VW Polo, the first car we bought from new.  Our finances dictated that we went for the entry model - 2 doors and with minimal frills. Reliable motoring with a very hard ride. It took us across France and Switzerland to a holiday in Northern Italy and on a few camping adventures around France. This was the last model we had as a one-car family. Circumstances dictated that we had to have a car each but more of that in Part 2.

Definitely not child labour

We recently had an interesting conversation with our twelve year old grand-daughter about part-time work.  And I couldn't help thinking of how times have changed. Remembering the number of jobs I'd had by the time I had reached her age makes my childhood seem positively Dickensian. It was anything but that, just of its time.

 

When I was growing in South Wales in the 1950's and 60's, there wasn't much (any?) spare cash around for pocket money so having a Saturday or part-time job was a rite of passage for a lot of my friends and myself.  We'd do almost anything for a 'few coppers for sweets'. Nowadays it seems that pressure to succeed at school, amongst other things, means that fewer children are doing what I did. Recent evidence shows that the number of schoolchildren with a part-time job has been in steady decline over recent years. Whilst, to older generations and parents, it may be reassuring to think of children spending their Saturday afternoons poring over homework rather than working, part of me is sad at what they’re missing.

 

I’m sad at an education system that piles on the pressure and conspires to keep children indoors and at their desks. I’m sad, too, that they won’t have a chance to develop the skills that don’t get taught in schools, such as how to fake a smile (useful), operate a till (invaluable) or get on with someone difficult (a vital life skill). With the jobs I had, I learnt about the tedium of menial work and the ghastliness of some customers, but also the value of physical labour and the camaraderie of casual work. Away from the critical gaze of my family, I got a taste of independence, responsibility and a sense of self-worth that I hadn’t known before. And along the way, I picked up a plethora of skills that have stood me in good stead over the years. We hear a lot about the work-life balance, maybe where teens are concerned, there’s something to be said for the work-work balance. Exams are important, of course they are, but so is a bit of graft and getting your hands dirty. Only after they’ve known the torture of an eight-hour dishwashing shift will they truly know about life.

 

The very first Saturday job I can remember was delivering a few Football Argus's in the late afternoon around the streets of Bedwas. I was 8 or 9 at the time and did get a few 'coppers for sweets'. I'm not sure how long this lasted but, at this distance, I'd guess at the length of the football season. And that was the first of many and my adventures as a 'hand for hire' will feature in another post.

A trip down Memory Road

One old image: so many memories. Here's a photograph that came my way recently of Newport Road, Trethomas, dated 1960. That's my home village and the photograph shows the main row of shops always referred to as 'down the road'. It really was 'down the road' as we lived a couple of hundred yards 'up the road'. Thinking about the shops and what they sold is going back into another era and a time completely alien even to our children. If you have the inclination, come with me on a shopping expedition 'down the road' to the shops in Trethomas. I'm sure all those of a certain age would be able to so something similar.

 

1. Davies the Meirig (more formally E.C.Davies Ltd): where we bought a lot of our groceries. What do I remember? Cheese cut from a large round with a wire, butter from a large yellow cube and patted into shape, bacon sliced to the thickness of your choice directly from the side on a hand operated slicer, ham carved off the bone and biscuits picked from large tins - with a separate one for the broken remnants. There were lots of dry goods and things in tins but nothing frozen. And not a plastic bag or shrink wrap in sight. Eco-friendly shopping at its best. 
 

2. Bulgen's: for vegetables and fish. Can't remember that much about them other than the fact that they sold, mmm, vegetables and fish.
 

3. Luis' Cafe: it seemed as if every Welsh Valley village had its own Italian cafe. Many had Bernis, some Servinis: we had Luis Rabiotti. Luis came over from Northern Italy before WWII, had married a local girl and spoke with an interesting Welsh/Italian accent. His cafe was the place to get frothy coffee, hot blackcurrant squash and steamed meat pies. Steamed meat pies? In the absence of an electric heating oven, a meat pie (Thomas of Merthyr Tydfil - accept no alternatives) was put into a paper bag which was then pierced with a nozzle of the coffee machine and given a blast of steam. The result was a watery hot pie with very soggy pastry but a great taste. Before I'd really figured out what was happening, for years I thought the process actually involved injecting the pies with hot gravy - which tells you something about their meat content and how dumb I was.
 

4. Morgan's the Butcher: the only 'out-of-town' branch of Lewis the Butcher from Bedwas (not to be confused with Morgan the Butcher of the same place). Run by Mervyn Morgan (who was a different Morgan the Butcher than the Morgan the Butcher from Bedwas), it mostly supplied meat raised on the farm of the eponymous owner and that of his brother, Lewis the Milk. Food miles? About two! Sausages, faggots, black pudding etc were all made either on the premises or up the road in Bedwas. Mervyn and Luis were great friends and had worked next to each other for many years. As I got older and got to know them better through a weekend job I had with Lewis the Milk (yes, I was known as Deri the Milk for four or five years but I don't put that on my CV. I was also known as Deadly Deri to some of my early friends, but that's another, not particularly edifying, story.), they recounted their adventures during WWII when Luis was briefly interned as an alien and then released to join the local Home Guard. Thank goodness, Hitler never invaded Trethomas as I don't think Luis, Mervyn and their colleagues would have been a match for the Third Reich. Or perhaps I'm doing them a disservice? "Here, take this Thomas of Merthyr gravy pie in the face, Fritz". "And see how you like the feel of a well-aimed faggot, Helmut". "Gott in himmel: ze trackz of mein panzer ist clogged mitt ze string of Welsh sausages". "Donner und blitzen, attacked mit low flying schwartz puddings"....and on and on and on........
 

5. Wolfson's drapery and haberdashery: Mr Wolfson's stock was never ever going to rival Carnaby Street for its up-to-date fashions but it did supply a whole range of 'sensible' items for the working man and his family. I remember buying some Welsh flannel shirts there (collarless, made of thick itchy wool but very hippyish), a supply of collar stiffeners for my school shirts and, on the morning of my wedding, a white shirt to go with my suit (it's a long story but my original choice got the thumbs down from everyone who saw it).
 

6: Worthington's the ironmonger: Glynn Worthington supplied all sorts of nails, screws, wood, paint, spades, shovels etc. Nothing pre-packaged and you could buy exactly the number you required for any particular job - our Trewortha's in nearby Callington reminds me a lot of Worthington's. You could also get paraffin for those heaters that everyone seemed to have around that time: Worthington's sold Esso Blue. Does anyone else remember the Blee Dooler ad?

7. The telephone box: ah, the telephone box. Worthy of a Blue Plaque. This featured prominently in the early days of my courtship of Miss L, later Mrs P. We didn't have a 'phone at home, like the majority of the people in the village, and this was my hotline to the younger daughter of the posh family living in the distant land of Risca. I spent a lot - and I do mean a lot - of time down there and often had to run the gauntlet of good humoured but risqué comments from Luis and Mervyn. I became very adept at dialling Risca 227 for free (and illegally. So arrest me!) using a trick passed down to me by older boys and which could only be done on the old-fashioned analogue contact equipment.

L.P Hartley wrote, in The Go Between, that "the past is a foreign country, they do things differently there". It certainly seems that way but I'm ever so glad that I had the right passport. As I've said before "you can take the boy out of the valleys but you can't take the valleys out of the boy". Happy days.

Hi Yo Silver Away

A long time ago, when I was young and carefree (go on, admit it, you have difficulty imagining this but it's true), I'll confess to having many childhood 'heroes'. The earliest of these who I can remember is the Lone Ranger, closely followed by Davey Crockett, but the tail (only a select few will get this) of my raccoon skin hat is for another day.

Tonto (Jay Silverheels) looks like he'd prefer to be a million miles away from The Lone Ranger (Clayton Moore).

For those unfortunate not to remember the origins of the star of this very early TV series, The Lone Ranger was the only survivor of an ambush by some desperadoes of a detachment of Texas Rangers. Tonto stumbles across the injured Ranger and nurses him back to health, using herbs, native potions and a little Red Indian magic. When he's recovered, our eponymous 'hero' realises that, with everyone thinking he is dead, he can now go after any criminals he wants. To hide his identity, and probably because he likes dressing up, he makes a mask from the vest of his brother, who was killed in the same raid. And as he was the only one left, he came up with the brilliant idea of calling himself The Lone Ranger. Good choice: much better than The Solo Ranger or The Only One Left Standing Ranger or Billy-No-Mates Ranger.

I used to watch the programmes over and over again, even though most episodes followed exactly the same pattern and contained few surprises. More often than not, The Lone Ranger and Tonto stumble upon a wrongdoing being committed, ...

(They were the luckiest vigilantes imaginable. Most of the episodes begin with them watering their horses or doing some other mundane cowboy task like washing their smalls or shampooing their hair (what's the secret of your shiny locks, Tonto? Buffalo urine, Kemo Sabe, neat buffalo urine. Here, try some.) when they hear gunshots nearby. They take off to investigate, and...)

... there is often a runaway stagecoach that the duo must chase down and stop, ...

(After watching as many Lone Ranger episodes as I have, you couldn’t get me onto a stagecoach even if you promised me I'd be sitting next to Maddhur Jaffrey during the trip. I don’t recall a single episode wherein a stagecoach appeared that didn't end up with it either robbed or as a runaway [because the driver had been fatally shot] It appears to have been the most dangerous conveyance man has ever invented.)

... then, during the course of trying to track down the miscreants, somebody believes that The Lone Ranger himself is evil because of his mask, but he generally wins him or her over with a manly smile, a macho chuckle and the display of one of his silver bullets...(no sniggering, this is a childrens' programme I'm writing about)

(How come all of these dummies knew so much about the silver bullets, but never had the faintest notion about The Lone Ranger’s identity before seeing his ammunition? If they had heard about silver bullets, wouldn’t they have heard about a guy wearing a mask, riding a great white stallion, and traveling with an Indian companion? Wouldn't that have rung a bell? Nope. They had to be shown a silver bullet before they put two and two together. The west was full of dopes.)

... and then the long suffering and infinitely patient Tonto usually finds more trouble than he bargained for when The Lone Ranger asks him to ride into town to scout around...

(Didn’t Tonto ever get sick of hearing The Lone Ranger asking him to ride into town? After the first two or three times he got ambushed and captured, wouldn’t he have said, "Ugh, Kemo Sabe. You sure me riding into town such a good idea? Tonto like you and all that, but me tired getting head punched in. Why not YOU ride into town? Tonto stay here and do what you usually do while Tonto in town getting head punched in. By the way, just what is it you do while me gone? Silver no speak, but I bet him tell interesting tale.")

... and as a finale, there's always either a fistfight or a gunfight - or both - with The Lone Ranger and Tonto prevailing in the end. Smug with victory, they ride out of town while someone asks, "Who was that masked man?"; the reply comes, "You stupid dumbnuts! That was The Lone Ranger!". Then we get a "Hi-yo Silver, away!" as they gallop off into the sunset with the William Tell Overture playing in the background. Wonderful stuff. 

 

A couple of Lone Ranger jokes to finish with:

1. Tonto goes into an employment agency looking for a new job. "After thirty years faithful service, why did the Lone Ranger sack you?", he was asked. "Because he found out what Kemo Sabe really means", he replied.

2. An intellectual is someone who can listen to the William Tell Overture without thinking of the Lone Ranger.

Those boots were made for........spooking.

An earlier post where I mentioned an unexplained encounter at Caerphilly Castle brought to mind the only other similar happening I've had.  We'll call this one 'The Dark Arch Incident'.

Let's set the scene.  When I was growing up the local pit or coal mine (Bedwas Navigation Colliery to give it its full title) was an even bigger playground for us than Caerphilly Castle.  It loomed large over the village and provided employment for most of the men.  We roamed around it and in it as freely as we could get away with and there were few parts of the pit that we weren't familiar with.  The pit buildings were on the mountainside and were separated from the village (and the now contiguous neighbouring village of Trethomas) by the railway line (down to Newport and up to Merthyr Tydfil).  Easy access to the pit  for many of the miners was provided by a narrow tunnel - the Dark Arch - under the railway.  The Dark Arch was around 100 yards long and had a kink in its length so that you could not see all the way through.  It was dank, smelly and, at best, very poorly lit.  For young children it was a rather frightening place.  So much so that, more often than not, we would wait for some miners to go through and then tag along behind them rather than risking it by ourselves.

The infamous Dark Arch. The hut to the left was a relic of the strikes for union recognition in the 30s.  A classic workers vs bosses conflict which the workers won.  Power to the People!

However, when we were feeling brave we used to play a game of dare: who had the nerve to go through the Dark Arch by themselves?  How old were we when we did this?  In my mind, we were a few years younger than 11, certainly before I moved the great distance of a mile to live in Trethomas rather than Bedwas (that would be 1959).  Back to the game: this involved a few of us at each end at the start and the bravest setting off into the Stygian gloom alone.  We did this many times without anything of note happening but one particular time something did.  We were all set up with maybe 3 or 4 of us congregated at each of the two entrances.  All of a sudden, the group I was with heard the sound of hob-nailed boots clattering over the cobbles of the tunnel.  It sounded as if a miner was walking through. This went on for a while and we waited for someone to emerge before we started our game. But the clattering faded away and no-one came out.  We thought that the walker had stopped out of sight so we waited ... and waited and waited .. for them to come out. Nobody did and, after a while, we went in en masse to see what was happening. No-one was there and we met the other group of us coming down doing the same thing.  All of us had heard the sound and, as no-one had gone passed us, we were all convinced that someone had been walking in the tunnel towards the end that we were standing at.  I know what I heard and, again, I have no explanation for it.  Of course, at the time we attributed it to the Dark Arch being haunted, not that I was ever aware of any such myths being associated with it, then or since.  One consequence of this event was that we never played the game again and we made sure that we always went through the Dark Arch with at least one friend or tagged onto an adult.  Another consequence was that, even as an adult, I never felt easy going through the tunnel.  As a student, I spent a few summers working at the coking plant next to the pit and, although the route through the Dark Arch was the shortest, I invariably took the longer path that avoided it.  Daft, eh?  Even dafter is the observation that the hairs at the back of my neck were standing on end as I just recalled the sound of the ghostly hob-nailed boots advancing towards me - over the decades..........

The Green Lady stalks the ramparts..............



Caerphilly Castle

Throughout my early years Caerphilly Castle was a constant presence.  It dominated the eponymous town and doubled as an adventure playground for we local children.  This was before the days of paid entry and safety constraints so we enjoyed unfettered access to the towers, ramparts, curtain walls, dungeons etc.  It was built in the 13th century by Gilbert de Clare and is almost totally surrounded by a large moat, in which we used to fish (illegally, of course, as the cost of a licence was beyond our meagre pocket money).   The castle, which is the largest in Wales and second only to Windsor Castle in Europe, is home to a restless spirit - the Green Lady.  Read on if you dare.....................

Gilbert de Clare married the beautiful Princess Alice of Angouleme, who was, by contemporary accounts, a lady of refined tastes and with a passionate nature.  Alice, poor soul, became disenchanted with her husband, who seemed to spend most of his time away from home fighting. the rebellious Welsh (hooray!).  One day, Gruffudd the Fair, Prince of Brithdir, paid a visit to the castle and, surprise, surprise, soon Alice and he were lovers. Rather foolishly, Gruffudd confessed their secret to a monk who promptly informed the cuckolded husband. A less-than-happy Gilbert sent his wife back to France and ordered his men to find Gruffudd. Meanwhile, learning of the monk’s betrayal, Gruffudd caught him and hanged him from a tree at a site known ever since as “Monk’s Vale” (Ystrad Mynach in Welsh, about 3 miles outside of Caerphilly.  The hanging was probably the last time anything exciting happened in Ystrad - it really is a dump). No sooner had he done so than Gilbert’s men caught up with Gruffudd and he, too, was soon dangling at the end of a noose. 



Green Lady mural in Caerphilly

Gilbert just had to let his wife know of his revenge and he promptly sent a messenger to France to tell Alice of her lover’s execution. Such was the shock of the news that, in the best romantic tradition, she dropped dead on the spot of a broken heart.  Ever since then her ghost has haunted the ramparts of Caerphilly Castle. Resplendent in a richly woven dress, coloured green for Gilbert’s envy, she waits in silent solitude, desperate to be reunited with her princely lover, whose flattering attentions fate has long denied her. 

Of course, knowing that there might be a ghost lurking in the dark recesses of the castle added a frisson of excitement to our play.  It also added another dimension to the scout camps we had in the centre of the castle.  Cubs and scouts would camp together and it was a rite of passage that the tale of the Green Lady would be told, with much gory embellishment, around the campfire at night.  It was also a rite of passage that, at some stage in the proceedings, someone would gasp and point at the ramparts where a ghostly figure could be seen.  It's amazing what a green blanket and a torch, combined with the right atmosphere, can do.  Oh, how we older scouts laughed when the novice cubs screamed - but it was nothing that had not been done to us when we were at that stage.  I wonder if the tradition continues?

And did I ever see the Green Lady?  I think the honest answer to this is "I don't know".  One night, after all the cubs had calmed down and gone to sleep, four of us were sitting out and talking about nothing in particular.  I distinctly remember that, as one, we turned towards the rampart that extended into the moat and saw something.  It was translucent green and hovered above the stones for a few minutes before it gradually faded away to nothing.  I've no idea what it was (no lights of any kind on a dark starless night, no beer, no wacky baccy) and neither did my friends.  All I know is that I saw something that I can't explain.  Oooo, spooky!

In which I relate the time I had a runny nose

I love the way a Google search for one thing can lead you down a path to something totally different. Here's an example of such serendipity from today.

I'm reading a book on Fidel Castro and wanted some information on an aspect of the Cold War. I searched on 'cold war' and in the listings there was a citation for a book called 'Cold Wars', the author of which was David Tyrell. Ah, says I, I've heard of him. Wasn't he the director of the Common Cold Research Unit at Salisbury? Indeed he was and this reminded me that I had been a volunteer at the CCRU in 1967 (was it Easter 1967?). In retrospect  it was a rather strangely British experience.

The CCRU was established in the early 1950s to investigate aspects of the common cold in healthy human volunteers. It was based in a camp that once was a war time hospital (Harvard Hospital) on the outskirts of Salisbury - close to, but completely separate from, the Microbiological Research Establishment at Porton Down. You know, the place where the UK's microbiological and chemical weapon research was/is carried out. Incidentally, this proximity lead to a long held suspicion that volunteers at the CCRU were being used as guinea pigs for sinister purposes. As far as I know this was never the case.
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The trials at the CCRU were advertised in the press as two weeks in a holiday camp environment with good food and a time to relax. With, almost as an afterthought, the chance to help cure the world of the common cold. I fell for the hype and thought it was just the space I needed to revise for some impending chemistry exams. I applied, was accepted and soon had a rail travel pass to Salisbury, where a motley group met up and were taken to the unit in what looked like an WW2 army reject lorry. Briefly, here's what the stay at the unit involved:

*  Rather than the holiday camp promised in the advertisement, the unit was more like a concentration camp. Row upon row of barrack like buildings, giving extremely basic accommodation. Take a look at the postcard above - Stalag 17 spring to mind? I was half expecting Steve McQueen to come sailing over the fence on his motorbike.
*  After a very cursory medical examination, each of us were allocated to our 'chalets' in groups of twos or threes. I shared with somebody English - and that is all that I can remember of him. I expect I made just as lasting an impression on him as well.
*  Each trial lasted 12 days. The first 3 days were there to pick up anyone who had brought a cold along with them. If they had, they were excluded from the trial and given a ticket home. Then drops were administered (contents depended on the nature of the trial and the need for a dummy control). The guiding mantra was it takes 3 days to catch a cold, 3 days to have the cold and 3 days for the cold to go. So, once the drops were up your nose, the 9 day cycle started.
*  Over the 9 day period, each of us had to keep a daily diary of how we felt, what our tempertature was at regular intervals and how many disposable tissues we had used. Every now and again, a medic popped in to review progress. I don't recall getting a cold and I may very well have been given the placebo. Those involved in running each trial were never told the details of what they were investigating. I presume it was done this way to avoid any experimental/observer bias. A funny thing about these visits was the fact that the medics covered themselves in a protective barrier to prevent us catching something off them. In reality, this protective barrier was a massive flexible perspex bag. It was difficult to keep a straight face as they crinkled their way into the room.
*  Feeding time was fun. Food was delivered to each chalet by a man in a brown coat. He left thermos flasks, bottles etc in a box outside and then rang a bell to let us know it was there. We then had to wait 5 minutes to allow him to clear the area before bringing it in. I don't remember the food at all and can only surmise that it was adequate but unmemorable. I do remember that we had a daily allowance of 1 pint of bottled beer per person - such generosity.
*  Entertainment during the stay was somewhat limited. Within the chalet, apart from any reading material you brought in, there was a single ancient radio and a few dog-eared board games. And the world knows how much I love board games. Luckily my chalet companion was as much a fan as I was so my tolerance was not tested.
*  We were allowed to walk around the grounds and beyond - as long as we did not come within 200 yards or so of anyone else. To avoid contamination, we had face masks and the dreaded perspex bag to don if it looked as if the 200 yard barrier was going to be transgressed. With typical British phlegm no-one we met on our jaunts turned a hair at being confronted by a walking plastic bag.

At the end of our incarceration, we each had another cursory medical examination (along the lines of "I see you are still standing so you must be OK") and were then taken back to the station. Thinking about it, we were packed off with almost indecent haste - and there was no follow-up at all. Gone and very quickly forgotten it would appear. From a distance of over 40 years, it was a great experience but I'm not sure how effective the research proved to be. I've got a cold as I type this - sniff, sniff.

Post script: the CCRU closed in 1990 and the site is now a housing estate (what else?). The function has been transferred to Cardiff University and I'm willing to bet that any studies they conduct are not so much fun for the participants.

And I forgot to mention that we received no payment for our week on the Costa del Salisbury.

What was my mother thinking of?

 

In an earlier post I mentioned that I was having a lot of enjoyment looking at the Caerphilly Local History Facebook page. It's continued to come up with some amazingly evocative images but none better than the other day.  Then they showed a photograph taken at the old Caerphilly open air baths in the 1950s. I took one look at it and thought "that's me in the background" (as indicated by the red arrow). Of course it's not, at least I don't think it is, but it could very well be. I spent a lot of time there during the mid 50s to the early 60s.

They are closed now but were located in Morgan Jones Park and were just open during the Summer months. They were the only baths for miles around and acted as a mecca for children during the seemingly endless, and hot, Summer school holidays. The water was freezing, there was scarcely room to swim more than a couple of yards and the changing rooms, with their rudimentary cubicles and fragile wire baskets, were strictly utilitarian. No showers, no mirrors and certainly no hairdryers! Despite all this, a trip to the baths was always fun and, strange to relate, almost exotic.

We used to catch a bus (not just any bus - a blue and white Bedwas and Machen Urban District Council omnibus driven by Dai Davies) to Caerphilly and get off at the Tanyard (sometimes called Lavender Corner by bus conductors on account of the atrocious smell emanating from the skins that were processed there. To be accurate, it wasn't a tanyard, it was a fellmongers where flesh was removed from the skins and the hides prepared for leather making elsewhere. My great grandfather, Jacob Batt, worked there in the early part of the twentieth century as a 'flesher'). A ten minute walk took us to the park, around the children's paddling pool and then through the hallowed turnstyle into the baths. After a swim, and when our blood circulation had recovered from the cold, we'd head back home, sometimes buying a frozen Jubbly on the way and sometimes making a detour to play on the towers and walls of Caerphilly Castle (hoping not to see the ghost of the Green Lady!).

Back to the photograph that prompted this nostalgic thread, take a close look at the swimming costume the young lad is wearing. It is made of wool and is knitted! Was any material less suited to its function? Get it wet and the crotch dropped to an alarming level. Diving off the side of the baths in them always had an element of danger and embarassment! Will they come off? They frequently did. I know of what I write: I had a pair. The phrase 'as useless as a chocolate teapot' comes to mind to describe them.