The blackberries were big and ripe and very juicy, some had fallen from the branches and were lying squashed and glittering in the sunshine.
Rev Towers cycles past Rosey Bank in the 1930s
In the stone quarry it was warm and quiet and peacefully
lazy, not a whisper of breeze stirred the grass or disturbed the branches of
the bushes dotted here and there among the fallen rocks. It was a wondrous place, peaceful and
languid in the summer sun, with a myriad of wild flowers to delight the eyes.
Elderberries hanging in flat bunches on the bushes and squabbling birds darting
here and there to peck at the ripe fruit. If you sat quietly and waited, you
would see rabbits peep hesitantly from their burrows in the mounds of stone and
mossy hillocks.
At one time the quarry had been a thriving industry with a small railway to take the hewed stone to the canal basin and from there to be loaded on to barges and taken to Manchester and other places beyond, but now it was a wonderland for children of the surrounding village to play in. The marks of the hammer and pick long since gone, with the remaining rock and stone rising from the lush green undergrowth to form Highland castles or Indian wigwams or whatever you could conjure up in your imagination, the combinations wee endless. The sunshine never dulled by cloud, the flowers never spoiled by careless feet, the rabbits never startled by raucous voices, the children who played in the quarry were gentle and quiet and preoccupied with picking the fruit or collecting coloured pebbles from the small stream that ran through the quarry or choosing yet another selection of flowers or leaves for their presses. Watching for frogs was another favourite pastime of the children, sometimes taking frogspawn home in a jar to see the little black legs begin to grow and finally to have some baby frogs which would then be taken back to the stream to live their lives in peace.
The blackberries which grew in great profusion would be
picked and taken home where they would be made into delicious pies to be eaten
straight away with creamy yellow custard or they would be preserved in big jars
to be eaten in the winter months when fruit was short or boiled into wonderful
thick dark jam which was stored in jars with little white labels stuck on the
side which said “Blackberry September 1942". The jars were sealed and
covered with frilly paper lids held on with elastic bands. It was
a lovely sight to see the bottled fruits and jam stacked neatly on the
shelves, glowing like monster jewels in the cool half light of the larder.
The harvesting was always my favourite time of year, the fruits and nuts were gathered and of course the haymaking, I will never forget the absolute peace and tranquillity of lying in bed after a long hard day in the fields, with the window thrown open to allow the cooler air to waft in, bringing with it the sweet, warm earthy smell of the freshly cut and dried grass and the lovely mellow glow of the huge golden harvest moon which hung low in the sky and bather the fields in soft light which allowed the grown-ups to carry on working the hay until quite late, their happy voices calling to one another until the jugs of cocoa were taken to them and they would sit under the stacks with mugs of the milky chocolate brew until it was time for bed.
During the day, when the bright sun was beaming down, the big jugs would be filled with home made lemonade, sweet and cool with slices of lemon floating on top, just right to sooth dry, dusty throats. Neighbour would work alongside neighbour, chatting an teasing in an easy friendly relationship until all had been gathered in and stored away. By far the most thrilling and enjoyable part of the ritual of the gathering in of the hay was to ride to the bar on the huge dray which was pulled by the largest of the farm horses. These beautiful creatures were a truly treasured asset to any farmer, they were usually very placid and hardworking, tramping backwards and forwards from field to barn often quite a long walk, on their large, spreading feet which were often covered from ankle to shoe in course feathery hair.
The children of the village who helped in the fields would be hoisted on to the top of the huge pile of hay on the dray. The journey to the barn would then begin and you would have to cling to each other with all your might in order not to fall down from the jogging, swaying mass of hay. On arrival at the barn we would climb through the door high up in the wall and as men threw in the hay from their pitchforks we would trample it down in order that there would be room for the next load to be piled on top. It was very dirty, dusty work but we loved every moment in the dark high barns. Often in the winter we would sit in the hay in the barns to giggle and chat, it was one place where you could be sure of keeping warm.
It would gradually become cooler, fresh mornings growing into autumn days and then cooling again in the evenings. Days filled with gentle hovering sunshine while the leaves on the trees turned from green into pale gold, deep bronze, amber and russet, turning the landscape into a backcloth of beautiful, gently rustling, glowing colours. It did a young heart good to walk to school on mornings such as these, the sight of which is etched in my memory for ever.
The lovely autumn days would fade, leaves would fall from the trees and form mounds on the ground, which we would run through, kicking, swishing and trunching. By now there would have been much gathering of conkers, beechnuts and acorns and the precious pine cones which would predict the weather for us, closing if it was going to rain and opening wide, spilling their flat little seeds, if it was going to be dry.
The battle of the conkers would begin. The rushing search for a length of string on which to thread your biggest and best conker and then the contest among friends and school mates to find the bravest and hardest conker that would beat all comers and remain supremely intact, victorious, while others lay shattered in lumps, everywhere and anywhere a contest had taken place. What marvellously innocent and invigorating days they were, so much fun and laughter while summer shut up shop and before we realised what was happening the deep frost and icy cold of winter rushed in to send us hurrying pell mell into woollen vests and long warm stockings. The boys still wore their knee length trousers through the winter but they wore much thicker socks to protect their legs from the cold. Out came the gabardine macs and wellingtons, long woollen scarves which were stitched into a hood in the middle to keep the icy blast from our ears and gloves which were attached to the sleeves of our macs in case lost one of the precious commodities, money was very scarce and you could not afford to replace lost gloves.
The snow and ice was relentless. The blizzards would rage all night and all day too sometimes, piling the snow into huge drifts which made it almost impossible for us to move from our firesides. Many of us having to be dug out before we could even attend the privy that was usually at the bottom of the garden. But always we set to with shovel and spade to dig our way through so that we could attend school and go to work, walking along narrow lanes cut out of the snow which was chest high on either side of us, or sometimes walking along the wall tops in order to avoid the deep drifts.
Snowball fights would ensue and pitched battles would rage for days until the snow had hardened and then we would set to with a will to make a toboggan run. At first it would be quite slow and sluggish but would gain speed as the days passed and the snow packed down and hardened and became topped with ice. As you walked slowly to the beginning of the run you hugged the excitement of the ride to your heart, never wanting the moment to leave you, You would wait in line with your friends until it was your turn yet again to throw yourself full length on your toboggan and, guiding it with your feet, would hurtle down the icy track at great speed, the wind whipping tears from your eyes and the spray from the snow and ice drenching your clothes until you would have to go home to take off the stiff, wet, frozen clothes and dry and warm your numb, shivering body before the fire. As soon as you were warm right through and providing you had another set of clothes - many of us had just the one - you rushed out again to join the waiting children for yet one more thrill on the icy ribbon of snow. How easily we were entertained, what enthusiasm and excitement there was and it stayed with us for weeks until the snow finally melted and the toboggans would run no more.
It was wartime and we were always hungry, a natural state for healthy young people, but there was always a pot full of lovely, thick brown stew and a milk pudding with a spoonful of jam in it. We did not starve but food was not plentiful even in the heart of the country. Our lives were very simple, our food was very simple too and mostly home grown. There was nothing to worry our young minds, even the fact of war was too distant to contemplate, even when we were asked to take in evacuees from the towns which were being bombed nightly it still did not detract from the peace and tranquillity of our little sleepy village. We could see what effect the war was having on other people from the shocked and haggard faces of the visitors from the towns who came to stay with us and we did our best to welcome them and to soothe their worry and fears. Many of them were ill with nervous diseases and the was had affected the children and made them disagreeable and irritable and always on the defensive. The war dragged on for a long time and our visitors did well and became our friends.
On the day that war ended in Europe there was much excitement. Bonfires were built on the highest parts surrounding the village. Trestle tables were brought out on to the street and everyone contributed some food for the celebration. A piano was brought out onto the doorstep of one of our neighbours and, as it grew dark, lanterns were lit and the bonfires set ablaze. We all sang and danced to the tunes from the piano feeling so very happy that at least part of the horrific war was over although the Japanese were still fighting and many of our loved ones would never come back to us. When the bonfires died down and the food had been eaten we sat around in the lamplight, laughing and talking and for once in our young lives there were no orders for us to go to bed, we all felt so grown up sitting and joining in the conversation and the laughter until the early hours of the morning, when we all helped to tidy away the remnants of food and put away the tables and chairs and reluctantly went indoors to sleep.
The years passed slowly, as they do in youth, and eventually we all had to put our minds to the prospect of going forth into the big wide world to earn our living. Some of us went to the grammar school, which seemed very grand and remote to the ones who were not so fortunate. Some of us took courses in business studies, shorthand and typing and the like, and took up office work. One of our smaller friends, who loved horses, eventually became a jockey. Many of the young boys took up farming or carpentry or in some cases, both. The happy carefree schooldays were over. Now instead of conker fights we had to begin the struggle of finding our way into the small surrounding towns to attend our place of work.
We all had to travel many miles, on foot, bus or train, or all three in some cases. The idyll of living in the heart of the countryside had now become a problem. We were all subdued and dispirited with our working days in the towns which were the only places in which a lot of us could find employment. We were so happy to jump off the train at our pretty, tiny station at the end of the day and tramp the long miles home to our warm and peaceful firesides. Looking back on our lives then, we must have walked for miles to attend work or local dances or slide shown in the village schoolroom. The school had huge sliding doors to divide the classrooms. During the nights of entertainment they were all opened up and chairs and desks pushed to one side to make room for whatever we wanted to do. There were dances and jumble sales. Christmas sales of work, which everyone worked madly for in order for it all to be properly organised. There were school plays and religious lectures, whist drives and beetle drives, it was the centre of our lives and we felt so safe and free and happy. Even after we started our working lives and we had pocket money which allowed us to visit the cinema in the nearby towns, we still loved our evenings in the school.
Many of us would go to the nearest cinema once a week. It did not matter what the film was, we went anyway, and on the walk back home would act out some of the scenes from the film, tough guy James Cagney or wonderfully glamorous Betty Grable. We would sing and talk and laugh and the long walk would be over far too quickly, we would be reluctant to part and go to our separate homes, for the magic of the moment would be lost and tomorrow was work again.
As time went by we became more accustomed to the long hours
away from the village, it was a time of change and adjustment. Some of us found
it easy and some of us did not but we were all moulded for good or bad by our
lives in the village.
The blackberries are long since gone. The lovely quarry
where we played and the blackberries grew in such profusion has been filled in
with rubbish and rubble brought into the village in great lorries and tipped on
top of all the rabbits and foxes and wild cats, mice and frogs and myriads of
other tiny creatures who lived there.
On top of all the wondrous flowers and berries, mosses and ferns and
lovely rocks and pebbles.
Gradually, bit by disastrous bit, the castles and wigwams and stately mansions, the hanging weeping trees and the shimmering running stream with its clear champagne water and all the other magical qualities of that wonderful place have been destroyed. Where the quarry once was is now a mound of grass connected to another mound of grass by a motorway. The lovely village and its adjoining sisters rent in two, to provide a path for monster lorries and cars driven at speed. Even if any beauty was left they have no time to see it. If a hedgehog or a rabbit or any of the tiny creatures who lived there have survived they would be crushed beneath rushing wheels.
As for us, the children of the village, now scattered abroad by work and families and time, we remember it as it was, a place of beauty and happiness and wonderful blackberries.
Sheila Mary Rogers
Southport
