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.During
the spring and summer, after school we would rush home for our tea.
Afterwards we would spend the rest of the evening either out on
Synwell playing field or down near the brook that ran through Gaston's
Farm and was known to us as Gaston's Brook.
The Brook was only a short distance from Cotswold Gardens, if we
tired of the playing field we would pass the word around saying
that we were going down to the brook to play. With renewed interest
we returned home to pick up our fishing nets, and a jam jar that
had a string tied around the neck and looped across the top to form
a handle. The fishing nets were merely bamboo canes, with a length
of strong wire that was threaded through a white mesh bag and formed
into a circle. The wire was then twisted to form a spike that was
inserted into the fleshy centre of the bamboo cane. As we reassembled
with our fishing tackle we set off clambering over the stile and
racing across the field that sloped steeply down to the brook side.
Sticklebacks and redthroats, inhabited the brook that meandered
lazily through the three fields belonging to Farmer Gaston on its
way to Potters Pond. The water took on a mottled effect, as the
late afternoon sun shone through the leaves of the willow trees
that lined the banks, their long slender stems of lime green foliage
almost touching the water. The water flowed swiftly in the middle,
deeper parts of the stream, while near the banks small ripples could
be seen, as the fish came to the surface in search of food. Butterflies,
moths, damselflies and the occasional dragonfly flitted majestically
among the reeds and tall grasses growing at the water's edge.
Some of the small fish that we caught in our nets were then put
into the jam jars and taken home. Unfortunately, by the next morning
we would find most of the fish had died and were floating on their
sides. No matter how many fish we took from the brook over the years,
their numbers never seemed to diminish.
In the springtime we would use the same nets to collect frogspawn.
We all watched anxiously over the following weeks, as the tiny black
dots became larger, developed into comma shapes, and then, after
they had eaten all the jelly food that had originally surrounded
them, became muddy brown long-tailed tadpoles. We knew that it would
be soon time to return them to the brook to continue their development
into frogs.
Many times I have returned home with wet shoes and socks, and sometimes
soaked to the skin having fallen in off the very wet and slippery
bank.
Once we tied a rope to one of the willow trees to enable us to swing
out over the stream. The brave among us were successful and swung
several times across the water, some landing on the opposite bank
and waiting for the rope to be pushed back to them for the return
swing. On several occasions the weight of two on the rope was too
much for the branch to bear resulting in it snapping off. We then
had to find another branch to fix the rope to. The folly of these
exercises resulted in an early bath and an early night in bed for
many of us. We soon abandoned that idea.
One fine evening, in late spring, we were playing as usual near
the brook when my best friend - Paul Brain - saw his older sister
Molly walking down the field towards us, calling out for Paul.
"Paul! Paul! Come on, it's time you were home".
"Oh, no I'm not ready yet", came Paul's reply.
"Come on now, if you don't, you know what our mam'll do to you",
insisted his sister.
"I don't and I'm not coming home yet"! Retorted Paul steadfastly.
"You'll come now if you know what's good for you", shouted Molly,
finally.
With that Paul took flight, and started to run away from his sister
towards the stream. Now, Paul being a bulky lad for his age ran
at the brook in an attempt to jump to the other side. What he hoped
to achieve by this was not clear, unless he intended to run off
up the lane - that ran along side the farm outbuildings - and on
to Coombe road. Needless to say Paul failed in his attempt. I shall
never forget this sight as long as I live. In his failed attempt
to clear the brook Paul was now sat, up to his armpits in mud and
murky water. The only clean part on his body was his ginger hair.
Laugh? We nearly cried. After his sister had managed to pull him
out, Paul stood on the bank soaked to the skin. There was water
coming out of his shirt, pockets, and oozing out of his one remaining
sock and sandal as he shuffled from one foot to the other.
"Come on you, let's get home", his sister ordered, angrily.
"I can't come home yet" Paul pleaded
"And why not?" begged Molly.
"I've lost my sock and sandal in the water" Paul replied nervously.
In the meantime one of the others had spotted Paul's sandal in the
water and had retrieved it for him along with his sock. This was
done with the aid of a large twig, which was inserted into the water
enabling Paul's sock and sandal to be retrieved.
"God knows what your mother will say when we get home, my lad".
With that Molly and Paul started off across the field towards home.
I can still see it now, as Paul and his sister walked up the slope
of the field, water was still running down his legs from his short
trousers. Hand in hand they went, with Paul jumping now and then
to avoid the many short thistles and cow pats that littered the
field. I don't think Paul ever told us what happened when he got
home.
As spring progressed into summer we could be found playing amongst
the hay. This was on land owned by another local farmer, Mr Richings,
who gave us his permission, as long as we kept well away from any
farm machinery. During the warm weather we wore only shorts and
sandals. We built fortresses for ourselves with the bales, to keep
out imaginary enemies. While we played our bodies became hot and
sticky and this meant that the loose hay that came off the bales
would stick to our skin and tickle us as it worked its way into
our shorts and socks. If we removed our shoes and socks the stubble
in the hay field would feel hard and prickly on the soles of our
bare feet. The hay smelt sweet. Little did we think then that this
was the only source of food for the cattle during the long winter
months. Sometimes older lads would come and chase us away from our
fantasy world, so we would beat a hasty retreat in a cloud dust
thrown up by the very dry conditions.
The long school holidays of summer would find us out on the hills
and in the woodlands that surround Wotton-under-Edge. We would set
off from home after breakfast, and not return sometimes until early
evening. Sometimes darkness would be falling before we reached home,
and some of our parents would be out looking for us.
Meals would never bother us. If we felt hungry we settled for a
diet of fruit and berries. We knew the location of orchards that
we could raid, giving us a plentiful supply of apples and pears
and later in the year walnuts. A few of us would enter the orchard,
with orders from the others as to what pears or apples they preferred.
Those of us that went into the orchard came out with our pockets
bulging with fruit and our shirts tucked in our tightly belted shorts
so that we could carry more fruit inside them. The others acted
as lookouts in case the owner of the orchard, or the local bobby
made their presence known, if we were spotted we scattered in all
directions so as to make it impossible for them to catch us. Although
we never got caught, somehow or other when we returned home our
parents always seemed to know what we had been up too. We were never
punished for our escapades, just told to be more careful in future.
Late August and into early September we could be found out on the
hillsides again, this time to pick blackberries, that we could hopefully
sell by the basket, to Mr Rufus Morley, the owner of our local hardware
store, who used them to make home-made wine and jam.
These are a but a few of the lovely memories I have of growing up
in the picturesque town of Wotton-under-Edge and of all the friends
that I left behind when we left for Dursley in February 1951. This
is an ongoing project of mine, so watch this space.
To be continued …………
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