Note: Something of a change today! This true story was written by R.E.Jones (my Uncle Bob) and was published in The Farmers Weekly in the 1930’s. Since Bob was born in 1895 the trip he describes likely took place circa 1905-1910. I have many happy memories of warm summer evenings spent sitting on their Porch Steps and listening to his stories and his beloved fiddle.
When I was a boy, my father, brothers and myself were all in the village Church Choir and I recollect how eagerly we looked forward to the ‘outings’. For most of the boys it meant their first ride in a train, they never having been further from home than the local market a few miles away. The outing I am going to describe took place in 1909, a day trip to Weston-Super-Mare.
Mother packed me off to bed early the night before, but we were too exited to sleep. I suppose we must have slept though, for we were awakened at 3 am; and how quickly we washed and dressed! We were in such a hurry for fear the brake would go without us. Our Rector always did things in style and had two large two-horse brakes to take us to the station and to bring us back on our return. He also reserved a saloon coach on the train in which we had breakfast.
The Rector as usual, accompanied us, and being of a genial disposition was in fact the ‘life and soul’ of the party. Although a teacher’s’ son, he was never so happy as when amongst a parcel of kids as my father used to say.
He Had Tha “a-whum” – translation- He had that at home!
The 130-mile train ride seemed akin to the speed of a bullet to a country child with something different to feast our eyes on every minute. The expressions of the boys looking out of the windows and their exited comments
“Here’s a bridge acummin! ”or
“Here’s a tunnel a-cummin!” accompanied by a hurried withdrawal of heads – amused the rector very much.
On arrival at Weston, we marched to the Grand Atlantic Hotel, our headquarters for the day, where we left overcoats: then proceeded to explore the beach and town independently.
We boys were all furnished with scarlet caps so as to be easily distinguishable to the grown-ups of the party in case any got lost – another of the Rector’s ideas.
At 12 o’clock we got back to the hotel and sat down to a five-course lunch in the guest dining-room; which Mr Rudd, our neighbouring farmer, said would make a capital barn if he had got it at home.
We country children provided much entertainment for the waiters, what with our dialect and the hearty way we tackled our food; in worst cases knives being used more firmly than forks. The climax came when the waiters brought round the cheese and neat little chunks of bread.
Young Sam Murray, who came from a small cottage on Lightwood Heath, eyed the cheese disdainfully and said “Nae thank-thee, I inna gonna ta ave bread and cheese artur I ‘ad a good dinner. I kin ave tha a whum!” Everybody roared including the waiters, who up till then appeared to have been indulging in a laugh ‘behind the scenes’ only.
After lunch most of us made for the pleasure beach; and we were treated to many free rides on the switchback, water-chute, scenic railway etc. by the rector, who I think enjoyed himself as much as any of us.
Crab not so Popular!
I recollect how, after tea my brother Frank, Gurney and myself got lost in the maze and got out by climbing over the six-feet-high palings, arriving at the hotel just as the rest of the party were ready to leave for the station.
We boarded the train at about 8pm, having had about 10 hours by the sea, every boy carrying some memento of it, either seaweed, shells, or pebbles. One boy, Cliff Robertson, had a small live crab, which he carried cautiously in his knotted handkerchief.
While the Rector was asleep with his feet up on the table which ran down the centre of the saloon coach, Robertson placed the crab in the Rector’s bare leg above his sock. The crab proceeded to crawl upwards. This awoke the Rector and when he stood up and tried to shake the thing off, it held fast. We other lads were highly amused, but not so the parson. He was quite offended and told Robertson off “good and plenty.”
Not Such a Poor Boy!
I remember we bigger lads had bought some cigarettes and smoked away on the sly hanging out of the window after dark while the men of the party were asleep. Tom Manory smoked too many and was violently sick; the Rector remarking: “Poor boy, its train sickness, he never having been on a train before”. But we others knew differently, Tom being in possession of a tin of fifty Cigarettes.
Well, we arrived back at our little country station after midnight and found our Brake waiting to take us to our homes, we having had a real good day’s outing, which Mr.Rudd, our neighbour, described as his Red Letter Day.
I regret to say that most of the adult members of the choir that day have passed on, but the Rector, who must be near eighty, still officiates at the little country church in Shropshire where I was born.
Note: Virtually all these boys and young men went on to serve in the First World War and many did not survive. Those that did suffered from post-traumatic stress for many years. This highlight of their pre-war life must have seemed like a dream as they fought and smoked their way across France. Chain smoking was already a national habit, believed to be good for the nerves! Free cigarette rations were part of a soldier’s daily allowance.