INTRODUCTION
William G (Bill) Gibbs
Introduction
Here are some of the recollections of a boyhood spent in the Cotswold villages of sixty years ago, a life and times gone forever. No longer do the winding dusty roads echo to the sound of shod hooves and iron-tyred cart wheels, the call to the milking herds each morning and afternoon or the hustle and bustle of the fairs around the market towns, where stock and produce were bought and sold and farm workers hired.
It doesn't seem possible that such a short time ago such hardship, squalor, exploitation and poverty existed among the folk who lived in those remote village communities during the years between the two World Wars.
Whilst it was said that after World War I things were never the same again, life in the rural areas of England in the 1920s and 30s had not changed to any great degree from that of the old Feudal world which had prevailed since Anglo Saxon times. It was still an arduous, primitive life to be endured on the farms, in the villages and in domestic service.
The horse was king; almost everything to do with haulage or movement of machinery depended on horse power. Motor vehicles were still almost non-existent along the country roads; it was still something of an event to see one. A number of folk went about on bicycles but in the main we walked everywhere, unless we could hitch a lift.
In spring and summer of course it was a joy to walk, but in the winter it was a different matter, then it was the ordeal of mud and water and freezing cold.
We walked to and from school, to and from work, and as for the farm worker--he walked most of his working day, following the plough, harrow or roller. He followed the plough with mud clogged-boots, every muscle of his legs crying out in agony, and after his day's work was finished he often had the long walk home. The gait of the older hands bore witness to a lifetime of such punishment, often started at too young an age.
By the time we youngsters drowsily awoke of a morning the farm workers had already been at work some three hours or so. On mixed and dairy farms, as most of them were, all the hands joined in the milking--morning and afternoon, seven days a week--it was all hand milking, no milking machines then. At around five o'clock in the morning the cowman called in the herd, often some distance from the farm; he opened the gate to the field were they were grazing and began calling, they were always ready and began their slow, ambling column towards the farm; they knew the way, even to their own particular stall in the milking shed.
Milking over, the herd returned to grazing and the farmhands went off to their breakfast carrying their cans of milk.
We awoke to the clopping of hooves, jingle and creak of harness and the clamour of cart or machine along the road outside as the men went about their daily tasks. The sounds of the countryside came to us as we went about. Chaffinches piped their way along the green, high hedges of their territory, rooks cawed, and wood pigeon cooed quietly, background accompaniment to the trilling song of a soaring skylark. There was a heady fragrance along a country road in spring and summer, may-blossom and dog-rose in the hedgerow, clustered primrose and violets in the banks. We experienced the never-to-be-forgotten smell of new mown hay, the waist deep bouncy ride atop a wagon load of hay, the shout of the horse leader to you before moving off, the shouts too from all and sundry as the rabbits streaked out of the remaining stand of uncut grass.
We were pretty well self-sufficient, we lived off the land. All the cottages had gardens wherein they grew not only flowers of all kinds--these usually being to the credit of the woman of the home--but there was also the vegetable patch where vegetables and fruit of all kinds were grown. There were also the chickens; we reared our own chickens ensuring a steady supply of eggs and meat.
Most farmhands owned a shotgun and a couple of ferrets; they knew how to provide a rabbit, part of our staple diet and usually made into a stew.
We had to rely on the travelling tradesmen for some necessities, since our only shop in the village had a limited stock. The ironmonger supplied candles and oil for the lamps. The coalman helped us supplement our log supply; and sometimes a fishmonger came by--they generally called about once a week. The baker's van came each day, and the farmer with his milk float called on those who didn't work on the farm.
We got a bit of bacon, some chitterlings or pig's feet when a local farmer killed a pig. When it came to clothes and shoes and the like we had to make the trip into the nearest town, or get them through Mum's mail order club.
When we went for walks we took a sack with us in which to gather kindling wood from the hedge bottoms. In the summer, during our school holidays, we youngsters roamed far and wide with our trucks gathering larger branches to build up our wood pile for winter logs.
We even repaired our own boots and shoes; father would haul out the foot iron and repair box and set to, replacing the worn soles, finishing off with hob nails and blakeys to provide extra durability. We created most of our pastimes and entertainment--there was no television in those days--some households had primitive radio sets, and the cinema was often miles away in the nearest town.
We tramped the meadows, spinneys, copses and woodland, enjoying every pace of the way. To the sound of the wind in the treetops we gathered wild strawberries, which grew in the nearby woods, searched the hedgerows for birds' nests, discovering all sorts of creatures living there, just looking and listening.
There was the usual annual round of traditional activities and sports, like conkers, marbles, spinning tops, tobogganing, football and cricket, and Church functions, village fetes, dances, whist drives and school plays in the village hall.
Then there were what we considered the big events, like flower shows, steeplechasing, fox hunting and the travelling fairs. Something for everyone, all entered into with the greatest of enthusiasm.
Winter nights were spent around the fire or the lamp-lit table, making rugs, playing games, reading, listening to the gramophone or to Mum playing us a tune on her accordion. We were never at a loss for things to do to occupy our time; we kids were never bored. I look back almost unbelievingly on those times, but the fact was we knew of no different way of life; we made the most of our lot, there was no way out.
The people were cheerful, resourceful, durable and dependable; they enjoyed to the full any reward that was forthcoming from their endeavours, pushing on hopefully through each day, making as good a living and as good a life as they knew how.
Above all we had the close acquaintance with the field, hedgerow, and the wildlife; we lived with nature.
For my part it was a wonderful childhood, by today's standards it was primitive, humble and hard, but it was nevertheless one I would not have changed. It gave me something I shall always cherish, an understanding of the countryside and of the folk who live there.
W. Gibbs 1991
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