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Ribble Rouser
Regular Member


125 Posts
Posted -  29/12/2007  :  04:54
Hello there…

Or is it…How do? (thanks Callunna, panbiker and Doreen)

Stinking hot sleepless night on leave down here in Terra Lostralis, Christmas dismissed and bracing for the madness of New Year, exploring my roots by surfing the web…when low and behold, I arrived plonk…right in the middle of this charming network. Blame it on the Ribble, where my father taught me to fish, where I was attacked by hornets, where I used to catch minnows and sticklebacks to use as live bait, where once I caught a giant pike that nearly pulled me in, where I can remember a Roman Road disappearing into a field at a point where the canal crossed the river…and a graceful railway viaduct spanned the valley between rolling hills…the distant scream and urgent clatter of a steam express punctuating the Spring burble and rush of the current, curlews calling from the long grass… But my story, where should I start? Well, way back in the mists of childhood…

I was born in Nelson back in ol’ 55, but removed to York Street Barlick, at least as my mother told it, as soon as possible. Dad worked at Rolls Royce and his pursuance of an aerospace career resulted in my heedless transportation to this post-colonial land at the edge of the world. Aged 9. I have never been back. I’m a skip, now, and I’ve got a pouch to prove it. But my first recollections are of Barlick, gazing into the eyes of a raven sitting on my pram and my mother closing the hood, trapping my right ear in the mechanism. I still have a nick in the cartilage. Then falling head first into a rockery…which might go part way to explain this rather disjointed narrative, in the here and now. Later, I recall watching workmen across the road, listening to their language and presently being severely reprimanded for repeating one fruity expression at the dinner table, when my request for tomato sauce to enhance a tasteless sausage was dictatorially declined. Ah well…this kind of experimentation is how we come to know good from bad. I must confess that I have retained a penchant for exploring the scruffier reaches of the vernacular all my life. It probably started right there in York Street, Barlick. Can’t stand tomato sauce, now.

At some stage we moved to a smart house in a new estate on the outskirts of Barlick, somewhere. This marked the beginnings of new adventures, school and fond memories of a playmate and confidant, Jane. There was no doubting the reality of our shared delight as we used to meet for imagined exquisite repasts, just water or cordial served up in her pink plastic tea set. I also recall the compelling excitement when my mother first took me to watch a grubby black 0-6-0 tank engine, puffing and clanking as it toiled back and forth in a goods siding, getting as close as we dared, the screech of its whistle making us start, all steam, smoke, moving parts and mysterious purpose…I sensed serious men’s business and went back time and again to the smell of steam, oil and damp coal, with or without mum.

I must have been an independent cuss from a very early age, for I remember going out for walks or tricycle rides on my own, much to my mother’s chagrin. But it must have been another world, then. I distinctly remember venturing towards a canal on many occasions, strictly against parental instructions, of course. ‘Don’t go near the canal’ I was told in no uncertain terms. So I did. I was always following the towpaths. I loved the locks. I remember one day coming to a cutting, with steep rocky sides blocking the sky, where the black water of the canal disappeared ominously into the gaping maw of a tunnel. I was shocked and intimidated, and as I sit here and muse, a hackle or two stir in recognition. But I was drawn ever onward to explore the place, fascinated…the Rain Hall rock cut, perhaps? I have an affinity with water, you see...and subterranean passages. Sometime later on a caravan holiday, I tumbled head first off some stones into a river near Stainforth, I think. I closed my mouth, kept my eyes open and the wondrous images of dappled green light, smooth pebbles, algae and a fish or two will be with me always. Dad pulled me out with a smile on my face, apparently, and taught me to swim shortly thereafter. It is little wonder that when I grew up, I spent some time dabbling in maritime archaeology and qualified as a commercial diver. Black water? Let me in it. Never happier than when I’m in the water…free dive these days in sink holes.

What I’m not so happy about is chimneys. I was scared of chimneys when I was young…towering above me…impossibly high and skinny…threatening to topple on top of me…no apparent reason for them to remain standing. The stuff of sweaty nightmares…and I had them. I also associate them with soot, grime and suffering. Very unpleasant things. This fear was probably cultivated by my mother’s stories about her sisters, working in the shadows of these monstrous structures, in the cruel Dickensian mills far below, where they were tormented and maimed by the looms for a pittance. I still recall the horror on inspecting my aunts’ digital stumps. Ooh! I shiver as I write. Poor things. No wonder I am socialist through and through…a red-ragger to the end, comrades. I still have in my possession certain heirlooms, examples of the product of these sacrifices, several bolts of the finest striped linen, waiting to be transformed into shirts, a living reminder of the industrial art of another age…but I can’t do it.
 
I was told one day that the Rolls Royce factory where dad worked was a secret affair, located in the Dales so the Germans couldn’t find it. I thought this was a huge family secret and never mentioned it to another soul, in case the Germans found out. The reward for my diligence came soon after. In the hushed tones of conspiracy, my mother told a tale of hearing lone aircraft when she was a child during the war, probing the black nights looking for Barlick. Then I was taken to a bleak and windy spot in the moors, to what my father described as the crash site of a German bomber. A Heinkel! This was shortly after we made our first aeroplane kit together… a Frog Republic Thunderbolt, and I felt informed and ready to confront the reality of this gothic nightmare. But I recall being bitterly disappointed and retain an image of a paltry scatter of formless bits of metal among tufts of grass in black soil, in a lonely windy place, and the beginnings of a sceptical mistrust of grown-ups and their tall tales.

Speaking of which, I have gone on far too much and the hour of the birds approaches. It is time to wrap up this little lot and retire to the land of nod. But before I depart, I must tell you that I was unceremoniously removed from those formative climes, to spend my last couple of years in dingy grotty Nelson…well, excuse me if you will…until making the long voyage to Wurundjeri Country (northern shores of Port Phillip) at the tender age of 9. But I carry the images and experiences of my nascent adventures, amongst the black water, hissing steam and teetering stacks, lonely moors and lively rivers, ruined abbeys and dreary mills...of Barlick and district. One day I might return for a ramble and an ale…

If anyone has comments, reflections or clarifications on the locations mentioned in my story, please give us a hoy. 

Cheerio
Ribble Rouser      
aka Johnh



it's bums that count 'ere; not 'ats
Author Replies  
Stanley
Local Historian & Old Fart


36804 Posts
Posted - 29/12/2007 : 06:41
Good stuff John, keep going. 


Stanley Challenger Graham




Barlick View
stanley at barnoldswick.freeserve.co.uk Go to Top of Page
Anni
Regular Member


634 Posts
Posted - 29/12/2007 : 08:57
Seconded - more please.


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Ribble Rouser
Regular Member


125 Posts
Posted - 29/12/2007 : 12:27
Thanks for that. Happy to please...but it might take a while. That was from the heart and covers my most vivid memories. Perhaps after some reserach I will remember more.

Cheerio

RR 


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moh
Silver Surfer


6860 Posts
Posted - 29/12/2007 : 14:28
Interesting - surprising what we remember of our childhood - you will find many changes if and when you visit - not all for the better!


Say only a little but say it well Go to Top of Page
Stanley
Local Historian & Old Fart


36804 Posts
Posted - 29/12/2007 : 16:53
John, be prepared for a flood of memories and also be aware that there is a well known tool in psychology called biography therapy.  The more you trigger your brain the more you will remember, it's all in there and one of the by-products is that you'll get flashes of realisation why things happened as they did and understand the effects they had on you.  It all happened to me when I wrote my memoirs for the kids and was very therapeutic.  Solved a lot of shelved questions......


Stanley Challenger Graham




Barlick View
stanley at barnoldswick.freeserve.co.uk Go to Top of Page
Ribble Rouser
Regular Member


125 Posts
Posted - 29/12/2007 : 17:22
Thanks moh. This is a good journey for me...but I'm too engaged to go to bed. Seem to operate on Northern Hemisphere time a lot. Yes, the changes just keep rolling on, don't they? Seem to have accelerated in many of the places I frequent…even the bush. Dare I say...too many people...too much development...change for the sake of change... sometimes it is positive.

Hey Stanley. You’re all over this site like the sunshine…you must have universal interests. Yes…I have had some experience with narrative therapy…similar effect, I suspect. Just what I need…unclog some of the database jams in the old cerebral department.

RR



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Stanley
Local Historian & Old Fart


36804 Posts
Posted - 30/12/2007 : 06:35
Be prepared for surprises......


Stanley Challenger Graham




Barlick View
stanley at barnoldswick.freeserve.co.uk Go to Top of Page
Ribble Rouser
Regular Member


125 Posts
Posted - 30/12/2007 : 10:55
Thanks Stanley. I feel like I'm in good hands.


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Julie in Norfolk
Senior Member


1632 Posts
Posted - 30/12/2007 : 19:30
Excellant information there, well done.


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