This is Ivy Cottage where Albert lived.
As a tied cottage it belonged to the Yews Farm, and at one time it was occupied by the cowman, then latterly by Albert Hine who was the wagoner. In the 1950's it was stripped of its ivy and both cottages were cement rendered and painted white.
I Remember Albert Hine
Dated in the 1940’s and 1950’s
Albert was a Waggoner, for Charlie Finimore,
A strong and healthy man he was, and stood at five foot four,
In his younger days it’s told, he would walk out of the hills
With a ewe under each arm, in winters cold and chills.
He lived at Ivy Cottage, where he grew his own tobacco,
For to keep his pipe alight, it was not a laughing matter.
As the summer days got longer, so pick leaves did he,
And hung then in the living room, the ceiling could not see,
When dry and almost crisp they got, into a draw he pressed
To keep them through the winter, by large old chimney breast.
He rang church bells on Sundays, with a team they were so loyal,
They practice in the mid week night, as if expecting royal,
He had a box, of twelve inches, though he was in his prime,
The little man he rang the tenner, keeping stead time.
The team with him at that time, they are well remembered,
It written in the belfry sill, names and bells all numbered.
All day he worked with horses, a carting muck with two,
He had the one up in traces, as the load was from the Yews,
Up to the Noons Birch field, where he hooked it out in rucks,
Ten paces up, ten paces wide, so even was the muck.
Describe the man were looking at, a jerkin he did ware,
Tied round the middle with binder twine, to hold more than just a tare,
Corduroy trousers tucked in spats, round his hob nail boots,
Cap raked left and pipe raked right, pouch and matches in a box.
His old waist coat worn and taty, kept his big watch n matches dry,
The shirt it had few buttons , and the collar he kept it by,
For high days and holidays, when everything was clean,
And home guard duty, when the sergeant, he was very mean.
His platoon was made up of men, who worked around the farms,
They mustered in the village hall, to train as fighting men at arms,
The pork and bacon beef and taters, butter eggs and creme,
All of these were traded, mongst the brave old fighting men.
Albert kept his pipe and bacca, it was woodbines for the rest,
As the smoke it was so dense, no room for enemy they jest
This ploy worked well , no men got lost, and warmer they could keep,
Till sergeant came and caught them, so loaded up his jeep.
Two cows he kept and young stock, and a few old tatty hens,
The fields where he kept them, had sheds and tidy pens,
He mowed along the grass verge, all the way to Stafford,
To make his hay to keep them, and drew water from the ford.
All his life he worked dammed hard, but slower he did get,
Albert met his maker, he was one you can’t forget,
Popular and cheerful, he lived to seven, tee
Buried in Seighford church yard , remembered by me and thee.
Half our life is spent trying to find something to do with the time we have rushed through our life trying to save.
Will Rogers (1879– 1935)