The Blacksmiths Shop around the 1950`s 7

The Blacksmith

Mr Giles travelled from Stafford to Seighford for two and sometimes three days a week; he also had a forge in East gate Street Stafford. With the number of horses rapidly declining it did not justify a full time blacksmith in the village. His main job was shoeing, welding repairing and fabricating gates and fences. Outside the blacksmiths shop was a heavy cast iron round disc, about 5ft across; to clamp wooden wheels down to while it was being hooped. To the extreme right ,at the chimney end was a tall narrow furnace ,the inside dimensions being only 18inches wide, but 6ft high and six foot long to heat up the wheel hoops to hammer them onto the wooden wheels.

This furnace had a crude steel door to make the draught draw under the gap at the bottom, and through the fire grate and up through the depth of coke, to provide the heat. The fumes joined the chimney that is still there to this day. This furnace had quite thick walls and an arch at the top, then a depth or sand on top to help keep the heat in a tiled roof to keep the weather out.

The original doors still cover the windows, but then they were just opening, never had been glazed. To the left of the double doors was a large pile of sweepings out of the shoeing bay, comprising of hoof trimmings and filings, dried on mud carried in the horse's hooves, and whatever the horses cared to leave behind. Through the double doors was the shoeing bay where the horses were tied up. Then through a door immediately on the right, the first thing you saw in the middle was the anvil, this stood on a large piece of elm log to bring the top of the anvil to about two and a half foot high, handy hammering height.
To the left was a pile of worn out horse shoes, some with nails still in. On the right fastened to a bench was a metal bending tool to form the hoops for cart wheels, this could be adjusted to how tight the bend needed to be. The strip of flat iron would be heated then the end fed over the first roller under the second and over the third. A big cranking handle turned the rollers the middle roller was screwed down to put pressure to curve the metal.
The next along the bench was a large blacksmiths vice; this had a heavy bracket along the front edge of the bench, and a leg down into the floor. A long shiny bar with a knob at each end to tighten it with, and well worn jaws that had gripped and been hammered for what seemed to be generations.
Also on this bench in front of the second window was a pillar drill , this had a large flywheel that turned horizontally above your head and a crank handle to the side driving it, underneath was a huge chuck and a small vice to hold the metal while being drilled.

At the far end of the shop is the forge, this was made of bricks. At the front was an arch about eighteen inches high, by three feet wide with all sorts of scrap metal (useful off cut is the term I'm looking for) stuffed under for safe keeping. But the arch has a more practical reason for being there; it's for the blacksmith to put the toes of his boots under so he can stand closer to the forge without bending forward.

The top edge of the forge the bricks had a rounded edge then nine inches in it was filled up with fine coke. The hearth was open on two sides, and bricked round on the other two with metal lining to protect it from the heat .Over the top was a metal hood with inches of dust on it leading into a brick chimney. At the back of the forge were the bellows, at one time, before I can remember he used the old bellows worked by foot pedal, made out of leather? These stayed there for quite a number of years, but got hidden by the "useful off cuts" but now the blowing was done by electric fan.
All round the front and sides of the forge, except where he stood, were brackets holding all the tongs and tools of the trade. On the wall forming the left hand side of the hearth was his office; this took the form of a couple of nails with notes thrust onto them. One held the draughtsman's drawings of some fabrication job he had to do (drawn freehand on a torn off piece of cardboard full of thumb prints) one of many that had been put on before it. The other nail held an assortment of his wardrobe leather aprons jerkins and leggings that were in varying stages of dilapidation, the oldest at the back, right up to his older cap used when shoeing horses on the top. He had to reach just under this pile to operate the switch for the new electric fan.

First job when he arrived in a morning would be to light the forge, a few sticks that had been kept in a dry and warm place over night would be placed in a hollow in the centre of the hearth on a couple of sheets of crumpled newspaper. This was lit and the fan put on low, as the flames got enthusiastic some coke was gradually pulled over the burning sticks, and within a couple of minutes the fire was hot enough to boil the kettle. The fan was turned off and the fire would remain dormant most of the day, it being ready at a moments notice when switched on again. Along side the forge was a rusty dousing tank three quarters full of equally rusty water, where metal that needed cooling quickly was dunked in with a tremendous fizzling in clouds of steam, on the end of his tongs.

At the back of his work shop was a rack that held new metal of all dimensions, some for horse shoes some for cart wheel hoops, some for making gate hinges and all the ironwork needed when the wheelwright was making a new cart or wagon plus everything in between. This had to be reached by climbing over, jobs waiting to be done, things taken in as patterns and all the useful off cuts that might come in handy (should I say scrap metal). The only clear floor area was from the door to the forge and round the forge, then round the anvil.

Every so often they would fire up the furnace at the end of the blacksmith's shop for hooping wheels that Mr Clark the wheelwright had made or repaired. The hoops would be lifted out red hot and burned onto the wooden wheel that was clamped firmly on a huge cast iron disc that was permanently on the frontage of his shop. When hammered down into place firmly, water would be poured on to cool the iron hoop and shrink it tight onto the wooden wheel, these would then be rolled across the road and leaned against the wooden fence opposite, as many as twenty five of all sizes and weights ready to be repainted and refitted to there respective vehicles. On certain days of the week he would concentrate on shoeing horses mainly shires some cobs or float horses and a few hunters.

When our two remaining shires wanted shoeing we would be put up on top of them and set off to school, Mr Giles would lift us down to continue to school, then on the way home for dinner we would be pushed back on top to take them home again. Some times he would let us switch his forge fan on to heat a horse shoe, the shoe on the end of his tongs he would bury it in the centre of the burning coke for about a minuet, and it would come out more than red hot but going white hot with little sparks jumping off it.
This would hold the heat while he burned it onto the trimmed hoof of the shire, this made the shoe touch the hoof all the way round and bed it in amid clouds of smoke. The shoe was then cooled before nailing it onto the horses hoof, the new set of shoes would last 6 to 8 weeks depending on the roadwork do. Old "Flower" one of our shires, had a habit of twisting her one back foot every time she put her foot down and would ware this one shoe out in a month, so an extra visit was necessary for that one foot every now and then.

I can still hear the ringing of the anvil as the blacksmith pumled the soft hot metal into the desired shape, after every blow to the metal he was working with there would be at least two smaller bounces of the hammer on the anvil creating a very sharp ringing, then two or three blows to the hot metal quite a dull sound. As the metal cooled to a dull red it would harden again and have to be reheated then the finer touches would be made turning it over and around until it reached the shape he wanted. It was a very hot job, sleeves rolled up and a heavy leather apron on, his cap turned slightly more than when he was cool and tipped back a little. Everything he used was shiny made so with the palm of his hardened hands that held the skill of many years of experience

The blacksmiths shop closed around 1975 as did the wheelwrights, horses had reached there lowest numbers, with no shires at all in this district, but riding horses and ponies are on the steady increase and mobile farriery are taking over. The demand for wooden carts and wagons gradually came to an end as tractors with hydraulic tipping became more popular.




















This was the blacksmiths shop in Seighford in 1945 when we were going to Seighford School. The tall narrow door on the right, was a furnace in which the iron hoops were heated red hot then hammered over the wooden wheel, which was clamped tight on the cast iron circle, permanently situated outside his shop.

I Remember Blacksmiths Shop

This was the blacksmiths shop as I remembered it in 1945 when we started at Seighford School

I remember blacksmiths shop, all dingy dark and dusty,

Great big pile of horse shoes outside, all a going rusty,

Tom Giles was smithies name, all jolly strong and hot,

With shoeing father's horses, he did the blooming lot.

When setting off to school one morn, the horses we would take,

To blacksmiths shop for shoeing, would make us very late,

On going home for dinner, these horses we would ride,

Pitched up high on Flower, the others led with pride.

Welding cutting bending shaping, everything was there,

To make it new, or fettle up, to make a good repair,

His stock of metal had a rack, but most of it had missed,

It lay about in piles around his forge, which was in its midst.

All day you'd hear the hammer, a ringing out aloud,

Hitting out the red hot metal, made him very proud,

The different shapes and sizes, needed for a gate,

Lay around the workshop floor, no need for him a mate.

Alone he worked all day until; we kids came out of school,

Then he would be invaded, his metal then would cool,

On his forge he put his kettle, there to make some tea,

We kids tried out his drilling tool, great flywheel turned by me.

With tongs we tried to heat the metal, in the furnace hot,

To make and shape we would try, to bend on anvil, but,

Not hot enough to work it, so pumping the bellows up,

It made the spark fly every where, our school cloths covered us.

The water in the blacksmiths shop, was warm to wash our hand,

With dowsing all the things he'd made, red hot metal into bands,

With cloths soiled and singed, and not a hole in site,

Mother knew where we had been, said it's late it's nearly night.

Owd Fred

Quotation by W B yeats
Education is not the filling of a pail, but the lighting of the fire.

A Bit Long in the Tooth 6

A Bit Long in the Tooth

I know this is up to date but it will give you an insight into the bloke who's writing this blog. I am trying to see myself as others may see me, in other words a reflection.

He's had seventy years in farming, getting a bit long in the tooth, although he's still got all his own teeth, moving a bit slower, standing a bit shorter, gone grey on top and can see his scalp through thin hair, got no work in him, looked after by his misses too well for his own good, and now got a new arm chair.

I Will Describe This Man I See

I will describe this man I see,

as best as I can judge,

When he sits down to have a rest,

job to make him budge,

This he does each afternoon,

till cup of tea at three,

Then slowly moves and back to work,

peel him off settee. ( New chair now)

He used to have to duck his head,

to go through six foot door,

Getting round shouldered,

natural bend, don't duck any more,

Gone all grey, and going thin on top,

you see his scalp when wet,

Forehead getting higher,

no longer does he sweat.

When he gets a grump ,

his lips turn down, jutting out his chin,

Eyebrows drop and looks through them,

to run you must begin,

Its just a passing cloud I think,

the sun comes out and smiles,

Can just see his teeth,

and the gap, nothing them defiles.

Lazy comes to mind sometimes,

but then he's getting old,

Hasn't got his dad now,

to crack the whip and scold,

His own boss, do what he likes,

no one to whip him up,

All the ploughing matches been to,

he's only won one cup.

Another clue to who it is,

he had an operation on his knee,

Then he had another just the same,

on the other you see,

Metal joints he had fitted,

these clues give you the key,

Must be why I'm shorter now,

for in the mirror, it's only me.

Owd Fred

 I was lucky enough to have a new arm chair for me birthdee. I was allowed to choose it and try it so there would be no moaning. Not that I ever moan, but I make exception about what they had to pay for it (moan), but then if I can have it for the next thirty years I suppose it will be okay.
Oh now when I wake up in me chair, I find that the grandchildren have stuck the fridge magnets on my metal knee's. and they frighten themselves to death when they're trying out the new metal detector.
It takes the best part of a minute (moan) to get out of it when its in the extreme prone position, and when they bring a hot cup of tea, nobody wants to wait while I recover and sit up enough to be able to hold it, and when someone knocks the door (moan), they're just off out of the gate in the car by the time I get to them.
So the chair has some drawbacks, but by god it is comfortable.

This Comfortable Chair of Mine

Now I've turned seventy years of age,

the family bought a chair,

I had it for me birthdee,

I was consulted and aware,

Had to have a go try it out,

to make sure it did the job,

High enough back n' foot rest,

n' not too soft a squab.

Its huge when it stands there,

and a cable from the plug,

A controller in ya right hand,

and I fit in it nice and snug,

A button to lift ya feet up,

and a button to lower the back,

And one to lift you up again,

was soon getting into the knack.

Now I fear a power cut,

when me feet are up in the air,

Back is down and ya feel a clown,

and conner git art o' the chair,

Like blady big tortoise on its back,

belly up swinging ya feet,

Shouting fa help come and get me,

help me git art o' this seat.

This hasn't happened but I fear,

could when I'm home alone,

Going to sleep that is easy,

but then I shouldn't moan,

If someone knocks at the door,

takes a while to lift me right up,

They knock again and again,

I feel like a fly blown old tup.

I must tell you the cover is leather,

cow hide has gone into that,

The cost of it was tremendous,

the cow she must have been fat,

What we paid we got short changed,

insides of the cow had gone,

Price of the chair, price of a cow,

beef and steaks we had none.

Now I've got well used to it,

my inhabitations flew out of the door,

Sit in it after my lunch and tea,

go to sleep and have a good snore,

My appreciation what they bought,

it suits me down to the ground,

Thank my family again and again,

this comfortable chair they found.

Owd Fred

It is better to keep your mouth closed and let people think you are a fool than open it and remove all doubt.
Quotation by Mark twain (1835-1910)

The Weather forcast by Owd Fred's Mother 5

The Weather forecast by Owd Fred's Mother

I know I'm a bit owd fashion, and the weathers getting everyone down at the moment, but my mother always "did" the weather for us, and all the family, she could give a "forecast" based on what stage the phase of the moon was at, and watching the house barometer closely. Even into her eighties we could contact her and the first thing was, the weather, and was advised when to start hay making or combining and so on, and the prospects for the following week. From what I learned from her, the weather will set a trend in the first few days of the new moon and that trend will often follow through till the next moon. Take this spell of wet weather right now, the last time we had more than a few dry days strung together was last month when the combines could go and many were making hay not round bale silage to save on the plastic, so not a bad month.

From the first of this month August, when it was the new moon the weather "broke" and we have rarely had two days dry stung together since. This trend in the weather will continue until the next new moon which is at the end of this month. This is why everyone is saying when is it going to end.

My prediction is that if the weather turns for the better in the first few days of next month, September, the chances are that it will stay in that trend for the whole of the next phase of the moon.

Can you remember occasionally we get what they call an "Indian Summer" in September October time, well these weather periods last usually for the month or the phase of the moon. And if two of these weather patterns string along one after the other, we are usually in deep trouble, this is when we get hose pipe bans and the fields start going brown , or we get sodden ground with the seeds rotting in the fields and floods.

So it all boils down to take what the weather throws at you and work with the weather, you can't change it. Trying to work against the weather is disastrous.



Now seeing as this seems to be MOTHER's blog,

I recall the work she used to put into her pantry to keep four of us lads growing and my dad and uncle Jack as well. We had no Tesco's about then to feed the family most things came from the land we grew up on. a thing that everyone would like to go back to, but don't realise the work that this involved

I Remember Mothers Pantry

Mothers pantry six great long shelves, beams held bacon pair of hams,

At far end was safe for beef joint, above was shelf for all the jams,

Kilner jars both empty and full, filled top shelved four jars deep,

Bread in bin held six loaves, lid on cheese and butter to keep.

She picked and peeled the fruit she needed, all the summer long,

The pears she quartered packed in tall jars, always with a song,

Sugar syrup was poured over, till jar it over flowed,

The tops new seals were tightened lightly, only till they're boiled.

Plumbs and damsons as they came ready, they were done the same,

Birco boiler with false bottom, all the jars to steam,

Six inches water turned on full, fifteen jars it held,

One hour simmering lifted out, lids firm on as if to weld.

When they cooled the lids were tested, lose ones she re-boiled.

On the shelves she did put them, with all the jars she'd toiled

Onions beetroot eggs and gherkins, also cabbage red,

All the shelves were filled to bustin, right up to the bin for bread.

Sunday morning father lifted, down his twelve bore gun,

Down far field he was looking, for a rabbit run,

Just disturb them in the long grass, let them have a barrel,

Pick it up and gut it, dove tail back legs, it won't quarrel

Hang it two days to let meat set, mother skins it like a vest

Head and feet off for the pan, quartered all the rest,

Short crust pastry then is rolled, to fasten down the top

Blackbird pie vent then is fitted, poured down its beak the stock.

Rabbit pie hot for dinner, or its better cold,

With bread or taters it tastes good, crust all big and bold,

It should be served along with what, all rabbits love to eat,

Carrots cabbage turnips sprouts, peas and lots of leeks

When it come to chicken, or its more likely an old hen,

Mothers really mustard , as she walks around the pen,

Looking for the one, that's not broody or in lay

The poor old thing, ring its neck, without undue delay.

When it comes to geese and ducks, they're delt the same,

Dressing them as we all watch, the cat from outside in she came,

Neck chopped off she would remove, the wind pipe from the duck,

Then to her mouth she put and blew, out came a startling quack.

On the geese removed the feet, at knee joint half way up,

The sinues had to be pulled out, or leg they would be tough,

On handing us the feet with long, sinues hanging out,

We pulled and made webbed stretch and close, causing us to shout.

The butcher came to kill the pig, upon the bench he put him,

Scalding water washed all over, scrape hair up to his chin,

Lifted up to highest beam , his guts they did remove,

We kids learnt more of what to store, of this we did approve.

Some pork was given out, to whom killed pigs at different time,

Shoulder sides and hams were salted, fat was rendered down,

Loved the scratching nice and crispy, lard stored all in jars,

Hams and sides covered in muslin, hung in pantry by my pa.

Pastry she did make on Sat dee, while we kids could help to taste

Mince pies jam tarts large and small, we always rolled what's left,

Dried currants by the hand full, spread on just half the doe,

Flapped over rolled and pressed, in the oven would go.

It always gained some colour, the pastry in our hands,

Hands got cleaner, with the rolling - cutting with the bands,

Out of the oven, each of ours did come, 

Eaten as they hit the table, never left a crumb.

A mouse trap fully loaded, behind the pantry door,

With lump of stale cheese, standing on the floor,

It was always at the ready, in case invaders came,

They never stood a chance get fat, always us to blame.

Mother tected pantry door but never it was locked,

We always knew what she had got, hidden neeth the jars she stacked,

So all my life the pantry loaded, to the gunnels' high,

We lads we never felt pain of hunger, like mouse that we deny.

Owd Fred

This is a quotation by J G Holland----
God gives every bird its food, but he does not throw it into its nest

Field Names of Seighford 4

  Field Names of Seighford

Our Village is a small part of England, as say a motor car is made up of component parts. The largest being the body ,the chassis, the engine , right down to the smallest bolt washer and cotter pin. So Great Britain is made up of England, Scotland and Wales, these are again divided into counties, cities, towns, villages and hamlets and this continues down into individual house names. Where you have Motorways, trunk roads, main roads, secondary roads, by roads, country roads, and village roads.

As in all areas of the country side - it continues into farm roads and lanes. Round our village, starting with the Back lane, you go then into the Moor Lane, which runs north to the railway line and the Flash Bridge.( Railway bridge) Off this lane runs the Love Lane to the north of the village, coming back onto the Bridgeford road below Cooksland House. On the east side, we have got the Moss Lane, this runs to the Ashes Wood. Then to the south east the Oldfords Lane, that runs through to Coton-Clanford. To the south side, we have Smithy Lane, a cow track for the Village Farm cows to go to pasture, and a public footpath. Finally on the west side Clanford Lane (This last one is a council road), leading as it says to Coton-Clanford.

Off all these lanes are fields, the majority of which are named. These would be well known among the people of the village, as nearly all would work on the farms. But nowadays there are very few farm workers, and the vast majority commute to work elsewhere.

Some have logic as to how they were named; in fact all must have at some point. Take the Red Reins for instance, this is a field when ploughed, it turns up in heavy red clay, and when all the ploughing had to be done in "Cop and Rein". (You set a cop with the plough and plough both sides of it. When it meets the previous cop further across the field this is called a Rein where you finish off the ploughing in between). Then you have a field called Hobble End, which used to have a double cottage in it with no services what ever. There only remains a pipe in the hedge which reveals the proximity of the well. There are also the remains of the garden wicket in the hedgerow, this was Hobble End Cottages.

Other names need more and deeper investigation, such as Noon's Birch, Hazel Graze, Big Ashpit, Middle Ashpit, Little Ashpit, the Fosters, and the Pingles, Mill Bank, Hanging Bank (this one makes you think!).

 The Cumbers the row of houses were named after the grass fields behind them. There is also Moss Common, Passage Field and, Glebe Field. There are a lot of small fields about that are Glebe land and were part of the farm attached to the Church, the old vicarage had a cowshed.

We have the Stafford Meadow, the Shed Meadow, and an archaeological dig or even ploughing the old turf up might reveal the remains of a building on this field.

The Public field is on the bank behind the Holly Bush pub, The pub had fields attached to it and the small range of buildings on the east side of the pub car park were the cowsheds to it, which included a coach house for the Trap, a stable, a loose box for young stock or pigs and, a loft with a pitching hole where the hay was pitched in.

 The cowshed is still in the same format as it was a hundred years ago with the old wooden stalls the lot. You step back in a time warp when you go in there.

This has only scratched the surface of the history of the village, and much more can be found out depending on where you look at it from. Everyone has a different stand point. This pattern is repeated all over the country, very little is known by the general public that almost all fields up and down the country have names, some more interesting than others, as with house names it makes life more interesting than just a number.

(Caption to the picture)

A patchwork quilt of fields around our village, the average size is about six acres with the larger ones around 12 acres. The actual village is just out of the picture top left. For those who know my area, the road from mid right to top middle is the Stafford to Seighford road.The wood in the middle of the picture is the Wassage Covert

Field Names of Seighford

Out in Britons countryside, looks like a patchwork quilt,

Of roads and lanes and field tracks, evolved and some were built,

They lead from towns and villages, and farms, map nailed on beam,

Each field a hedge and ditch and gate, watered by pond or stream.

The fields both large and small have names, you wouldn’t dream exist,

Some relate to owner past, and others the type of land persists,

Red Rheine’s is one of these mean fields, when ploughed reveals red clay,

Unless the frost into it gets, no seed bed though you work all day.

Best known one I’ve no doubt, behind Yews farm is Cumbers,

Ten houses built along the village, take that name and numbers,

Down by the ford is Mill Bank, four acre few trees by the brook,

The Hazel Graze another great name, nut bushes to make a crook.

Fosters by the railway line, named after a soul long gone,

And Pingles also down the Moor Lane, that defiantly is a mystery one,

Noons Birch is the most beautiful name, one that congers’ you mind,

Public Field it was part of the land , run to the pub up back and behind.

Hoble End is another nice name, where two cottages stood in the fields,

No track did they only footpath, lonely place only a well and concealed,

Moss Common a field where the ditch, springs in the middle to pick up,

It is important that they are there, to water the ewes and the tup.

Ash Pits are three fields in a row, the Big the Middle and Little,

Ash trees are the obvious reason, and only one pit in the lot,

Hanging Bank is most sinister name, it’s a cold north facing bank,

More research into this is what’s needed, but all we’ve drawn is a blank

Lanes to the fields also have names, Moor Lane runs way from the ford,

Connecting with that is Love Lane, a grassy rut track half way Bridgeford,

The Oldfords Lane goes up to the farm, to Coton not a short cut by car,

And Smithy Lane runs way through houses, the shortest of all by far.

Moss Lane is one that runs eastwards, cow lane that it is can be seen,

Grass up the middle and is long, see cattle grazing fields so keen,

It has path that runs up it, and gates shut on each end,

The path is quite long; it comes out near Doxey on bend.

Owd Fred

I Remember Digging Snow 1947 3

I Remember Digging Snow 1947

I Remember digging snow, with my little spade,

I would be about eight years old, my friends and me we played,

Little caps and scarves we wore, and wellington boots as well,

Digging under snow drifts, till roof top down it fell.

All the men from in the village, started to dig the road,

Drifts for over a mile each way, they all toiled and strove,

To get the hay from barn to shed, out lying cattle to feed,

Even the tractors couldn’t move, or get to hog of swede

The village it was totally cut off, for about two days,

Us kids we dug up to houses, digging out the pathways

For this we got a piece, of home made cake with jam,

Or a drink of Corona pop, just a little dram.

Bread man was the first, to venture in on foot,

Helped along the way, on our sledges bread he put,

The postman he was helped, slippery paths we ran up,

Paper lady old Violet, her papers did not turn-up.

Milk from the farms still their, to double in two days,

Take to Bridgeford Garage, across the fields on drays,

Bring back the empty churns, all clanging on the back,

To fill again them over night, and back along same track.

Third day we went to school, Miss Pye from Doxey walked,

Only six of us turned up, on board in front of fire she chalked,

Chairs and a table pulled to the fire, roaring up the chimney,

Compared our notes about, through snow we had to journey.

When the snow ventualy melted, lumps of drifts stayed put,

It took weeks for this to go, from under hedge and butt,

Floods came out all over low ground, silt and mud abound,

Pleased when the spring came along, thought the grass had drowned.

Owd Fred

A Tour of our Village 2

A Tour of our Village

The Village has its own clock, for to tell the time,

On the tower of St Chads, every half hour it does chime,

This its done for many years, and to wind it up you climb,

Three big weights on cables, crank it many times.

In the tower set in oak frame, sit its ringing bells,

Ropes and wheels for swinging, its congregation tells,

Come to church for service, to have your sins expelled,

All the parish can hear them, peal of Village bells.

The vicar has his job to visit, all parish elderly and the sick,

Take all the Sunday services, with sermon long and epic,

Christmas Easter Harvest, Christenings funerals and weddings quick,

He is kept so busy looking after, all village elderly and sick.

Out and down the church path , is the village green,

Under the lych gates, standing all serene,

Looks a little weathered, for all the years its been,

Guarding the church yard, on the village green.

Also on Seighford green, was the village pump,

Standing in the corner, on a grassy hump,

To prime it work the handle, almost had to jump,

Water all the cottages, from this well and pump.

Across the road to educate, is the village school,

Teacher at the blackboard, sitting on a stool,

There to help the children not to be a fool,

Basic reading writing, maths in the village school.

Further down the village, was the blacksmiths shop,

Making all the horse shoes, on the anvil hot,

Hammer always ringing, shaping metal without stop,

Give the horses new shoes, to make them clip and clop.

Undertaker in the village, is at the wheelwrights shop,

Lays out and measures them, makes the coffin non-stop,

His brother digs the grave, and family lines the coffin

All the week they make farm carts, in the wheelwrights shop

Next again is Holly Bush, our local village pub,

As well as drink you can get if hungry, a little bit of grub,

For a gathering of the locals, this was the hub,

News and gossip turned around in the village pub.

Down at the post office, in the village shop,

Sells all essentials, also chocolate sweets and pop,

Letters parcels postal orders, have a hefty whop,

Rubber stamp saying Seighford, in the village shop.

The postman comes on his bike to visit, six days of every week,

Delivering post and parcels, each morning his bike it creaked,

Collecting all the gossip while, having cup of tea he’d speak,

All about what he’d learned, on his round six days every week.

On all the farms they have cows, and they produce the milk,

Beef and chickens hens and geese, sheep with fleece smooth as silk.

They have mixture of everything, corn for cows and pigs,

Hay and roots, rolled oats, peas, feed the cows produce the milk.

In all the cottages were the families, men who work the land,

Herdsmen, wagoners, and those to anything can turn their hand,

Early start in all weathers, generally a happy band,

They work late at harvest time, all these men who work the land.

Owd Fred

I Record My Memories 1

I Record My Memories

I record my memories, of where I lived my life,

People who lived and worked here, all about the strife,

The ones that moulded me, from very early age,

Learning how to cope with life, recorded on this page.

I started with my mother, and all the things she did,

Father’s next on how to work, to earn an honest quid,

Then it’s all the neighbours, of how they influenced me,

Its on to school and educate, to use my head you see.

Everyone’s an influence, in a small village like ours,

Tell you tales when they were young, they went on for hours,

Some were porkies I’ve no doubt, but non of them were lies,

Stories told and past down, told before they meet demise.

Owd Fred