Thursday, 9 February 2017

Photos, Postcards, Snippets and Occasional Notices etc (archived after one week....ish)

Ron Baron's St. Johns Ambulance Certificate
Hi Bryan yesterday while looking through some old paperwork I found an old certificate I received as a member of the st j a b dated june 1952, I was 11 years old at the time but can remember going to the drill hall every week for training, I also went with the brigade to a coronation camp in 1953 were we slept in tents and gathered round camp fires in the evening and sang songs, it was the first time I had been away from home and thought it was great, I also remember going to the drill hall for boxing training but my mum stopped me going when my friend Brian Holden gave me a black eye, she said it was to rough.  Ron

St. James's School Football Team (Click over to enlarge)
Photo: Kindly shared to us by Paul Schofield on 15th February 2017.
This was a photo of the school football team taken before the Rossendale Primary Schools Cup Final.  It was taken at Alder Grange's pitch in Rawtenstall. Unfortunately we lost 2-0 to Peel Brow, Ramsbottom.

Back Row L to R: Steven Howarth, David Washington, John Barnes (RIP), David Holt (RIP), Keith Till
Front Row L to R: Paul Schofield Geoffrey Oldfield, John Stitt, Phillip Barnes, Glyn Jones, Derek Ratcliffe.


CAN WE HELP SUSAN WHITTAKER (15th February 2017)

I was wondering if you or any of your fellow bloggers have any photos of "The Estelle Dance Band" who were established in the 1950's.  Despite my father Clifford Nicholas being the drummer, Arthur Frost on the double bass and Jackie? on the accordian, I don't have any pictures just memories of them playing at the church do's, the Con Club and pantomimnes.  The Jackie I mentioned ran the newsagents in Lower Deardengate.  Hope someone has some info, Kind regards Susan Whittaker nee Nicholas. D to birth 30/12/50.  Attended St. James's Church, Haslingden County Primary School and Haslingden Grammar School. Moved in 1975 to Blackburn.  Now retired and living in Old Town near Kirkby Lonsdale.

15th February 2017 Bryan Yorke wrote: I can remember the Estelle Dance Band playing old tyme dancing beneath the Wesley Church on Hud Hey on occasional Saturday nights.  I also wonder if the accordian player you mention called Jackie was Jack Hayton because he did run the newsagents in Lower Deardengate for quite sometime and was also noted as a Haslingden Cricketer.


A nice snippet just added by Ian Cameron (14th February 2017):

On 7th August 1914, H.R.H. the Prince of Wales made an urgent appeal in The Times:

"Buckingham Palace - all must realise that the present time of deep anxiety will be followed by one of considerable distress among the people of this country least able to bear it.  We must earnestly pray that their suffering may be neither long nor bitter, but we cannot wait until the need presses heavily upon us. The means of relief must be ready in our hands.  To ally anxiety will go some way to stay distress.  A National Fund has been founded, and I am proud to act as its Treasurer.  My first duty is to ask for generous and ready support, and I know that I shall not ask in vain. At such a moment we all stand by one another, and it is to the heart of the British people that I confidently make this earnest appeal.  Edward."

Haslingden's response to the Prince of Wales appeal is below.  Regarding scale of the item: the actual pin, which is in my possession, has a ribbon measuring 3/4" in width:

Haslingden War Relief Fund Flag Day pin of the 1914/1915 period
Pin already filed within the "Memorabilia Section"


Haslingden Cheese dish
currently being offered on ebay. (archive memorabilia)

Cross Street North and South (Click over to enlarge)
by oil painting by Derek Woodhall c1983
This painting adorned our walls at one time when we lived on Cross Street North. I will now include it within the "Art Gallery"

or if you still want to check out
After one week the above photographs or text will be moved over to their appropriate blogs and will also be transferred over to  PHOTO ALBUM and SNIPPETS NO.5 (YEAR 2017 which can be accessed by clicking here

PHOTO ALBUM AND SNIPPETS NO.4 (year 2016) which can be accessed by clicking here

 PHOTO ALBUM and SNIPPETS NO.3 (year 2015) which you can access by clicking here

or if you still want to check out


Dont Forget!  HASLINGDEN ON FILM is accessed from the title further down on the left hand column - please enjoy the films.

Mary Hindle Story by Lorraine Hooper (with added information from William Turner c2000)

Mary Hindle's Convict Record (Click over to enlarge)

WHO WROTE THE LETTER? (Written by Lorraine Hooper and giving a summary of her research into the Mary Hindle letter)

In researching my family ancestors, I was given my Grandad Ekes family Bible, in it was the enclosed letter, in a very fragile state, I was told that Great Grandmother was transported for stealing a loaf of bread and some groceries.  Well I read the letter and just couldn't leave it at that, but I couldn't really decide how to go about finding who had written it.  There was no husbands name, she hadn't signed her name, but there was a date and also reference to her little daughter Elizabeth, and that was it! The letter itself folded over as an envelope and on that was a very faint "Geo" and Haslingden, Lancashire.

So began my quest!!  I started trying to work my way back to the date on the letter, down through my different branches, but it was very slow and I was getting nowhere fast, It was really frustrating because this letter had taken over my mind, I just couldn't leave it alone!

So I thought I'd have a go on the internet, which I'd only just got on to.  Well, it was magic!!  I found an Australian convict site, clicked on the female button and a list of numerous ships appeared, I whittled it down to the Harmoney re. the date, clicked on that and there's the list of all the female convicts and where they were tried.  There were two who were tried at Lancaster, Ann Entwistle aged 45 and Mary hindle aged 26.  (Entwistle is one of my family names), but I was more drawn to Mary hindle, because of her age, she seemed more likely to have a young daughter.
Not being sure where to go next, I kept going here and there on the internet but not really getting anywhere, then I thought perhaps there might be a Lancaster Castle site and sure enough there it was.  Click here for the convict trail!  I entered both names and there they were, both tried for rioting! Rioting! that's a bit different than stealing groceries!!

I now had to find a riot in 1826, well that was hard work as well, there was the Luddite riots the riots to do with the Hargreaves Spinning Jenny, (my mother's maiden names was Hargreaves). The Peterloo riots in Manchester, but I hit a brick wall looking for a riot in 1826. By I kept on going back to the internet and finally I found a Lancashire Link list and going down through the historical events, there it was, the 1826 Power Loom Riots, and as I clicked Oh! suddenly saw Mary Hindle! Wh was Mary Hindle?! I couldn't believe my eyes, was I getting paranoid?

No. I clicked on the site and there she was.  There's a Community Centre named after her in Haslingden.  She was sentenced to death with, Ann Entwistle and 8 men, then it was commuted to life in Australia, she left her husband George behind and her 6 year old daughter Elizabeth!!

It said, for more information ring William Turner, who'd written a book called "Riot", so I rang on a Sunday afternoon at 4 0'clock and babbled away my story, he must have wondered who this women from Somerset was, saying she had a hand written letter by Mary Hindle.  I read it out to him, over the phone and reduced him to tears, he only travels around Lancashire giving talks about Mary Hindle and the riots.  Needless to say we are now good friends.

We travelled to Lancashire last year and visited the Mary Hindle Centre, met Bill Turner and presented the letter to the Lancashire Records Office at Preston for safe keeping.

I had a wonderful time finding out who the letter was addressed to and who had written it, the trouble is my family tree seems quite mundane, now!!

PS It turned out, Mary Hindle wasn't my Great Grandmother after all that, she's my cousin Jim Chew's Great Grandmother. 

The Letter  This is the actual letter which Lorraine found in her Grandad Eke's family Bible

 (Sydney, New South Wales, 12th November 1827)
Dear Husband, 
I have taken this opportunity of writing these few lines to you, which I hope that they will find you in good health, as I am toleraby well and healthy at this time.  Thank God for that! We arrived in NEW SOUTH WALES about the 7th October after a long tedious passage of about five months, but we had a tolerably good passage and we was as well treated as I could expect, we had a very kind gentleman for a Doctor which treated us very well, and I was very ill on the passage I was in the hospital nineteen days, I was very bad with my legs swelling through not having any exercise on board of the ship.  But I have got a situation in Sydney, but I have a very hard situation, I have got a great deal of work and the time appears to me to go very slowly and one day appears to me as long as a month and I am very much confined, we are not allowed any liberty to go away from the place where we live, and if we do go away and stop out till eight or nine o'clock we are sure to get put in the WATCHOUSE and very likely to get sent to the factory, a place where they punish the women very severely, but I hope that the God Almighty will give me health and strength to get through all my difficulties,and now I am in a far distant country I hope my dear little ELIZABETH will be took good care of and I hope she is well, for I very often am thinking about her and I should like very much to see her, but God knows whether that ever will be my lot again or not.

Please to give my kind love to my mother and likewise to your father and mother and likewise to my brothers and sisters and all enquiring friends, and I am waiting very anxiously to hear from you my dear husband and I hope and trust that you will try all that lays in your power to get my sentence mitigated for if I thought that you could not get something done for me I think I should die of despair.

Please to give my respects to Mr. Hurst and Mr Turner and I hope you will speak to them concerning me, and I shall feel myself forever indebted to them if please God, they should get my sentence mitigated.  And now my dear husband I am going to give you some little information of the country.  THE natives of NEW SOUTH WALES are black and they are very uncivilised people.  They won't learn to do anything at all and they are very savage, except just round SIDNEY.  Up the country they will take every opportunity of killing and eating all the white men they can get hold of. 

WHAT WE KNOW ABOUT MARY HINDLE  Compiled by the late William Turner (February 2000)

Mary was the daughter of James and Ann Holden of Todd Hall, Haslingden.  James was a handloom weaver.  Mary was baptised at St. James's Parish Church, Haslingden on 14th April 1799.

Mary's p[arents were married at St. James's (both of this Chapelry) on 26th May 1798.  Both signed the marriage entry with their "mark" (a cross) to indicate they were illiterate.  They then lived at Todd Hall which at the time was divided into 'tenements' i.e. separate dwellings, each used by a hand loom weaver. 

The name 'Holden' was that of a family prominent in Haslingden since at least 1272, when Robert de Holden was named as the father of Adam de Holden to whom Henry de Lacey granted the estates in Haslingden which formerly belonged to a William de Keelin, hanged at Lancaster Castle in 1272.

The seat of the Holden family was Holden Hall, Grane (near the present Holden Hall Cemetery).  There were branches of the family at Duckworth Hall, Oswaldtwistle, and Pickup Bank, near Belthorn.  A brance also lived at Todd Hall from before 1517 when the birth of Adam, son of Gilbert Holden was recorded.

After Robert Holden of Holden Hall, a bachelor, died in 1792, both Holden Hall and Todd Hall fell into decline as the lands were sold.  Holden Hall became a farmhouse and Todd Hall was divided into tenements.

It is not know how Mary's father was related to the Holdens but as "James" was a common forename in the Pickup Bank branch it may be possible he was related to them.

Mary Holden married George hindle at St. James's on 26th July 1818. Both signed the register with a cross.  George was the son of Abraham Hindle who was born in Bury.  He married Betty Heap from Haslingden, at St. James's on 15th January 1797.

Abraham Hindle was literate and a businessman.  At the time of his son's marriage, he was described in a local trades directory as a "carrier", transporting woven pieces and other goods to Bury and Manchester.  In 1824 he was also the landlord of "The Hare and Hounds" public house and a Churchwarden at St. James. He was also an investor in property.  (In June 1825 a James and Phoebe Barnes, on the baptism of a child, gave their address as "Abraham Hindle's Houses" (later Hindle Street).

Mary and George Hindle's first child, a daughter Elizabeth, was baptised at St. James's on 21 March 1819.  The father's occupation was given as a weaver and their abode as Club Houses (later Pleasant Street).

Soon after this, on 23rd December 1821, Mary's mother was buried at St. James.  She was forty-eight.  Two burials of children are then recorded in the register at St. James.  First, Abraham, on 10th January 1822, aged one year.  Second, Robert on 17 December 1823 aged one year.  On both occasions the address of Mary and George is given as Sheep Green, Haslingden.  Shortly after this Mary's father was buried on 18th September 1824. He was forty-five.

On Tuesday 25th April 1826 the handloom weavers who were rioting against the introduction of the power looms attacked William Turner's Middle Mill in Helmshore.  Mary Hindle was in the crowd watching the rioters.  She was arrested a few days later after an employee of William Turner accused her of being inside the mill and "shouting encouragement to the rioters".

Mary Hindle, with other alleged rioters, was taken to Lancaster Castle to await trial.  This began on Tuesday 8th August 1826.  When the trial ended several days later, thirty-five men and six women, including Mary Hindle, were sentenced to death.

On 8th September the death sentences were, in the case of eight men and two women - Mary Hindle and Ann Entwistle - commuted to transportation to New South Wales for life.  The remaining men and women received prison sentences - none longer than two years.

Many people in Haslingden were disturbed at the harsh sentence meted out to Mary.  On 10 October 1826 John Holgate, a Helmshore factory owner, sent a petition signed by thirty-four "very respectable inhabitants" (including William Turner himself) to Robert Peel, the Home Secretary.  Other petitions by the Revd. William Gray J.P., the vicar of St. James; by George, her husband, who said she had simply gone to the scene of the riot to look for her daughter; and by her late father'semployer, John Rostron of Holcombe (who offered her a job for life). All were rejected. 

On 25th April 1827, exactly a year after the riot at Middle Mill, Mary Hindle left Lancaster Castle for Woolwich and the convict ship "Harmony".  She arrived in Sydney, New South Wales on 27th September 1827. She was in the ship's hospital suffering from pleurisy for most of the voyage.

Mary was assigned, as a convict to be a laundress for the family of John Nicholson, who was Mater attendant at the Dockyard at Darling Harbour (now part of Sydney Harbour).

On 30 September 1830 Mary wrote to the Govern of New South Wales asking if a pardon for her had arrived from England.  The answer was "Nothing is known about this matter".

A year later, on 19 November 1831 Mary received her "Ticket of Leave".  This was only given for good conduct and exempted her from working for a particular employer, provided she remained in the district of Sydney.  This was renewed on 12 February 1835.

The next reference to Mary Hindle is in the "Government Gazette" of April 1838.  Unfortunately she is on the list of runaways apprehended in the third week of that month.  She absconded as she was being escorted to Parramatta Female Factory (a prison, hospital etc) and recaptured several days later.  (It is possible she was found out of her district, which was strictly forbidden). 

Sometime later, on 28 May 1838, whilst in Parramatta Female Factory, Mary wrote to the Governor asking for a free pardon.  Three anotations on her letter show how the injustices she suffered were to continue.  "Is this woman one of the machine breakers?" "No pardon has been received for this woman," (dated 22nd June); "Let her be told so through Mrs. Leach," (dated 25 June).  (Mrs. Leach was the Matron of the Female Factory).

In 1840 it is possible that Mary Hindle was a laundress for Thomas Ryan, the Chief Clerk to the Principal Superintendent of Convicts.  Thomas Ryan, an ex-convict himself, lived at 139 Princess Street, Sydney.  Sadly, in the Government Gazette for June 1840, Mary is again listed as a runaway from Thomas Ryan since 6 June.  She was apprehended within days.

However, on 21 August 1841 Mary took her own life whilst in Parramatta Female Factory. She was buried the following day in the graveyard of St. John's Church, Parramatta.  There is no headstone.  So ended fifteen years of imprisonment and transportation with all the horrors that went with both.

In the petition of the thirty-four signatures in 1826, Mary Hindle is described - "---hath uniformly borne a good character for peaceable demeanour, honesty and industry ---- she was not activated by any malignity of dispostion ----- and further, your petitioners are truly affected by the severity of her sentence ----".

John Rostron's (her father's employer) petition spoke " ---- very few have come so clean and descent and none have done their work better ----". He then asked that Mary be restored to her family.

Mary Holden, as she was, bore a name, which is arguably the oldest in Haslingden.  Nothing - the good name of her family or the petitions on her behalf - made any difference to those in the legal and political system who were determined to make a example of a descent woman in order to put fear in the hearts of others.  The accusations that she destroyed looms were never proved.  Elementary justice would have see her acquitted.

Like so many in East Lancashore, Mary hindle endured starvation and deprivation.  The death of her mother, father and two children within three years indicates the effect on her family alone.  To bring the full retribution of the law onto Mary Hindle in such circumstances was monstrously cruel and unjust.  This continued even in New South Wales.

The manner of Mary's death is especially saddening after being treated with such gross injustice, prejudice and bigotry.  The "The Mary Hindle Centre" will keep her name alive in the minds of those who deeply oppose such things.
William Turner - February 2000.

POSTSCRIPT  Written by Lorraine Hooper.

My husband's twin brother lives near Brisbane and we decided to visit a few years ago, neither of us are seasoned travelers, so I said that as this was going to be my only trip to Australia, I wanted to go to Parramatta graveyard, where Mary is buried. Before we went, I'd been on one of my trips to Lancashire and visited Haslingden, St. Jame's, where Mary's husband was buried and gathered some grasses (just a bit) to take to Parramatta.
In Australia, my sister in law read the story and said " when you get to the graveyard, you'll fall over, because Mary's choosen you to bring her letter to light". (Oh yes!)
We went to Sidney, a lady in the hotel (intrigued by the story) took us to Parramatta graveyard, there was a nice little archway/ gateway into it and as I went through I tripped and fell over !!!
Anyway I went down through the graves, Mary's is unmarked, but I scattered the grass and then found a small piece of brick that I brought home, half is on my window sill and the other half is in St Jame's graveyard.
PS Mary had been in Australia about 14 years when she committed suicide and that had me puzzled, why after all that time ?  So I thought I'd search the death records, I found that her husband George had died the year before, well it would have taken nearly a year for any letter to get to Mary !

Sorry I've rambled on and on, but seeing Mary Hindle in my inbox this morning really stirred up my memories.

Click over to enlarge

Click over to enlarge

Monday, 23 January 2017


"Paradise Lost"

One penny banger, or a three penny jump jack or pinwheel,
or maybe the funds only reached a liquorice stick or bubblegum card,
I'd get from dear old Harold, whilst on my way to school,
His shop was a toffee "Paradise" next to a place called Ranters Row,

We would play lots of football whilst up in Jimmy's yard, just as kids do,
We must have given the driver a shock when our ball went over the wall,
We would shout out loud to nearly a scream "Harold" "Harold"
He'd come from shop and kick that ball with accuracy of a good "rugby try".

School done, lets run the landing, and off we'd go and run around Back Paradise,
It seemed to always annoy someone who come out and shout with clout "clear off"
But that made it all the more exciting, has we nervously brushed their way,
Scampering over that scary drop below, with eyes to the front and pray!

I guess we sounded loud like squabbling kids do - just like generations before us,
has we ran down "Little Prinny Hill" and over steam smoking railway bridge,
then sharp right and then sharp left, past all the chuckling hens within their pens,
We'd reach "Jimmies" where all hell broke lose to be first to kick the ball as I recall.

Bryan Yorke - January 2017

A sketch to show "Little Prinny Hill" and Paradise Terrace (Click over to enlarge)

This is a photo showing Little Prinny Hill coming down to join Prinny Hill (Click over to enlarge)
Photo: kindly shared to us by Chris Kirby

Back Paradise Terrace - Little Prinny Hill (Click over photo to enlarge)
Photo: Courtesy of Joan Merrill
For anyone who did not know, this terrace (Back Paradise Terrace) was across the main road from the bottom of Regent Street and at this corner shown here was called "Little Prinny Hill" and you could go down here and join the main Prinny Hill track towards Carrs in the deep bottom.  We would regularly use it when going from our School (St. James) and down to our playing fields in the bottom for football matches etc. Also you could divert off to the right on the cinder track and go down a short cut which crossed over a small footbridge to get across the Mill lodge and this way gave you access to Commerce Street which would eventually take you to the Station area.

Also for anyone who did not know what it looked like before it was demolished here is a couple more photos of it looking from either Regent St or Blackburn Road.

This shows Paradise Terrace (Ranters Row) and the landing leading to Back Paradise Terrace long before they were demolished. The shop here was at that time still a grocers. I can remember the shop being Mrs. Cairns who I think did
have haberdashery and also then sold typewriters.  Later the shop was taken over by Jack Walsh who sold Hoovers and
did Hoover repairs.
Click over photo to enlarge (Photo: Courtesy of Joan Merrill)

This also shows Paradise Terrace (Ranters Row) with Regent Street at the right hand bottom corner.
You can see Harold's newspaper and sweet shop at the point where the tram is.
Click over photo to enlarge

And just across the road from Paradise Terrace was St. James's School as you can see in the photo.  But in the past there was also the Old Church Institute and also Martin's Bank. Both these have been demolished and the small garden shown in this photo is on the site of the old bank. More to follow soon.
Shows the little park built on the original site of Martins Bank (see next photo below), also just up the slope on the left hand side
was were the Church Insitute used to be (see next photo)
Click over photo to enlarge. If you want to check out the St. James School Blog Click Here
Photo: Kindly shared to us by Chris Kirby

Old Martins Bank which stood at the bottom of Regent Street where nowadays the little park is in the
photo above with the red and yellow seats. Also note the building to the mid left is the old Church Institute. Have you read about were the Bank ended up after it was demolished?
if not check Click here and scroll down

The Church Institute - also shows the old vicarage in the background, also just shows to the right hand side
the old Martins Bank which was also demolished (Click over photo to enlarge)

Little Prinny Hill - by Michael Mullaney and uploaded here on 23rd Jan 2017

Little Prinny Hill would seem an insignificant dirt track connecting into Prinny Hill.  However if we consider that in the early days when getting about was all on foot or by pack horse or if lucky a horse Little Prinny Hill was a main thoroughfare to and from Haslingden.  The parish church was the main focal point in any town.  As such all ancient track-ways started from, or terminated at, the church.  In this case, leaving the church yard by way of the route which exits at Regent Street, thence down Little Prinny Hill (remember Blackburn Road had not even been thought of then) into Prinny Hill, then turning right at the bottom the road would take you around Cob Castle and onto Blackburn.  Or you could go straight on and it would take you along the river bottom to the Helmshore.  Little Prinny Hill may have acted as a relief road, that is it was used because its incline was not as steep at Prinny Hill itself making it easier on pedestrian and animal traffic.  Viewing an map of Haslingden its easy to see all the old track-ways which started and finished at the parish church.

Regarding Ranters Row or the terrace known as Paradise Terrace.  This type of terrace was built all along Blackburn Road to accommodate the massive influx of migrant workers into the town.  It s construction should be studied being somewhat unique to parts of Lancashire and Yorkshire in so far as it utilized land which would not normally be considered fit to build on.  As the first picture clearly shows the gable end, its relation to Little Prinny Hill and the main road level.  The lower storey made best use of the steep fall of the land and are built into the earth and were known as "Back-to-Earth" houses.  They must have had a perennial problem with damp.  The upper storey are "Back-to-Back" houses, that is the row was divided along the backbone of the terrace, the rear and the front property shared a common internal back wall, hence Paradise Terrace on the front and Back Paradise Terrace on the rear.  The rear accessed by the iron railinged landing from either end.  One presumes there was a rent scale, the front accessing Blackburn Road would demand the highest rent whilst the back and back to earth would move down the scale.  Toilets were communal and located at the far end with groups of families sharing one.  Possibly up to six properties sharing one toilet which would be of the ash pit type.  I suspect the higher rent paid the better toilet access.  The next terrace further along Blackburn Road had in its middle a ginnel with so called 99 steps down to the lower level which allowed workers to take a short cut to the mills in the bottom.  Every effort was always made to build in short cuts to save the workers time and effort, after all the owners didn't want them to tired to work.  Going home didn't matter so much.  One wonders just what orchestrated sounds the workers clogs made as they scurried down the 99 steps at seven o'clock at morning.  You probably wouldn't sleep in if your house shared a wall with the ginnel.
Michael Mullaney.

Received from John McGuire (Australia) on 25th January 2017
Hi Bryan,
I have just read Michael’s article on the Blog and would like to comment on the ginnel with the 99 steps.
We lived at 122 Blackburn Rd which was on the Haslingden side of the ginnnel. There was about 40 steps down to the lower level.
  From there to the “bonk” perhaps another 30 steps. I suppose if there was at one time more steps set into the bonk then there would
have been 99.We lived in that house from 1944 to 1954 and I can’t recall anyone other than the occupants of the “back to earth” houses below using them.
I guess all the workers in Grove, Vine Grove and Commercial Mills had other means of getting to work. I agree with Michael that the noise of clog irons in the ginnel would have been deafening.

The houses on the main road level were two up and two down. Our house however had no floor in the back bedroom , just the floor joists on which you had to balance to see out of the window.
Consequently Dad, Mum and the two of us slept in the front room. I wish I knew who the landlord was as I’m sure our discomfort would be compensatable even now!
All for now,

John McGuire


Tuesday, 20 December 2016


It all started off from Haslingden......

And here we have a little bit different! its a fabulous story about "The Ural" motorbike which Bob (ex pat from Blackburn Road (Hud Hey) used to own.  He brought it back to life whilst in his wooden garage which was "where Pinch Belly Row (Hud Rake) used to be, and the garage is still there today (with slight modifications) - Its a cracking tale which covers lots of local and social history at its very best, so here we have it in Bobs own words:

The Ural

The bike

The Ural is a mighty motor bike.  Manufactured in Russia to BMW plans.  (In !945, the Soviet Zone of occupation of Germany included the state of Thuringia, and the BMW motorcycle works at Eisenach.)  A 650cc horizontally opposed twin cylinder engine, with the BMW trademark of cylinder heads sticking out horizontally on  both sides of the frame.  Without the other BMW trademark of shaft drive – that had not been invented in 1945, when the plans for the Russian Ural were frozen to the blueprints they captured.
Deep black with almost no markings; heavy – really heavy, with a sidecar made from thick steel.  (There are tales of collisions between a Ural and a camel in the Sahara, and the Ural coming off relatively unscathed; the camel dead.  A less exotic tale of my collision with a Ford Cortina taking a wrong turn to park in King Street, Cambridge, at about 3 m.p.h.: the Cortina wing crumpled, the Ural sidecar body dented perhaps ¼ inch.)

The search

We had decided that we couldn't really afford the car.  A motorcycle seemed an affordable alternative, if a little hardy for the Lancashire winters.  I started buying motorcycle magazines, and read about the Ural – mighty retro beast.  Immediately I coveted it – the engineering chic of the BMW; the political chic of a communist machine; the street chic of a big black frame with separate triangular seats, the passenger seat mounted high up on the hefty steel rear mudguard.  It looked like something straight out of the 1940s – which it was.  A vintage motorbike manufactured in the modern age.
And cheap.  Cheap new, because the Ural’s performance (meaning speed) was absolute crap.  Much, much cheaper second-hand because all the trimmings (cables, chrome, switches, etc.) are so badly manufactured that the machine looks like a wreck when it has been out on the streets for a few months.  As for performance, that did not signify with me – I was not after speed (scared of it, in fact) but after solid transportation and street credibility.
The most alarming thing about the Ural combination for me was the fact the sidecar is mounted on the European side – the wrong side.  The Valleys are full of steep roads with sharp bends, and the cambers are not always too carefully engineered.  I had visions of a bike with the centre of gravity made high by a passenger perched up on the rear, being completely unsteady with the sidecar turning the whole bike over on a reverse camber bend, crushing the driver beneath hundreds of pounds of steel.  (My fears were justified: if one ever rode the bike with passenger on board and an empty sidecar it would be lethal, and even properly loaded, it need careful handling on bends.  Just as well it did not go fast.)
So, I had identified the bike of my dreams.  How was I going to get one?  There were very few in circulation, and the chance of finding a second-hand one nearby was virtually nil.  Or so I thought . . .
I started buying Exchange and Mart weekly.  Standing about in the factory reading the Motorcycle section of Exchange and Mart on breaks introduced me immediately to the company of the bikers in the workforce.  We had a topic of mutual interest to discuss – something I was often short of.  They were very generous in their interest: just a little hint of mutual interest – opening the paper up to the interesting section – and they were almost welcoming in their willingness to open up conversation.  8 or 12 hours at a stretch at work is pretty boring, after all, and there is not that much to talk about unless you work at it.
Douglas of the yellow Ducati (he who managed to strip his bike and reassemble it in the pit under the paper-making machine, in one shift.  My this was a busy factory!) knew a bit about the Ural.  He was complimentary, even though for himself he would never buy anything so slow or so un-stylish.  His yellow sporty 650cc machine had a big tank and saddle set back so that the rider adopted a racing position stretched across the top of the bike to slightly drop-down handlebars.  Douglas was a man for fitting leathers in a colour that matched his bike, not the oil-stained Barbour jacket that I acquired with my Ural, that really rather matched the bike.)  We bent our heads over Exchange and Mart together.  But “Not a common bike – you don’t see many of them on sale.”  was Douglas’s warning.

The purchase

The Gods must have been favouring my plan.  Unbelievably, in the second week after I had made my commitment that a Ural it had to be, there was an ad in Exchange and Mart for a Ural and side-car, in Todmorden.  Todmorden, that had just become Lancashire instead of Yorkshire in the county boundary reorganisation: in other words right on the county boundary, in the same Pennine hills and valleys that surrounded Haslingden.
Anna and I took the little Morris Traveller – the car that I had been given, second-hand, for my 21st birthday – up into the hills.  The journey to Todmorden takes one up from Waterfoot, between Lumb and Cowpe, into the branch of the Rossendale Valley that runs through Bacup – straight east into the middle of the Pennine chain, through industrial desolation much worse than Haslingden.  Where the side valleys rise into the bleak saddles of moor land, the industrial revolution had its most tenuous hold, and faded first.  In Bacup, the industry had been shoes, and it was no more, aside from a few (and locally famous) clog-making shops, hanging on desperately.  The factories were small, grey, empty and weather-beaten.  
On, across the moors that divide Lancashire and Yorkshire[1], to the south of Todmorden, towards Mankinholes, on the side of the town where Jim Denniston lived.
I had, of course, been in contact with Jim, the bike’s owner, to arrange a meeting.  They were ready for us – they being Jim, his wife Helen and their baby, Oona.  It was more like a meeting of friends than a commercial transaction.  Todmorden, and even more so its neighbouring town, Hebden Bridge, was a centre of the alternative lifestyle even in 1974.  Small waves of hardy hippy types had converged on this cheap and attractive little corner of the Pennines since the late 1960s.  The signs were along the road as one passed through the towns: small whole-food shops, stores selling bright, flowing dresses, hand-printed signs for bands and political meetings.  All the regalia of the drop-out.
Jim worked in a local mill, like me, if I remember correctly. They lived in a house not unlike ours, except that their road was one of the many cul-de-sacs in Todmorden, running at right angles off the main street straight into the hills.  Grey stone terrace; two up, two down; the valley walls lowering at the back.
Baby Oona made the side-car rather inappropriate and, mirabile dictu, what Jim and Helen were looking for, ideally, was a Morris Traveller.  Jim took me out to look at his machine.  It was everything I had wanted – ancient, black, heavy, almost like an agricultural implement.  (In fact, Jim explained, the massive torque and low gearing were designed to give a rock-steady slow speed for dragging a plough!  The gearing was what kept the top speed down to about 60 m.p.h.)
Jim was scrupulous in telling me everything that was less than perfect – as expected, the chrome-work was in a sorry state.  He looked at my Traveller, and a deal was struck in no time at all.  Completely amicable – more like barter than a commercial transaction.
In keeping with the social nature of the transaction, we stretched it over several visits.  Finding that the two families liked each other, and that we had a similar history of escape to the hills, of course contributed to the leisurely pace of the deal.  Also – Jim was very reluctant to let go of the beast: he was as much in love with the Ural as I was to become.  (My Morris Traveller also had a pull on my affections – the little Morrises are that sort of car.  My first car, at age 17, had been a Morris Minor, and in Zambia with my stepbrother before then in 1967 we had shared another Minor, on loan.  Many memories of time spent pulling the guts out of a Morris and putting them back again – in Lusaka, with David Jones, in Farnborough with David Stratton, in Putney, in Cambridge.)
This first trip, we simply agreed upon a transaction – the exchanged of much-loved vehicles and some incidental monetary accompaniments (I think from Jim to me, but I am not certain – the money side of the transaction was definitely secondary, or even tertiary.  The much-loved objects came first, and the growing inter-family relationship came second.  The social priorities of the barter economy.)  On the second trip, Jim showed me how to ride the beast, and then how to ride it in the hills on badly-cambered roads.  It was on the third or fourth trip that the wrenching exchange actually took place.
On one of these trips, Helen and Jim took us for a walk through Colden Clough, as Helen told us about one of the famed natives of Hebden Bridge (actually of neighbouring Mytholmroyd) - Ted Hughes.[2]   Then we explored, more with Jim in the lead, another world of relaxed commercial transactions – the rescuing and recycling of useful building material.  Jim was an habituĂ© of building demolition sites and auctions.  He introduced Anna to a dealer who had a remote mill stacked to the rafters with rescued timber and fittings, and that man in turn took Anna to a church in Todmorden that was being demolished.  The last journey of the Traveller for us was to transport a long pitch-pine pew that Anna bought for a song.  (With very clever planning and cutting, it later provided all the material for the construction of a long sideboard that went with us from Haslingden to Milton Keynes to Dallas and to Philadelphia, where it was passed on to the Germantown Unitarian Church.)
We returned to Jim and Helen’s house.  I had the extraordinary Ural maintenance manual and toolset to explore, while the two families deepened their new friendship.  The manual was about 200 pages thick, printed on cheap-paper and poorly translated.  The opening chapters explained that there was a front wheel and a back, and what brakes were and the principle of the internal combustion engine.  By the end of the book, the owner of the magnificent machine had been told how disassemble the engine and to strip and service the main bearing.  This was a book written for people who had never owned a machine before, but were going to be entirely on their own in looking after it.  The toolkit corresponded – a magnificent array of very carefully chosen implements designed to do both very simple and very complex jobs, economically packaged and wrapped in a tight little cloth bundle.  “Economical” is the word – unfortunately the whole enterprise was marred by the fact that the tools were constructed in the cheapest of materials, and did not look as if they would actually do the jobs for which they were intended, without bending or breaking.  (There is an allegory for the Soviet Communist planned economy here.)
The day came to an end, and all parties were highly satisfied.  I cannot remember if we went away in the bike then and there.  I am sure that I needed Jim to give me a couple more riding lessons.  (I didn't need a motorcycle endorsement to my driving licence - the sidecar puts it in a category with a car.  That was one of its attractions, from the start - no need for a motorcycle driving test.) 


Anyway, we came back to visit Jim and Helen and baby several times; there were evenings in their little house when Helen played the guitar and we all sang.  Both families had been learning a bit about Lancashire folk-songs.  Helen taught us a lullaby sung by the wife of a railway engineer, and we taught her “The Four-Loom Weaver”.  Helen was a performer – a dancer as well as a singer, from somewhere in the West Indies.[3]
Helen ended up separated from Jim.  We last had contact with her when she was one of the artists and prime movers in a community arts collective in Battersea that became very big - the Battersea Arts Centre.  On the way there, she actually came to live with us.  We cannot remember exactly how Helen announced her wish to stay.  She turned up, with baby Oona, and did not, as far as I remember ever go back to see Jim.  I do not even remember what caused the fatal rift, although Helen complained that it was hard to get Jim to stir himself, and it is clear that Helen herself was a dynamo.  
I say “was” because, sadly, I only learned about Helen’s extraordinary achievements in her life from her obituary.  (From that obituary, we learned of more tragedy: Oona had died too, in a street accident, in the year 2000, just as her grandfather was in his final illness.  Oona would have been about 14.)  Helen and baby stayed with us for several months, in the tiny room we had carved out from one of the two top rooms, dividing it from the new bathroom.  The room that was later to be Joanna’s nursery, and had been planned as such.
Helen and Oona were the beginning of something big.  Even at the time, Anna and I realised that by opening up our household to extra people we were doing something that had implications.  Later on, there were people in our house who really did become part of our family.  That was not completely the case with Helen and Oona, but this was the first step towards something  that became enormously important to us.

The bike at home

Back to the story of the Ural motor-bike.  (Let me run that story through to its conclusion, even though it means jumping ahead in time for a spell.)-  We had found a little room for the motor-bike, too.  The road that ran diagonally up the steep hill opposite our house, from the other side of Blackburn Road, was called Hud Rake.  There were a few houses at the bottom of Hud Rake – a short stone terrace than ran down to the ginnel along the back of the Blackburn Road houses (the terrace that included Martin and Kaye Warwick’s house at 325).  Above this short terrace, I guess the land was too steep even for Lancashire builders.  The next architectural phenomenon above the terrace was a line of ramshackle wooden garages.  The weather in the Valleys is cruel for wooden structures, and Hud Rake really is exposed.   I think it would have taken heroic (and totally uneconomic) levels of maintenance effort to preserve these garages in anything like decent condition.  No chance of that – there is not much sentiment for building maintenance in these climes, and even if there was, these mean structures did not deserve it.
The garages were black – not with paint but with weathering, with tar-paper roofs nailed down with boards.  They leaned against each other down the hill, and it did seem to be a marvellous thing that they had not slid down into the valley.  Mine was the second from the top – I cannot remember how I found its owner and arranged the rental, no more than £1 a week.  I was very pleased with it – a suitable house for my fine machine, close by (visible from the top floor front window) and on a road with a name like “Hud Rake” – perfect.
As the year passed on into winter, I discovered the need for an addition to my garage.  I purchased a little paraffin lamp, designed to be put under the engines of cars in the extreme cold.  I guess in a later age of elfansafety, the idea of putting a naked flame under an engine containing hydrocarbon fuel in a rotten wooden structure butted up against other wooden structures, might have been considered to invite disaster, or at least litigation.  But Haslingden was in a different age, and the instructions on my new appliance assured me that was exactly the use for which the lamp was intended.  It burned quietly all night.  The Pennine winds raged outside the little garage, and through the cracks in its walls, but they seemed to show no propensity for blowing the flame either out or onto something inflammable.  Without my little lamp, the oil in the motor-bike sump would have been congealed every morning, and I would have had no hope of turning the engine over with the kick-start.  With my little lamp, the beast started perfectly almost every morning, and when it didn’t, it was for other causes.
It was outside my garage that I had some of my most intense heart-to-hearts with my new steed.  The struggle of coming to terms with the carburettor will serve to illustrate them all.  The Russian built carburettor cannot have been part of the old BMW design – I refuse to believe that BMW would have engineered such a crude thing, even back in 1945.  It required constant adjustment, and fiddling with the carb before kicking the beast into life became a regular morning routine, sitting outside my garage.  The Ural Owners Club newsletter came to the rescue, with a tip about creating an airflow between the inputs to the two cylinders. As directed, I  threaded a little piece of clear plastic pipe through the frame, with two little pipe ends tapped in.  That is the sort of home-spun engineering that kept the Ural in fine fettle.

Emergency maintenance

A wonderful example of this – away from home – cropped up after I had owned the bike for a year or so.  On a long journey to Cambridge (following faithfully the Yelloways bus route on a big chunk of its journey from Blackpool to Clacton - wakes week to wakes week), I had a terrible mishap in Leicester – half way between my two homes at the time, and a place where I knew no-one to call upon.
The sound of the mishap was most alarming – a strangling metallic crash that seemed to come from the centre of the engine.  Off the bike, and look for damage.  A combination bike stands up to be looked at on its own, and a BMW engine, with its cylinders hanging out sideways, invites inspection.  But there was nothing obvious.  So I took a cylinder head off to see what I could see  – the toolkit had a spanner for everything, and the spanners worked if you were very deliberate and careful not to over-stress the poorly-manufactured tool.  The cylinder head was right there, clear of the side of the bike, to be tinkered with.  The head and gasket came off, and there was the problem – the inlet valve was obviously bent.
(I worked out later that the valve clearances on a new Ural are set for Siberian weather.  For most of my bike’s life in the Pennines, that was exactly the type of weather the beast experienced - there had been no need for Jim or me to adjust.  When I drove it to the balmy south, metal expanded, clearances closed, and BANG.)
A bent valve following a collision with the piston head in most modern engines would be a major disaster, calling for new parts, specialized tools and expert mechanics, maybe even a new engine.  Not so the Ural, with its agricultural tolerances.  I pulled the inlet valves out, took them to the filling station over the road, used a bench vice to straighten the valve stems as much as I could (eliciting a great deal of interest and pitiful shaking of heads from the Indian mechanics in the shop), inserted them and tightened up the cylinder heads (no new gaskets), and I was off.  In fact, I never touched those valves or heads again during the lifetime of my ownership of the bike.
Another result of the crude tolerances in the whole design of the bike was that I had a freedom of fuel choice not afforded to the owner of your average internal combustion engine.  After experiment, I established that my beast would run comfortably on a mixture of ¾ paraffin and ¼ petrol.  Illegal, but very cheap.
I could go on for a long time, and bore my readers to death.  This was a bike with a personality – rugged charm and economy, vintage graces, idiosyncratic mechanical habits, and an eccentric ride.  A wonderful machine.  When I eventually let it go – as payment for a commissioned diptych of the Wolf’s Leap Gorge in Radnorshire (and a crummy ancient Morris van thrown in to get me home) – I rode my motorbike for 7 hours through freezing rain to Hundred House with Anna in the sidecar, wet accumulating behind her back.  Even that did not entirely kill our love affair. 

[1] The realignment of the county boundary was very recent - 1974.  I had seen an article in the local (Lancashire) paper that had hoped to surface some of the traditional rivalry between white and red rose by interviewing those affected by the change.  One dour Yorkshireman, transformed without consultation into a Lancastrian, was encouraged to express anger, or at least disappointment.  The interviewer got little traction - the gentleman didn't think life was going to be very different as a  result of the boundary change.  However, right at the end of the conversation, the interviewer struck gold: "There's one thing that is a bit of a bad job - the weather.  It's gonna be worse now.  It allus rained more in Lancashire."
[2] Ted Hughes was raised in a house called The Beacon, at Slack, just outside Mytholmroyd, but he  returned to buy the mill owner’s house in the village - Lumb Bank.  Helen took us past it; she was excited that the house had just become home to a foundation which teaches creative writing - The Arvon Foundation.  For Helen, this was all part of an exciting birth of culture in this little town.  
Of course, Helen was right - the flowering of Hebden Bridge came in her lifetime, though she had by then moved on to Battersea Arts Centre.  Hebden Bridge and Haslingden may have started as similar dour towns, but in all but architecture they diverged greatly in the last decades of the 20th century!
[3] We later discovered that Helen's origins were quite famous.  Her father was "Oswald "Columbus" Denniston [who in 1948] booked a one-way passage from Jamaica to England on the Empire Windrush. Thus, later, did he become the first African-Caribbean trader in Brixton market in south London. His entrepreneurial spirit and sense of community made him a key figure in the growing migrant population." (from the obituary of Columbus in the Guardian, 17/2/2000.  Helen herself was a sufficiently important figure to merit an obituary in the Guardian too - on her lamentably early death on 27/6/2005: "In 1989 the arts consultant and administrator Helen Denniston, who has died of cancer, aged 53, played a key role in the Colour Of Europe festival at the South Bank Centre. That led to her co-directorship of Africa '95, the six-month season of African arts which took place across Britain. And that festival in turn inspired African Odyssey, at the John F Kennedy Centre in Washington DC, for which she was, from 1996 to 2000, a consultant."

Added by Robert Wade on 18th December 2016

Love the Ural story on the blog, I can remember the bike!  One slight error, in the 1974 boundary re-organisation Todmorden did NOT change counties, Barnoldswick and Earby did.


Friday, 16 December 2016

Snow tales - Sledging, Sliding, Skating and other fun things

From David Desforges (12th January 2017)

Been reading the sledging clip,we would sometimes use the hill to the side of the row of houses on donkey row side of the railway and sometimes we would sledge down railway road starting of at the top where it joined station brew road swinging right hurtcaling past the bottom of station steps  to the bottom  and over the road that went past the railway where someone would be watching if a car  was coming, on one trip down and on getting near the bottom car coming was shouted so I had to sledge straight on into the house wall banging my head in the stonework ,67years old now and still have that lump on my forehead ,david desforges


For the four years we lived in Haslingden, each winter was predictably enveloped in deep snow since the westerlies brought ballooning mountains of moisture which , confronted by the implacable Pennines, would dump onto us avalanches of snow which would drift and blanket the town for weeks and months  on end. The local kids quickly became adepts at dealing with the stuff and there was a perfect sledge slope in Victoria Park which, after the first snowfall would  speedily fill up with families out for a spot of fun.
But in some ways the best sledging wasn’t done in winter at all. They were four hot summers we lived there (1974-78), with uncharacteristically dry weeks stretching rainless and shimmering through the school holidays and beyond. The reservoirs shrank, the NO SWIMMING notices got ignored and bewildered oldies were thwarted from complaining  about the weather.
Now was the time to find cardboard boxes, beat them flat and trudge  up onto the heights above the town. We lived on Blackburn Road just where Hud Rake swoops down and joins the main road, so for a brief walk we could cross the road, turn up Hud Rake and scramble up the steep hillside beyond, up towards Slate Farm. In minutes we were high above the town with a commanding view over towards  the hills in the west known as Oswaldwistle Moor .

We threw our cardboard down, slid our bums into position and we were off, careering down the grassy slope as fast as over snow. There’s something special about grass at 800 feet: it is quite unlike the grass you find in parks and gardens in the valleys. Its tough resilient blades aren’t flat but cylindrical, dark green and shiny and perfectly designed to allow any smooth surface to travel over it at speed. The more sophisticated sledgers brought out their winter sledges – plastic trays appeared too and a riot of kids would hurtle down the hot slippery grass , tumbling in a heap to rise and climb again.

uploaded here on 7th December 2016


Skating on Holden Wood Reservoir (Photo: Andy Metcalfe) 

Above is a photograph from the distant past kindly sent in by Andy Metcalfe.  Andy is the one in the centre with the blue and white (Leeds) bobcap and to his far left with the red and white bobcap is Stuart Beardmore.  It was said that the ice on the res that year was 8" thick for quite some time. 


(Photo: kindly shared by Andy Metcalfe)

Andy wrote: This is the bombhole at Longshoot in early 1979.  We could sledge from the top all the way to the stream by Grane Mill.  In Summer we would sledge on cardboard on the dry grass then go "Sweelin" (set on fire). Is "Sweelin" a local word?



Following on from Anna Cunnynghams memories of sledging in 1974-78.

In the 1950's which were my formative years in Haslingden, the heavy winter snow falls arrived with regularity and stayed for weeks which curtailed the movement of motor vehicles everywhere except the main bus routs.

Everyone would reclaim their home made sledge from the coal hole and set about polishing the iron runners to clean off all the accumulated rust otherwise you would not get any speed up, no fun in that.

Every location would have its own sledging place.  As for me living on the Long Shoot housing estate we made good use of Kirk Hill, that is the rough track extension at the top of Poplar Street at its junction with Cedar Avenue up to the junction with Haslingden Old Road.

It had a right hand bend half way down with a set of five large stone steps which allowed access to the allotments, when covered with deep snow made a high speed bank to be negotiated on the way down.
Several failed to get round the bend and ended up shooting up and over the garden fences behind Cedar Avenue which was even more exhilarating.  
If it was a prolonged cold spell, with work, the sledging track could stretch as far as the bottom of Poplar Street and Hillside Road.  All to soon the council would battle its way through and salt the side street followed by the thaw.

The thrill of sledging down an uncontrollable run was as exciting as it got, even better when you linked up to ten sledges together to make a flexible toboggan train with each rider having to hold the sledge rope tight otherwise the train broke apart creating a pileup.  Despite the risks I never knew anyone who sustained any injury.  Only for the brave was belly flopping, like the Cresta Run with your face just a few inches from the ground.  As well as belly flopping another rider would sit across the back of the laid down rider like riding a horse... great times, you cant replicate that on an electronic gizmo. 

Another good sledging track was the pavement down Rosewood Avenue, that was until the householder came out and scattered the hot ashes from the coal fires across the track spoiling the fun.
 Great times.