New - Photographs and details of air crash site
There are many stories about people and characters on the village which form part of the rich texture and history of our community. Inevitably these stories are told from a persons own perspective and might be exaggerated to accentuate particular point.
The Colliers Arms
Although this pub closed in 1956 stories of happy nights spent there abound. For those of you that don't know The Colliers Arms was another Hill Top pub and was located where the late Jacka Berrisford lived. I think its now called Stanley View. Apparently this pub had a stove pot in the middle of the room that was the focal point. Another feature was that they kept a monkey in a cage on the bar! One night the pub was packed, smoke was thick in the air and the guests were well oiled when somebody let the monkey out of the cage. Well you could imagine the monkey bouncing round the room with people trying to grab it until the poor monkey landed on the stove pot and immediately jumped off with burned feet and paws to the top of the bar where it proceeded to sit for the rest of the night spitting and blowing on its feet and hands and rubbing them together just like a human would. This created quite an impact with the patrons who thereafter recognised the closeness between monkeys and humans.
The Roebuck Inn or the "Corner"
Famed for its friendliness especially when Lottie and Horace Hayes kept it is best described in a poem by Mr Reg Twemlow our village bobby who was interviewed live on TV in the 1960's (I remember going round to watch him being interviewed outside Tyler's shop)
The ode to a pub
At close of day when toil is done
They wend their way at setting sun
Where rural joys still reign supreme
And form a part of the village scene
Where tales are told and laughter brings
The salve that makes the sad heart sing
And all join in with merry mirth
And cares fly out, for them no berth
The ale that bred fair Englands brood
Awakes the Muse of bardic mood
And he with songs will loud acclaim
the joys of love 'twixt maid and swain.
The night wears on and words wax warm
Ans some will treat and some will squarm
But all will hark to the knowing one
who talks the night till words are gone
As the hour to part draws sadly nigh
And tankards filled are now drained dry
The merry swain calls for another
And the stranger now becomes a brother
Then all will sing a roundelay
And fix a time for another day
Then sally forth content and full
Their long goodnights the heartstrings pull
Oh! let these rural joys remain
That rid the labouring hearts of pain
And find such happyness within
The house they call the "Roebuck Inn"
So called because when he was young he thought he could fly and jumped from a barn window.
Pel is short for Pellets as apparently he used to to play cards for money with others which was illegal until the 1960's They would go up Cross Edge where he could see all around for the local bobby. Apparently he had an air gun which he took with him as an excuse as to why they were out up the fields in case the bobby came for him. I think the story that he shot a policeman's hat off with his pellet gun is apocryphal.
He lived in Short Street opposite the Lump of Coal and had a reputation of being awkward or colywessun as we say in Brown Edge I was always admonished by my father as "that's the Pel in you" if I was being awkward or naughty (Pel was my Great Uncle)
Apart from once embarrassingly calling him Mr Bacca, I have several memories of this character. He lived at the top of Fiddlers Bank and was the grandfather of my friend Alan Adderly and I remember him showing us how to make both Puss nets and long nets (to catch rabbits in) He told us stories of how he and others would traipse all over the fields to catch rabbits in his younger days. He also told us how to catch hare, (which is a fair skill) call rabbits and foxes. While sitting and telling us these things he could spit into the fire between a kettle and pan that were warming there. As a boy I was impressed with this skill! I wish I could remember all the stories!
I think my first memory of him was at someone's funeral or memorial service (i think it was my Great uncle Bill Tomkinsons) he was sitting on a Tombstone dressed in old fashioned black clothes with a hat just like off the front of the quaker oat box! My dad asked him if he was coming in and he said "nay ar onner goin in theyre, its dooas thee see not dooas thee doo in theyr" which roughly translated means that The Church Of England was always saying what you should do rather than setting an example itself!
I think i am right in saying that his sister ran off to join Buffalo Bills Circus! I ought to mention his wife who was a slight woman who always seemed to be working hard washing clothes etc and dashing around the village.
Kiteing was a Brown Edge boys favorite pastime and every boy knew how to make a kite. "If thee kate goos up an dine theyts got too much teelins an if its goinn from seyd t seyd theyasne gotenuf". The more skillful having a piece of string so long that it needed several kites to keep it in the air. I remember my Uncle Edwin Turner telling me of a time when he and Sam had a a kite string so long that it stretched from Highest Point across to the Rocks over the Hollow (St Anne's Vale) unfortunately the string broke and they had to bike up to Smallthorne to get it where it got stuck on some lines.
Another story involving Sam Bang was a habit of his to place a clod on the chimneys of the houses down St Anne's Vale now called Rose Cottage, and to wait until the owners would come out coughing and choking.
Sam Bangs real name was Sam Willott he lived on Bank End and then down Norton Green
Jimmy and Billy Cud
Two old Brown Edgers brothers who were great Poachers. They both lived to a good age and were practically blind. One incident I remember was when i was a boy Paul Santrean took over from our old village barber Tommy Moore and Billy Cud and came in for a haircut. Paul was a little confused as Billy asked for a short back and sides as he was practically bald! The conversation went something like this.
"Eh up lad arve cum futaircut. Oo at enyrood."
"I'm Paul Santrean"
"thcobblers lad?"
Yes Mr Cud thats me.
"narthen cost do me air".
"Mr Cud you are practically bald"
"Arnow lad thats cuz i av meair cut every wake, just do it lark tummy did wut".
"whatever you say Mr Cud".
Most people called him Mr Cud although this was his knickname as his real name was Hancock.
Another tale was told to me about how the night before they had been given a laxitive in the Miners Arms and as they both were famed on their poaching and tracking abilities they were the but of several jokes the next day by fellow villagers who said they had no problem in tracking their way home because of the trail they left behind!
The Lump of Coal (cob o slack)
The drinkers pub! Probably one of the oldest houses on Brown Edge and obviously renovated and changed over the years.
Made famous by Arthur Berry in his book Dandelions
LAMENT FOR THE LUMP OF COAL
The public house known as The Lump of Coal is closed forever
The Brewery have sold it for fifteen thousand pounds
The brass handle on the tap room door has been
unscrewed
and with the bar pumps and the wooden squab from the snug
sold as a job lot for little or nothing
the iron legged tables from the smoke room
are stacked in the back yard
and the greenhouse that stood by the whitewashed urinal
has been dismantled and carted off
oven the oak beam from which a publican sodden in drink
hung himself years ago has been sold
to make a fireplace in a solicitor’s bungalow I am told
everything is to be changed
the stone wall under the hawthorn hedge
where the colliers used to sit in summer
and the red quarries the cool red quarries by the back door
where the whippets lay out of the sun all are being dug up
The Lump of Coal was the last public house between the pit and the moor
perched high on an outcrop of rock
between a wood of fir trees and Stake Gutter Farm
even in summer there was always a wind blowing
and in winter it often blew so hard
you could hear it down the smoke room chimney like a muffled roar
this ale house was licensed for singing and music was very lively betimes
it was in the smoke room here
the old Ale and Bacca band drank their barrel of beer
won for playing non stop up Blackie Bank
and in the smoke room every Sunday night
Mr Slyvanus Plimbley, a local preacher gone to the bad
would sing “No Rose in All the World” with tears in his eyes
while outside at good times
an old box and rake collier called Thick Finger Jack
would dance and rattle his clogs on the cellar door
at the same time playing Rule Britannia on
a fiddle made from a corn beef tin
this man had one leg, but such was his resource
he made himself a wooden one with a window
hinge for the knee
it was men like these and such as these
that did their drinking in this stone house
it is their ghosts that will lament its closing most
will at nights have very troubled sleep