Picnic time in the 1950's and 2008
So there I am trying to drag the kids up the mountains (Mynnedd Maen and Blaen Bran) for a walk with the dog (you know the dog, it's the "I promise I'll take the dog for a walk every day if we can have a dog Dad" dog) ... and it's like pulling teeth!!!
I can't seem to pry them off the radiator to which they cling complaining that it's cold outside.
I can't seem to get their wellies on which they claim makes them look like Doofusses (what the hell is a doofus?)
I can't seem to stop them pining for the computer/TV/PS2 & etc which they claim are far more interesting than a walk.
Despite the above I finally manage to bribe them into coming for the walk.
It's still like pulling teeth and each step is like a mile for them ("Oh, God, Dad, can't we take a short cut?)
So I regale them with memories of mountain walks and picnics with my parents back in the 1950's:
(Yes, I know, I left children till late - my mid and late 40's - so some of you might see the above in your grandchildren!!!)
I remember, I tell them, coming up here with my Mum, my Dad, my twin brother and our dog, Trixie.
Dad would bring three `Billy` cans, the ex army issue aluminium oblong ones with folding handles that "sat" inside each other like matryoshka dolls and a box of England's Glory while my Mother would bring a bag that contained 4 cups, 2 spoons, tea, sugar, milk, ham and or cheese sandwiches, a bottle of Corona Dandelion and Burdock, a couple of packets of crisps (potato flavour) some apples and a blanket.
My brother and I would bring a bat, ball, a length of twine, a couple of old playing cards and our sheath knives.
We had the picnic thing down to a fine art:
My brother would find bracken and kindling, Dad would build the stone ring fireplace, I would go and get some logs, our mother would set the blanket out, place the above mentioned foodstuffs thereon and Trixie would keep an eye on the food in the vain hope that my mother would turn her back on it.
My father would then light the fire and we would all shift around it until we were comfortable watching it grow bigger and warmer.
When the fire was established we would get out the bat and ball and cut three stumps from a tree and play cricket until we were all out at least twice which gave my brother and I a chance to either bowl, catch or stump each other out which we then considered a fair result.
Then my Dad, my brother and I would go to the stream to fill two of the `Billy` cans with water and the picnic would start in earnest.
Dad would place the `Billy` on the fire and our mother would pour Dandelion and Burdock pop into two of the cups so that my brother and I could sate our thirsts.
Next she would put a couple of spoons of tea into the third `Billy` and pour some milk into the other two cups.
Dad would light his pipe from an ember he took out of the fire, Mum would have a Woodbine and we would all lie back and relax in the summer sunshine while the Billy boiled on the fire.
We said little for the few minutes it took the water to boil and even now I can close my eyes and relax in the warmth of that scene.
The occasional rustle of branches in a light breeze, a sheep bleating once or twice in the distance, the stream babbling like pleasant tinnitus in the background.
But mostly I remember the aromatic clouds of smoke from my Father's pipe, Saint Bruno ready rubbed flake, floating over my head and into my nostrils (Worryingly we had little care for secondary smoking in those times!!!).
Then the water would boil and the spell would be broken.
My mother then made the tea and we fell upon the food with gusto.
Trixie would look longingly at each of us and we would toss her tidbits from all corners of the picnic which she would catch first time every time!
The feast being over my brother and I would take our knives and cut bows (remember the twine?) and arrows which we cut to a fine point and then put cross cuts on the bottom end to insert "feathers" (remember the old playing cards?) we would then shoot the arrows into the air or at targets while Dad continued to smoke his pipe and our Mother kept a careful eye on silly boys with pointy sticks!!!
Eventually dusk would creep upon us and Mum would then use the second `Billy` for another cuppa and we would huddle around the shrinking fire drinking smoky loose leaf sweet tea and then we would leave, making sure that the fire was out, all litter was taken home and all gates firmly closed behind us.
My children listened intently as I narrated the above and their walk was "shortened" because of my story.
We too had our picnic and we too took our litter home.
My children asked what I liked best about my childhood picnics and I said that I enjoyed being with my family the most.
They said that they felt the same.
That gladdened my heart.
They still seem to think that computers and TVs are better than walks but they do enjoy the walk when they are pressed into it and are upon it!!
You see?
Not everything is grumpy!
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The school holidays (or not), a long hot summer and the Blaen Bran reservoirs
The following memory is another essay that was placed on the “Cwmbran” website (link on the links page) last year.
Like the above it relates to a more peaceful time when Hoodies did not roam the streets and you could leave your bike outside overnight and still find it there the following day!
The “Eighties” refers to a swimming hole in Cwmbran where it was reputed the depth went to 80 feet.
After reading my brother's tales of the "Eighties" I began reminiscing about my secret swimming holes.
An aside first on the "Eighties" itself: (A swimming hole I was too young to have indulged myself in) I was told by My mother the story of my Dad's sister, Mary, who was banned by her parents from visiting the "Eighties".
The boys from Griffithstown would walk through Grange Road on their way to the "Eighties" and stand outside Mary's house waving their swimming trunks and shout "Up and away the "Dolphin" (Aunty Mary had a reputation as a bit of a swimmer and was nicknamed the Dolphin) and Mary, despite her parents ban, would tie her costume around a towel, throw it down to the boys and jump out of her bedroom window and join them at the "Eighties". Now, it was also said that on a number of occasions her parents confiscated her costume. The Dolphin attended regardless!!!!! Such was the allure of cool water on a hot day!!!
Now let's fast forward to the 1960's:
.
The reservoirs at Blaen Bran;
There were originally two of them, the large lower trapezium shaped basin and the triangular smaller upper basin. The lower was the better of the two due to the maintenance platform that extended some 50 foot out into the "Rez". You had to climb an entrance gate and negotiate the barbed wire guard that surrounded it before being able to reach the end of the platform/tower and then jump off.
Depending on various factors determining the depth of the Rez such as the time of year, the temperature, even the day of the week, the jump, or dive for the brave/foolhardy, from platform to water could be anything from a couple of feet to ten or 12. I honestly remember it being closer to twenty during one particularly hot summer!
We never knew the actual depth of the Rez so I guess at the time it was a fairly foolhardy thing to do!!!
Truants;
The higher of the two basins was mainly used when "Mwching" school as one had the the high ground (geographical not moral) and could spot either: The beat Bobby, Sgt. Ruffells, Mr. Eacott, the truant officer (the mwching man) or any water board workers and you could then leg it quickly into the forest, past the Mountain Air Inn and over to the Lamb Inn where you were out of Mr. Eacott's area! Dry by the time you ran there and the oldest looking of the Mwchers would go in and get a couple of pints of cider!!! If I had been swimming "On a Mwch" then I would simply put my trunks and towel back into my school Duffell bag. If it was on a weekend I would let my parents think I had spent the day at either Griff baths or at Stow Hill in Newport.
We always thought it best to not let our parents know the truth of these things as my Mother had:
(A) A worrying story about a boy who drowned in the reservoir and (B) A right hand so fast that that you never saw it until it made contact with your left ear!!!
Happy days and happy memories of Richard Lawrence, Ray Jones, Barry Page and Howard Lloyd to name but a few.
I still visit the Blaen Bran woodlands for a walk with the family and or the dog.Since the Rez fell out of use many years ago you can often see almost to the bottom of the basin. I should think that the actual depth must be some thirty foot It is, however, a very sad sight at the moment due to the dumping of rubbish (yes, the ubiquitous Asda trolley is there!!!), lumps of tree trunk and dead sheep! There are even burnt out cars in the overflow gulleys!!!!!
I also recall a one off visit to the small Rez at Henllys but that is a dim memory as it was so much easier to walk up the road for a mile to the Blaen Bran pools. Also, the Llantarnam boys used the Henllys Rez so us Upper Cwmbran boys tended to shy away from that whole area! Discretion is the better part of valour!
The river Usk offered good swimming but that was even rarer than Henllys due to the distance involved.
Ah, another toe stubbing hour down memory lane.
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Tunnels and water, such special things to children and boys in particular!!!
Here are a few I remember well:
The Long Tunnel above Five Locks, only navigable if you were on the water. Luckily a mate, Phillip Pattimore, had a canoe and I was able to paddle under it. I can still remember the smell of the old damp brick work and the stalacthingies (I can never remember which is up and which is down!) and marvelling at the strength of the keystone!
Then there was the short tunnel just below the Lock keepers cottage on the down side of Five Locks which ran under the canal and on through the "Rec" under another little bridge and thence under the road to the park opposite the cenotaph (more of that later). I remember the short tunnel as being easily passable but it was always a test to get through it without getting your feet wet. Quite a feat due to the way one had to hop skip and jump from stone to stone and try to keep balanced!
Now, who remembers the small tunnel (still there) just a little further down from the short tunnel?
It was a small (about two feet high) round tunnel that ran in a straight line under the canal from the "Rec" to the field opposite.
It was a real frightener that one!!!
You had to get on your hands and knees and crawl through while trying to avoid getting wet clothes.A little easier in those days as we always wore short trousers!
I remember being the second of three crawling under it and having the first claim he was stuck and then number three doing same.
I was bloody petrified!!!!
The few seconds their joke lasted seemed like a claustrophobic eternity!!!
I think it was Ian Powell and Phillip Pattimore (the gits!!!).
OK, lets go back up the canal bank a little and to the barge mooring/passing point just above the lock keepers cottage.
Here there was an overflow tunnel that had a turn in it and was feared by one and all.
One day we decided we would check it out properly.
Armed with a torch, wellies and a football we crossed to the other side and put the ball into the entrance and then ran to the lower end of the tunnel to see if the ball came out. Eventually it did!
We knew that there was a bend in the tunnel which was why we wanted a torch.
We sat there for hours daring each other to go first.
I'll follow if you go first. No, you tricked me in the little tunnel, I'll go last!
Let's draw straws. No, you know how to fiddle them! We never did go down that one.
There was a rumour that Michael Foley did it but it was never substantiated!
It remains to this day, a dark mysterious challenge never met!
OK, back to the tunnel under the road to the park opposite the Cenotaph:
The stream wound, as noted above, down from the culvert under the canal (the Short tunnel) and had it's source in the mountain streams up around Blaen Bran.
Myself, Phillip Pattimore, Ian Powell, Alan Bennett and Jimmy Palfrey were walking under it to get to the park (yes, I know how silly that sounds when you realise that we only had to cross the road but we were explorers, navigators, boys with a passion for the wetter darker places in and around Pontnewydd).
Anyway, about half way in, Phillip Pattimore slipped and put his hand down to steady himself.
"Boys, I think I've found a grenade" he says.
"Yeah, sure" we reply. "No, really, a grenade" "Bugger off, Phillip"
We get to the other side of the tunnel and Phillip has in his hand a bloody grenade!!!
It's very old and very rusty but we can easily see that it is indeed a bloody grenade!
What three things are a recipe for disaster? Boys, bombs and bravado!
We take it in turn to hold it, marvelling at it's shape, weight and it's potential to kill the bloody lot of us in an instant!
I hold it and, in a moment of sheer bloody insanity, start juggling it from hand to hand, tossing it higher and higher with each pass.
The boys begin drifting slowly and then quickly away from me and it is their distance that brings me back into the realms of sanity.
We decided that we should take it to my father as he was a soldier during the war and was also at that time a member of the T.A.
We showed it to my dad who immediately took it off us and gave it to P.C. Ruffles who lived at the end of the street.
What happened after that I do not know. We were warned to not ever, ever, ever pick up anything like that again or to do anything as bloody stupid as that again.
Heads bowed in embarrassed and contrite silence we shuffled away from my eminently sensible father and his extremely sage advice.
We ran like hell straight back to the tunnel to see if we could find any more! But but never did!
There was another tunnel at the far end of the park which took the stream under the railway line and it was always a dare to sit under the tunnel when a train was passing over. You could not hear yourself think!!!!
As I grew older I became more interested in girls and bus stops (snogging stations) than water and tunnels.
I did, however, take a wet trip down memory lane recently and walked under the Short Tunnel and even managed to stay dry.
The little tunnel did not even tempt me!!!
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Cwmbran memories
Where to begin?
The New Bridge End Inn above GKN on the canal bank where I had my first pint, 1966, in a pub. I was fifteen and with my old sparring partner Barry Page. Courage bitter (my uncle Walter said you needed a bitter courage to drink it!!!)
My first "proper" girlfriend, Mary Tanner, and my first proper kiss in a bus shelter on Llantarnam road on the Newport side of the cemetery.
Going out with her best friend Frances Jenkins afterwards.
Saturday shopping trips to Newport on a Western Welsh bus that had a conductor, a cigarette stubber screwed onto the back of the seat in front and upholstered seats and when the Old Green crossing lights at Newport Castle were still there.
We always said that if we got through the lights without stopping it was a good omen.
I honestly remember being stuck at those lights for up to 10 minutes!!!!
Heated debates with your friends about which was the best park in Cwmbran/Pontnewydd.
For me it was the park on the canal bank just down and opposite the old Cwmbran Gardens pub.
A witches hat roundabout, swings, a horse ride with eight seats and a huge swing made of a plank with half a dozen seats and room enough for two people to stand at either end and make the whole thing go almost parallel with the top and all on a concrete base!!!
There was also the putting green (sixpence for the loan of a club and a ball and stay all day if you wanted) the bowling green, the tennis courts and, poshest of all, the grass tennis court!!!!!
A water tap and some good local scrumping on the way home.
Talking to the old men from the old peoples home opposite Deakins' shop at five locks, some of whom were born in the 1860's!!!!
Shooting a slug gun for the first time.
Being in the choir at Holy Trinity with Vicar Redd as the incumbent.
Five bob for a wedding or a funereal.
The old wood stove at Holy Trinity church school where miss Beese would let us sit near in winter as she taught us the words to "Now the day is over, night is drawing nigh, shadows of the evening steal across the sky"
Narrowly avoiding the cane from Harold Waters (someone said he was a hero for pulling a child out of the canal? Probably pushed the poor little sod in!!!) but getting caned by Digger Edwards for (and I still maintain my innocence) allegedly throwing a potato at Gareth Poulton !!!
I liked Gareth and would never throw a spud at him!!!
How about (it's been 40 years since this one so there must be a limitation on it) "Acquiring" a barrel of beer from outside the GKN workingman's club, hiding it in the woods up from the club and getting drunk for free while `mwching` school and avoiding Mr. Eacott the `mwching man`!!!
I'd like to thank BP, IJ, RL, RJ and HL for their help in rolling out the barrel all the way to the woods.
Opening the fire exit door at the cinema to let your mates in (is there ANYONE who did not do this at some time or another?)
Lying through your teeth about your age to get in to see a Dracula film.
Probably best not to mention the wheelbarrow that "Fell" out of the 22nd floor of the multi storey block of flats during the tower's construction after it somehow got in the lift and went to the top of it's own accord (ish)
As I tell the residents at the hostel where I work: Be good, but if you can't be good, don't get *!**ing caught!!!!!
I could go on all night but the above will have to suffice.
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I recently mentioned my first drink in a pub, the Bridgend above G.K.N. on the canal bank.
On Friday the 7th of September 2008 I was having a drink with my older brother Graham, over here from the Channel Island of Guernsey.
We, along with our Cockney cousin, Roy, arranged to meet an old friend of Graham's at the Pontnewydd Workingman's Club.
I commented that there was no real ale in the club and suggested that we go to the New Bridgend for a pint and explained to the chaps that it was the first pub I had ever been served in with beer.
We went but we were saddened to find that there was no real ale there either!
We walked along the canal bank to the Old Bridgend.
No real ale!
We went to the Oddfellows in the village.
No real ale!!!
We were about to go into the Pontnewydd Inn to try our luck there but the start of a fight was just spilling out onto the street so we remained in the safe but ale free environment of the Oddys where a local kindly informed us that there was no real ale there either!!!
What the hell is going on here?
Have we regressed back to those terrible times after the invention of Watney's Red Barrel, Double Diamond (Never worked a wonder for me!) and Allbright and before the formation of C.A.M.R.A.?
As someone who adores decent pubs and a decent ale I was truly shocked to find my old pubs in such a sorry state!
I remember Saturday's in the 1960's thus: Meet the boys at lunch time for a pint in the Yew Tree, a game of three card brag and a shilling in the juke box.
Next, the Queen for a pint and a pie followed by a walk to the Bush for a pint and a game of darts.
After this one we went up the Mountain Air for a pint, a pickled egg and the juke box (2 songs for a tanner there!!).
Now this is where it got silly.
The Mountain Air closed at three but the Lamb was in the Pontypool licensing area so it stayed open until four.
So it was a trek along the mountain road and a pint in the Lamb.
A couple of pints there until chucking out at about four thirty and then we slowly walked back to the Yew Tree for five thirty!
A decent real ale in every pub and we walked off the lunch time effects and we were fit enough for the evening session in the Yew Tree.
(change from £2 if you were wondering about the cost!!!)
Friday's was always the Old Bridge, the New Bridge, GKN's club for a game of snooker and finish up in the Yew Tree for last orders.
Again, a decent pint in all of them.
I have probably drank in every pub in Cwmbran (Pontnewydd, Croesy, Llanyravon, Henllys etc) and I remember each of them as welcoming watering holes with a ready supply of decent ales for the thirsty man.
I admit that I am a grumpy old man but I think I am grumpy in part because of the death of decent boozers in Cwmbran.
Let me finish on this sad note:
The Pub With No Beer
(Parson)
G Am
Verse 1: It's lonesome away from your kindred and all
D G
By the camp fire at night where the wild dingos call
G Am
But there's nothing so lonesome so morbid or drear
D Am G
Than to stand in a bar of a pub with no beer
Verse 2: Now the publican's anxious for the quota to come
There's a far away look on the face of the bum
The maid's gone all cranky and the cook's acting queer
What a terrible place is a pub with no beer
Verse 3: Then the stock-man rides up with his dry dusty throat
He breasts up to the bar a wad from his coat
But the smile on his face quickly turns to a sneer
When the barman said sadly: 'The Pub's got no beer'
Verse 4: There's a dog on the 'randa-h for his master he waits
But the boss is inside drinking wine with his mates
He hurries for cover and cringes in fear
It's no place for a dog round a pub with no beer
Verse 5: Old Billy the blacksmith first time in his life
Has gone home cold sober to his darling wife
He walks in the kitchen she says 'You're early my dear'
But he breaks down and tells her 'The pub's got no beer'
Repeat Verse 1
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Scrumping in the fifties, a `gay` bike and a clip across the ear
I remember that there was an orchard behind the old wooden cub/scout hut in the “Rec” (recreation field) just off the canal bank by Pontnewydd Park and bowling green.
I believe that the orchard may have belonged to the Cwmbran Gardens Public House of which there is more elsewhere on this site.
Myself, PP, IP and JP, all of us were around the age of 8 at the time, went on our bikes to the `Rec` to play cricket but for some strange reason took the sharp left up the side lane as opposed to going straight on after the footbridge that spanned the small stream that ran down from Blaen Bran up in the mountain, down through Upper Cwmbran, alongside Bluebell Wood at Maes Glas, on to feed the Afon Llywd and thence to join the Usk then the Severn Estuary and into the great beyond!
It seemed like a good idea at the time I suppose (rather like juggling a hand grenade!!!) and no naughty intent was afoot at that time.
However, when four 8 year olds spy apples dangling off the trees with only a small fence and no people around they begin to get naughty thoughts!
They even begin to justify them: Well, there are a lot of apples there and it is a warm day and we are going to get hungry and thirsty playing cricket and rather than let them fall and rot on the ground we could pick just one each, or perhaps two just in case.
My brother would like an apple, so if I took one home for him that would be like a good deed, said IP.
We all heartily concurred that that would indeed be a kind thing to do, so if we took maybe three each but no more, well four just in case we dropped one that it would be ok!
We parked our bikes and crept towards the fence. As we got closer the fence began to get bigger and we realised that it would be easier to crawl under the loose bit at the bottom of the fence with one of us holding the fence up while the others went under and reciprocated at the other side.
IP lifted the fence; I went in first followed by JP and PP. Once over we lifted the fence for IP to join us.
Once we were all in we looked at the trees. They were huge, they were full, they were weighed down with their Autumnal delights, each apple seemed as big as a coconut and as red as the florid faced man that appeared from nowhere shouting “I know's you, you, you and you! I know's your parents and I knows Mr. Ruffells (the local bobby) and I also knows that you are all in big trouble”
We did not bother pulling the fence up, we cleared it in single leaps like Hurdlers at the Commonwealth Games.
Onto our bikes and I swear we did wheelies down the lane.
IP shouted, “I dropped the ball”, referring to the cricket ball we brought with us to play in the `rec` with, “Leave it” I shouted,
“It’s my brother’s corky ball, he’ll kill me”
“He’ll kill you first” I screamed pointing at the owner of the orchard who was shaking his fist at us.
So we pedalled furiously away as if the hounds of Hell themselves were chasing us and did not stop until we got back to our homes.
“OK, what do we do now?” IP asked.
We did not know. The only thing we did know was that if our parents found out we had been scrumping we would get a clip or two around the ear and, as noted in another memory, my mother had a mighty right hand!
“Will he tell?”
“No, he doesn’t really know us”, said PP, “I think he was bluffing”
“Yeah, but he’d recognise us again” I said.
The implications were not good: He could identify us in an identification parade should Mr. Ruffells organise one.
(Don’t you love the naive thoughts of the 8 year old?
“He could recognise our clothes and our bikes”, said JP.
“Right, here’s what we do”, I said, taking control of the situation.
We change our clothes now and then we paint our bikes, then we go to the park and make out we were there all day”
“Brilliant!” the other’s said in unison.
We changed in record time without our parents realizing that we were even in the house...
Then we went to look in each of our coal bunkers/sheds for any old paint stored therein.
The only tin I could find was pink emulsion. My mother had just finished decorating her bedroom and she had a penchant for pastels.
I found an old paint brush and painted my bike. I was not exactly careful and the job took only 15 minutes including spokes and chain!
A little later we met up on the road.
Three black emulsion bikes and a pink one.
We went the top way to the canal bank, rode down past the Lock keepers cottage and on around the canal towards the Cwmbran Gardens, keeping a weather eye on the Cub hut and the orchard at the back of it.
“There’s my brother’s corky ball” shouted IP pointing at a bright red leather clad orb sitting forlornly in the lane about 40 yards below us.
“Go get it, Skusey, he’ll never recognise your bike, and ours look a bit normal compared to yours”
I had to concede the point; my bike did stick out like a big sore pink thumb in comparison to the others.
“What’s it worth?” I asked realizing that I could at least make a bit of pocket money out of the situation.
“I’ll pay for the golf at the park” said IP.
“OK”, I said and pedaled down the rocky incline from the canal bank past the cub hut and onto the side lane. I picked the ball up, my radar going mad all the while looking for the slightest movement in my peripheral vision.
Placing the ball in my pocket I began to pedal back up the lane to rejoin the boys on the canal bank.
It was then that I saw the real prize.
About three foot in from the top end of the fence were four huge apples bunched together on a branch.
If I could get those I would not only have my golf fees paid by IP but I would also be a hero!
I rode slowly up the lane and looked carefully around.
No one there.
I leaned over the fence but was just unable to reach the apples.
I put the bike against the fence held my breath, climbed on the saddle and leaned over again.
The bike went right, I went left.
The bike stayed in the lane I went into the orchard.
I grabbed at anything to break my fall.
I caught the bunch of apples!
All four in my hand, there stalks bound together by a thin twig that had been attached to the branch.
I heard a rustle in the garden and saw a black and white spaniel come sniffing towards me.
I made the fence in a single leap once more and pedaled back towards the boys with the apples up my jumper.
I did it!
No one other than the dog saw me.
I was a hero!!!
We went to the park where I played free miniature golf all afternoon and we had an apple each and went home.
I also had a belt around the ear from my mother for getting my “Best” trousers covered in pink paint.
I had painted the bloody saddle as well!!!!!
Looking back I tell myself, “Worth the clip across the ear, those apples”
And then I respond, “Bloody wasn’t, there was always apples in our house, my father had two apple trees in our own garden!!!”