Yorkshire Lad: Past Pleasures
"A catalogue of what I miss from times gone by may be reminders of a less affluent society than today's, but they seem to make for an age of contentment and security,'' says Tom Hellawell in this tasty slice of his early Yorkshire life.
When recalling the sights, sounds and events from years past, I wonder if it is only joys that are missed, or is it not also the loss of youth?
A catalogue of what I miss from times gone by may be reminders of a less affluent society than today’s, but now they seem to make for an age of contentment and security.
Although I must admit the winters of old do not remain the fondest of memories. Bedrooms frigidly aired still linger in the mind, and no matter what story books of the day told, or the enthusiasm exuded by our school teachers, frosty mornings are not part of my enjoyable recall. I did not stand, sit or lie gazing at Jack Frost’s delicate traceries on the insides of bedroom windows.
Frosty evenings created a different situation.
In bygone days all good fish ‘oils fried their products in beef dripping, very flavoursome, if not wholesome, so we are told today. Yet what can compare with that mouth-watering aroma such a combination produced?
When deeply sniffed on a cold, crisp, clear, dark night with the reek from coal-fired fish-frying ranges ascending in a blue-grey column into the wintry sky, then such a heady bouquet titillated the taste buds almost beyond endurance. Add to that the chemical combination of salt and vinegar, and there is an unforgettable remembrance.
Those were the days when trams shook and sparked along predestined lines. Ungainly looking, top-heavy conveyances, they rattled and rocked their way into history carrying with them aromas of Jeyes Fluid, heated metal, whining machinery and clanging bells. Veritable transports of delight.
Gone also is the once almost constant clatter of horses’ hooves on cobblestones, or their dull thud into powdered clinker, boiler rakings from mills which themselves have been pounded into the past.
Along with such sounds came the crunch of iron-bound cartwheels as they were hauled along by Shire horses, beauties to behold. Harness brasses and chains jingling whilst their smaller cousins drew brightly painted floats whose colours contrasted starkly with drab, soot-stained surroundings.
The village smithy has followed the same road into partial obscurity. Today farriers compete at agricultural shows, exhibiting their craft to fascinated onlookers, when such work was once a daily occurrence.
The local smithy of my recall was tucked into the corner of a yard, its doorway high and wide allowing easy access for the heavy dray and farm horses, they to be followed through a descending weight scale. Horses belonging to local tradesman, all of which are missed today. Milkmen, ice cream vendors, greengrocers, general dealers and rag tatters with their ponies.
Fond memories exist of an open market on dark nights with bulbous naphtha lamps hissing, their clustered mantles incandescently white.
Sunday school bun fights on Saturday afternoons in winter. The smell of hot tea in burnished urns and schoolroom windows curtained in condensation helping keep fresh the potted meat sandwiches and jelly trifles.
A fairground with its blaring musical steam organ, boxing booth, freak shows, hoopla stalls, roll-a-penny booths, shooting galleries, coconut shies. Flashing coloured electric bulbs illuminating the scene, creating dancing shadows of happy fair-goers. Chats frying in hot fat, the sweet aroma from brandy snaps, striped humbugs and hefty, sugary jellies.
Fairground traction engines churning out smoke and steam, their driving belts hissing from pulley to pulley, creating pleasure with every revolution.
Gaily painted wagons, high swinging steam yachts and gleaming brass wear.
Cinders under foot, cinders in the air, proof that coal was king in every home and factory.
Memories from former days roll by.
Clog iron clatter, women in shawls, the tang of new leather from a cobbler’s shop, fresh sawdust on the floor of a butcher’s shop, pleasant yet unidentifiable scents in the chemist’s, the click and snip of hand shears and scissors in the barber’s, along with a razor rasping on stubbled chins, hair pomade and gossip.
The huff and puff of goods engines in shunting yards, a glowing night watchman’s roadside brazier.
Street cries from hawkers, a scissors grinder, the long ago squeak from new footwear and the thrill of wearing new clothes.
The ‘tingalary’ barrel organ man plays no more, but he, along with all the other past characters, remain in the memory.
