|
Portrait of
a Parish - Page 23
Reminiscences of Stan Wicks - Early 1900's
Now, a grand conglomeration to give you the music of Tucking
Mill Lane. In summer, the stridulations of countless
grasshoppers intermingled with the cry of "a little bit of bread
and no cheese" from several colourful yellowhammers. When the
wheat was ripe in the cornfield, flocks of marauding sparrows
would land in the hedge, give a burst of chirps and be gone
again. Among the buttercups, celandines, daisies, cinquefoils,
plantains, mallows, dandelions, ragged robins and
jack-by-the-hedge that grew on the road verges, were docks to
assuage the suffering of those who had been stung by the
nettles. Across the brook .... were riches indeed in summer.
Bird nests, primroses, bluebells and wild asparagus among the
wood and on the side near Hamlen's field was a walnut tree and a
crab-apple that had to be visited. I recall the mystery of the
changing colours of the countryside, the vagaries of the
weather, the dawn chorus and the return of the nightingale,
cuckoo, blackcap, chiffchaff and swallow in spring. The hot days
of summer, and the countless number of creatures and flowers all
contributed to the magic of Tucking Mill.
The brook was fascinating and attracted us kids like a
magnet. The one consuming occupation was bathing in the brook.
We learned to swim with the aid of water wings. The ones we used
were two large stoppered tins tied together with string, on
which we were supported. I remember the day I discarded my
treacle tins and struck out unsupported. I was amazed I did not
sink to the bottom it was so easy. Sometimes you might catch
sight of a kingfisher perched on a log, ready to pounce on an
unsuspecting fish. Sometimes there was a noise and confusion in
the valley as the huntsmen and hounds came to hunt the otter,
with very little result. The dogs spent most of the time chasing
rabbits. I don't even remember seeing an otter. Following the
course of the stream through the Ponies Field, we find that
nearly all the trees on its banks are alders. Now father was a
bait of a medicine man and would harvest the cone-like berries,
boil them in lovely spring water, drain off the grimy looking
liquid and bottle it. This elixir was guaranteed to cure boils
and sold at a tanner a bottle. Whether it ever cured anybody I
don't know.
I was once going with a few friends on one of our usual
adventures along the brook side, our purpose as usual was birds
nesting, especially moorhens. If we were successful the eggs
would go into a tin of water and we would make a small fire and
cook them to sustain us on the journey. On this particular
morning, there was a tall gentleman with a fishing rod on what
we reckoned to be our territory, and we didn't like it. He said
"Hello lads, where are you going so bright and early?" I said we
were going for a walk, at which he replied, "What with a tin on
a wire?" Then I knew he must be a detective sent down from
Scotland Yard to catch boys with tins intent on robbing birds
nests which was against the law. I was so convinced of this that
I ran back home leaving my companions nonplussed, by the water.
On the whole, the valley was picturesque and charming. When
revisiting the place, I began to envisage a lake instead of the
Fullers Earth works and a Castle, shrouded in the mist in the
background. Magically the lake has materialised without any
effort from me. One thing is certain, I'll always remember
Tucking Mill.
Stan Wicks:
page 21 -
page 22 - page 23
|
