CHARNEY HALL Reminiscences 1
Rev 26 Feb 2023 : Mr Vanderkist’s photo added
Rev 13 Mar 2024 : Photo of Shooting Range added
I was there between 1953-58. To some, the masters, the end of WW2 must have seemed just like yesterday but to me as a boy of 9, dressed in my new school outfit - a Charney Hall cap, grey wool suit, white shirt, maroon tie and snake clasped striped belt, it was a generation away.
I remember the school with both affection and trepidation, with its limestone buildings, its location at the top of Charney Well Lane with a magnificent view south over Morecambe Bay, the giant monkey puzzle tree on the left of the beech hedged drive, the smell of cut grass , the inspiring sunsets over Morecambe Bay, the tidal bore, the walks along the promenade and through the ornamental gardens and on Hampsfell, Ruth the cook, Charlie and Herbert the gardeners, slugs and countless greenflies in the lettuce, picking red berries which were served later that day at tea time with white blancmange, and those Magpie caterpillars which we found in the foliage, fried bread and sugar desert which I detested.......but I can't remember learning a thing!
The first master I came across was poor old Mr Hopkins - it was rumoured that he was at least 72 years old - he taught us copperplate writing with at first a steel nibbed dip pen, replenished with Parker Quink ink held in the desk inkwell and if you were good and formed your letters well, you progressed to a brass nib. We honed our calligraphic skills with lines and lines of identical script till the end of each lesson............what was all that about?
Mr McCullagh's history lessons consisted of learning the dates of kings and queens of England from William I (the beginning of time as we knew it) to our brand new Queen which seemed equally pointless. My aversion to historical facts and figures was sown at this time.
My best memories of Charney are of searching for Poplar Hawk and Puss Moth caterpillar eggs amongst the sweet smelling poplar trees adjacent to the cricket field. This pastime was only available to the keenest 'entomologists' in the summer term. But if we climbed high enough it gave us a front seat view of the headmasters' daughters (cousins Ester Hirst and Janet Duncan) playing tennis, on whom many had a ‘crush’ as testosterone worked its magic!
Each Sunday afternoon some of the choir girls from Grange Parish Church (St Pauls) which we were compelled to attend at 11.00 in the morning, used to walk past on the back lane, peering with interest (or was it pity?) over the limestone wall which formed the upper limit of our world - Lorna, a blond, I remember, and her brunette friend had exchanged their cassocks and floppy caps for somewhat more interesting attire - I wonder what happened to them? There was no chance that we could get to know them as we were all too shy or was it too inexperienced, to take advantage of the situation - masters Fawcett and McCullagh were never far away - I am sure that they had an inkling of what was going on.
Once or twice in the summer term, on a still night with full moon, Maxwell Duncan would set the moth trap out on the grass tennis court. It was constructed out of a wooden box and topped by a plunging acetate funnel with an ultra violet lamp suspended on a frame over the opening. An egg tray was placed in the bottom of the box so that any moths that became entrapped could hide from the shimmering purple light. In the morning it was with great anticipation that the 'privileged few' could visit the trap to view the night's catch. Poplar hawks, eyed hawks, puss moths, tiger moths, ermines, yellow underwings and strange moths that looked like broken birch wood twigs complete with silver bark wings. On a clear moonlit night, when the conditions were just right, many moths would be caught. The hawk moths were spectacular because of their size and unique wing configuration when at rest and the tiger moths because of their bright, garish but beautiful colouring. The vision of so many varieties of moths gave us a brief insight into diverse complexity of nature and the undiscovered nocturnal world that was until that time, completely unbeknown to us.
There was a rumour that, before my time, a pupil had taken a pot shot at the headmaster, Maxwell Duncan with one of the .22 target rifles whilst he was alone on the steps outside the cricket pavilion, located diagonally at far side of the cricket ground. I don't think that anyone found any evidence - but who knows?
Charney Hall, Grange-over-Sands, A Preparatory School - Part 2
Credit: Alison Lebègue (daughter of Esther Hirst)
Mr Hirst who lived in a lovely house on Grange Fell Road had as a second car a 1930s powder blue Invicta Low Chassis Drop Head Coupé. A truly magnificent beast with the longest bonnet that I had ever seen, embellished with an impressive chromed radiator, flanked by 2 enormous headlamps and fitted with spirally wound chromed exhaust pipes which emerged from the side of the bonnet like parts from a power station. He used to bring out the car on inter-school away-matches - Ernseat, Seascale, The Haigh, Rossall and Laurence House. Ernseat and Seascale we normally thrashed but the roles were inevitably and cruelly reversed with Laurence House and Rossall, who at that time had Stanley Matthews as football coach - how could they lose? We all vied to be the person in the front passenger seat in the Invicta who, at Mr Hirst’s command, had to periodically pump up the fuel pressure by means of a giant black bakelite knob on the dashboard. The other passengers had to sit behind a centrally mounted brown canvas windscreen divider, on an uncomfortable bench seat formed by the petrol tank at the back- unbelievably these cars can now change hands for £1M*- what an experience for any young boy. Mr Hirst's second car was another classic, a reliable Morris Minor convertible in which he and his wife Alison toured up the west coast of Scotland to Oban in the summer hols. The Hirsts had two massive St. Bernard dogs which if you were offered a seat in the Invicta and you met up at their house, would give you a thorough licking before you climbed into the car!
* In 2020 a 1931 Invicta S-Type sold for a record for this marque of £1,449,805...that man had real class!
I remember Lennox Aitchison, a master who sadly died in a light aircraft during a flight over the Lake District shortly after he had left the school. Latin and cricket were his forte. He was extremely popular with us, the boys, as he was controversial, a trifle eccentric and as it later transposed a toff, being well connected with the local gentry - the Cavendishes of nearby Holker Hall. We suspected that the masters would occasionally dine on wild fowl and pheasant which he had shot on one of his weekends away. He was enthusiastic, engaging and above all, younger than the others - well he seemed ancient to us but I think, at the time, only 29! We imagined that there were ‘things’ happening between him and the red haired, befreckled Irish matron, Hazel Brown from Enniskillen...I remember when he had to take leave suddenly because his elder brother, a baronet, had died in a shooting accident in the grounds of Coupland Castle in Wooler, Northumberland. There were rumours at Charney regarding the circumstances and we learnt that there was an eight year old son who would inherit the baronetcy under these tragic circumstances.
We took regular walks in the afternoons over Hampsfell to the Hospice. The view north from the limestone slab roof was my first introduction to the Lake District, soon to be experienced at first hand when as a senior boys we would walk in those mountains on summer weekends....and I remember the strange tanks and ponds where we found Great Crested newts which I had never seen before. The newts felt smooth and cold and were black on top, almost invisible in the pools but when disturbed would show their soft, yellow, speckled underbellies.
I still occasionally return to Hampsfell on one of those unforgettable summer days. The sounds of the skylarks and the mixed perfumes of the well-drained, rich green grass paths, typical of limestone country, bordered by tall thickets of pollenating bracken has not changed in half a century. The eager anticipation of seeing a fritillary butterfly winging its way swiftly across the path or a gigantic oak eggar caterpillar crawling in the grass still awakens the excitement and fascination of those days. The strangely patterned limestone pavements (clints) with their deep crevices (grikes) are still there, some sprouting ferns and small trees where once I found and rescued a trapped sheep. Geoffrey Race discovered a small hoard of C18 silver coins hidden deep in a natural crevice (only just large enough to conceal a prostrate man) which was located on the perimeter of a limestone pavement, somewhere just short of the Hospice. Our imaginations ran wild as to why someone would have left money there. From whom was he hiding? Here was firm confirmation to us that even these innocent landscapes had a wild and mysterious past with stories to tell.
And there was another mystery......who was buried in the wall plasterwork of one of the classrooms. Tufts of hair were found in a small hole near the window cill, excavated by successive boys over as many terms. We didn't dare ask. It was not until very much later in life that I learnt that traditional lime plaster had horse hair added as a binder in the mix. My mind could at last relax after the ignorance of youth!
The Toulmin brothers and Michael Coxey had an annual contest for the entomology prize. Everyone else was outclassed by these three boys. Unbelievable cased displays of neatly arrayed specimens of both butterflies and moths, one could argue, appeared to be judged on quantity not quality. However it was not until we discovered that Coxey lived in the New Forest (Mecca for all things entomological), his Dad who drove around in a red Jaguar XK150 sports car, was clearly loaded and an avid collector himself, did we realise that the contest was in reality a forgone conclusion.
I used to enjoy shooting practice - were they preparing us for WW3? I think the guns were kept locked in a cupboard in the wooden carpentry hut, just inside the kitchen garden, which was situated alongside, but at
right angles to the Memorial Hall. They would be formally issued by Major Rabbidge and we had to march along the grass terrace between the football fields, in single file. From there we progressed to the shooting range at the far end, with rifles held at the 'present' position, barrels pointing South over Morecambe Bay. Only upon reaching the Range, when we were ready to shoot, was the ammunition issued....one .22 caliber bullet at a time. We were taught how to hold and fire a rifle in the correct prone position, how to control breathing whilst taking aim and to never point a loaded gun at another person. Procedures were very strictly followed and quite rightly so.. because these were potent weapons whose bullets, we were told by Major Rabbidge, could travel a mile. The combined smell of cordite and gun oil was intoxicating.
I had my favourite rifle - I think that it had a 'Martini single shot action'. The oiled mechanism was silky smooth and was operated by pushing down a thin swan-necked, gunmetalled steel lever. Once opened, each bullet was pushed down a concave chute located on top of the rifle, into the breech before each shot. The gun had a light tan mahogany stock which was rounded in section, french polished and beautifully smooth to the touch. The .22mm bullets were works of art in themselves. They had brightshin drawn brass cartridges which when discharged, had the sharp imprint of the firing pin on their base. I sensed that some rifles’ leaf sights were probably more accurate than others. The sand mound behind the target positions must have been full of lead but we were never allowed to investigate! To the masters shooting practice must have conjured up more serious undertones but to us it was great fun and an opportunity to use a potent weapon and hone our skill to perfection.
A Martini action .22 rifle
Charney Hall Shooting Range
Cartmel village and its Priory were in another parallel universe, frozen in a different world which we only glimpsed on walks. We were shown the arrow marks in one of the oak, wrought iron studded doors on the south wall of thePriory. Rumours circulated that Fawcett and McCullagh would to go drinking in the village after lights out.
Except for Aitchie (Lennox Aitchison) we were never aware that any of the masters had a social life. Raymond Hirst appeared to lead a somewhat privileged existence, remote from the school whereas Maxwell Duncan and his wife Barbara had definitely been dealt the short straw. There was no escape for them except through the spirit of gin and drug of nicotine. The perceived importance of alcohol and tobacco in the lives of the masters did not impinge on us except for its stale smell - the staff room in the courtyard seemed at times like an opium den, whose smoke filled interior was only fleetingly glimpsed as the door opened as masters passed in and out, fanning its acrid contents into the small school yard. Whether these grown-up substances which were banned to us, had any influence on our general education or the selection of material for lessons we were too naïve to know or care. All that ultimately mattered was that we passed the entrance examination to the public school of our parents’ choice where, unbeknown to us, we were in for another rude awakening.
It was the 50s and public schools were still run on the lines of the film 'Another Country'. Prefects had the power to cane, new boys fagged, and rules were made never to be broken on pain of death or in my case a severe thrashing by a house prefect for talking in dormitory after lights out.
In hindsight and a lifetime's benefit of 'healing' time, Charney truly was an enchanted and protected world where very little could go wrong....it really was 'another country' in the best sense of the words.
.........meanwhile we led our compartmented lives. Our time at Charney, once the initial trauma of parental separation had been overcome, was regimented and predictable - we settled down to the routine of school life - lessons, food, sport, walks and sleep. Upon our return home we were viewed by our peers as travellers in time - aliens from another planet - things had moved on since we were last at home. Girls could not be trusted. Absence certainly didn't make the heart grow fonder - 'Dear John' letters were never to be forgotten at this tender age - I know.
What the masters got up to in those long holidays did not even cross our minds. One day they were there waving goodbye on Grange station platform and on the next they had been temporarily but totally erased from our minds.
On our return to Charney after the hols we occasionally caught sight of the tidal bore from the large picture windows in Dining Room - was the moon really that strong? At that time the main channel curved in from the direction of the resort of Morecambe on the south side of the bay, running past the open air salt water swimming pool where Cedric Robinson* was the swimming instructor, and then parallel with the promenade before swinging back out towards the village of Arnside on the other side of the Kent estuary. The sunsets over Morecambe Bay were spectacular especially in the Summer term. The channel was deeply cut in the mud which appeared very dark, clammy and smelly - there never was any 'sand' in the 1950s except in the name of Grange - always a slight disappointment .... I wonder what the Victorians thought? At a certain time of the year the setting sun would guild the buildings of Morecambe as though they were on fire or was it the start of the famous illuminations second only to those of Blackpool farther south? The railway line to Barrow-in-Furness ran parallel to the coast, alongside the promenade with its Victorian cast iron railings and elegantly curved concrete breakwater.
*Cedric, it later turned out was also the Guide to the Sands and was to be the Queen's Official Guide to Morecambe Bay until he retired in 2018 - a fantastic achievement.
Sometimes it never seemed to rain especially in the summer term, around Sports Day. Even if you detested cricket there was something quite magical about that gently sloping, freshly mown and precisely marked field, the cricket store, the pavilion with its score board, the white sight screens on cast iron wheels and the sound of well broken-in cricket bat against leather ball. I discovered that being wicket keeper was an easy option. My reflexes were pin sharp then and I was able to field most balls until one day a very fast ball from Bernard Swift (very aptly named) found a bat edge and was deflected directly between my eyes. They say that it is at these times the whole of one's life is seen in a flash- I remember nothing of the sort but was left with initially a very large egg-shaped lump on my forehead and a few days later with two perfectly symmetrical black eyes. There was some concern about my injury and I was taken to the doctor's surgery in Cartmel and diagnosed with a mild concussion.
In my time at Charney the cricket field was enlarged. We were conscripted to remove the limestone boundary wall - was this a form of child labour? Some of the stones were very heavy and required the efforts of two boys. My delegated 'mate' was Rutherford minor, a doctor's son from Clitheroe. Whilst attempting to lift one particularly large stone our co-ordinated lift failed and the stone dropped crushing the ends of poor Rutherford's fingers. I was in shock so much so that I still have a dreadful sense of guilt for what happened that day and still continue to worry that he made a full recovery.
After a hearty breakfast in the Dining Room, some of us were allowed to help ourselves to a large spoonful of malt extract. The consistency was like treacle, so the object was to 'wind' as much of the sticky stuff around a dessert spoon as possible before jamming it into the mouth to avoid any embarrassing spills on the linoleum floor. The individual
brown glass jars were kept on top of the mahogany sideboard away from temptation. The dispensation of the golden 'nectar' was carefully supervised by Barbara Duncan or Matey (matron) lest any of us should abuse this privilege.
I think that the Hampson brothers established this procedure, probably encouraged by their father whose business specialised in health foods. For me it was an opportunity to have the equivalent of a week's sweets every day.
At meal times we wondered about past pupils whose pictures were displayed in elongated wooden frames fixed end to end at dado height around the Dining Room. Where were they now? Did any die in the war? The pictures gradually turned to sepia in a clockwise swirl around the room. On one side of the room there was a tall glazed cabinet displaying all the school silver cups. The silver plaques on the black plinths were engraved each year after Sports Day and prize giving. If you did have the luck or innate talent to win one, pride was very short lived as the cup had to be returned to the cabinet after the ceremony.
6 : Hampsfell Cup - can anyone name the others?
I remember most of the boys who were my contemporaries at Charney : the Baker-Bateses who were to excel later in life, Beaumont (the famous test pilot's son), the Becketts (doctor's sons who lived on the Isle of Man), Brownson (whose father was rumoured to be a WW2 spitfire pilot and who always excelled in the Fathers’ Cricket Match), Coverdale, Coxey, avid entomologist from the New Forest, Crabtree, Davis-Colley, Dixon who could swim and dive like a fish, John Eaton whose comments I enjoyed reading in the blog ‘After the Conflict’, Maurice Eddleston, the Fletchers (doctor’s sons from Cockermouth), Graeme Garden (he of The Goodies fame), Gregory (whose father appeared to be very old), Grimes, Stephen and Antony Halstead (who I would stay in touch with for the rest of my life, whose parents lived in Barrowford, Nelson, my place of birth), the Hampsons whose father majored in health food - I thought that he resembled Richard Attenborough, Nigel Hargreaves who would qualify as an accountant, Hayley, Tim Hindle (a scholar from Morecambe who I met by chance years later in Bolton Abbey), Johnson who was to become a master at Charney, David Jopson (whose parents grew up with my parents), the Jowett brothers (Fylde Coasters whose mother and aunt appeared like Hollywood stars at half terms - they attracted a lot of attention from masters and boys alike!) I remember that Ian had some fascinating books full of photos of Hollywood films/stars which I enjoyed reading, Kenyon, Lawson who I believe practiced as a solicitor in Blackburn, Leadbetter, Lomax, McGuffie, Milburn, Richard Mollineaux from Preston who became an accountant, the Morleys (Bolton Gate Company), Newsholme (a scholar and talented musician), Michael Pemberton from Ulverston (whose parents were always abroad in one of the Oil States), Pengelly, Geoffrey Race from Blackpool, Robinson whose knife scar I have to this day on the back of my hand, the Rutherfords (scholars and doctor's sons from Clitheroe), Jeremy Stirrup who qualified as an accountant in Blackburn, Bernard Swift who was an extremely fast bowler and whose father had a sweet factory- we envied him!, Simon Tootill, Simpson who, after leaving Charney, had to have his leg amputated and died soon afterwards, Thompson (was he Canon Thompson’s son?), the Toulmins (the sons of a Preston newspaper editor), Sandy Walls (our very talented centre forward who came from Ribchester), Watson (the son of a vicar who was sent away to school at 6) and Peter Yates a future stockbroker from the Fylde.
Inevitably due to the passage of time and my memory there will be some names and faces that I have forgotten. My sincere apologies! But like it or not, we were all there together in a closed world. I found that some boys could be vindictive without cause and were quite cruel - looking back with hindsight and with considerably more life experience, I can only assume that they probably had unresolved issues at home or perhaps they just didn't want to be at Charney Hall and were compelled to take it out on others. The bully at boarding school knew that the prey had no chance of escape. To report an incident to a master would be seen as a sign of weakness by the perpetrator but also by the victim’s peers. This could escalate further intimidation by the bully and rejection by friends - the pack effect. Even persistent teasing which seemed innocuous at first, was common in most boarding schools and had the potential of bringing about long lasting psychological effect, giving rise to introversion and lack of self confidence in adulthood. I am pleased that today the dynamics of pupil relationships are better understood and aggression of any kind against individuals is neither accepted as a normal part of boarding school life nor tolerated in any form.
Some friendships at Charney were rewarding but did not last beyond time at school, perhaps due to the temporal nature of the boarding school system. Friends formed part of a ‘life support’ system in boarding school which enabled us to survive the absence of parents, the authoritarian regime and the constant fear of being caned or punished in some other fiendish way.
The majority of old boys will have lasted the course, others like Peter Beckett, a doctor's son, who lived in the Isle of Man had his life cut tragically short by a fall in the Alps. I heard about the event in the media, spoke to Tim Hindle, who I was in contact with at the time, and had the uncomfortable task of informing Maxwell Duncan of his death. Hearing about his death on tv news, then the shock and realisation that it was indeed the Peter Beckett that we knew and respected at Charney, remains with me to this day.
All these memories still persist (even sometimes haunt me) despite having had an absorbing and active adult life. Some events I perceive as though they occurred yesterday. Fleeting thoughts which appear from nowhere, triggered by some unrelated event and which disappear in a flash only to emerge again sometime in the future. Is this the precursor to dementia or the ghost of Charney Hall, now a speculative housing development, tugging at my coat tails?
In common with other alumni, time at Charney, despite my earlier comments, set the foundations for a creative, responsible and for me, a rewarding, if somewhat insecure professional life. I count myself very lucky to have experienced this and the private school system when the Lake District was unspoilt and dare I say, for the majority, uncharted territory. The wild mountains with crystal streams and waterfalls, the green of the bracken in summer and the golden brown in the Autumn. Screes like living cascading sculptures to be enjoyed by running down them (but alas no longer!). The perfumed smell of burning silver birch logs in the old Grange hotels especially at half-term, strangely peculiar to the Lake District. The taste of Kendal Mint Cake taken back to school, the sickening feeling that time was approaching for parents to return home after half term, the end of term service held in the Memorial Hall and those toothpaste parties in the dorm on the final night - yes we tasted each flavour in turn - a truly nauseating experience!
Thankfully the experience of boarding school as it was in the 1950s cannot be experienced. It was born of a specific moment in time, just after the end of a dreadful world war when our parents must have been convinced that it was the best education that they could buy. One can only wonder what experiences those masters must have suffered at that time. No wonder they smoked and drank so much ....or were we the true reason for this form of self abuse....!
The Cast:
Head Masters: Maxwell Duncan, He ran the school with a rod of iron, imperious and prone to outbursts of rage he was ably supported by his no. 2, wife Barbara (neé Gill) ‘The Dragon’.
Raymond Hirst, the first man to wear cologne, fluent in both French and German, a former captain and rumoured to have been an interpreter in WW2, an excellent master, sportsman and swimmer, and a truly inspirational man.
Masters: Fawcett, ex boxer, gym instructor and staunch Yorkshireman ("Eh by gum what would Mr Vanderquist have said?"- does anyone know who he was?*)- did this man really have a degree?, McCullagh had a nervous tick, nicotine stained fingers, a well worn gown and what would now be clearly recognised as a beer belly, he majored in Latin, less so in History. Mr Fairclough the music master was enigmatic, I believe that he wore a caliper and was one of the more reticent masters - a gentle, studious man, Hopkins (Hoppy) was part of the fabric of the school, appeared to be as mad as a hatter and was nearing the end of life as we knew it, Major Rabbidge was convinced that he was still in India but that beagle he had couldn't half walk, Aitchison (Aitchie) not quite a baronet and not long out of Cambridge. He couldn't give a toss about what the other masters thought- a shining example to us all. Captain Carnahan (Captain Pugwash) another ex officer but who was sadly out-ranked in character and station by the major. Mr Topham, tall, slim and upright with neatly trimmed moustache, somewhat aloof - I can't remember what he taught- but famous for having trapped a death's head hawk moth in a door frame, Duxbury (Duck Egg)- he could kick a football even harder and more accurately than Raymond Hirst despite his acutely bad eyesight, the sensitive Mr Riding (the part-time art master) who had a shock of white hair, tweedy jackets and who looked like a real artist should, and who was probably responsible for sparking my interest in painting* and the carpentry master John Airey** - a bona fide working joiner with real joiner's fingers and Desperate Dan chin who once a week materialised from the parallel world beyond the school grounds. A time-served tradesman, one of the 'working classes' who, there was a distinct chance, we might never have the opportunity of meeting again!
Paintings by Harold L. Riding RCA
Groundsmen and Gardeners: Charlie and Herbert, sons of Mother Earth, the hardest working of them all.
Cook: Ruth, a redhead - her pans were enormous. Did she really do all that cooking single-handed? The sponge puddings, baked in commercial sized aluminium trays, covered with a generous helping of custard were delicious!
Matron: Hazel Brown (Matey) a real sweetie. An ardent fan of Irish music especially after lights out - "If you're Irish 🎶, come into the parlour, there's a welcome for ye there 🎶..." could be heard coming from her room most evenings.
Hazel Brown
The Swimming Instructor at Grange Open Air Baths: Non other than a very young, toned and bronzed Cedric Robinson - until very recently the trusted Queen's Guide to the Sands. Cool and collected, we once saw him rescue some errant people who had found themselves on the wrong side of the channel after the siren sounded, just as the tidal bore was due to sweep past the baths.
I still could barely swim when I left Charney, aged 13. How very embarrassing! I was mortified and feared what was to become of me at public school. Some like Dixon swam like a fish, dived like gannets and floated like corks. Raymond Hirst, who always had an inexplicable Mediterranean tan, wearing the most stylish black swimming shorts, would plough up and down the full length of the baths setting an example of a perfect crawl. His face would disappear under the water only to reappear methodically every second stroke to take in air. Why didn't he ever swallow any water and come up coughing and spluttering? How could he keep up this exacting, unremitting pace without ever getting out of breath and without his legs cramping up?
Was it lack of confidence that put me in this predicament? I couldn't even swim three breast strokes to the side without sinking - ‘like a brick’ comes to mind. Cedric had boundless patience, far more than any master - there were three or four of us in this predicament and I was probably the eldest. Or was I just simply too thin for even salt water to support my pathetic meagre frame?
I remember that the temperature of the water was an intense topic of conversation as we caught the combined smell of chlorine and salt water near the entrance to the baths - was it to be nearly 57F or if the sun had been out for a week or more, even 59F?- a chalked sign in the building soon settled any argument - to me it didn't really matter as it was always ....ff-ffreezing.
The Lido in its heyday
Later in life after 7 years of intense study I qualified as an architect and had the pleasure of meeting many tradesmen throughout my 40 year career. However it was not until the boom and bust years of the 80's that I realised with shock/horror that, apart from the joiner’s apprentice, I was probably the lowest paid man on the building site!
It was at this point in my life that I came to realise that there is no connection between responsibility and remuneration, that a good education did not necessarily guarantee financial and emotional security and that the subtle manipulation of good luck could play a more important role in one’s future.
Was my parents’ sacrifice justified? If I were to be totally objective, I am not entirely sure to this day....
During my first weeks at Felsted Public School, Essex in the Autumn Term I was made to attend the indoor swimming pool every day until I could swim a length without sinking. Thereafter learning the black art of swimming was history. Today in retirement I love the sea, swim and float without fear, even in blue water, and live on a sail boat for 5 months of the year - except regretfully 2020-2021 - the Covid Years!
* David R Johnson in his post ‘Charney Hall Reflections’ has identified him on the 1951 School photograph so here he is!
Comments