The first tram to operate in Ipswich was a 3ft 6in gauge horse-drawn vehicle which ran for about ¾ mile between Cornhill and the mainline railway station. It opened in 1880. In 1884 an extension was opened from Cornhill to Derby Road railway station, also in Ipswich, but on the Felixstowe line. This completed the system; by then it was being operated by a fleet of tram cars. The earliest ones were single deckers, drawn by one horse, but later double deckers were introduced with two draught horses. The provision of rails made the friction was less than with a horse-drawn omnibus, and this enabled a greater number of passengers to be carried. By 1900 it was becoming increasingly old fashioned however; unlike modern motive power, horses had to groomed, fed and stabled, and in the early years of the 20th century it was resolved to convert the horse-drawn tramway to an electric system. The town Corporation purchased the horse tramway but it lost money and was abandoned to allow the electric infrastructure to be installed.
The electric trams did not last any longer than the horse-drawn trams: introduced in 1903, they were replaced by trolleybuses from 1923, and in 1926 the last tram ran on the streets of Ipswich. The trolleybus lasted a bit longer than its predecessors, and I remember the final years of them; my sister had taken her first job in the town in 1959, and from the aged of ten I made many visits to Ipswich. The trolleybuses survived until 1963, by which time my sister had left Suffolk for a new post in the Channel Islands. Thereafter I no longer frequented the town.
The first indication that we had reached a strange new world where the buses were powered by electric wires was by the railway bridge on the Norwich Road. There a circle in the overhead catenary was where the buses had to turn around and begin their journey back to Ipswich town centre. At one time the system had gone further to Whitton, but by 1959 the railway bridge was the limit of its northern extent. The Corporation bought its first motor buses as late as 1950 to serve the outskirts. At the time, and for many years thereafter, the bridge had the large sign FERODO painted on it in red. I will always associate these brake pads with Ipswich.
Coming by car I had no reason to use the trolleybuses, but going by train I surely would have done so; my sister had no car at this time. An indication of how normal they were in Ipswich in those days is that I have no memory of riding on a trolleybus, although I must have used them. This is a pity, but I have plenty of memories of seeing them making their silent progress through the town. Once you were inside the effect could not have very different from a normal motor bus; all the unusual features were outside. If they met an obstruction in the road they could only take limited avoiding action, or the poles would come detached from the catenary wires. This meant the driver or conductor getting out and re-attaching them with a long stick. There was definitely no overtaking allowed with a trolleybus.
Unlike trams, trolleybuses have not made a return to the streets in the UK, and there are no remaining systems in place here. This seems strange, as the infrastructure is much simpler and cheaper for trolleybuses, and they are similar environmental benefits. There is bad quality air in nearly all major cities, where diesel buses are almost the only vehicles still (just about) tolerated. This would disappear if trolleybuses were still in operation. If you are cyclist who has travelled over tram lines you will appreciate that bikes and trams don’t mix – you will fall off immediately if your wheel gets stuck in the groove of a tram line. This quality of not antagonising cyclists is another advantage of the trolleybus. In other parts of the world these systems still exist.
THE BLOG FOR THE HISTORY OF EAST ANGLIA
THE CITY IN THE 1950’s
I have been watching old films of Norwich in the fifties on Youtube and it is very interesting to me. This is the time when my eyes were first opening to the ‘fine old city’* and its inhabitants. There is even a shot of Aunt Ruth dressed in her civic regalia in a documentary; she is walking out of a service at the cathedral that opened the 1955 Norwich Assizes . That was four years after her period as Lord Mayor. She was smiling most beatifically at no one in particular. I keep hoping to catch a glimpse of my father-in-law Jack Turner; he was a bobby in Norwich at the time. I may have seen him, but with his helmet on it is hard to say. He was PC 49 in the Norwich force.
District Nurse Aunty Olive was living in Christopher Close and I would often go round to her flat. I remember sitting by her fire while her sons and a college friend told ghost stories, as I gazed into the embers. My father’s shop was right in the city centre, and he would call in for a drink with Jack Hubbard, the publican of the Lamb Inn next door. Uncle Ozzie Osborne’s shop was round the corner in White Lion Street. He sold anything made of rubber: wellies, garden hoses and other under-the-counter items. Uncle Bertie was deputy head at the CNS.
While all this family life was continuing, British Railways steam hauled trains puffed their way into the city’s three railway termini. On the river sea going colliers from Newcastle came up to the generating station and ships laden with timber from Finland plied their trade down on the wharves opposite Riverside Road. River tugs from Yarmouth hauled strings of barges for the gas works on Gas Hill. Varnished wooden motor cruisers threaded their way between this commercial traffic to the Yacht Station above Foundry Bridge.
Four busy breweries filled the air with the delicious aroma of malt and hops. At the mustard factory the Carrow Works steam hooter summoned the workers at ten-to-eight in the morning; if the wind was in the right direction I could hear this as I lay in bed four miles away. To the west side of the city hordes of shoe workers pedalled their way to the day’s task in the many shoe factories. Two large printing offices which had been in the city since the early nineteenth century were still operating. These were Jarrolds at Whitefriars and Fletchers on Castle Meadow, both now no more, although the former firm remains as the large department store in the city and the latter was bought up by Clays of Bungay.
Norwich had no airport throughout the 1950s; the first aerodrome at Mousehold Heath was opened in 1933, but fell into disuse with the outbreak of war. The current International Airport was still called RAF St Faiths, and was a busy jet fighter base. (It had been a USAAF base during war, when it was built slap bang across the Cromer Road, which had to be diverted along a narrow lane.) Jets were very noisy in the fifties, and the base was right next to a residential area – it must have been hard to get one’s baby to sleep. Along Fifers Lane were the married quarters of the personnel, the brickwork done in different colours in an attempt to camouflage them! There was also a NAAFI that lasted long after he base closed to supply the airmen from RAF Coltishall who continued to live there. Across the Holt Road from St Faiths airfield was Norwich Speedway, a popular attraction that was redeveloped for housing in the 1960’s and has never been replaced.
Every Saturday the smell of the farmyard filled the air. Sheep, pigs and cattle were driven through the streets, and I don’t mean in lorries. They walked up Bracondale and along Ber Street, having arrived from across the county at Trowse station. They filled the pens of the open space below the castle, while the smaller livestock (chickens, geese and rabbits) were sold slightly further away near the cast iron premises of Panks. Kittens and puppies were also available. Miss Wicks did a good trade selling dog biscuits and fish pellets from her centuries-old shop in Golden Ball Street. At the end of the day the cattle were driven back by men with whippy canes for dispatch to their new owners or the slaughterhouse.
Easter saw the Fair take over the cattle market, although it closed on Good Friday. The steam fairground engines rocked gently back and forth as they lit up the gaudy displays; if you paid a bob to enter her tent you could witness the tattooed lady killing rats with her teeth. (Entertainment was more cruel and basic sixty years ago.) For the summer holiday there was no fortnight in Spain, only a trip to the seaside at Yarmouth or Caister; ice creams trumped sangria.The lowly Third Division Canaries finished the decade with the famous Cup Run; they only lost the semi-final to First Division Luton Town on the replay. The excitement that gripped the City football fans is still remembered today by those of a certain age.
Almost all these aspects of the city have changed; only the Yacht Station and the football ground remain in place. Britannia Barracks now contains prisoners, not soldiers. One railway station only remains and the gas works and the power station have long passed into history. The new library has come and gone (gone up in flames in fact) since the 1950s. The Press Office has moved from Redwell Street, Barclays Bank no longer has its impressive local HQ at Bank Plain and the GPO sorting office no longer stands across the street. This now houses Anglia Television, which was not in existence then, and where UEA now has is campus was Earlham golf course. The Norfolk and Norwich Hospital still occupied the site where it had been established in the 18th century, until it moved to its new site in 2001.
Much has altered, but the cathedral and the castle still stand guard over the inhabitants, as they have done for nearly a thousand years. The Maids Head hotel has welcomed visitors to Norwich for almost as long. Nevertheless, the rest of the 20th century saw the old city vanish for ever in a way that Hitler’s bombs could never achieve.
*‘A fine old city, truly, is that’ is a quotation from Lavengro, by the 19th century Norfolk born writer George Borrow.
THE BLOG FOR MEMORIES OF NORWICH
How to grow vegetables
This is not the season for gardening, but there are still tasks that need to be done. Some pruning still remains; the raspberry canes must soon be cut down, but the opportunity for getting out the garden shears between the rain, snow showers and frost is rather limited. The unheated greenhouse has been cleared for winter; I haven’t used a greenhouse heater since I was a young man, and then I grew decorative (but tender) plants during the cold part of the year. It was a paraffin stove, but it was still very expensive. Now the remaining tomatoes are ripening in the conservatory; they occupy a couple of trays, but I don’t think they will last until Christmas like they did last year.
Perhaps if my father had been more of an amateur gardener I might have learnt more from him, but although he had many abilities gardening wasn’t one of them. He loved gardens, but I hardly ever saw him on his knees getting his hands dirty. It wasn’t his style. Bulbs and roses that came up every year with little human input, and bedding plants that came ready grown, waiting to be put into tubs, were his kind of plants; vegetables that had to be grown from seeds weren’t. My mother would bend down and pull up the odd weed, but I can’t remember her planting anything. Both my parents must have done some gardening, but, unlike my cousin Tony, it wasn’t something that either of them was extremely keen on.
As a result my knowledge of vegetable growing has been gleaned from reading books and watching television programmes. My father would always listen to Gardener’s Question Time after Sunday lunch, but he didn’t then rush out to put the information into practice. The programme had been going since the Dig for Victory campaign of World War II, although I am talking of the 1970s. I could still tell you the names of the experts who appeared every week on the show; Bill Sowerbutts, Fred Loads and Professor Alan Gemmell of Keele University. On BBC television we watched Percy Thrower on Gardeners’ World until he lost his job for being too much involved in advertising. I collected a fine selection of gardening books to help me find out the correct way of growing things. Now of course the books stay mostly on the shelves, and the instructions for growing vegetables are found on the internet.
I have improved the land on which we grow the vegetables out of all recognition in the 30 years that we have lived here. When I arrived it was still the sandy soil of the heathland which formed our part of the village until the 19th century. After decades of making compost and keeping chickens the soil on our vegetable plot is now a good deep tilth. Over the same period I have removed all the large stones from the topsoil. These alterations have resulted in the crops grow much better.
In spite of my advanced years I am still learning how to grow things, and still learning what I cannot grow. Carrots get the fly and cabbages attract caterpillars. These things can spayed against, but I prefer to keep my use of insecticides to a minimum. Runner beans, parsnips, beetroot , courgettes and potatoes are all reliable annuals. Herbs like rosemary and bay can be picked all year through, while others like mint and parsley are seasonal. Among the perennials are raspberries, gooseberries and rhubarb. Tomatoes and cucumbers in the greenhouse pretty much complete our cropping schedule, although we might try a novelty or two. This year we were given some plants that turned out to be gherkins. They are waiting, pickled, sliced and bottled, for us to sample in the coming months.
It sounds like a massive plot to grow all this produce, but it truly isn’t; we just plant intensively. As the year progresses from the first shoots appearing in the spring, through high summer to harvest time, the pace of gardening changes with the seasons. The first annual crop to harvest is probably early potatoes, though runner beans can be picked fairly early, if they are planted early enough. I like those plants that produce their fruit and veg throughout the summer months. The farmer may have to gather in his crops at harvest time, but not me.
The important thing to remember for indoor crops like tomatoes is to water them regularly – they get no rain! (The houseplants that decorate our window sills on the other hand normally get over watered.) Even most outdoor crops need watering if they are to thrive. Going on holiday in the summer means disaster for your crops unless you enlist the support of a reliable neighbour. In theory you can arrange watering and ventilation automatically these days, but this is too complicated for the elderly to consider; anyway it would take a lot of the fun out of growing things.
Why do I still grow these edible plants and fruits? Surely everything you could possibly want is to be had down at the supermarket? Well some vegetables just aren’t available from the shops. For the most delicious tomatoes and those with the tenderest skins you just have to grow your own. You used to be able to buy scarlet runners that had been grown in England, but now they all come from Africa and they don’t taste the same. And when did you last see a yellow-fleshed beetroot?
THE BLOG FOR MEMORIES OF NORFOLK
Why is nobody looking at the camera? None of these women was shy. Who was behind the camera? These are questions we will never know the answers to. This photograph shows three generations of my family. From left to right the people are: Aunty Olive Anderson (née Mason, the daughter of the elderly lady), Margaret Mason (my sister Tiggy, niece of Olive) and Nanny, Emily Lound (formerly Emily Mason, née Peachey). They were all examples of what the family call the ‘Peachey women’; forceful characters, and completely dominant over their menfolk, whether Peachey or otherwise. Aunt Ruth was a Peachey woman, and she rose to be Lord Mayor of Norwich, the first working class woman to do so. There are other examples, including some in the current generation, although it would be invidious to name them.
Peachey women could be extremely sweet and charming, but beneath the surface was a will of steel. They could say ‘yes’ to you, or they could say ‘no’, but what you could not do was simply not ask them. They had an opinion on everything, and it had to be known. In many ways the best course of action was to avoid anything that might get their backs up. I can see my Aunty Olive now in my mind’s eye: she was a lovely person, but her jaw would set like a rat trap when she opposed something she was asked to do. Tiggy’s approach to a similar situation was rather different but equally effective (or even more so); her lower lip would quiver and her eyes would well up with tears.
I have puzzled myself for a long time over where the Peachey gene originated. Despite the name, I am sure it did not come from the Peachey side of the family. These hardy sons of the soil had been unobtrusively catching rabbits around Lakenheath in Suffolk for generations. It must have come from an ancestor who had married into the Peachey line: maybe the Phipps. They had enough adventurous spirit to get on the train from Bishops Stortford and move to Mildenhall; there Ebenezer Phipp progressed from a rural smallholding to running the local carriers business and gaining an entry in the Suffolk trade directory in the 1890s. Alternatively it may have come through the Jones family; they had been as placid as the Peacheys, spending centuries living in a small corner of Buckinghamshire, until one of their number took off as a railway navvy and married a red-head from Cornwall. That may have produced the fiery nature of the Peachey women, but on mature consideration it remains a mystery where they came from.
Although Aunt Ruth achieved a great deal in her political career, her elder sister Emily was if anything even more of a Peachey woman. She was so keen to begin her schooling that she started a year early (aged three), so that by the time she was ten years old she had reached the top class and had to leave. Ruth, who was not so impetuous, was able to stay on and become a pupil teacher, thus laying the foundations of her future progress. Another sister was Thirza, also a teacher. When one of her pupils was refused a scholarship on the grounds that he was only a farm labourer’s son, she went furiously to the Guild Hall to address the education councillor. Remember that she was a Peachey woman: the councillor rapidly changed his mind, and the boy went on to a long and successful career in medical research in the USA.
My father used to say Emily should have had twenty children – or been Prime Minister! Her lifestyle could not absorb her intelligence and efficiency with anything less. She was very ambitious and very generous, but never had the chance to use her great abilities. She made life very hard for her family as a result. Her daughter Olive was the only nurse in the history of the Norfolk and Norwich Hospital who lived out during training; Nanny insisted on her going home each evening to help with the housework. How she won against the awe-inspiring Matron is a mystery, but it just shows the power of the Peachey women. And although Olive was good at games, she was not allowed to play on the school hockey team: she had to spend Saturdays doing the cleaning for Nanny. Emily went to work as a children’s nurse, and by all accounts would hold their eyelids shut if the would not go to sleep! After all, she was only ten herself. With her first week’s wages she bought hats for all her sisters at the village shop. Her mother made her take them all back – she needed the money to feed the family. Emily and her husband William continued their education as adults by reading and going to lectures. She died quoting an obscure 18th century poet. Today’s youngsters don’t seem to have the same appetite for learning, but I don’t suppose any of her contemporaries did either. Peachey women were something else.
THE BLOG FOR MEMORIES OF NORWICH
The term damsel in distress represents a classic theme of literature and folk tales, that of a beautiful young woman placed in a perilous situation. The idea is ancient, as old as story telling itself, but the first use of these exact words “damsel in distress” was in the English version of Don Quixote by Miguel Cervantes, which was published in 1755. The translation of this work from the original Spanish was by the Scottish writer Tobias Smollett. The phrase was used by P. G. Wodehouse for the comic novel he wrote in 1919. He later went on to adapt it as play with A.A. Milne and a musical in co-operation with George and Ira Gershwin. In 1937 and was turned into a successful movie featuring Fred Astaire; it had already appeared as a silent film before audio tracking became available. This is an impressive range of vehicles for a work that is relatively little known today. At one time he had five different musicals in production in the US.
It was one of dozens of books written by the comedy master, and not one of his better known. He had not reached the zenith of his writing style in 1920, and such classics as Right Ho, Jeeves and Heavy Weather, featuring the prize pig the Empress of Blandings, were to come later. Even so, his books were very successful, both in this country and America. After going to New York in 1904 he spent an increasingly large part of his time writing on Broadway and in Hollywood, which was just coming to the fore.
The story of The Damsel in Distress is set among the young adults of the aristocracy, as most of his works are. If not the sons and daughter of lords and ladies, the people in his novels are at least members of the gentry. Few of them seem to have or need a job; instead they rise late before wandering round to the Drones Club for a ‘snifter’. Wodehouse had attended Dulwich College as a schoolboy, so he had some acquaintance with the better off youth of Victorian England, but his readership had no connection with people of this class. The life he portrayed in his books, one of harmless eccentrics thrown into ingeniously worked out plot lines, was far from the harsh realities of life. In 1919 the world had just emerged from the worst war that could be imagined in the application of modern science to mass killing. The Great War was as hard for the gentry as it had been for the ordinary people of Britain, and as a form of escapism what could be better than the gentle humour to be found in a P. G. Wodehouse best seller?
He was in no doubt that in his approach to the world he ignored real life altogether; this was not only in his work but in his life in general. In spite of his assertion that the world inhabited by his characters really had existed between the wars, it had more in common with the Edwardian period. He laboured hard to achieve his apparently effortless prose. He worked for three or four hours in the late afternoon, but never after dinner. I was in my mid twenties when his long writing career came to an end. His best work was over by then, but he was still capable of writing a book every six months, which he continued to do almost up to the end.
THE BLOG FOR THE HUMOUR OF WODEHOUSE
THINGS FINALLY COME RIGHT
In 1959, at the age of forty-seven, my father was about to experience a year of great upheaval. His eldest daughter was to marry and emigrate to Canada; she had qualified as schoolteacher but was never to work in that capacity, becoming instead a professor at a transatlantic university; but that was far in the future. Nearer to home his second daughter had also qualified as a teacher, and was to start at Ipswich High School that September. His ten-year old son (me) was just about to begin at boarding school. Most alarmingly, he had to leave the building in Orford Place, as the lease had expired. He was willing to pay the much higher new rent, but none of his fellow tenants were, so his whole business future seemed thrown into doubt. Where would he go? Would his customers follow him to his new premises? Or would the abandon him for other Norwich opticians?
The place he decided to move into was 29 Surrey Street; he had limited options available to him, as most shops in the centre of Norwich were already occupied. The property he decided on was fairly central, but had stood vacant for about a decade. It needed a complete rewiring (it still had a primitive DC system in place) and a complete redecoration too. The walls were covered in centuries of whitewash, which had to be removed before modern paint could be applied. The most problematical aspect from a business point of view was that it was, in appearance, a private dwelling; it had no shop window. It was a large 18th century former residence with, as I subsequently discovered, an impressive history. Most recently it had served as the Angel temperance hotel. Crucially, he would no longer be a tenant; this property he would have to buy.
Very fortunately my father’s patients continued to patronize his practice and within a few years he had paid off the commercial mortgage that he had taken out to pay for the property. In this he was fortuitously aided by the gathering pace of inflation during the 1960s; this was a good time for house buyers in general- a detached house in the city could be bought for well under £1000! As a result, within a decade-and-a-half of buying the building, its value had increased nearly twentyfold. The initial cost of the property was almost small change by then. As if by accident, he was now a wealthy man for the first time in his life. It was true that he was nearly always overdrawn at the bank, but that was only because his plans for the future always ran a little bit ahead of his current resources. He would never admit to being other than a miserable failure; this was quite untrue, but in comparison to what might have been he had a point. To see what I mean I refer you to the previous post, where his factory appeared to be on the brink of success.
In buying 29 Surrey Street he had added the position of commercial landlord to his business interests. He only needed the ground floor for his optical premises; the semi-basement (it had windows to Surrey Street, so it was not a cave) he also occupied. This held a workshop with a lathe, circular saw, bench drill, milling machine, and fly press – in short the whole range of machinery. He even had a printing press! One room was devoted entirely to a model railway; this was nominally mine, but in fact it represented one of my father’s many interests. He was able to let the first floor long-term to an insurance company; Surrey Street is still at the heart of the insurance industry in Norwich, holding as it does the headquarters of the multi-national firm Aviva, still known as Norwich Union in 1959. The upper floors were not so easily let, but a succession of artists, interior designers and marketing companies occupied them.
In 1960 my mother inherited some money and this enabled us to buy the family home in Poringland from the landlord Rushmer Howlett, who lived next door. We proceeded to undertake some much-needed improvements; a bedroom for me was included in the plans. Previously I had slept in my parents’ bedroom. Mains drainage was the most radical departure from the only way of life I had known until then; I could now have a bath without my mother boiling kettles and putting the tin bath on the hearth-rug. The main sewer had been installed in the road outside a year or two before, and my father no longer had to empty the earth closet or pump out the cess pit. We had rather belatedly joined the 20th century. For a year or so there was a curious and enormous mismatch between our primitive domestic arrangements at our rented home and the palatial facilities (including five water closers) at my father’s workplace, that he owned.
A very valuable addition to the house at Surrey Street was a car park at the back, which could hold three cars at a pinch. That alone was worth a huge amount, not merely in financial terms but for convenience. The access belonged to a doctor’s widow who lived four houses along, so my father had to keep her sweet. At a bunch or two of flowers a year it was cheap at the price. It also had a delightful courtyard garden that faced south. There one could sit with a drink by the fountain, within yards of Norwich’s busy bus station; climbing roses scented the air, while all around was the bustle of a busy city. That was luxury indeed. In fifty years my father had progressed from living in a modest terraced house to the be the owner a 20 roomed town mansion; the only trouble was that because of planning restrictions at the time he couldn’t actually live there!
My father was by no means a traditional businessman, always obsessed by balance sheets and bank accounts. Such things interested him not at all. He was at his happiest walking his dog by the riverside or attending meetings of the Nautics, his favourite historical society. As for playing his cello, as a teenager he dreamed of becoming a professional musician; he was certainly good enough, but was warned by Jimmy Pond his music teacher that it would lead to a life of poverty. I am sure that we would never have been as wealthy as an orchestral cellist as he became as an optician. There were several reverses in his career, but he was ultimately a great success in financial terms. He gave me a fantastic childhood, and he provided the best of educations for all his three children.
He thought that the seventeen shillings and sixpence that he was paid by the National Health Service for a sight test was pitifully small, especially compared the much larger sum charged by a garage mechanic for an MOT. Seventeen and six was indeed little enough for a full professional eye examination; he made his money from selling glasses to customers privately. He thought this was the wrong way round, and it would be hard to disagree with him; the glasses were just a consumer product, whereas the sight of a patient (or even his life) could depend on picking up small imperfections in their eyes. I don’t suppose things are very different today; as a pensioner my eyes are tested free, but my glasses cost me a small fortune.
The main developments of his career were effectively over by 1960. For a few years his health remained good, but at the age of 56 he had a coronary, and thereafter numerous infarctions (where parts of the heart muscle are damaged by blood clots) and episodes of tachycardia (heart rhythm malfunction) which led to many stays in hospital. Heart conditions were far less effectively treated in those days. He refused to give up smoking his beloved pipe. Nevertheless he did not die from a heart disease but from another health condition. He was able to retire at the age of 60 to spend the last few years of his life developing an optical instrument which looked set to be a great success by the time he died. In retirement he was able to retain the building in Surrey Street, together with its workshop and car park, which meant that he still went there almost every day. Besides providing him with a comfortable pension he could still develop his model railway and work on his various schemes. Over his lifetime he built two boats, numerous pieces of furniture and as a young man had done wood carvings as a hobby. He was trained by the army as an instrument mechanic which stood him in good stead throughout the rest of his life. Although his health was failing, I was able to ensure both him and my mother had an enjoyable last few years. Looking back on his life with the perspective of forty years, I can now see him for what he was: then he was just my Daddy. Frank Mason was clearly a remarkable man.
You can read more about the history of the house in Surrey Street by clicking HERE. I have written well over ten blogs on the house, and you can access them by entering ‘joemasonspage’ and adding ‘the story of a house’ and a number from 1 to 13 into Google. This should bring up the required result.
THE BLOG FOR THE HISTORY OF EAST ANGLIA
A SLICE of HISTORY in the PAPER INDUSTRY
In 1784 the mill at the Staithe in Bungay was bought by William Mann; until then the mill had been part of the estate of the Duke of Norfolk. Mann let part of it to Joseph Hooper. A native of the coastal town of Marblehead, Massachusetts, Joseph Hooper was a Harvard graduate of the class of 1763, born to a wealthy local family in 1743. Like several other members of the Hooper clan he was a staunch Royalist and following his opposition to the Boston Tea Party he had his property seized. He fled to England in 1775, prior to the Declaration of American Independence. As a refugee he travelled the country before settling in Bungay, where he converted his part of the mill from grinding corn to a mill producing paper. The rest of the mill stayed as a corn mill and was leased separately by William Mann. Hooper produced among other things fine quality writing paper. In 1790 he complained that the people of Ditchingham had opened up Ditchingham Dam and this had diverted the flow of the river Waveney along Chainbridge Beck; this was starving the mill of water and making it hard to produce paper. The problem took two years to resolved, and it was only after the owner William Mann had threatened those responsible with action for damages that the dam was restored.
A year after taking the lease on the Bungay watermill Joseph Hooper had married Susannah Taylor in Grantham, Lincolnshire, her home town. They had two daughters, Emily (who was born in Grantham in 1786) and Harriet (born in Lakenham near Norwich in 1788). Joseph Hooper appears to have been successful in business, being recorded as a man suitable to employ parish apprentices during the 1790s, but with his health failing he died in 1812. His wife took over running the paper mill. She died in 1817 and both she and Joseph are buried in Holy Trinity churchyard in Bungay. With no male heirs to take over the business was transferred to William Betts, Harriet’s husband. He was working the mill in Bungay in 1822, but by 1828 James (probably their son) had taken over. Meanwhile William’s brother Lewis was working at the paper mill in Upper Sheringham. James could not make a success of paper making, and by 1829 both he and Lewis were declared bankrupt. The lease on the mill at Bungay was put up for auction in the Kings Head in the Market Place in 1830, but it did not sell; in 1832 the mill was still vacant.
Meanwhile across the border in Norfolk, in 1810 one John Burgess was the foreman responsible for setting up the first paper making machine in the county. Ten years later Burgess was made a partner in the mill. He was happily working at Taverham while acquiring properties in Costessey across the river, including the White Hart pub which he rebuilt in the modern style. (This was again rebuilt in the 1930’s and is now known as the Harte.) In 1830 the senior partner at Taverham mill retired and transferred his holding to two young men who had their own ideas about running the business. These two eventually drove the formerly prosperous mill into business failure, but by then John Burgess had left Taverham. With his sons he moved to Bungay and reopened the paper mill there. He was already 71 years old, and the work was probably mainly in the hands of his son Charles. Having been pioneers in the technique of modern machine-made paper they had taken a step back into the past to hand-made paper.
The principal user of paper in Bungay was John Childs, the printer who had taken over from Charles Brightly, and whose business would become Richard Clay (still in existence as part of the St Ives Group). In Brightly’ time all paper had been hand made, and no doubt Joseph Hooper built up a prosperous business supplying him with printing paper, but times had changed. By 1830 Childs was the owner of a large business, employing over 100 people, and he specialized in large editions of substantial books such as annotated Bibles. These were not restricted to the printers at Oxford, Cambridge and London as the standard, non-annotated Authorised Version of the Bible was. These substantial works required a lot of paper, but his suppliers were not local. His account book for 1827 shows that he was buying paper from Spicer’s in Cambridgeshire, and in 1834 from Dickinson, whose paper mill was at Apsley in Hertfordshire. I do not know how the paper was transported to Bungay, but I suspect it came by the Grand Union canal (or in the case of Spicer’s paper via the rivers Cam and Great Ouse) to the Wash and then along the coast to Yarmouth. From there it would have gone up the Waveney through Geldeston Lock to the head of the navigation at Bungay. Although this meant three trans-shipments, from narrow boat to coasting vessel at Wisbech or Kings Lynn and then to wherry at Yarmouth, until the coming of the railways water was the only way to carry heavy loads long distances. Both Dickinson and Spicer were making paper by machine, and the mill at Sawston in Cambridgeshire was one of the first to use a Fourdrinier paper making machine in 1809. It was high quality and high volume paper, quite different from the paper being produced at Bungay by Burgess, which although it had no transportation cost, had no other advantages.
However there is evidence that the Burgesses, father and son, did supply paper to Childs. In 1833-36 there are entries for the buying of both brown paper and drab from Charles Burgess, and in 1836 and 1837 for brown paper from John Burgess. Brown paper would have been used merely for packing, but drab was used in the bookbinding process. Although there was also a printing industry in nearby Beccles, it is clear that the majority of Burgess’s custom would have been for wrapping paper, and it would not have been economic to transport it very far. It was not a particularly good position to be in, when all his success had been based on the modern paper-making process, and the enterprise did not last for many years after John Burgess’s death. Paper-making in Bungay finally came to an end in 1864 with a serious fire, after which the mill was rebuilt as corn mill. It had passed out of the Burgess family’s hands in the 1840s. In its final years it was operated by a number of paper makers.
John Burgess died on the 21 May 1838. In his will he lists his properties – the public house and a double cottage in Costessey, and three more cottages in Norwich. His reference to his business is rather downbeat; he instructs his executors to continue his business ‘until such at time as it shall be beneficial to discontinue it.’ The most affectionate mention is for his daughter, Sophia Ann, who is to take her pick of his furniture to the value of £24 (about £4,000 in today’s money), ‘in regard to her kindness & attention toward me’. His executors were Spooner Nash, a paper dealer and stationer of Charing Cross, Norwich, and Henry Barnard, a merchant of Bungay. So ends the story of John Burgess, and paper making in Bungay. The mill itself survived into my lifetime, producing animal fodder under the auspices of Hovis. The mill finally closed in 1955, although it has ceased to use water power some fifty years earlier. The mill building of 1864 is still in commercial use, in 2003 as a consultancy and training centre.
THE BLOG FOR THE HISTORY OF EAST ANGLIAN LIFE
I have been informed that the air raid siren had just gone when this picture was snapped. Am I mistaken, or can I see people beginning to hurry towards the air raid shelters? It was a false alarm this time – the real thing would come a couple of years later, with devastating results for this urban scene. Petrol and meat rationing had already come in, and would lead to nearly 15 years of shortages. On this early wartime day it was certainly sunny. I am sure that the little kiosk was left over from the Norwich tramway service. The triangle of pavement where it stood was Orford Place itself, and that was the centre where nearly all the tram routes terminated. The conductors could obtain fresh books of tickets from the kiosk if they had run low. The last tram had run just five years earlier when this picture was taken. It was used by bus drivers and conductors after they took over the city’s transport service.
The view that heads this page is looking towards Red Lion Street. This was taken from John Gantlett’s testing room on the second floor of Frank Mason’s opticians shop. The address was 3 Orford Place. The building is still there as a burger joint, after many years as a branch of Pizza Hut, and before that as fashion retailer Fifth Avenue. The internal arrangements have been completely opened up, and the whole building is now one outlet. When my father Frank was there he only occupied the end shop. Here the Air Raid Precautions sign is prominently displayed. This was in 1940; you can tell it is early in the war because Curl’s department store has yet to be destroyed by Nazi bombing; this happened in April 1942. The site where Curls had been was a gaping hole down to basement level, and was used as a car park when I first became aware of my surroundings. During the rest of the war it had been used as a static water tank to provide plenty of water for fire engines in the event of another incendiary bombing raid. The store, which changed its name to Debenhams in 1973, was rebuilt in 1955. This was hailed as the largest department store in East Anglia at the time. Once rebuilt it had lifts to all floors, escalators and even air conditioning – the height of modernity.
Besides Curls another store was fire bombed in the same raid. This was Buntings, and it was not so badly damaged; after being repaired it was used as a NAAFI while the war lasted. After the war it became the city centre branch of Marks and Spencer, which it remains. Also devastated was Bonds of Norwich which included the Thatched Cinema. This store too was rebuilt after the war, and was later bought by John Lewis. Escaping the destructive fury of the bombing, St Andrews Hall was open every day for off-duty servicemen, both British and American, where they would play billiards, drink tea and eat rock cakes made by the young ladies of the city.
The wartime bombing in Norwich left much destruction. Some historic buildings were lost, including the Boars head hotel in St Stephens Street, but compared to the postwar redevelopments, that saw Queens Road, Grapes Hill and Magdalen Street (among others) carved up to make way for the inner link road, it was relatively minor. Now the great dual carriageway, that was planned to cut a swathe right through the city centre to encourage traffic, is now mostly reserved for buses and taxis to discourage people from driving in the city. The bomb sites have nearly all been filled up with new building – one the last to be restored was in the area round the ruined tower St Benedict’s, the church that was also destroyed in 1942. This now contains a block of flats. The picture below shows the immediate aftermath of the wartime bombing raid.
The car park that had been a temporary measure on the bomb site in Timber Hill has been fenced (in Google Maps) and redevelopment now seems immanent – its about time! (I haven’t been there for a while, and it may even have begun – please tell me if you know.) Ber Street has never regained it bustling character that had existed before the war. Even today the car parks and single storey temporary-looking properties along the north side show the results of the Nazi bombing raids of 75 years ago. It always was a wide street, but the children who played there during the day and the drunks who staggered along it by night were banished when their homes were destroyed by the Germans.
THE BLOG FOR MEMORIES OF EAST ANGLIAN LIFE
The first four miles of the Northern Distributor Road are now open. It is a week or two since the first cars were let on the new tarmac, and I can make my first assessment of the NDR. It will save us few minutes going to Spowston (where Molly sings at a concert two or three times a year) but otherwise it seems of little use so far as we are concerned. This is not just my opinion; when I went along it there was very little traffic; one or two cars at most, except for the five hundred yards where the Holt Road has been diverted onto the bypass. I suspect that most of the few cars that we encountered were using it to drive along to have a look at the new road. There was no commercial traffic at all. Articulated lorries still approach the roundabouts from the Fakenham and Reepham Roads, but continue along their old accustomed routes into the city or the Newmarket Road. Why would they not? Even when it is finished only lorries going east to Yarmouth from North Norfolk will use the road, and I don’t anticipate a huge number of them; not enough to justify all the expense and upheaval of building the new road anyway. Anyone going west-abouts from the North already has all the new road they are going get, and it doesn’t appear to have done them much good. Whatever the road signs will say, no one is going to go on a detour of almost 25 miles to end up on the A 47 at Easton, a couple of miles from where they started. Have we been sold a pup? Time will tell.
I have dealt with the NDR in previous posts, but what I really wanted to talk about are ‘bat bridges’. There are two of the things in just four miles on this first part of the NDR. What are bat bridges? They are netting structures strung across the road to prevent bats from flying into passing vehicles. Does that sound strange? Yes. Do they work? No. What will encourage the nocturnal mammals to use them? Nobody knows. Have they cost us hundreds of thousands of pounds? Yes. Have we lost our senses? Definitely.
As far as I am aware a bat has never been observed to fly anywhere near a ‘bat bridge’. It doesn’t surprise me in the least: what self-respecting animal would? In spite of the ineffectiveness of bat bridges I do not think the roadsides are littered with the corpses of battered bats; could it be that they have rather more sense than conservationists? I never thought that bat bridges were anything but a crazy idea. No one will admit to inventing them, and bat bridges are now universally derided as a massive waste of public money. What I find odd is that they are still being put up on brand new road schemes like the NDR. It can only be as a sop to the influential wildlife lobby. The pathetic highways department would rather erect these pointless and expensive monstrosities every few miles than face the wrath of the friends of the bat. It is for a similar reason that the one thing that would make the NDR a genuine part of the Norwich traffic management solution, the construction of a road bridge across the river Wensum, is still as far away as ever. It is stated to a priority of Norfolk County Council, which means the earliest we can hope to see it is about 2035; a bit late for me. In this case we cannot blame the bat; we may never get one at all if the friends of the newt get their way.
Do not get me wrong; I quite like bats (rather more than newts as it happens), or a least I like the idea of them, but I think they get rather too much attention. Never mind the fact that bats have the run of Paston tithe barn for the next fifty years at least; what about the congregations of country churches who can do nothing to stop bats from urinating on them as they pray for fear of disturbing the creatures. What with that and all those useless bat bridges, I think our priorities might have gone a little bit astray.
THE BLOG FOR EAST ANGLIAN LIFE
There was virtually no road building in the 1950s until the M1 was constructed right at the end of the decade; the only improvement I can call to mind was the straightening of a short length of blind bend outside Ditchingham Hall. This was in about 1957; you can still see the lay-by which this created on the Bungay road. The traffic was still relatively light; many of the cars were prewar, and those that were not were all painted black; you were lucky to get a car at all, and the colour wasn’t important. The lorries were of the fixed chassis type – there were no articulated juggernauts then. The country folk who had to go to town went by bus, otherwise they travelled round on their bikes.
In Norfolk the railway network was already beginning to shrink. The lines from Cromer to Mundesley and from Heacham to Wells closed completely in 1952, and the stations at Hellesdon and Whitlingham stopped serving passengers early in the decade. Also in 1952 passenger traffic was ended on the Wroxham to County School branch; however most of the rural branch lines remained open. For a few more years Hunstanton, Holt, Dereham, Watton, Swaffham and Fakenham (all of them substantial country towns) had regular train services that carried passengers as well as goods. Trains stopped crossing Breydon Water en route from Yarmouth Beach station to Lowestoft in 1952; the swing bridge remained in place but permanently open to shipping.
There were still a lot of sea-going freighters threading their way up the river Yare to Norwich. Coal was one their main cargoes, and it was universally used to produce electricity, gas and domestic heating all across Britain. The miners toiled day and nigh to extract this invaluable commodity. Many coal-fired steam drifters tied up along the Yarmouth quayside every autumn herring season, ready for the Scottish fisher girls to pack the fish away in their millions. The London Docks were still at the hub of the nation’s trade in 1950, and Southampton was still the place you went to catch liners for overseas destinations.
As for aircraft, the skies were full of them; not commercial airliners (there were none of these outside London) but fighter jets. Never a day went by without vapour trails appearing among the clouds, and sonic booms were often heard. There were still over a dozen RAF air bases in Norfolk at the beginning of the period, including at Coltishall, St Faiths, Swanton Morley and Marham; there was a major USAF presence at Sculthorpe near Fakenham. All through the decade the RAF held open days to commemorate the Battle of Britain. In the less mean-spirited nature of the times these festivities were free to attend, although the members of the public who flocked to them would support them generously in a voluntary capacity. The threat of Nazi invasion was still a recent memory and those who fell in resisting it were honoured annually.
Norfolk is a sparsely populated county; in a hundred and fifty years the population of Norfolk doubled to stand at around 600,000 by 1961. Even with the huge increase in recent years it is still estimated at under a million, which is tiny for one of the largest counties in the land. It has always been an agricultural economy, specialising in arable crops. All across the country the horse had vanished from the farms by 1950, and everywhere the ploughing and reaping was done by internal combustion engine: the tractor was king. Things are still much the same for now in Norfolk, but the most thriving communities are increasing becoming centred on the digital world. We had no idea what the phrase ‘the digital world’ might mean in the 1950s. The first massive mainframe computer arrived at Norfolk County Hall in the 1960s (it was about the size of a small bungalow), and the data was carried on magnetic tapes between there and Norwich City Hall in a little blue Daf van. Even electric typewriters were almost unknown in the 1950s, and calculations were largely done with pencil and paper; the very advanced firms (like Norwich Union) used mechanical comptometers with their highly trained female operators.
There were young Teddy Boys with Brylcreemed hair, jeans and bomber jackets, and their female counterparts, but many of the working population had been alive when Victoria was Queen. They had been through two World Wars, many of them as combatants in both. National Service was still in force, and this all made for a less effete nation. It was a hard life – for example there was virtually no central heating, and double glazing was completely unknown. The ice would form inside the bedroom windows as you slept. The only insulation was made from asbestos, and that was treated with gay abandon by everyone, but fortunately we seemed to survive without succumbing to the material; visits to the doctor were for other ailments. The GPO phone box was always there for use in emergencies; you pressed button B and heard the money drop into the machine, when you would ask the operator to connect you. There were two visits a day from the postman who rode his red bicycle round the village. The local Bobby rode his black bicycle to keep a beady eye on the world. All these things were common throughout the land; in the 1950s there was a sense of national identity that is largely lacking today. The very idea of Scotland splitting away was almost nowhere on the political agenda back then. It is true that there were voices raised against the new queen’s title. Even a few post boxes with the monogram EIIR on them were blown up in Scotland. This was not from republican motives, but because she should have been called Elizabeth the first in Scotland – it had been an independent country when Good Queen Bess was on the throne!
Hard though it is to believe, in the 1955 General Election the Tories received more than half the popular vote in Scotland. The Tories governed the UK for most of the 1950s, but it was a very different country sixty years ago.