Boyhood memories of Great Canfield Circa 1910
Extracts from an article by F. W. Patmore published in 'Essex Countryside’ Vol. 25, No. 247, August 1977
The first visit that I can remember making to Great Canfield was well over 60 years ago. We were living at Chelmsford at the time and went over to visit my father's parents who lived at Marsh Farm. As might be expected, we made the journey by horse and trap through the Rodings and, in retrospect at any rate, it was a thoroughly enjoyable experience. Even the return at night was pleasurable, with the candle-burning lamps casting a faint glow and the clip-clop of the pony, the jingle of the harness, producing a delightful drowsiness.
Later, after we moved to Grays, we travel led by train via London to Bishop's Stortford, where we changed on to the branch line to Takeley. There, we hired a pony and trap for the three-mile journey to the Marsh: I associate the name of Shrimpton with that transaction, or was he the man from the Gryphon who sometimes took us into Dunmow on Market Day?
On other occasions I cycled coming through the Rodings. There I turned to the left, down a steep narrow lane, turned left again at the bottom, past the great mount to Church End, then to the right up the slope to the old village school - one of my father's cousins taught there - and finally to the left again down what, in those days at any rate, was virtually a dead end known as the "Pikeall" or " Pikel" - I never did learn how the name was spelt.
The one thing that, even now, will always call the parish to mind, is •the smell of smoke from a wood fire. In those days, coal was expensive for an agricultural community, while wood seemed to be plentiful and cheap and often free. Most people appeared to be able to gather sufficient stocks to last them through the winter. After all, the parish, though large, if not the largest in the county, was well wooded and had a small population, no more than 350 people.
Along the road to Takeley, about a mile from Marsh Farm, was the village shop, kept by Mrs. Stock, appropriately enough, as the stocks stood on the little green outside. It was a long low whitewashed cottage, thatched if I remember, with the shop at one end, doing duty also as the village Post Office. What a collection of goods was kept in that small room and what a heady smell came from them! Foodstuffs, vegetables, paraffin, vinegar, haberdashery of one sort or another, sweets, were all jumbled together in seemingly inextricable confusion, but Mrs. Stock was able to put her hand on anything at will. I often went there for the sheer pleasure of seeing and smelling. The door opened to the tinkle of a bell and the lady emerged, short, plump, tightly corseted and, I am sure, bewigged. She was always welcoming, even if the request was only for a penny bar of chocolate. Alas, the shop has gone and so has the lady, although the cottage remains.
On the way, one passed the Gryphon, then a farmhouse, but with every indication of having at one time been an inn. In the period I am remembering, there was no hostelry in the parish. Anyone wanting a drink had to go across the fields to High Roding where there were inns in plenty. Consequently, it was quite a common thing for those who could afford it to keep a barrel of beer in the house. Of course, many could not, for at the time, before World War One, the farm labourer's wage seldom exceeded eight or ten shillings a week.
A turning to the left led to the Rectory, at one time the residence of the Victorian, Sir John Maryon Wilson, the story of whose high—jinks were still told with gusto. The only rector I can remember was the Reverend John Maryon Wilson, a relation of Sir John. He was a perfect gentleman, most dignified, possessed of a fine Roman nose and not afraid to ask for and accept advice from his humblest parishioner.
Of course, there was no public transport into or out of the parish. It was a confined existence, one of hard, exhausting work. Yet I don't recollect that people were particularly unhappy and many of them possessed a fund of natural wisdom and philosophy which was none the worse for being unsophisticated.
During the mid-20s an attempt was made to run a bus service to and from Chelmsford, but it did not appear to be very successful the bus itself was a small single-decker with seats along the sides, facing inwards.
I cannot remember any football or cricket club, which I suppose is not surprising, considering the hours the men were expected to work. It was a case of "early to bed and early to rise”. (I wonder by the way if the phrase "and ne'er a toe-rag on" is still used? I should think not, but what a telling comment on the comfort of their boots!) What leisure they had was devoted to their gardens, the produce being a necessary part of their diet, Butcher's meat was a luxury; the butcher came over from Dunmow once a week to take orders and then to deliver, as did the baker and the grocer (was the latter called Luckin or Luck in-Smith?)
What surprises me in retrospect was the size of the congregation on Sunday, especially in view of the scattered nature of the parish and the distances people had to walk. My grandparents had to walk a mile and a half each way, passing five houses on the way, until they reached Church End. But I cannot remember them missing a Sunday until they became too old and frail. Mr. Gowlett, who lived in The Hall, just across from the church, was Church Warden for much of the time I can remember. He was a large, heavily built man who rode round his extensive farms on a fine chestnut cob.
Of course, the place I remember best of all is Marsh Farm itself, which was then divided into two. My great uncle, George Bacon, lived in the half nearer the brew—house; later he and his family moved, first to the old mill house, which has since disappeared, and later to one of the two cottages further up the lane. Uncle George was followed by young Mr. Gowlett who in turn was succeeded by Jack Byford. From the front, it looked like an 18th or early 19th century red brick farmhouse, but the building must have been very much older. Indeed, Mr. and Mrs. Knight, who live in what I still think of as Uncle George s house, have uncovered some timber framing which could possibly be 15th century.
Our house was a fascinating one. The kitchen was long with a stone floor, and a sort of preparation table down one side. Cooking was done on a large range housed in a wide chimney which could easily have contained an open fire with gallows and a turnspit. At one end there was a great door opening into a barn-like structure, dark and mysterious, the timbering of which should have given me a clue to the age of the house, had I but the knowledge to see it. At the other end was the dairy with long. stone slabs for tables and storage space. By 1970, it had been taken into the other half and adapted as a very bright, modern kitchen
From our kitchen ran a dark, narrow passage separated from Uncle George by a wooden partition leading into the hall and thence in the " room”. Here again there was evidence to suggest an open chimney, possibly with settles, but it had been filled up and housed a small grate, possibly of 18th or early 19th century design. At the side was a cupboard which ran back for several feet. What a fascinating collection of bric-a-brac there was on the side tables and what a display of plants on the very deep window recess. The stairs opened off the passage and were blocked off by a door. The treads were solid blocks of oak. Two bedrooms were furnished, one containing two double beds with plenty of room for a third. The other room contained a four-poster without hangings. In addition, there were at least two large attics, altogether it was a fascinating house, at least in retrospect, and offers exciting possibilities for restoration. I cannot remember either outside door ever being locked.
Across the lawn, in front of the house, was the pond and what, in Nottinghamshire where I live now is called the "crew yard" There was a large, brick-built stable, facing an old wooden stable, then used for pigs. There were barns and sheds, housing a fascinating collection of farming equipment. One could wander at will across the fields, following the plough or the reaper or watching the building of stacks. One could go into the stables and watch the horses being groomed and fed. Mr. Gowlett's horses always looked well cared-for. All this was a wonderful experience for a town-bred boy, who can now claim not to be completely ignorant of farming and what it involves
I visited Great Canfield in 1970 and again in 1974, only very briefly and as a bird of passage. I didn't notice very much change. Mrs. Stock's shop has gone, there is a new rectory, a new house next to the old school, now closed. There is a cricket pitch close to the rectory and roads have been resurfaced. Otherwise, I could see little change. I shall always remember the place with affection, for I always felt it was a friendly sort of community, despite its scattered nature. But perhaps that is just the nostalgia of age. viewing a distant, long—gone youth.
The first visit that I can remember making to Great Canfield was well over 60 years ago. We were living at Chelmsford at the time and went over to visit my father's parents who lived at Marsh Farm. As might be expected, we made the journey by horse and trap through the Rodings and, in retrospect at any rate, it was a thoroughly enjoyable experience. Even the return at night was pleasurable, with the candle-burning lamps casting a faint glow and the clip-clop of the pony, the jingle of the harness, producing a delightful drowsiness.
Later, after we moved to Grays, we travel led by train via London to Bishop's Stortford, where we changed on to the branch line to Takeley. There, we hired a pony and trap for the three-mile journey to the Marsh: I associate the name of Shrimpton with that transaction, or was he the man from the Gryphon who sometimes took us into Dunmow on Market Day?
On other occasions I cycled coming through the Rodings. There I turned to the left, down a steep narrow lane, turned left again at the bottom, past the great mount to Church End, then to the right up the slope to the old village school - one of my father's cousins taught there - and finally to the left again down what, in those days at any rate, was virtually a dead end known as the "Pikeall" or " Pikel" - I never did learn how the name was spelt.
The one thing that, even now, will always call the parish to mind, is •the smell of smoke from a wood fire. In those days, coal was expensive for an agricultural community, while wood seemed to be plentiful and cheap and often free. Most people appeared to be able to gather sufficient stocks to last them through the winter. After all, the parish, though large, if not the largest in the county, was well wooded and had a small population, no more than 350 people.
Along the road to Takeley, about a mile from Marsh Farm, was the village shop, kept by Mrs. Stock, appropriately enough, as the stocks stood on the little green outside. It was a long low whitewashed cottage, thatched if I remember, with the shop at one end, doing duty also as the village Post Office. What a collection of goods was kept in that small room and what a heady smell came from them! Foodstuffs, vegetables, paraffin, vinegar, haberdashery of one sort or another, sweets, were all jumbled together in seemingly inextricable confusion, but Mrs. Stock was able to put her hand on anything at will. I often went there for the sheer pleasure of seeing and smelling. The door opened to the tinkle of a bell and the lady emerged, short, plump, tightly corseted and, I am sure, bewigged. She was always welcoming, even if the request was only for a penny bar of chocolate. Alas, the shop has gone and so has the lady, although the cottage remains.
On the way, one passed the Gryphon, then a farmhouse, but with every indication of having at one time been an inn. In the period I am remembering, there was no hostelry in the parish. Anyone wanting a drink had to go across the fields to High Roding where there were inns in plenty. Consequently, it was quite a common thing for those who could afford it to keep a barrel of beer in the house. Of course, many could not, for at the time, before World War One, the farm labourer's wage seldom exceeded eight or ten shillings a week.
A turning to the left led to the Rectory, at one time the residence of the Victorian, Sir John Maryon Wilson, the story of whose high—jinks were still told with gusto. The only rector I can remember was the Reverend John Maryon Wilson, a relation of Sir John. He was a perfect gentleman, most dignified, possessed of a fine Roman nose and not afraid to ask for and accept advice from his humblest parishioner.
Of course, there was no public transport into or out of the parish. It was a confined existence, one of hard, exhausting work. Yet I don't recollect that people were particularly unhappy and many of them possessed a fund of natural wisdom and philosophy which was none the worse for being unsophisticated.
During the mid-20s an attempt was made to run a bus service to and from Chelmsford, but it did not appear to be very successful the bus itself was a small single-decker with seats along the sides, facing inwards.
I cannot remember any football or cricket club, which I suppose is not surprising, considering the hours the men were expected to work. It was a case of "early to bed and early to rise”. (I wonder by the way if the phrase "and ne'er a toe-rag on" is still used? I should think not, but what a telling comment on the comfort of their boots!) What leisure they had was devoted to their gardens, the produce being a necessary part of their diet, Butcher's meat was a luxury; the butcher came over from Dunmow once a week to take orders and then to deliver, as did the baker and the grocer (was the latter called Luckin or Luck in-Smith?)
What surprises me in retrospect was the size of the congregation on Sunday, especially in view of the scattered nature of the parish and the distances people had to walk. My grandparents had to walk a mile and a half each way, passing five houses on the way, until they reached Church End. But I cannot remember them missing a Sunday until they became too old and frail. Mr. Gowlett, who lived in The Hall, just across from the church, was Church Warden for much of the time I can remember. He was a large, heavily built man who rode round his extensive farms on a fine chestnut cob.
Of course, the place I remember best of all is Marsh Farm itself, which was then divided into two. My great uncle, George Bacon, lived in the half nearer the brew—house; later he and his family moved, first to the old mill house, which has since disappeared, and later to one of the two cottages further up the lane. Uncle George was followed by young Mr. Gowlett who in turn was succeeded by Jack Byford. From the front, it looked like an 18th or early 19th century red brick farmhouse, but the building must have been very much older. Indeed, Mr. and Mrs. Knight, who live in what I still think of as Uncle George s house, have uncovered some timber framing which could possibly be 15th century.
Our house was a fascinating one. The kitchen was long with a stone floor, and a sort of preparation table down one side. Cooking was done on a large range housed in a wide chimney which could easily have contained an open fire with gallows and a turnspit. At one end there was a great door opening into a barn-like structure, dark and mysterious, the timbering of which should have given me a clue to the age of the house, had I but the knowledge to see it. At the other end was the dairy with long. stone slabs for tables and storage space. By 1970, it had been taken into the other half and adapted as a very bright, modern kitchen
From our kitchen ran a dark, narrow passage separated from Uncle George by a wooden partition leading into the hall and thence in the " room”. Here again there was evidence to suggest an open chimney, possibly with settles, but it had been filled up and housed a small grate, possibly of 18th or early 19th century design. At the side was a cupboard which ran back for several feet. What a fascinating collection of bric-a-brac there was on the side tables and what a display of plants on the very deep window recess. The stairs opened off the passage and were blocked off by a door. The treads were solid blocks of oak. Two bedrooms were furnished, one containing two double beds with plenty of room for a third. The other room contained a four-poster without hangings. In addition, there were at least two large attics, altogether it was a fascinating house, at least in retrospect, and offers exciting possibilities for restoration. I cannot remember either outside door ever being locked.
Across the lawn, in front of the house, was the pond and what, in Nottinghamshire where I live now is called the "crew yard" There was a large, brick-built stable, facing an old wooden stable, then used for pigs. There were barns and sheds, housing a fascinating collection of farming equipment. One could wander at will across the fields, following the plough or the reaper or watching the building of stacks. One could go into the stables and watch the horses being groomed and fed. Mr. Gowlett's horses always looked well cared-for. All this was a wonderful experience for a town-bred boy, who can now claim not to be completely ignorant of farming and what it involves
I visited Great Canfield in 1970 and again in 1974, only very briefly and as a bird of passage. I didn't notice very much change. Mrs. Stock's shop has gone, there is a new rectory, a new house next to the old school, now closed. There is a cricket pitch close to the rectory and roads have been resurfaced. Otherwise, I could see little change. I shall always remember the place with affection, for I always felt it was a friendly sort of community, despite its scattered nature. But perhaps that is just the nostalgia of age. viewing a distant, long—gone youth.
