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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required (The memories are simple, living the feeling significant) After conquering Beamsley Beacon due Southwest, Rombald’s moor stood, while for centuries within the valley the minute dwellings of grey stone, brick and muck. Main waterway, depending on era town or sailor beck, though far from sea it be, many a hour spent there, us kids born nineteen forty-three. Five pubs, Heifer, Sailor, Swan, Crown and Fleece also, the British Legion our birth place did hold, where returning defenders of the nation, and others, would sup up oh so bold. Sunday dinnertime, last orders, two ‘o’ clock to be precise, when pubs would be emptied by self, or by one’s wife. Red double-decker buses, Three mile journey to the pictures, we would go, just a threp’ny come back, then seven pence to see the show. A shilling earned every Saturday morning, pushing a perambulator cleverly stacked to the brim, from ‘Brear’s’ old Sawmill, where timber was stored, down the road. Watching big lads playing football on long summer nights, a common sight, robust tackles part of the game, so were the occasional fight. Not too far around the corner, down Sugar hill one could take a little trip, see the General ‘Post office’ cradled on Main street, within the little dip. Mills in the place were productive over a hundred years with chimney’s tall, spinner, weaver, and overlookers wove the cloth to became an institution. Alas the crack of the shuttle has ceded the rattle of the loom has stopped, there’s nothing left in the village but silence, even the mill siren telling ‘o’clock. Above the roof tops, configurations the raw ejection of steam, steel wheels standard gauge, the clank of iron, driven across the plate girder bridge. In desperate days of ration books, over spill from tenders, coal the black gold in cuttings beyond the naked eye collected in jute sacks away from the law. Top of ‘Moor lane’ in summertime to everyone a beautiful sight, where to feel so warm and carefree everything in the world just right. Sunday’s, Church bells rang in the distance around the hills resonated, natures chorus in competition yet to all a complementary hand. The annual visits to the river Wharfe, High mill, Sandy banks or Brittan holm, swimming and singing the Blues with vinyl 78’s when many hours spent there. Bright red bodies a plenty some sleepless nights for sure, it was always easy to be sunburnt, but then easier to forget. Pussy Willow upon the embankment, Easter time adorned the Mount Herman chapel, late summer, Blackberry’s transported in silver bowls pots and pans of various description. Rose hips paid threp’ny bit a lb for therapy, leaves turning to autumn’ yellow, red gold to inspire the artists, in contrast to darkening clouds. Bonfire night the 5th in wintry November, homemade parking pig and treacle toffee and all them sweet goods with roast spuds in abundance. Roman candles fireworks and all, lots of hard work aflame, gone to ashes, heaps of sweat building bonfires to keep tradition and have a ball. Years and many miles do separate, but one can only ponder with all these simple memories to cherish of over yonder. The place is growing larger with new folk all the while, so, a message to you the locals ‘Stop village going out of style.’ © Harry J Horsman 2020
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