Herbert Ealey

My first memory of North Wilts, in general, and Calstone, in particular, was of the early Twenties.  My father, Frank Ealey was a Cherhill man and my mother, Beatrice Rivers was of Calstone origin.  They raised their 7 children (of whom I was the eldest) in a small terraced house by Oxford Railway Station.  The area in which we spent our childhood was grey, treeless, grassless and its inhabitants engaged in a constant battle to keep their heads above the ever-present tide of abject poverty and not always succeeding.

It was therefore predictable that our occasional visits to Calstone to visit our grandparents and country cousins offered the joy of experiencing the wonderland beauty of the village and its environs.

My first clear memory of Calstone was in 1923 when I was seven.  I stayed with my grandparents, Tom and Mary Davis.  They lived in a small semi-detached stone cottage in Greens Lane, now redesignated ‘Green Lanes’, which is a pity since the former no doubt records for posterity some colourful character, whereas the latter is unimaginative.  By today’s standards, this cottage was functional rather than fussy but it had great character.  Its description would no doubt be equally valid for any one of the scores of similar properties dotted around Calstone, at that time.  I loved it, standing as it did (and still does) in sylvan country, looking across the verdant beauty of the Calstone countryside.

The cottage had one ubiquitous room downstairs which combined the facilities of a sitting room, dining room and kitchen.  A black leaded range covered one wall and included trivet and an oven.  The range was wood burning, belching fire and smoke, and producing great heat, whether or not it was required.  All cooking was carried out on this stove and the cost of running it was minimal as the whole district provided copious supplies of dry wood.

This main room led into a scullery into which was fitted a boiler and practically everything else necessary (or even unnecessary) for survival.  Mounds of logs, laundry in various stages of restoration, sundry bottles of dubious liquids, vegetables in variety, hunks of bacon, bits of bicycles, oil cans, jugs of milk, paper, kindling wood, tools, boots and much else.  No doubt all had a use, if only rarely. 

Pride of place in the scullery was given over to a brimming bucket of water, drawn from the well in the front garden.  It served a dual purpose – firstly, to provide water for human consumption and, just as importantly, to slake the thirst of the family dog who made full use of this facility.

Both downstairs rooms were lit by oil lamp causing the ceiling to be smoked yellow.  As the daylight waned, Grampy Davis lit both the lamp and his pipe and my three uncles, Ern, Eus and Perce Davis lit their fags.  We would be assured by today’s pundits that such an atmosphere would prove fatal yet they all seemed to thrive on it.    When Greens Lane was thus shrouded in darkness, it was time to bring out the ‘Housey’ equipment, the origin of Bingo.  We played in the soft light of the oil lamp and the fug from fire and pipe, eating hunks of bread and cheese and pickled onions, until someone called ‘House’ and collected the stake of a few halfpennies.

Grampy Davis was quite a character with a countenance gnarled and tanned as a pickled walnut. He had seen active service in The Somersets on the NW Frontier at the turn of the Century, then worked as a farm labourer at a time when farmers wanted rather more than their pound of flesh. In common with most of his neighbours, his pay was low but supplemented by a number of productive sidelines.  He was quite deadly with a 12 bore which gave a steady supply of rabbits and pigeons.  He would sit on a fallen tree in Greens Lane and shoot pigeons from the many elms, sadly destroyed in the 1970’s.  He kept hens, totally free range, so that the eggs had to be searched for along the fringes of the Lane.  His vegetable plot was highly productive and like his father in law, Joseph Rivers before him, rented the watercress beds at Tog Hill, selling the bundles of cress in Calne. 

The watercress beds were in the stream serving the River Marden, the widest point being known as the Ox’s Eye.  I was told that this phenomenon was completely bottomless and even a railway line pushed down into it did not reach the bed of the stream.  How could such a test be made?  Could a railway line be carried to such a remote place as Tog Hill?  Having got it there, could it be upended?  I had enough sense to keep my scepticism to myself as a townee should when confronted with Wiltshire folklore.

Most of my memories of Calstone are centred upon Greens Lane.  There was no running water or toilet facilities as we now know them.  The Greens Lane privy was half way down the garden in a little shed.  It comprised a bucket surmounted by a flat board with a hole in the middle, the bucket being emptied weekly in a hole in the garden.  The shed attracted flies in summer and there were cold journeys down the garden in winter.

The whole emphasis in the home, in furnishings and way of life was extremely basic, offering only Spartan standards of comfort.  Three piece suites and carpets were not options and materialism was unheard of.  Yet, I never knew any of this hardy society to visit the doctor, only as a last desperate hope.  Home cures were the practical solution and, in general, they seemed to work.

Meals were also rugged affairs.  Granny Davis’s culinary abilities were limited.  A typical dinner consisted of a very large piece of boiled fat bacon with generous quantities of cabbage and a mound of boiled potatoes all cooked in a huge black saucepan.  The dinner was then swamped with more bacon fat and I was told to “Get it down ‘ee, boy”.

Some memories remain remarkably clear after so many years.  My uncles played pitch and toss with halfpennies in a much wider Greens Lane than it is today.  An air of drama was introduced in this harmless game and I was assured great risks were being taken and that it was ‘agen the law’.  I was delegated to keep an eye open.

Another pursuit was pigeon racing and fancying.  The birds were sent by rail to distant parts and, on return to their lofts, there was a mad dash to get the bands off the birds and cycle into Calne for the prize of five shillings.

And then, of course, there was the harvest rabbit hunt which was great fun and, more importantly, very productive for the table.  I recall the corn cut and sheaved by horse drawn harvester starting from the edge and working towards an ever-reducing centre.  As the centre island became smaller, the rabbits made a dash for it and men and boys with flailing sticks would chase them.  My Uncle Eustace Davis bagged 18 in one afternoon – my tally was nil.  I suffered much ribaldry – “Try chuckin’ a pig net over ’em, boy” or “I reckon thy stick’s on the short zide, boy”.  Despite all this, I enjoyed every minute especially the rides on the horses and the lemonade they brought me afterwards.

When I was seventeen in 1933, I attended with my family the wedding in Calstone Church of my Aunty Ethel Davis  (sister of my mother Beatrice, and my uncles Ern, Perce and Eus) to Reg Perrett of Devizes.  She was a much-loved aunt and a very gentle lady.  The reception was held in a marquee at Greens Lane and the wedding was a great success, very animated as these occasions in Calstone always were.

Looking back at my Calstone visits after a lapse of almost 80 years is very nostalgic.  I have of course been back many times in adulthood and Calstone, in common with everywhere else, has changed in affluence, lifestyle and comfort.  What has not changed is its timeless rural beauty.

Herbert Ealey (Great grandson of Joseph Rivers),   Tilehurst, Reading,

Summer 1999