The Five Village Green Cottages
Church Cottage.
This is one of a pair of cottages known as "Spight" cottages, supposed to have been built to prevent a view, from the old vicarage to Seighford Hall. The occupants of the Hall did not get on with the vicar.
The earliest people I remember living here were Mr and Mrs Breese, who were the parents of Mini Clark, Flossy Brown, Vera Doughty, and one son, Percy who was a motor car mechanic at Bridgeford Garage for Herbert Bennion. They all lived in the village. When old Mrs Breese died in the 1950`s, Sam and Lotty Fox moved in, moving his pigeon loft and tool shed from the old thatched house on the west side of the church
Sam Fox and his Wife Lotty
Old Sam Fox and his wife Lotty, lived in the old Church Cottage,
Sam he was a tractor driver , to earn his weekly pottage,
This he did at Green Farm, on a Fordson TVO,
Steady progress all day long, when out to reap and mow.
A tall thin man five foot ten, his clothes hung loose around him,
Hung his head forward and looked at you, underneath hat brim,
Could not turn his head, looked round with his sharp eyes,
Perfect stance for using, his twelve bore with his demise.
He wore a long grey smock, for eve-ry occasion,
On his bike into town, in the belfry did not loosen,
His boots with spats, rarely got into the muck,
So careful was old Sam, not quick enough to make quick buck.
He had brown piercing eyes, through bushy eyebrows looked,
Quick spoken man was he, fast response as he joked,
What little smile he had, turned his thin lips almost level,
Two little creases either side, midst his talking babble.
Lotty his wife worked hard, in her Churchyard cottage,
Took in washing half the week, from houses in the village,
Her washing line always full, all the way down her garden,
Dried and ironed and folded up, and parcelled in her kitchen.
The smallest lady in the village, smoked woodbines all the day,
Washing money kept her in fags, the shop she went to pay,
In the pub sometimes she called, had a drink bought for her,
Nothing strong to make her wobble, just a half of beer.
House cleaning too was on her menu, bucket brush and mop,
If she came across a bottle , only took a drop,
When she stood to have a natter, leaned heavy on the brush,
Lit up her fag to have a drag, on woodbines she had a crush.
She always wore about the village, cross-over pinafore,
Tied around the middle, hem almost to the floor,
Her skinny legs and wrinkled stockings, plus the ankle socks,
To reach when ironing with her fag, should have had a box.
Their garden it was tended, with the greatest care,
Produce for the larder shelves, a few flowers and roses flare,
Grassy path down the middle, wash line tied from house to tree,
Hedge all trimmed and tidy, brick path swept to outside laver try.
Sam had not retired so long when he past away,
And Lotty kept on working , in her quaint old way,
Bought her fags one at a time, as she got some money,
Called at the pub most dinner times, with her nose so runny.
Everyone respects her courage, working to the end,
To keep her woodbines in her fingers she would sometimes lend,
Always paid back a little later, next week do the same,
Moved to Smithy Lane bungalow, and end her working fame.
Countryman.
Along the churchyard hedge of Church Cottage were two very large lime trees, these were blown down in high winds, one just skimming the side of the house, dislodging only a few tiles. This happened relatively recently, in the early 90`s, and took some time to clear up and settle the garden down again.
This is Ivy Cottage on the end of the vicarage drive with Church Cottage on the right in the picture with two big lime trees can be seen towering over its roof, it looks as though they had been "crowned " (topped off) back in the 1950's, forty years later they blew down in a high wind narrowly missing the cottage.
Ivy Cottage
The second of the "Spight" cottages, was built at the end of the vicarage drive, sister cottage to Church Cottage. This was a farm cottage to Yews Farm, and lived in by the cowman Mr. Hill, until he retired and moved down the road. Albert Hine moved in with his family, and was wagoner for the Yews Farm. There he grew tobacco, among the many things he grew in the garden, until he retired when he moved into one of the new council houses in Bramall Close.
I Remember Albert Hine
Dated in the 1940's and 1950's
Albert was a Waggoner, for Charlie Finimore,
A strong and healthy man he was, and stood at five foot four,
In his younger days it's told, he would walk out of the hills
With a ewe under each arm, in winters cold and chills.
He lived at Ivy Cottage, where he grew his own bacca, (tobacco)
For to keep his pipe alight, it was not a laughing matter.
As the summer days got longer, so pick leaves did he,
And hung then in the living room, the ceiling could not see,
When dry and almost crisp they got, into a draw he pressed
To keep them through the winter, by large old chimney brest.
He rang church bells on Sundays, with a team they were so loyal,
They practice in the mid week night, as if expecting royal,
He had a box, of twelve inches, though he was in his prime,
The little man he rang the tenner, keeping stead time.
The team with him at that time, they are well remembered,
It written in the belfry sill, names and bells all numbered.
All day he worked with horses, a carting muck with two,
He had the one up in traces, as the load was from the Yews,
Up to the Noons Birch field, where he hooked it out in rucks,
Ten paces up, ten paces wide, so even was the muck.
Descibe the man were looking at, a jerkin he did ware,
Tied round the middle with binder twine, to hold more than just a tare,
Cordroy trousers tucked in spats, round his hob nail boots,
Cap raked left and pipe raked right, pouch and matches in a box.
His old waist coat worn and taty, kept his big watch n matches dry,
The shirt it had few buttons , and the colar he kept it by,
For high days and holidays, when everything was clean,
And home guard duty, when the sergeant, he was very mean.
His platoon was made up of men, who worked around the farms,
They mustered in the village hall, to train as fighting men at arms,
The pork and bacon beef and taters, butter eggs and creme,
All of these were traded, mongst the brave old fighting men.
Albert kept his pipe and bacca, it was woodbines for the rest,
As the smoke it was so dense, no room for enemy they jest
This ploy worked well , no men got lost, and warmer they could keep,
Til sergeant came and caught them, so loaded up his jeep.
Two cows he kept and young stock, and a few old tatty hens,
The fields where he kept them, had sheds and tidy pens,
He mowed along the grass verge, all the way to Stafford,
To make his hay to keep them, and drew water from the ford.
All his life he worked dammed hard, but slower he did get,
Albert met his maker, he was one you can't forget,
Popular and cheerful, he lived to seven,tee
Buried in Seighford church yard , remembered by me and thee.
Countyman
The two cottages across the road (the one nearest the corner) were lived in by Alf Worthington and his sister. Alf always worked in town in an office, his sister also had a clerical job.
The house next door was occupied by Violet Ashley a widow, and used to deliver the newspapers. She would be up at six o'clock in a morning, and walk down to Great Bridgeford to the post office, to collect all the papers needed for Seighford. These she carried in an old push chair this job took her till about nine o'clock. She was attacked and molested on a couple of occasions and from then on always carried the pepper pot with her, for protection. Violet wore thick lens glasses, like the bottom of bottles, and read the paper three inches from her nose.
On her paper round she always had her old gabardine mac on, along with her black beret with a chimney on top.She was a tall, slim old lady who walked quite briskly and very straight in posture. The biggest drawback with Violet was, that when she talked to you, it was you who needed the mac, as she talked with quite a splutter.
She was seldom ill and rarely missed her round, but one Saturday she fell down the stairs and broke her leg. No one missed her on Sunday as there was no papers to deliver, and it was not until she dragged herself down the garden path to the wicket, that she was discovered, after some fifteen hours on the floor. She was taken Stafford General Infirmary, where she had a difficult recovery, but never delivered another paper.
I Remember Violet Ashley
Violet lived in a cottage, next but one to the school,
Lost husband Bill some years ago, life had been so cruel,
For years now she delivered, the magazines and papers,
Carried them on an old pushchair, even in bad weather.
She walked over the bank, all the way Great Bridgeford,
Collect them from the paper shop, for very little reward,
This she did six days a week, every week of the year,
Bout four miles it was the round, she talked and got some cheer.
When she spoke you needed cover, for she talked so quick,
With not many teeth, she shplashed and lisped all as if in panic,
This is when she met everyone, and carried all local news,
Gossip she spread in record time, to anyone she choose.
Violet wore an old gabardine mac , with black beret on her head,
Carried old umbrella too, on her feet bootee's worn out in the tread,
Her hair was cut with beret on, clipped short up to its brim,
Beret had a chimanee on top, wet weather not looked quite so trim.
Some time ago Violet got attacked, when collecting paper money,
This did not deter old Vi at all, reported to the local bobby,
Now she carries a good defence, her pepper pot in pocket,
Carried it for years in case, and never did find a culprit.
When she'd finished her round one Satdee, fell and broke a bone,
Wasn't found till late on Sunday, she crawled out to her gate alone,
This was then end for poor old Violet, never walked again,
In the village everyone missed her, not long was she in all that pain.
Countryman
Blacksmiths Cottage.
This was a tied cottage to the blacksmith. Here lived Mr and Mrs Bill Appleby. Bill was a blacksmith in town; his forge was in Count Road, opposite the old Stafford General Infirmary. Here, he did no farrier work (horse shoeing) but did mostly fabricating and fancy iron work. Mrs Appleby was the school caretaker; this was very handy, as she had only to walk the length of her garden path.
This is Mrs Appleby's daughter Anne standing where the school playing field gates are now, taken around late 1950's
Their garden was all where the car park is on the front, by the school. The footpath from Coton Clanford came over the Cumbers from the Oldfords and right through his garden, bringing the kids from all points south of the school. This cottage had a few outbuildings for the odd cow and a pig sty, and an outside privy, opening out onto about two acres of paddock. What is now the school playing field.
This is the school as it is today, at one time it had iron railings along the front to protect the narrow garden where you see the green shrubs. The Blacksmiths cottage was between the end of the school and the pair of cattages ( now all one house) you see on the left of the picture. The right hand end of the school was the School House. A huge new block of class rooms have recently been built to the rear, over what was the school garden.
A sense of curiosity is nature's original school of education.
Dr. Smiley Blanton