‘Swallow and Amazons’ world was filled with fun
AT the grand old age of 66, I think one is allowed a little nostalgia, so we packed up the van for another night of ‘Van-kin’, (You remember, it’s like camping but in a van) and took the 78-mile run down my own memory-lane, to the beautiful village of Sutton Bonington, in Nottinghamshire.
My dad, John, was the village butcher, and I spent my youth from the age of 12 to 18 in a veritable ‘Swallow and Amazons’ existence from 1965 to 1971.
There really was a ‘lane’ as well, lots of them in fact, which is not surprising as Sutton and Bonington, before they became one, are both listed in the Domesday Book, but it is Pasture Lane, named for obvious reasons, which both myself and now Joanie love.
Many of the buildings are red-brick, like my old place pictured here, but dotted in amongst them there are rare gems, like the timbered weavers cottage on Pasture Lane from 1643 and, although you cannot see it on the photograph, the 17th century farmhouse behind the early Victorian three-storey façade of 119 Main Street was our bit of history, complete with low-slung beams which still released salt a few hundred years after they were taken from out of service galleons or indeed the portraits of 18th Century Dandys which had been etched onto the living room windows with a diamond ring.
My misplaced foot and other balls smashed just about every other windowpane except for these 200 year-old drawings, surely a miracle by any standard.
We wondered whether they were still in place but there was no one home to ask; be nice to think they are nearly 50 years later.
Back down Pasture Lane, I regaled Joanie with tales of road-kill suppers cooked over never-ending campfires, as me and my mates lived the dream.
If we ever ran out of pheasant and hare, my dad would always send supplies as sometimes we didn’t go home for two days, why would we, it was safe and there were any number of barns and falling down sheds to house us lads in comfort.
Once you got used to the rats running over your sleeping bag you were fine, but the steak and eggs for breakfast was like no other.
My dad did a fair bit of bartering in those days, so in amongst the steaks and belly pork, there would always be a big crusty loaf from the local baker, brown eggs and, of course, the most wonderful butter from the Sutton dairyman.
As we got older he threw in pint bottles of an Indian Pale Ale which he had exchanged for meat, the name of the brew escapes me for the moment but I still love IPA to this day.
The first pint I actually bought was in The Anchor Inn, Sutton Bonington, it was a Marston’s Pedigree, and it cost 1s (shilling) and 1d (penny), (One and a penny as they used to say in old-money) I think the penny was for the bits in the bottom; there was a mild as well for 11d.
I was 14 and served with no problem by the landlord. In those days if they knew your dad, and he was a decent bloke, there was no need for an ID check.
The local bobby would only comment, ‘Now then youth, take it easy!’ when he saw one of the lads getting giddy after a few pints.
This bon-amie approach changed somewhat when they began to bring policemen in from nearby Loughborough, I think in 1969 when I was 17, although as our ‘japes’ had matured into gate-swopping parties in the new expensive housing estates it was understandable.
Childish I know, and certainly not to be encouraged in 2019, but we had an inordinate amount of fun. Our only regret, we never saw the owners face in the morning.
The River Soar and attendant brooks played a big part in our ‘play’, building rafts, making dams, catching fish and swimming. The joys. The Soar rises at Smockington Hollow on the Warwickshire border and flows through Leicestershire and into the River Trent at Trent Lock.
The river is at its widest between Kegworth and Zouch, where it forms the border between Leicestershire and Nottinghamshire.
This section of the river is the part I refer to and sits in the parish of Sutton Bonington.
2,200 acres of arable and grazing land in the flood plain, now much improved since the construction of flood defences.
In the times of Domesday, the area would have been full of oak trees, unfortunately by the 60s there were probably only 5 per cent left.
After a brief look around last weekend there seems to have been a serious planting programme, and there are definitely more trees than my day.
It was good to see the monster horse chestnuts in Lord Elton’s Field adjacent to my house, we climbed every single one in the autumn to find the biggest conkers, and I only fell out once, when a barn owl flew out of a hole into my face.