Getting your shopping sorted from military coats to toys
WOOD’S army and navy stores will be remembered with affection by many.
The Gloucester shop stood on the corner of Westgate Street and Lower Quay Street (it’s now a pub) and was chock-a-block with all manner of wonderments.
Hobnail boots, buckles, belts and bearskins, pith helmets, medals and muddles.
And the entire, glorious assemblage of accoutrements was arranged on three floors, access to which was via narrow and rickety staircases and dark, creaking corridors.
You never knew what you’d find there. During the late 1960s military surplus clothing enjoyed a period of being fashionable, probably because the Beatles were dressed like psychedelic Field Marshalls on the Sergeant Pepper album cover.
Consequently numerous young people headed for Wood’s in search of a great coat, or reefer jacket. As the term “surplus” suggests, much of Wood’s stock comprised items that the armed forces didn’t want.
The RAF great coats on offer, for example, were in pristine, never worn condition, but were extra, extra large. In fact any member of the RAF who fitted into one of these outsize garments would surely have had to pay excess baggage to board an aeroplane.
So for much of 1968/69 the sight of teenagers in coats hopelessly too big for them was common across Gloucestershire.
Far more stylish were the USAF Type A2 aviator jackets available over the counter at Wood’s. Brown leather with patch pockets either side of the zip, the Type A2 had a collar the wearer could put up and imagine himself to be James Dean, who wore one in “Rebel without a cause”.
Elvis also wore a Type A2 in “GI Blues”, in fact the jacket was the best thing about the film.
Sadly, by the time I’d saved up the money from my paper round to buy a Type A2, Wood’s had sold out, so instead I bought an EX-GPO jacket in navy blue serge material. It wasn’t nearly as cool, but it certainly lasted well. I still wear it for gardening.
In an altogether different way, Macfisheries in Stroud High Street was wonderful too.
Almost every town had an open fronted fish, game and poultry shop three or four decades ago.
Wild hares and rabbits, colourfully feathered pheasants and other game hung from ceiling bars for inspection along with plump, plucked poultry.
But the centrepiece was always the white marble cold slab displaying freshly caught fish that eyed up potential customers.
Subtly spotted sole and silver skinned mackerel were lined up alongside delicate skate wings and eel-like huss.
There was fearsome fare too, such as huge cod with bulging eyes and sometimes a small shark its mouth open to reveal splinter sharp teeth.
On the floor behind the slab you’d find a bucket or two of whelks and cockles and every so often a white aproned assistant ran half a lemon round the rim to keep the molluscs from making a dash for it.
Ron Summerfield’s shop in Cheltenham’s Montpellier had been a fishmonger’s business in former times before the eccentric antiques dealer moved in.
Mr Summerfield was in business in Cheltenham for half a century and as the years went by he became increasingly unable to part with anything. He stopped being a dealer and became a collector.
His home was a 32 roomed house in Bayshill Road, which he filled from floor to ceiling with art, craft and curiosities. Parked outside were half a dozen cars in various stages of decomposition. Each had once been Ron’s everyday transport, but he couldn’t bear to part with them even when their working days were over.
As there was no room in his house, he moved into the flat above the Montpellier shop. When that was filled with artefacts, he moved from the flat into the attic.
And there he died following a stroke at the age of 73 in 1989.
His eclectic collection was auctioned off and the £7 million raised was used to set up the Summerfield Charitable Trust to benefit good causes in Gloucestershire.
At the High Street end of Cheltenham’s Promenade was a tiny shop that many will recall. Aptly named Riches, because that’s what it was full of, the words “coal merchants” appeared on the door. But that was only part of the story.
Because as well as being the place where you ordered three hundredweight of anthracite, or nutty slack, Riches was packed to the gunnels with toys.
Social distancing would have been impossible in the shop, which would just about accommodate three people if they all breathed in.
However, it was home to regiments of miniature soldiers, squadrons of tin Hurricanes and Spitfires, plastic dinosaurs and best of all, Dinky Toys.
What wonderful shops they all were. The delightful painting of Riches’ shop is by local artist Richard Parker Crook.
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