Tres­tle ta­bles laid for home­made wine, Jams and jel­lies, ruby-red and clear, Feather sponges spun to float on air, Min­gling wafts of crusty-coated bread; Wheels and looms set ready to dis­play Spin­ning, weav­ing cloth and shap­ing clay; Pil­lows meshed with s

This England - - News - CHRISTO­PHER NICHOLSON

The whole­sale in­dus­tri­al­i­sa­tion of the Peak District fringes, both to east and west, con­cen­trated a mas­sive cap­tive pop­u­la­tion who were wait­ing for the chance to break out into the fresh air and sun­shine. Now we have great open spa­ces to ex­plore, and the means to get to them. Some say we have opened a Pan­dora’s box — the rail­way brought the first van­dals to Peak­land, the car brings the mul­ti­tudes that re­duce paths to broad quag­mires in pop­u­lar places, and the cult of the moun­tain bike threat­ens an­cient tracks. Lucky though, the wan­derer who strays into far off coun­try, who still en­joys the quiet hills, dis­tant from car park and gravel path and busy dale. Ghosts of long gone farm­ers still in­habit curlew moors, and far views to dis­tant low­lands are quite un­al­tered.

In his life­time there wasn’t a cor­ner of the Peak District he hadn’t vis­ited or a peak he hadn’t trod­den, and even the tourist “hon­ey­pots” had re­ceived brief glances over the decades. He knew ev­ery inch of its var­ied land­scapes and of­ten his only walk­ing com­pan­ions were the grouse and sky­larks of high sum­mer or the sheep and moun­tain hares of deep­est win­ter as he ex­plored the rich hid­den cor­ners and lonely wilder­nesses that stretched over six coun­ties for al­most six decades. He al­ways had his cam­era with him to record his walk; the un­ex­pected en­counter with flora or fauna, the rich colours and dra­matic shapes of an un­for­get­table land­scape, or a daz­zling win­ter sun­set — all com­posed with a coun­try­man’s eye for de­tail.

After his sud­den death, aged 76, in 2011 I in­her­ited the en­tire Red­fern Col­lec­tion of im­ages — thou­sands of colour and black-and-white im­ages housed in a hap­haz­ard and ran­dom sys­tem of fil­ing cab­i­nets, plas­tic slide boxes and ring files. I’ve been through all the colour slides and I am now mak­ing my way through the equally numer­ous black-and-white neg­a­tives to try and bring some or­der to a unique body of work. In do­ing so I’ve un­earthed some ab­so­lutely stun­ning im­ages of the Bri­tish coun­try­side that have been pub­lished in a se­ries of three books. The first of these — A Coun­try­side Cam­era — was pub­lished by Whit­tles Pub­lish­ing in 2014.

But his im­ages have never re­ceived the same recog­ni­tion as his prose — even though they were com­posed with the same sen­si­tive skill and cre­ativ­ity. Most of them re­mained un­pub­lished in his life­time. In­deed for some of the pic­tures in this ar­ti­cle it will be their first ap­pear­ance in print, and for oth­ers I looked at in the process of se­lec­tion it was pos­si­bly their first ex­po­sure to day­light since they were re­turned from pro­cess­ing and viewed for the only time. His col­lec­tion has been a trea­sure trove of time­less im­ages that I’ve been priv­i­leged to dip into, and a suit­ably poignant re­minder of Roger Red­fern — writer and pho­tog­ra­pher.

Thissum­mer marks the cen­te­nary of one of the blood­i­est bat­tles ever fought — the Bat­tle of the Somme. It be­gan on 1st July 1916 and by the time it had ended in Novem­ber there had been well over one mil­lion ca­su­al­ties (see pages 54–55 for an ar­ti­cle about the Somme).

The ter­ri­ble sac­ri­fice of so many young lives is vividly por­trayed in a book of po­ems en­ti­tled When will we ever learn? writ­ten by Nick Matthews of Sand­wich in Kent (for de­tails con­tact hori­zon­im­age@talk­ Two mem­bers of his fam­ily fought at the Somme — his grand­fa­ther Sid­ney Bushell who won the MM and Bar in the First World War, and his great un­cle Al­bert Bushell who was killed after two days in the line. Beau­ti­fully il­lus­trated with pho­to­graphs, art­works and cal­lig­ra­phy this book is a fine tribute. Here is one of the po­ems from the book:

go! There was a long de­lay and I think a po­lice­man es­corted him away in the end. The match it­self was set­tled by a great headed goal from Ge­off Hurst of West Ham, who had come into the team in place of the in­jured Greaves. I re­call that after the match Eng­land’s man­ager Alf Ram­sey re­fused to let his play­ers swap shirts with their op­po­nents.

Eng­land would meet Por­tu­gal at Wem­b­ley in the semi­fi­nals the fol­low­ing Tues­day — there was not much of a break be­tween games in those days. Por­tu­gal had found them­selves three goals down at one stage in their pre­vi­ous match against the plucky North Kore­ans, but then Eu­se­bio scored four times to put his side through. Now the ques­tion was could the tour­na­ment’s lead­ing scorer be the first player to net against Eng­land? In fact he did, with a penalty kick some five min­utes be­fore the end. By this time, though, Eng­land were two goals to the good, both scored by our own hero Bobby Charl­ton. Eng­land man­aged to hang on and would face our old ad­ver­saries West Ger­many in the World Cup Fi­nal on Satur­day 30th July. My abid­ing mem­ory of the semi-fi­nal was of the great Eu­se­bio sob­bing un­con­trol­lably into his shirt at the fi­nal whis­tle.

By now, of course, I was thor­oughly hooked on the game as cup fever gripped the na­tion. Nearly ev­ery shop and of­fice dis­played Eng­land ban­ners, rosettes and mes­sages of good luck to­gether with im­ages of World Cup Wil­lie, the tour­na­ment’s of­fi­cial mas­cot. My friends and I proudly had Union Jack flags on our bikes as we im­pa­tiently rode around count­ing down the hours to the fi­nal.

Come the big day there was rain be­fore kick off but it had stopped by the time the two teams walked out onto the lush Wem­b­ley turf. How­ever, as Eng­land emerged out of the tun­nel there were a cou­ple of sur­prises in store. First, they were

A song to pro­mote the first World Cup mas­cot was recorded by Lon­nie Done­gan and be­came the Eng­land foot­ball team’s an­them. There’s a foot­ball fel­low You all know his name And the pa­pers tell us he’s in the Hall of Fame, Wher­ever he goes He’ll be all the rage ’Cause he’s the new sen­sa­tion of the age.

CHO­RUS Dressed in red, white and blue He’s World Cup Wil­lie, We all love him too World Cup Wil­lie, He’s tough as a lion and never will give up, That’s why Wil­lie is favourite for the Cup. Wil­lie, Wil­lie, He’s ev­ery­body’s favourite for the Cup.

Well we’re all foot­ball crazy And it’s plain to see That we’re all so happy like one big fam­ily, Now we’ve found some­one Who makes the rafters ring Wel­come to a brand new soc­cer King. All the fans are wait­ing How they’ll spur him on And those sixty na­tions will soon know Wil­lie’s song, Wher­ever he goes He’ll be all the rage ’Cause he’s the new sen­sa­tion of the age. One more time: Wil­lie, Wil­lie, He’s ev­ery­body’s favourite for the Cup.

Left: Storm clouds gather over Old Bramp­ton. Right: Al­port Farm. Be­low right: Frank Fisher, butcher, Dron­field, Der­byshire. Bot­tom left: River Skir­fare above Lit­ton, York­shire. Bot­tom: Roger Red­fern at the sum­mit of Mam Tor, over­look­ing the Hope Valle

The cost of war — massed lines of grave­stones mark the fi­nal rest­ing place of those killed at the Bat­tle of the Somme. Nick Matthews at the grave of his great un­cle, Pri­vate Al­bert Bushell. See this page.

Op­po­site page: The World Cup win­ning team. Back row (left to right): Harold Shep­herd­son (Trainer), Nobby Stiles, Roger Hunt, Gor­don Banks, Jack Charl­ton, Ge­orge Co­hen, Ray Wil­son, Alf Ram­sey (Man­ager). Front row (left to right): Martin Peters, Ge­off Hurst

This page: Ge­off Hurst com­pletes his hat-trick to clinch vic­tory for Eng­land; four cards in Bar­ratt’s “Fa­mous Foot­ballers” se­ries (1967); the old Wem­b­ley Sta­dium with its fa­mous twin tow­ers.

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