| The Village of Euxton, Lancashire, England. |
 Euxton dot com ™ |
| The Village of Euxton, Lancashire, England. |
Euxton dot com ™ |
| The Village of Euxton, Lancashire, England. |
| Message Board 1 |
| The Following are a few of the messages
received at www.Euxton.com Email addresses are removed unless folk are requesting follow up contact: Home Page |
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Hi, from Ron Swift of Armitriding Cottage. (30 June 2008). I remember Miss White, she was a lovely old lady, she lived next door to Wilf Heffron and his wife. Wilf suffered from shell shock from the war and was bad with his nerves. I lived at Armitriding Cottage and collected water from the spring, used to play in the Mill and go under the tunnel that took the mill race to the river. In the mill yard were some scrap lorries which I use to pretend to drive. The cottage was always warm friendly and cosy, there were never any suspicion of Ghosts, or things to be fearful of during the 26 years I lived there. The meat room refered to was a wash house were we washed cloths, churned milk and butcherd the occasional pig. A little verse I wrote may remind you of the spring, A Frosty Morning I wake up shivering to a frosty morning, Ice making patterns on the window pane, The breath pours out like clouds of mist, As I wash my face, a cold sharp shock. The first task of the day, drinking water to get, Standing in the corner, enamel buckets gleaming white, Jacket on, cap pulled down and scarf coiled tight, I reach out and grasp a handle in each gloved hand. Walking down the lane, my clogs sliding on ice, All the fields and hedgerows glisten, frosted white, Nobody about, it is so quiet, not a sound to be heard, Only the click, click of the clog irons on the stones. Pausing at the old narrow bridge across the river, With dark swirling water rushing fast and deep below, Look at the missing planks, I must be careful not to slip, Peering down, my limbs tremble at the thought. Then it's up the hill, buckets swinging, to the frozen spring, The fresh clear water pouring from the rocky ledge, Icicles hanging in sparkling chains glinting in the morning sun, Sucking a small piece of ice, place the buckets and let them fill. Arms aching, shoulders straining, the journey back is very hard, The water splashes on my legs, like icy needles, it's so cold, Once back home, I sit and toast in front of a nice warm fire, Mother makes a steaming sweet cup of tea and smiles at me. Home at Night My day's chores all done, time to sit and rest, Pigs fed, eggs collected, and the cow milked, Churn away, pat the butter all tidy and neat, Arm aching, back sore, glad to be off my feet. Sit in comfy chair, all soft and warm, Mum pokes the fire, the oven red hot, My sisters at the piano singing so sweet, As the oil lights flicker casting shadows about. The iron kettle softly hisses, as it stands on the hob, The sweet smell of cloth covered dough left to rise, Hot baking bread knocked steaming, out of the tin, Mouth waters in anticipation, jam, bread and cakes. After supper making a rug, we all sit round, Sacking marked out in pattern ever so fine, Mum and I cut the old clothes into strips, While dad and sisters pack them in tight. Tired and sleepy I go to bed for the night, Tucked in by mum and fussed around, A comfortable feeling of love is about, What a warm way to see the day out. I was born in the stone cottage built in the 1600's, which had no running water, gas or electricity. It was in the mid 60's when I was 16 years old that these services were installed. My parents were in their late forties when I was born and their way of life had never changed for several decades. My father spoke in pure Lancashire dialect and when my wife first met him I had to act as translator. Ron Swift |
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Hello! |
Hello Al,
Thanks
Al, |
| The above are a few of the messages
received at www.Euxton.com Email addresses are removed unless folk are requesting follow up contact: Home Page Go to Message Board 2 |
| Message Board 1 |
| The Village of Euxton, Lancashire, England. |
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| The Village of Euxton, Lancashire, England. |
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