Lealholm (From Gazette & Herald)

Lealholm

This week Gazette & Herald columnist Brian Allen takes a step back in time to look at life in Lealholm in the early 20th century - where there are some unusual tales to tell.

A SHORT distance from Lealholm station, along the railway line on the Whitby side, fox cubs played in the twilight of late spring days when my grandfather was a young man. And, lower down where a footpath bends as it leads to Underpark, there is a spinney where on occasion, roe deer watch at its edge in a field close by the meandering Esk.

The footpath begins in the village, skirting a public car park. Across the car park and the main road, on a grassy mound in front of the church of St James, a war memorial stands, starkly white beneath the moon.

Further on down, past the village shop, Lealholm's Shepherds' Hall echoed to evening jollifications during the mid-20s. Sounds of a small dance band; humorous ditties voiced by a village stalwart; my grandmother's eldest playing her piano piece and her youngest striving to coax a tune from his violin.

All was light and gaiety within that popular venue, cocooned in the cosiness of the moonlit village.

However, high above the Hall, close beside the Esk Valley line, all was not well inside No 1 Railway Cottages. My maternal grandfather was not a happy man.

It had been so for as long as she could remember, my mother said. During the third week of every month her father became somewhat sour and morose, and the family steered well clear, which was unusual considering - for apart from rare sparks of temper I knew him to be a placid fun-loving fellow.

It was, of course, a build up of tension - stressed out as we call it today. One week before the event grandfather turned a touch fratchy, and worsened as the week went on - and who wouldn't if at its end one had to empty the family earth closet!

Not only was my country grandfather a jovial man, he was also a skilful raconteur. And, as he mellowed with age, if some scrap of earthy humour really launched his boat, he would literally laugh until he cried, the tears streaming down his face and involving his audience to such an extent that all were, in the end, badly in need of a white linen square.

He was, apparently, fond of a pint or two in his earlier years - trying hard to drown the horrific memories of his experiences abroad during the First War. And sometimes he and his pals, as change from congregating at Lealholm's Board Inn, would stroll down the road to Danby and sup at the Duke of Wellington.

How they made it home is not on record, but my mother's recall of one of her father's milder anecdotes told of a regular there whose home-goings were often remembered.

Each time her father paid visit to the Duke, inside was a fellow rather prone to become gloriously kettled by the end of the evening. But no matter, for come closing time he was guaranteed transport home.

Outside and waiting, specifically programmed to arrive and collect, was his horse.

Draped as comfortably as was practical across the animal's back by grandfather and his friends, the inebriated gentleman was returned to base slowly but surely by his ever-faithful steed.

Opposite a line of stone cottages at Lealholm - one being a shop selling secondhand books and bygones today - a large green reaches back to the river.

Quoits were played upon the green on summer evenings with grandfather as a member of the village team whose successes and failures were duly reported by The Whitby Gazette.

Before and after the First War the shop was a slaughterhouse where my great-uncle traded as the village butcher, with my grandmother helping out delivering meat produce by pony and trap round the dale.

Life in the raw was a feature familiar to all villages early last century, and beside the slaughterhouse at Lealholm my mother used to say a good many children, herself included, would gather whenever a killing was imminent.

All waiting for the death of some unfortunate animal and then, having placed their hula hoops against the wall, gawped through the door to witness the gory results.

Perhaps too, one juvenile wag at the time using the opportunity to ask my great-uncle for a sheep's head to take home - and requesting that the eyes be left in - as his mother had said it would then see them through the week...

Walking long distances was the norm early in the 20th century, and my grandparents walked miles for pure enjoyment.

Up Lealholm Bank, along Oakley Walls, and the hard pull up to Danby Beacon where the reward was a wonderful panorama of the north-east coast and the boats standing off Teesmouth. And a turn the other way took in the Esk Valley, above Fairy Cross Plain, Fryup and Danby Castle.

Later, they would descend to Danby Lodge, sauntering back along the banks of the Esk, past Duck Bridge, through Houlsyke and home.

Or they would take the Rosedale Road out of Lealholm onto Glaidale Rigg where the north sea is visible again. And a turn the other way to spy Roseberry Topping rearing out of grandfather's native Cleveland. And to gaze down also upon Eskdale's green velvet fields either side of the river.

Dressed up as well. I have a photograph of both in their walking attire - grandfather in flat cap, jacket, waistcoat and tie; dark troos, stout boots, and a mackintosh over his arm.

Dora Hannah in cloche hat and light raincoat flapping about a pretty print dress. And nary an ounce of fat on either of them in those days as Robert used to say.

Family anecdotes were always a part of fireside life in the oil-lamp winter nights of my mother's country childhood. One which has survived for close on ninety years is as follows:

The place: Lealholm station where from 1907 to 1935 grandfather was one of two porters. The time: one summer's evening around 1919 when the last train from Middlesbrough to Whitby had pulled in with a great clanking, and hissing forth clouds of steam which obscured the platform in places.

Grandfather was busy attending to passengers slighting, when out of the gathering dusk a rosy-cheeked chap approached. A local lad, he'd been on a day trip - the very first departure of his life from Lealholm.

Hugely relieved to be back on homeground, there was nevertheless an anxious look upon his face as he addressed my grandfather:

"My wod, Mr Smith, it's good ti see thoo ageean... bud... can the tell me summat?"

And tensing himself as if expecting the worst he blurted out: "Are the old folks still at the farm?"

The churchyard of St James is surrounded by a wall funded in 1904 by such respected benefactor of Lealholm, Sir Francis Ley Bt. Within the churchyard my grandmother rests; and our Robert too.

A memorial stone to my grandparents refers to them both - but Arthur, being the first to go in the November of 1964 is not there.

I thought it strange at the time that he opted for cremation at Acklam, near Middlesbrough. And even more so when, fifteen years later Dora Hannah, with two hundred years of ancestry along the dale naturally chose to be buried in her home village.

All was revealed by Robert one afternoon in 1993, as we sat in Rose Cottage discussing his father's final illness and eventual demise.

"Oh, it's simple enough reasoning as to why he was cremated there" he said, in his casual characteristic fashion: "Father went home you see... or as near to Faceby as he could get."

Updated: 10:09 Wednesday, February 01, 2006