Weets - A Secret World by Barrie K Sharples
Posted: 29 Mar 2016, 08:24
Whilst searching through the remains of the archived site for something about Hollins Golf Club, I came across this topic and thought it was worth a revival!
I am about to reveal a secret that I have kept for over half a century, and I am sure will be met with incredulity by those who have lived in Barlick all their lives without any knowledge of the following amazing revelations. My story begins one August morning in the early 1950’s; it was one of those dry and sunny days, which seemed to stretch on throughout the summer holidays of youth.
Part One
“Baz, Baz” came the plaintiff cry, “Baz or you coming out to play?” rang out two voices, now in unison, “Oh for goodness sake” mother said “Go and see what they want.”
Why we never knocked on a door in those far off days seems rather odd to me now.
I went to the back door, and opened it to reveal Jim and his sister Siggy two of my chums from Edmondson Street. Jim was a chubby youth with a roguish smile and a mop of tousled hair that had always defied even the best applications of the comb. Siggy was, well a sort of honary lad, we didn’t have much time for proper girls in those days, and girls were usually regarded as too silly. After all girls were always messing with dolls or crying and were just not built to meet the demands thrust on us boys. They couldn’t fight properly, keep secrets nor even write their names in the snow like a proper lad.
It was said that Siggy got her nickname on a return trip from Greenberfield Locks their route had led them past West Marton Dairies depot. As they were passing a group of men taking a break by the loading bay were calling out, one of who shouted out “Look at her legs, like two cigarettes hanging out of a packet.”
Siggy, who was in that phase of shooting up, was, what shall I say, built more for speed, anyway the name stuck, and like these things do, it spread throughout the school.
“What do you want?” I asked, “Are you playing out?” replied Jim, “Suppose so, what we going to do?” I said as I trained my imaginary Winchester rifle on the passage of an overhead crow, “Pow” and another one hit the dust.
“Lets go and see if Eli’s coming out?” suggested Jim, “Ok I replied, he might get his new kite out for a fly”
The prospect of this excitement stimulated us into a jog and graduated into a full-blown sprint. We arrived, breathless, at the back door of Eli’s just off Gisburn Road. Perhaps it was our rasping breathing or Jim collapsing to the floor and banging his head on the gate, but Eli didn’t need a shout, he just appeared.
Now Eli (Pronounced “Ellie”) was a big lad for his age, his father, a grocer was also a giant of a man whom we treated with the utmost respect, (My grandfather used to quote “Manners maketh man” should we forget our please & thank you’s) with Eli’s dad it was a case of Fear maketh manners.
Nicknames, which were almost universal during my youth were sometimes cruel, sometimes witty plays on a persons surname e.g. “Mack” – Mc Donald, (all right that wasn’t a good example) “Tinker” – Bell,etc and could well last them all their lives. I have often wondered if Eli’s was destined to last in perpetuity, as it was somewhat different to the others.
It originated at Barlick Secondary Modern School, as it was then, following a cross-country run and the obligatory communal showers, and if I say that Eli was an abbreviation of elephant you may just understand what I mean.
“Are you playing out?” I asked him, adding ”And bring you kite for a test flight” he nodded and disappeared inside the house, moments later to reappear with the kite.
I say kite but it was different to the norm, actually a “Revojet” which boasted revolving red wings on a plastic fuselage, when in flight the wings emitted a loud whirring noise. This had been a present from Fleetwood by a returning aunt.
“Where shall we go, Victory Rec.?” Eli asked, We need a good wind to get it up he warned,” “how about up Monkroyd way” suggested Siggy, “No” said her brother, “How about up Wets, its allous windy up there” he ventured.
We all readily agreed to this and set off down Gisburn Road, crossing Damhead Bridge and turning off just before the Sally Army on the cider path, towards Butts Mill. Passing the hen huts the appetizing smell of hot chicken mash assailed our nostrils; a clanking of a galvanized bucket drew our attention to our right.
There was a man surrounded by a flock of noisy clucking hens with two superior looking cockerels circulating around trying not to look too excited. “Got any spare eggs?” shouted Eli grinning at his witty enquiry, “ Git on” said the man in a gruff voice, “Or thall git a thick ear!”
We laughed and continued on our way as we approached Butts, “Wonder if we will be able to see Blackpool?” said Jim, meaning when we got up on Weets. We had been before but mists had always prevented any far-reaching views to the west. “Mi dad said that its Morecambe Bay you can see, not Blackpool” ventured Eli, we trudged onward digesting this latest information.
We left the path heading up the slightly rising ground of Monkroyd, “The monks used to live here,” said Siggy, “before I was born, me mum said”.
I said “I wonder where about's” to which Eli promptly said “Over there” pointing to a structure in the middle of the field. We ran over not sure what to expect it turned out to be square concrete like structure with walls about three feet high or thereabouts. “Looks like a sheep pen or summat, and anyway the monks din’t have concrete did they” said Jim, with an air of authority.
“How would the sheep get in, there’s no doorway? Enquired Siggy, “Don’t be daft” retorted Jim; “They just pick em up and chuck em in.” Eli, who had been contemplating this challenge to his identification of the location finally said “This IS the place cos me dad showed it to us last Easter.” The matter finally resolved we headed upwards crossing field boundaries with ease, the Right to Roam, is not a new phenomena we practiced it over fifty years ago.
As we gained altitude the Ribble Valley began to come into view with the hills around Malham and Embsay to the east, lending contrast to the lush pastures of the foreground. Suddenly our attention was diverted by Siggy’s cry of “Look there it’s a fox!” we glanced quickly in the direction of her pointing finger, just in time to glimpse the rear end of something disappearing over a bank.
Breaking into a stumbling run we soon reached the bank, half expecting to seen the animal trembling before us, but nothing.
“Was it a dog?” asked Eli, “No” retorted Siggy, “It WAS a fox!” “Perhaps it was a rabbit” I suggested, “I didn’t see any bushy tail” but Siggy remained adamant in her identification.
We lay on the bank, looking up at the sky and the wisps of clouds slowly drifting by discussing the seemingly endless possibilities of Siggy’s animal.
Eventually, someone, I can’t remember who, said “Oh look there is a spring down there” sitting up and observed that there was indeed a spring bubbling at the bottom of the bank which we had been our debating platform. We could now see that the bank fell away into a ditch before rising again steeply, only three or four feet between the banks, a sort of mini version of the ravines on the sides of Weets we had often slid down.
“I am for a drink” declared Jim; this suggestion was greeted by a cascade of youth as we tumbled in haste to be first to quench our sudden thirsts.
The ground was boggy and we felt the sudden chill as water penetrated shoes, but we were intent on being the first to drink. The iced water tasted good, and we drank with the thirst of camels, “Oh look at me trousers” sighed Eli, revealing a rather muddy rear end, we laughed at his plight but reassured him it would soon dry in the sun and brush-off.
Our attention was then drawn to a series of footprints in the muddy ground, “There I told you so “ Shrieked Siggy, “Thems fox prints” we inspected them and readily agreed that they were indeed the fresh footprints of Reynard. “They head that way towards them ‘sives’” said Jim, we proceed with caution the short way to the foot of the bank, ”Look there’s a hole” said Eli excitedly, “Bet he’s in there waiting.”
Jim volunteered to reach inside the hole to see if he could feel any fur. I was certainly not going to explore any unknown bolthole as I could vividly remember reaching up to the armpit into what I thought was a sand martins nest on some sandbanks of the Ribble. But it turned out to be a water voles lair – but that’s another story.
Jim suddenly cried out “Aghh! Its got me” falling backwards clutching his hand, then seeing the shock in our eyes burst out laughing saying “Ah that got you lot.” When he regained his composure he did report that it seemed to open up into a large hole and he could feel rock inside.
Eli got down to investigate his claim and quickly confirmed Jim’s findings, “Lets pull some of this turf away and get a better look” he suggested as he commenced tearing at the surrounding undergrowth.
We all joined in the effort and soon, no doubt aided by the recent drought, succeeded in exposing more and more rock and a growing opening within it.
Pausing for a rest in our strenuous excavations, Jim got down on all fours, and with his face close up to the hole shouted “Hello” we all heard the muffled echo, and insisted in taking turns to test our lungs.
Eli then produced a penknife from his pocket and began to dig around the base of the hole, after some minutes he proclaimed “It’s a secret cave, look the entrance is getting bigger.”
It was indeed, now much larger than previously suspected, “Wish I had a spade he said” we all heartily agreed, all thoughts of the climb up Weets and the “Revojet” flight, now forgotten.
“How about coming back tomorrow with a spade and a torch to see what’s there” I suggested, this was readily agreed upon, with Jim offering to borrow his granddads spade and me and Eli to supplying torches.
We replaced most of the turf loosely to disguise the entrance then formed a tight circle clasping each other’s right wrist we raised our arms three times whilst chanting our oath of secrecy.
Then we set-off back home eagerly discussing what exciting discoveries lay in wait for us the following day.
To be continued. (Subject to demand and re-negotiation of fees)
© Barrie K. Sharples, February 2005
When your work speaks for itself, don’t interrupt!
I am about to reveal a secret that I have kept for over half a century, and I am sure will be met with incredulity by those who have lived in Barlick all their lives without any knowledge of the following amazing revelations. My story begins one August morning in the early 1950’s; it was one of those dry and sunny days, which seemed to stretch on throughout the summer holidays of youth.
Part One
“Baz, Baz” came the plaintiff cry, “Baz or you coming out to play?” rang out two voices, now in unison, “Oh for goodness sake” mother said “Go and see what they want.”
Why we never knocked on a door in those far off days seems rather odd to me now.
I went to the back door, and opened it to reveal Jim and his sister Siggy two of my chums from Edmondson Street. Jim was a chubby youth with a roguish smile and a mop of tousled hair that had always defied even the best applications of the comb. Siggy was, well a sort of honary lad, we didn’t have much time for proper girls in those days, and girls were usually regarded as too silly. After all girls were always messing with dolls or crying and were just not built to meet the demands thrust on us boys. They couldn’t fight properly, keep secrets nor even write their names in the snow like a proper lad.
It was said that Siggy got her nickname on a return trip from Greenberfield Locks their route had led them past West Marton Dairies depot. As they were passing a group of men taking a break by the loading bay were calling out, one of who shouted out “Look at her legs, like two cigarettes hanging out of a packet.”
Siggy, who was in that phase of shooting up, was, what shall I say, built more for speed, anyway the name stuck, and like these things do, it spread throughout the school.
“What do you want?” I asked, “Are you playing out?” replied Jim, “Suppose so, what we going to do?” I said as I trained my imaginary Winchester rifle on the passage of an overhead crow, “Pow” and another one hit the dust.
“Lets go and see if Eli’s coming out?” suggested Jim, “Ok I replied, he might get his new kite out for a fly”
The prospect of this excitement stimulated us into a jog and graduated into a full-blown sprint. We arrived, breathless, at the back door of Eli’s just off Gisburn Road. Perhaps it was our rasping breathing or Jim collapsing to the floor and banging his head on the gate, but Eli didn’t need a shout, he just appeared.
Now Eli (Pronounced “Ellie”) was a big lad for his age, his father, a grocer was also a giant of a man whom we treated with the utmost respect, (My grandfather used to quote “Manners maketh man” should we forget our please & thank you’s) with Eli’s dad it was a case of Fear maketh manners.
Nicknames, which were almost universal during my youth were sometimes cruel, sometimes witty plays on a persons surname e.g. “Mack” – Mc Donald, (all right that wasn’t a good example) “Tinker” – Bell,etc and could well last them all their lives. I have often wondered if Eli’s was destined to last in perpetuity, as it was somewhat different to the others.
It originated at Barlick Secondary Modern School, as it was then, following a cross-country run and the obligatory communal showers, and if I say that Eli was an abbreviation of elephant you may just understand what I mean.
“Are you playing out?” I asked him, adding ”And bring you kite for a test flight” he nodded and disappeared inside the house, moments later to reappear with the kite.
I say kite but it was different to the norm, actually a “Revojet” which boasted revolving red wings on a plastic fuselage, when in flight the wings emitted a loud whirring noise. This had been a present from Fleetwood by a returning aunt.
“Where shall we go, Victory Rec.?” Eli asked, We need a good wind to get it up he warned,” “how about up Monkroyd way” suggested Siggy, “No” said her brother, “How about up Wets, its allous windy up there” he ventured.
We all readily agreed to this and set off down Gisburn Road, crossing Damhead Bridge and turning off just before the Sally Army on the cider path, towards Butts Mill. Passing the hen huts the appetizing smell of hot chicken mash assailed our nostrils; a clanking of a galvanized bucket drew our attention to our right.
There was a man surrounded by a flock of noisy clucking hens with two superior looking cockerels circulating around trying not to look too excited. “Got any spare eggs?” shouted Eli grinning at his witty enquiry, “ Git on” said the man in a gruff voice, “Or thall git a thick ear!”
We laughed and continued on our way as we approached Butts, “Wonder if we will be able to see Blackpool?” said Jim, meaning when we got up on Weets. We had been before but mists had always prevented any far-reaching views to the west. “Mi dad said that its Morecambe Bay you can see, not Blackpool” ventured Eli, we trudged onward digesting this latest information.
We left the path heading up the slightly rising ground of Monkroyd, “The monks used to live here,” said Siggy, “before I was born, me mum said”.
I said “I wonder where about's” to which Eli promptly said “Over there” pointing to a structure in the middle of the field. We ran over not sure what to expect it turned out to be square concrete like structure with walls about three feet high or thereabouts. “Looks like a sheep pen or summat, and anyway the monks din’t have concrete did they” said Jim, with an air of authority.
“How would the sheep get in, there’s no doorway? Enquired Siggy, “Don’t be daft” retorted Jim; “They just pick em up and chuck em in.” Eli, who had been contemplating this challenge to his identification of the location finally said “This IS the place cos me dad showed it to us last Easter.” The matter finally resolved we headed upwards crossing field boundaries with ease, the Right to Roam, is not a new phenomena we practiced it over fifty years ago.
As we gained altitude the Ribble Valley began to come into view with the hills around Malham and Embsay to the east, lending contrast to the lush pastures of the foreground. Suddenly our attention was diverted by Siggy’s cry of “Look there it’s a fox!” we glanced quickly in the direction of her pointing finger, just in time to glimpse the rear end of something disappearing over a bank.
Breaking into a stumbling run we soon reached the bank, half expecting to seen the animal trembling before us, but nothing.
“Was it a dog?” asked Eli, “No” retorted Siggy, “It WAS a fox!” “Perhaps it was a rabbit” I suggested, “I didn’t see any bushy tail” but Siggy remained adamant in her identification.
We lay on the bank, looking up at the sky and the wisps of clouds slowly drifting by discussing the seemingly endless possibilities of Siggy’s animal.
Eventually, someone, I can’t remember who, said “Oh look there is a spring down there” sitting up and observed that there was indeed a spring bubbling at the bottom of the bank which we had been our debating platform. We could now see that the bank fell away into a ditch before rising again steeply, only three or four feet between the banks, a sort of mini version of the ravines on the sides of Weets we had often slid down.
“I am for a drink” declared Jim; this suggestion was greeted by a cascade of youth as we tumbled in haste to be first to quench our sudden thirsts.
The ground was boggy and we felt the sudden chill as water penetrated shoes, but we were intent on being the first to drink. The iced water tasted good, and we drank with the thirst of camels, “Oh look at me trousers” sighed Eli, revealing a rather muddy rear end, we laughed at his plight but reassured him it would soon dry in the sun and brush-off.
Our attention was then drawn to a series of footprints in the muddy ground, “There I told you so “ Shrieked Siggy, “Thems fox prints” we inspected them and readily agreed that they were indeed the fresh footprints of Reynard. “They head that way towards them ‘sives’” said Jim, we proceed with caution the short way to the foot of the bank, ”Look there’s a hole” said Eli excitedly, “Bet he’s in there waiting.”
Jim volunteered to reach inside the hole to see if he could feel any fur. I was certainly not going to explore any unknown bolthole as I could vividly remember reaching up to the armpit into what I thought was a sand martins nest on some sandbanks of the Ribble. But it turned out to be a water voles lair – but that’s another story.
Jim suddenly cried out “Aghh! Its got me” falling backwards clutching his hand, then seeing the shock in our eyes burst out laughing saying “Ah that got you lot.” When he regained his composure he did report that it seemed to open up into a large hole and he could feel rock inside.
Eli got down to investigate his claim and quickly confirmed Jim’s findings, “Lets pull some of this turf away and get a better look” he suggested as he commenced tearing at the surrounding undergrowth.
We all joined in the effort and soon, no doubt aided by the recent drought, succeeded in exposing more and more rock and a growing opening within it.
Pausing for a rest in our strenuous excavations, Jim got down on all fours, and with his face close up to the hole shouted “Hello” we all heard the muffled echo, and insisted in taking turns to test our lungs.
Eli then produced a penknife from his pocket and began to dig around the base of the hole, after some minutes he proclaimed “It’s a secret cave, look the entrance is getting bigger.”
It was indeed, now much larger than previously suspected, “Wish I had a spade he said” we all heartily agreed, all thoughts of the climb up Weets and the “Revojet” flight, now forgotten.
“How about coming back tomorrow with a spade and a torch to see what’s there” I suggested, this was readily agreed upon, with Jim offering to borrow his granddads spade and me and Eli to supplying torches.
We replaced most of the turf loosely to disguise the entrance then formed a tight circle clasping each other’s right wrist we raised our arms three times whilst chanting our oath of secrecy.
Then we set-off back home eagerly discussing what exciting discoveries lay in wait for us the following day.
To be continued. (Subject to demand and re-negotiation of fees)
© Barrie K. Sharples, February 2005
When your work speaks for itself, don’t interrupt!