I was in the Whittlesey Library last week and saw a copy of Whittlesey Wordsmith’s first collection, Where the Wild Winds Blow, prominently displayed on the local collection’s shelf.
I only discovered when I checked that it was published nearly eight years ago (next month, in fact). For the Wordsmiths, our U3A writing group, it was a great achievement and one we were, and still are, very proud of. Over the intervening years, seven more collections have followed: A Following Wind, Three Sheets to the Wind, two Christmas collections, Windy Christmas and Jingle Bells and Tinsel Tales. The last two collections have each had a theme: Dead End Tales is a collection of crime and ghost stories; Coastal Tales are those with a coastal connection. It was after publishing Where the Wild Winds Blow that individual members gained the confidence to publish their own books. Some of these are shown on the poster.
And this is number seven not on the poster:
It was when I was standing in the hall of a local meeting room and seeing the proof copy for the first time that the memory that stays with me, etched into my brain, was the great sense of achievement. That, together with the words of a member sadly no longer with us, Jan Cunningham, who said: “I never thought I would see my writing in print”. Coastal Tales is dedicated to the memory of Jan Cunningham
We were given a book or film title with one word changed as a prompt. I changed Summer Holiday to Budget Holiday and it is one of my stories in Where the Wild Winds Blow:
Budget Holiday
We spent an eventful first night of our budget holiday playing Bash the Bed Bug. The beds were so old the maker’s name on the worm-eaten headboard was written in Latin. The one small mercy was that there were no springs sticking out of the mattress; they had all been removed and melted down to make cannons for the Napoleonic wars.
After a fitful night’s sleep, we staggered down the rickety stairs of our decrepit hotel to breakfast. The kitchen was like the three witches’ scene from Macbeth but being a budget hotel, there was only one in the cast. She was stirring porridge in a black iron pot over an open fire. No doubt, rumours about the invention of gas cookers had reached the hotel management, but they placed such stories within the realms of fantasy.
Eventually breakfast was served. Only great willpower and ravenous hunger enabled us to devour the offering put before us. Compared to this establishment, Greasy Joe’s transport café was a three-star Michelin restaurant. Although there was no eye of toad or leg of newt in the porridge, one sensed their presence. After a chipped mug of black tea we completed our breakfast. Following a quick sluice down from the galvy cold water bucket – the en-suite to our room – we were ready for the sightseeing tour.
I don’t know whose idea it was to include the tour of the abattoir in the day’s itinerary but it was not an obvious choice. We were very nervous about the other excursions promised in the brochure; all were listed as mystery tours. I suppose the biggest mystery was how the company had avoided prosecution. The only saving grace was that we had booked the short three-night break, not the full week’s offering.
We returned to our quarters worn out from the sightseeing tour and from bump-starting the 1927 Leyland charabanc – our transport for the day. We wearily trudged upstairs to our bedroom to scrape off the blood and entrails, which were a memento of the slaughterhouse tour. Although bump-starting the bus had been tiring – particularly the half-mile push up the one-in-five to give us a start on the downside of the hill – it did give us a chance to get some fresh air. It allowed the wind to blow away the putrid smell that clung to us like a dog to a favourite bone. The driver had kept the handbrake on to stop the bus rolling back down the hill on top of us but it made it a devil of a job to push.
The wizened crone who acted as hotel cook had excelled herself; the steak and kidney pudding was excellent. The absence of one stocking gave us a clue to how the pudding was wrapped for cooking. After several brown ales we retired for the night, too tired to put up a fight with the wildlife sharing our bed. There is less biodiversity in Barnsley zoo than in that bed.
We awoke early, scratching away the small creatures of the night clinging to our skin with the steadfast determination of a bank manager clutching a newly signed mortgage agreement. After scraping our skins, with the use of the galvy bucket and copious amounts of coal tar soap, we made our way down for breakfast. It was probably the smell of burning bacon that had woken us. It is very unusual to see black bacon. Crispy bacon is not uncommon, but to achieve a near cremation without the result turning completely to ash is a remarkable achievement.
We boarded the Leyland ready for another day of excitement, unsure whether to expect a tour of a sewerage works, a tanning factory or an industrial laundry. Ecclestone’s Brewery was therefore a surprising destination. Ecclestone’s is an old-fashioned brewery. There is a great deal of steam, whirring shafts, open machinery and flapping drive belts. Power is provided to the works by a very ancient steam engine, its low chimney belching copious amounts of black smoke to descend on all and sundry in the damp air as wet soot.
The tour was going relatively well until a posse of rats pursued by three ginger tom cats hurtled by. They raced around the floor then up into the machinery before two rats fell into a huge vat, squealing horrendously. The elderly tour guide didn’t bat an eyelid.
One of the men in our group asked about the incident.
“That often happens,” explained our guide calmly. “You see, the rats can’t keep a grip on the damp surfaces, so they fall in the vat.”
Another member of the group asked how the brewery dealt with the situation.
“When we empty the vat, we strain the rats out and dispose of them.”
“What about the rats?” he asked.
“Oh, they are quite dead.”
“What about the beer?”
“It’s alright, they don’t drink a lot of it; you see, they only have small stomachs and if they can’t get out, they drown. If they do get out, they are usually so intoxicated the cats catch them easily.”
The party shuffled their feet, looking uneasy. One or two had turned quite green and seemed in danger of vomiting.
Our man continued unperturbed, “But surely that isn’t very healthy.”
“Not for the rats, no, but the cats are more sensible and keep away from the open vat.”
“But what about the quality of the beer?” our man persisted.
“I’ll get you a glass and you can try it yourself and let me know what you think.”
“What! When it has had rats in it?”
“It’s alright; they have been strained out, as I said before.”
At the tour’s end, everyone declined the offer of a free pint and was relieved to be returning to the hotel. There was a great deal of nervousness, however, when we learned that Toad in the Hole was the dish for dinner. The relief was palpable when Toad in the Hole turned out to be sausages in Yorkshire pudding.
We decided to leave straight after dinner, foregoing the pleasure of another night in the wildlife park that had been our bed and the culinary delights of the next day’s breakfast.
If it had been possible to award minus stars in the review of our holiday, the minus fifty mark would easily have been surpassed. All I can say is, even if you are offered good money, do not take one of Earnest Mugroach’s “Heritage Tours of the North.”
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