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Growing Up In Feltwell in the 1950s & 60s – Part 2. Sights and Sounds
There were far fewer motorcars in the 1950s but sounds probably carried further as a result. As a young boy of 3 years old I would sit amongst the trees and bushes which lined the school field alongside Munsons Place and looking towards the school I could watch the older children, who probably included my then 4 older siblings, in seemingly continuous movement on the hard playground. A happy hubbub could be heard before a teacher’s whistle ended it abruptly for the return to the classroom. Around me blackbird, thrush, numerous sparrows, blue tit and robin provided their more restrained chirping and chatter. We all knew the hedge-sparrow’s beautiful blue eggs but I did not hear its correct name of dunnock until many years later. And the “King Harry” (goldfinch) was a common enough visitor to most gardens while in spring the cuckoo was always heard close by from somewhere in the little access lane to the sewage station located between the school field and what is now St Nicholas Drive.
It was common knowledge amongst us boys that “blackbirds could not count up to four” and so surely it was quite alright to take an egg from such a nest? One or two older boys had large egg collections and anyone who has read the hilarious “Just William” books will know that egg collections could be a status symbol. Rightly banned in 1954, the taking of a few thrushes’ eggs probably did less harm to Hopkins’ “strawberry breasted throstle” than the later introduction of slug pellets. By the time us baby boomers arrived the hobby held little interest. However, I do remember in the 1950s boys having pet baby barn owls and talking jackdaws, robbed from local nests. I can still see the bloody cuts on one boy’s hand inflicted by a captive owl’s beak.
The caged budgerigar and to a lesser extent, caged canaries became a popular addition to many homes in the late 1950s and for a time probably outnumbered cats or dogs as the most popular pet. (I read that they are still the world’s 3rd most popular pet!). My father built a large outdoor aviary for a dozen budgerigars at Munson’s Place which soon began breeding. He sold dull blue/grey birds for 6/- (six shillings or 30p); nice bright blue ones for 7/6d and the desirable green ones for 10/-. Occasionally a white albino emerged from the little white eggs and sold for £1 because of their rarity value. To put that into some perspective, a pint of beer then cost less than 2/- (10p) and a Mars bar 6d! Such birds could be taught to talk quite easily and in the days before widespread television, they were good company for people living alone. Joey was the ubiquitous name and they would be let out of their cages in the evenings to perch on curtain rails before being re-caged at bedtime by a finger offered as a perch in readiness.
Lots of people kept a few hens, chiefly for their eggs and fed them meal mixed with boiled potato peelings which were always in good supply. Our neighbour also kept ducks and I remember once having one fried blue duck egg and one pheasant egg for my breakfast! And his colourful cockerel was heard very early on light summer mornings.
The only working horse in the village I recollect by the late 1950s was a grand old carthorse called “Duke” at Grange Farm who pulled a kale cart for winter feed when winter ground was wet. Tractors however were often heard, especially at lunchtime. Back then there were more farm hands than now, who would often walk or cycle to work but at lunchtime, might go home on a tractor for their “dockey”. The rasp and fade of a lone tractor’s exhaust as it travelled along the Beck with an open throttle could be heard easily from Munson’s Place.
But louder still were the RAF yellow banded silver Harvard (“Texan”) trainers. They flew singly or in pairs, at right angles to Munson’s Lane and directly over our house and my head. They had a low, mournful drone and were low enough for me to see the pilots and to feel the vibration of their engines in my chest, as they passed low over the school, preparing to land.
One of the nicest sounds in the village was that of the 4 Church bells on Sunday mornings. And of course, on wedding days. They must have been very loud to anyone living close by for the clock chimed the hour throughout the night. But I never heard of any complaints – unless the bell ringers got in a muddle which occasionally happened.
Trees on
each side of Munson’s Lane created a continuous canopy effect and you could
see almost to the end where it joined the Old Methwold Road. From the age of
6yrs I was “running errands” as far as Lister’s general stores and
occasionally to The Crown for “a large light” (ale) for mother. The District
Nurse who lived next door to one of the village’s 2 resident policemen at the
bottom of the road had a black and white, boisterous, yappy mongrel aptly named
“Crackers”. I was never comfortable with dogs and viewed such errands with
trepidation for it seemed Crackers was allowed to wander outside at will and
negotiating a safe passage past him was not something to celebrate until the
return passage had also been achieved. If I could see him from my house, I made
my excuses and myself scarce.
When a little older, in 1959 or 1960, I saw the Northern Lights from Munson’s Place. The “night gang” used to meet on both clear and foggy nights after tea in wintertime. We loved shining torches into the sky and young Jim knew a lot about the stars and planets. Suddenly we saw huge diagonal streaks of colours pouring down in the night sky behind the most northerly houses. We ran through an alleyway into the field to the rear and had a perfect view north from the south-west corner. They were quite unlike most images of them I have seen since. Try to imagine giant versions of those razor shells you can find on most Norfolk beaches but with their light inside surfaces showing (not the black outsides) and multi-coloured in blues, greens, oranges and reds; slowly blending and separating from each other, grouped together and tilting down to the field’s horizon. I gazed for a while then ran through our neighbour’s garden to drag mum and dad to see. But it was before we had a television and just after 6.45pm – time when all sensible folk were listening to “The Archers”. By the time I had persuaded dad to come and see, the lights had faded into oblivion; never to be seen again by me, for the next 60 years at least. And the night gang had disappeared with them.
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