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Mr Robert Walden. (Articles published April 2021-February 2023)
Growing Up In Feltwell in the 1950s & 60s – Part 5 Excursions
In 1960 when we were 10 the headmaster Mr Charlesworth twice took us swimming in the river at Hockwold. Two of the older girls – possibly Wendy or Susan - led the line of bicycles up the Wilton Rd with Mr Charlesworth bringing up the rear. This was all perfectly safe because we had all passed our Cycling Proficiency Test that year and in any case, there was little if any traffic. Having cycled to the stinging-nettled river bank some 6 or 7 girls were ordered to “Change over there!” and roughly the same number of boys told to go in the opposite direction to change. Charlesworth wore 1930s-style wool trunks with shoulder straps and would allow pupils in the water to rest face down on his outstretched palms while murmuring “I’ve got you my child, I’ve got you” as he gave instructions on how to swim. Of course I cannot say with complete certainty that Mr Charlesworth could swim at all. Some of the RAF kids could swim perfectly well anyway and I remember one deliberately disappearing below the water for what seemed an eternity. He terrified me. I didn’t swim my first strokes until years later. In the 1960s the nearest proper swimming pool was in Cambridge while Thetford made do with a simple cut out area in the River Little Ouse.
I think Mr Charlesworth enjoyed taking risks. I suppose primary school teaching can become a little dull when your hair (well what is left of it) has turned silver. Anyway, one day we were told that we were going up the church tower. I cannot be sure of numbers but I guess there was no more than a dozen of us but certainly at least 8. Looking back, the risk of walking across the Beck to the church with no hi-vis vests and no other adult was nothing compared with the ascent itself. For those readers who have never clambered up to the tower, it is a bit of a tight squeeze and quite dark though I seem to recall little window openings as we stepped up to the bell chamber. Children back then were not ever so obedient like they are now and every now and then Mr Charlesworth bellowed “silence!” so that he could make himself heard. He wanted to tell us that the outside walls of the tower were quite unsafe and unstable and in order to avoid falling from off the top of the tower we must keep at least 2 feet away from the parapet walls and on no account to lean on them. All this while we were still below in the bell chamber. More information is sent to our brains through our eyes than by all the other senses combined – “a picture is worth a thousand words”. So as he was busy talking I was much more interested in the rough, dusty wooden structure and the huge bell just beside me than in his new rules that he was trying to convey. Because he was the only adult in charge, he stayed in the chamber helping each pupil onto the ladder and to be ready to catch anyone who fell. Once on the roof they could deal on their own with the temptations of testing the strength of old walls or the effects of gravity. Relatively little information is sent to our brains by sound. There are exceptions of course: If someone shouts “Fire” they are likely to grab your attention, even if you are not blindfolded. Similarly, if it is rather gloomy with little to see – as it was in the bell chamber, and there is a loud noise, you are likely to be aware of it. And as the church clock struck 2pm we were aware of it! The noise as the hammer hit the bell was LOUD! It was quite deafening and rather frightening. The tower seemed to shake and several of the pupils (not all of them girls) screamed. Shirley, the very pretty RAF girl was nowhere near and I had only a splintery wooden upright to cling to while Charlesworth called out: “It’s alright, you’re OK; you’re OK!” Actually we were; if literally very shaken. Fortunately St Mary’s church clock very sensibly struck only twice at 2 o’clock. We all made it up to the top for a splendid view (the walled gardens of the now demolished Hall were a secret unlocked) and I remember waving to Hopkins (an RAF boy) on the school field who had seen us putting our heads above the parapet. And we all made it down safely too.
In 1960 a group of us were taken to see Grimes Graves. The young enthusiastic male teacher was possibly Mr Froud. On arrival we walked along a gravel path to a wooden shed with arrowheads displayed on the walls, manned by one elderly gentleman We were a mixed group and as ordered, all wearing “old clothes” for the occasion. We descended a wooden ladder into the main chamber. We had torches (some say we had candles in jam jars but I can’t swear to that) and crawled along the tunnels on all fours. None of them went much further than 20ft but we ended up covered in chalk dust. There wasn’t much more to see. On the return walk to the coach the girl next to me (possibly Welma) suddenly bent down and from the gravel picked up a flint arrowhead. It was obviously genuine and she showed it to the teacher. He almost exploded with astonishment and said; “This is a genuine arrowhead! Do you realise that?” The girl just smiled at the enthusiasm as he asked: “Do you mind if I keep it for now, to show to the other staff members?” She answered quite indifferently: “Oh you can keep it”. I do not recall any theories as to how the arrow head came to be in all that gravel.
In the late 1990s I took my two young sons aged 7 and 9 yrs (wearing their oldest clothes), to Grimes Graves. I think it required the wearing of hard hats but we abandoned our visit as the actual tunnels were no longer accessible by the public: the boys would have only been able to look through iron railings at the now well-lit chalk tunnels in which their dad had once crawled. And I understand that children under 10 years are not allowed down the shaft at all now.
In the late 1950s on November 5th the RAF Camp held huge bonfire and fireworks shows which were free for all comers. As you would expect it was very well organised and spectators were kept well back behind a rope cordon. The display was always good and included massive Catherine wheels and lots of red, green and yellow “Very light” flares which lingered in the air on tiny invisible parachutes. There was often a gift for us children: one year it was sparklers but better still were hot jacket potatoes with knobs of butter and one year even hotdogs. Quite an undertaking given the several hundred attendees. One year the finale was a massive fireworked message: it said simply “GOOD NIGHT”. Everyone applauded. Later we would let off our own fireworks which, while not so grand, were merry and more intimate. I was always reluctant to leave the dying embers.
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