Conflict Of Love.

Chugg chugg, chugg chugg,
puff puff, puff puff.
We know who’s coming down the hill.
His balaclava and jumper in holes.
His trousers too short,
shoes with no soles.

He’s the boy we all love to fool,
but he’s also the nicest kid in school.
He’s a quiet boy, straight and strong.
The type you know, won’t go wrong.

Though he gets teased throughout the day,
he’s our best friend, it’s just his way.
We called him Chugger,
it’s what he does.
He thinks he’s a train,
that’s fine by us.

He chuggs down in the morning,
and back at night.
He’s a secretive lad,
but he burns a bright light.

When you’re with him you give him respect.
It’s something you really wouldn’t expect,
as you look at him in his tattered clothes,
chugg chugging away in a world of his own.

As Chugg grew older he developed a dream.
When he left school he’d buy a machine.
A motor bike as fast as lightening.
The speed he would go would be quite frightening.

He left school at fifteen, got a good job.
Very mild-mannered, never a slob.
He held down his job, and saved really hard.
Stuck the stamps on his savings card.
Soon he’d buy his first machine.
An old A.J.S, reliable and clean.
But still he would dream his wonderful dream,
that one day he’d own a real dream machine.

His dream arrived, as often they do.
This sparkling machine looking like new.
A Tiger 100, racy and throbbing.
Light years away,
from Chugg’s chugg- chugg- chugging.

But at eighteen years old,
his love now divided.
Chugger was tearing apart.
His mind was being confused
by the battle inside of his heart.

A girl who he’s madly in love with,
feels jealousy over his dream.
It clouds his thoughts and his vision.
Now life’s not as clear as it seemed.

What made a lad who was always so sure,
and never took risks with his life.
Make a fatal error of judgment
while riding home late one night ?

They say that the pure die young,
to spare them the hell that’s for sure.
When you follow a conflict of love,
which to most, would seem just demure.

Love, is a power within us.
It should keep us sane and strong.
If YOU understand what I’m saying,
I’m sure that you won’t go wrong.

Chugger now understands this.
But to those of you who don’t see.
A conflict of love isn’t all bad.
That one side is always a dream.

So if the time comes when you’re tearing apart.
Divided by love or by hate.
Don’t try to choose between them,
Or the cloud will push YOU through the gate.

It’s true what’s been said through the ages.
That true love always finds a way.
The dream will go of its own accord.
But for Chugger it came just too late.

~~
He now spends his time mind-hopping for fun.
Spreading this message - to everyone.

Excerpt from  'Visions Of The Future Past' .... venbunce.com
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Willy – The – Witch ..... Baby-Killer??

YES, every village has to have one, and we had ours.

This little old lady, always dressed in black as I recall, with long flowing dresses and coat. She used to ride her old ladies ‘sit-up-and-beg’ black bike with a basket on the front almost everywhere. (You’d seldom see her walking.)

As a very young child I found her very scary indeed. Especially as somewhere in the background of  ‘grown-up-talk’,  I’d here the rumbling that some old lady dressed in black was going around pricking babies  with a big needle and killing them. I know I used to have nightmares about this, but more to the point, I thought this little old lady on her bike was the culprit.

With her bent over posture, and large hooked nose, peddling furiously around the village, she was the prime suspect in my very young eyes. Her image engraved on my memory for the rest of my days.

As I grew older and able to explore more of the village, I found out that she lived in a ‘shanty shack’ right down the other end of Loddon Drive near the bridge that crossed St Patricks Stream. Having found this out, I’d entice a few other kids including my younger brother and sister to accompany me down there to ‘spy’ on her. I was going to solve this ‘murder mystery’ all on my own. (With a little help from my friends of course. ‘coward’)

We’d creep about behind bushes, whispering to each other and making coded hand signals to tell each other she was on the move. Though most of the time she’d sit either in the garden around a fire she’d keep going with a big pot of seemingly 'always boiling' water. Or on hot sunny days, she’d sit on her veranda reading books. She never seemed to have visitors, and struck a very lonely figure.

Because she wore black all the time, had a bent over posture, a raggedy face with a large hooked nose and sat around a fire most of the day and evenings, we decided she must be a ‘WITCH’, and duly christened her ‘Willy-The-Witch’.

Now Willy loved her own company and was a very private person indeed. So whenever she caught us ‘snooping’ for clues to the child-murders I was convinced she was guilty of, she’d start shouting and screaming at us to get away from her house, and the area itself. Often chasing us up the drive with her big stick.

It got to the point (I’m now ashamed to say) where we’d bait her, calling her ‘Willy-the Witch, baby killer’ as she rode past us in the village on her bike. Or as we were running away from her screaming outbursts when she caught us spying on her at her little ‘shanty shack’.

To compound our theory that she was a witch, you’d often see her visiting the graveyard below the Wargrave Piggot junior school. (Bottom of the old chalk pit). Where she would vanish for ages into the little ‘baby-cottage’ that was in the grounds. (Sadly no more, just a memorial bench)

We were convinced this was her ‘other house’ and maybe she cast spells in there, being that it WAS in the corner of the graveyard. Some of us would creep down there as it started to get dark, to see if we could catch her up to no good. But often scarpering hot-foot away from there as fast as we could the moment we’d hear some strange noise, or feel the bats winging past our heads. (Naturally believing what our Mum’s & Dad’s had told us about bats getting tangled in your hair if you stayed out after dark).

Willy-The-Witch had such a profound impression on my life as a child, that when I’d tell my youngest daughter Corrinne bed-time stories, they would always be about ‘Willy-The-Witch’. I would cast my mind back to a particular adventure in my life as a youngster, then adapt it around Willy. Always with a BIG! SURPRISE! at the end as Willy did something really scary.

I know. Some of you are saying I was cruel. But Corrinne absolutely loved them, and I used to have to come up with a FRESH story every night, from about eighteen months, right up until she was about five years old. If I started to repeat myself somewhere along the line, she’d remember and tell me so in no uncertain terms.

How did I manage it? I guess I had a remarkably adventurous childhood as they were all ‘truth-based’ stories. But sadly, as is usually the case, a couple of older girls who used to come round and play with Corrinne decide to tell her that there was no such person as Willy-The-Witch, and that I had been ‘lying’ to her.

She told me she didn’t want to hear any more Willy-stories and denied ever being enthralled by them. Though now that she’s grown up. (All of sixteen years old at time of writing) She reluctantly admits that maybe she ‘does’ remember them more fondly than she let on. (So I didn’t damage her for life as some of you may be thinking).

Willy-The-Witch obviously wasn’t a baby-killer, but later on in life I did read in our local rag, The Evening Post, that in the early fifties there WAS a ‘notorious’ Reading woman who was discovered as a baby-killer. So it’s likely that the gossip I was hearing from the ‘grown-ups’ about a woman dressed in black killing babies, was actually about her.

The moral of the story?

Don’t encourage your children to eavesdrop on your gossip. Their interpretation of what you’re talking about, might not be as accurate as you’d think, and could affect THEM for the rest of their lives. (Only joking ;-)

Catch you later ..........

Fred

Roam Free

This memory takes me back to the time I had my
first 'real' bike given to me. It was my welcome home
present from my Mum and Dad after being away
for a couple of weeks at my eldest sister Mary's
house in Tongham, Nr Aldershot, Surrey. I suppose
I was eight or nine years old at the time.

It was a bad time as my Mum had to go into hospital
and have an operation to remove a lung. Myself, and
my younger brother and sister, Billy and Sally, were
'barracked' out for two weeks in a really 'hot' summer.
Adventuring was very high on the agenda, and thanks
to a neighbours boy who was just a couple of years
older than me, I got plenty to think about.

From playing down at the 'rickety' railway bridge,
where we used to invade some poor chaps spinach
patch, and playing 'chicken' with the steam trains.
(Ashamedly). To messing in the orchards and hop-
fields that were rife in the area at that time. An old
deserted 'oast-house' in the village was one of our
favourite spots for just 'hanging out'.

It was the time of Tizer and Jubblies. Two things
we'd not experienced back home in leafy Wargrave,
so that in itself seemed like we were 'big-time'. As
for bed-time, we had to share beds with my sister
Mary's other four kids in a three-bedroomed house.

My sister Sally naturally shared with our niece
Valerie in her bedroom. But in the boys room there
was my brother Billy and Me. Little Ray, Tony, and
baby Graham who were of course our nephews.
Do you think much sleeping went on? Not a lot.

Those two weeks seemed to last forever, and even
today, I can't believe we could have crammed so
much adventuring into two weeks.


Anyway, when we got back home, we'd all three
been bought something 'special' as our reward for
having to be away from home, and as I said earlier,
mine was a bike. It was a girls bike. 'Pink', and a bit
on the big side. It was our neighbours' daughters' old
bike that she'd grown out of, but that didn't worry me,
I was now independant to the point I could go any-
where I wanted, when I wanted, and I did.


A few weeks later, and I was really starting to miss
the friends I'd made in Tongham where we'd spent
the summer, and I got to conspiring with a good
friend at the bottom of our road, Bob goddard. His
dad used to drive a huge lorry, and Bob would often
go out with his Dad on long lorry trips, so knew his
way about our part of the country well.

I asked him if he knew how to get to Aldershot,
and he did. I asked him if he fancied doing a bike-
ride there on the Saturday, and he did. So we
managed to get a few bits and bobs to eat along
the way and a couple of bottles of water. Then on
the Saturday morning we both sloped off in the
general direction of Aldershot.

I mentioned earlier that it was a particularly 'hot'
summer, and this day seemed to be the hottest. We
thought we'd been going for miles when we ran out
of water, but infact, we'd only gone four or five in the
'right' direction, as Bob had taken us on a rather
longer route than we'd needed to go. He was
following the route that his Dad used to take in his
lorry, but his Dad delivered grain from the BB&O
depot in Twyford, and of course went 'round-robin'
as it were. I know at one point we were pushing
our bikes up Bix-Hill on the north side of Henley-
on-Thames. Completely in the wrong direction.

We stopped at a little shop in Spencers Wood to
tell the shopkeeper there our plight, and hope for
some sympathy, (which we got). Thankfully in the
shape of some Smith's Crisps and a bottle of
Corona Lemonade. This helped us get the rest
of the way to Aldershot, and from there I knew
my way to Tongham and my sister's house.

Sadly, it was now gone two o'clock in the after-
noon. It had taken us 'far' longer than we'd hoped,
and to cap it all, there was no-one in at my sister's.
Our hearts sank as we sat there wondering what
to do. The whole estate seemed deserted, there
didn't seem to be anyone around.

Then a neighbour from accross the way, who I'd
not met before came over to us. Said she recog-
nised me and that my sister and the family were
over the park playing 'Stool-ball'. (Apparently like
rounders but with slightly different rules). My
sister was in the team and it seemed like the
whole village had turned out to watch this 'mom-
entous event'.

We made our way over the park and caught about
half an hour of the game. Enough to see Mary
batting away and running for all she was worth.
(I'd never seen her so active). When she finished
and came over to see Me and Bob who were
sitting with 'Big Ray' (her hubby) and the kids, she
was absolutely flabberghasted, she couldn't
believe we'd made so much effort to get over to
see them on such a hot day.

We got taken back to the house naturally, and got
fed and watered. But there was only time to have
a little natter before we had to start making our
way back home to Wargrave. Only 'this' time,
Big-Ray drew us some directions to follow so that
we'd get home a lot quicker than it had taken us
to get there.

I suppose it was a sign of the times back then, that
our Mum's and Dad's never even missed us. Just
asked if we'd had a good time. Great stuff!

Although we never got to meet the friends I was
originally missing, that day is 'so' ingrained in my
memory that I consider it one of my 'treasures'.

I wonder if old Bob Goddard still remembers?
Or even if he's still around? So many friends now
dropping off the perch, you begin to wonder.

Catch you later.

Fred.

Conflict Of Love.

Chugg chugg,  chugg chugg,
puff puff,  puff puff.

We know who’s coming down the hill.
His balaclava and jumper in holes.
His trousers too short,
shoes with no soles.

He’s the boy we all love to fool,
but he’s also the nicest kid in school.
He’s a quiet boy, straight and strong.
The type you know, won’t go wrong.

Though he gets teased throughout the day,
he’s our best friend, it’s just his way.
We called him Chugger,
it’s what he does.
He thinks he’s a train,
that’s fine by us.

He chuggs down in the morning,
and back at night.
He’s a secretive lad,
but he burns a bright light.

When you’re with him you give him respect.
It’s something you really wouldn’t expect,
as you look at him in his tattered clothes,
chugg-chugging away in a world of his own.

As Chugg grew older, he developed a dream.
When he left school, he’d buy a machine.
A motor bike as fast as lightening.
The speed he would go, would be quite frightening.

He left school at fifteen, got a good job.
Very mild-mannered' Never a slob.
He held down his job, and saved really hard.
Stuck the stamps on his savings card.

Soon he’d buy his first machine.
An old A.J.S, reliable and clean.
But still he would dream his wonderful dream,
that one day he’d own a real dream machine.

His dream arrived, as often they do.
This sparkling machine,
looking like new.
A Tiger 100, racy and throbbing.
Light years away,
from Chugg’s chugg- chugg- chugging.

But at eighteen years old,
his love now divided.
Chugger was tearing apart.
His mind was being confused
by the battle inside of his heart.

A girl who he’s madly in love with,
feels jealousy over his dream.
It clouds his thoughts and his vision.
Now life’s not as clear as it seemed.

What made a lad who was always so sure,
and never took risks with his life.
Make a fatal error of judgement
while riding home late one night ?

They say that the pure die young,
to spare them the hell that’s for sure.
When you follow a conflict of love,
which to most, would seem just demure.

Love, is a power within us.
It should keep us sane and strong.
If YOU understand what I’m saying,
I’m sure that you won’t go wrong.

Chugger now understands this.
But to those of you who don’t see.
A conflict of love isn’t all bad.
That one side is always a dream.

So if the time comes when you’re tearing apart.
Divided by love, or by hate.
Don’t try to choose between them.
Or the cloud will push YOU through the gate.

It’s true what’s been said through the ages
That true love always finds a way.
The dream will go of its own accord.
But for Chugger it came just too late.

He now spends his time mind-hopping for fun.
Spreading this message ...... to everyone.

We all have dreams and aspirations that we get so involved with and so focused on that we start to exclude other very important areas of our life.
Those dreams do become our reality in our own mind and it's so difficult to separate our 'dream reality' from our 'actual reality'.
Should we ever try to choose between them?
Or should we let 'The Journey Of Life' play itself out to a natural end?
(The choice is yours)

Wargrave 2018 - Money Can't Buy Happiness :-(

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I took a drive through Wargrave today (17th February 2018 at around 2pm) as I tend to do probably a few times a year, but this time it was on a 'Saturday' where as usually it's a week-day I might drop through if I'm over Henley or Maidenhead way. What I realised as I drove around Highfield Park (The Original Council Estate) is that I hadn't seen a sigle person, there was literally No-One out on the streets. It was like there had been a neuclear warning or something. Quite Eeerie.

So as I came out of the estate and drove down Victoria Rd, still no people except for a little old lady pushing a young child in a push-chair. I did pass a couple of cars but that was IT! Unbelievable!
I never saw another human until I got to the top of Station rd where a young couple were arguing with each other.

Now I grew up in Wargrave in the 50's/60's and it was absolutely 'Buzzing' with everyone going about there daily business and kids literally everywhere getting up to mischief. You couldn't walk down the street without bumping into half a dozen people who you knew and who knew you. Everyone would stop and say 'something' as everyone knew 'everyone' back then. It was a happy, close-knit community that generated memories I'll never forget.

Now I do know there is still 'some' sort of community spirit in the village, but 'where' have all the kids gone? And all the Adults come to that? Could it be, they're all too busy doing nothing because it's now too baron a village that's been absolutely 'crammed' with new housing in every tiny bit of space available to attract the "I wanna Be Seen As Rich" brigade who will pay extortionate money to be able to boast a Wargrave Postcode?

It's really sad to see the village destroyed like this. It has an extraordinarily 'rich' history which if you manage to find a copy of 'The Book Of Wargrave' and 'The 2nd Book Of Wargrave' it'll blow your socks off with the seriously rich history of a 'once' beloved and important little piece of England.

OK ..... End of rant. (Money Can't Buy Happiness) 
Those that have bought their way into 'Little Hell' probably deserve it. 
I'm just Sooo pleased I have the memories of how it 'used' to be.

If you want to RANT about this post, feel free to comment and 'share' below :-)

Cheers;  Fred :-)
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Dave, Me, and the 'Chalk-Pit Cave', Blakes Rd, Wargrave.

I’ll mention often in this blog about my old ‘friend’ Dave. (Dave’s Vault of Evil).

Well, just across the road from Dave’s house in Blakes Rd (ByeWays)  was a disused chalk-pit. (One of many in the area). We were a bit bored, so Dave suggested we make a Secret Cave for ourselves by cutting one into the side of the chalk-face. We could keep ‘stuff’ there that we wanted to keep secret from our parents and friends. This was to be ‘only’ known to us. We wouldn’t tell another living soul about it..... EVER!

YEP! Seemed like a great plan to me, and off we went with our bowie knives and a hand-axe to burrow away into our future ‘Den’. We spent almost three whole days digging and carving our way into the pit wall, and I have to admit, it looked great.

We cut hollows into the walls so that we could store stuff away. Dave had his side, and I had mine. We stocked it full of apples, cherry’s, pears and damsons which we scrumped from the nearby orchards. We had several bottles of ‘Corona’ lemonade and cherryade, which Dave filched from his Mum’s larder. (They were well-off and she used to stock up with such things). All in all, our Den was a ‘crackin’ little place which no-one knew about …... except us.

We built it fairly high up the chalk-face to deter would-be nosey parkers, but we would get covered in chalk each time we went there as we scrambled up to get in. So we had the idea of cutting steps, a bit like a ladder, into the chalk so that we could get up there a lot quicker and cleaner. (Even if it did mean the nosey-parkers might also get up there easier).

It took us a Saturday morning to cut out our steps, and once done, we decided to go back to Dave’s house and get his Mum to cook us some lunch. She was very kind like that. (As most were in those more sociable days).

Lunch eaten, a quickie game of chess to let our lunch go down and it was back to the ‘Den’...... Except it WASN’T!…..It wasn’t there any more ….. AARRGGHH!!

Where we’d cut in too deep for our steps, we’d obviously weakened the whole wall and it had all collapsed into a pile of rubble at the foot of the chalk face. Bits of our ‘stuff’ could be seen broken and smattered throughout the heap, making for a very sad day for both of us.

Then, we both looked at each other, realising at the same time that if we’d 'not' gone to lunch, and played our game of chess afterwards, WE might have been ‘smattered’ in the rubble as well.

NO. We didn’t carve ourselves out another one. Instead, we found a dirty great big Pine tree near the 'building site' (Beverley Gardens) just up the road from ‘My’ house, where we built the best tree-house modern building materials could build.

All FREE! …. (From the building site?) …. Hmmmmmm??

Fred .......... (Age 10/11)

Hamilton Rd - The Old Flint-Rock Face

Our humble abode was a council-house half way 'up' Hamilton Road on the right-hand side. It's not there any longer, some new housing replaced our row of six.

In our day it was a very rocky road with huge flint stones sticking up, just right for throwing you off your bike or tripping you up in the dark. There was a smoother edge about a foot wide we could use, but not so much fun :-)

The Wargrave Laundry was at the top of the hill and the van driver (who's name excapes me, if you know it please comment) used to always give us a couple of pennies if we passed him walking to or from work. Though we did use to 'earn' it in the cold, snowy weather as we'd rush out with our old ash and bits of wood to put under the wheels when he'd get stuck trying to get up the slippery-slope. (especially 1963 - Brrrrrrrr!!).

Of course Hamilton and Silverdale road are far more tidy and respectable now. Always looks very quiet, and somehow 'dead'. Tell me, do they ever have 'fun' up Hamilton Rd these days, like there always used to be?  There never seemed to be a dull moment back in the day. Hmmmmmmm?? :-)

 We lived just past the second telegraph pole 'down' in the picture above.

Please comment below, it'd be good to hear from you ;-)
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Fred Says; Welcome to the blog.

Hi, Fred here, and I'd like to welcome you to my account of growing up in Wargrave in the 1950's / early 60's when virtually everywhere was an unspoilt adventure playground for the kids who would get kicked out in the mornings and not expected back until tea-time (about 4-30pm ;-)

About 8 years ago I looked online for old photo's of Wargrave and was very dissappointed to find there weren't too many. Sooo, I went out with my trusty camera and started snapping away at all the old haunts, mostly changed beyond recognition now but still pretty photogenic.

I did publish them on another blog, but recently I closed the domain down due to hosting problems so I will gradually re-publish them on this blog with an appropriate little story to go with each one.

I hope you'll subscribe to the updates from the link in the sidebar and pleeeeease don't be afraid to add your two-penneth in the comments.

That'll do for this introductory post, and I'll catch you later.

Fred :-)

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Such a shame the Piggot Junior school has been defaced. I wonder whose bright idea that was?? :-(
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