Bentley and Arksey as an Outsider - Part One

Mike's Memories

Here at Bentley Village, A History I am always happy to receive material for new articles, and when Michael (Mike) Hoyland got in touch to say he wanted to share his childhood memories, I was only too delighted to bring him on board. Mike's memories of growing up in the Bentley area in the fifties and sixties are rich, vivid and very nostalgic.

Since I first wrote this introduction in 2014 Mike has sadly passed away at his home in Norfolk, but I do know he was keen to have his memories published so they would live on long after he had departed. 

This is the first of six posts written by Mike, I hope you enjoy them. 

Contents Of Part One

• The Cottage On Chapel Street
• My Family
• Scawthorpe Bound
• The Perils Of Childhood
• We'd Never Had It So Good!
• School Days
• National Health Orange Juice

The Cottage On Chapel Street

My Family

I was born in 1950, the first child of Sheila Betty Griffin and Norman Hoyland. I spent some of my early days at my grandparents Harry & Ethel Griffin, on The Avenue just before the junction of Victoria Road and Elm Crescent, on the right hand side heading toward the pit.

My Dad was a face worker at Bentley Pit in the early 50's. Previously, he had been conscripted into the army in the late 40's and left as a Lance Corporal of the Kings Own Yorkshire Light Infantry (KOYLIs). He met my mother at a dance at Bentley Park Pavilion. He and his army mates came over from Wheatley for the dance and apparently he stayed out so late ensuring that my Mother (to be) got home safely that he had to walk home because the buses had stopped running. Sounds pretty timid now but I can assure you in the post-war days of 10:30 closing hours people were very rarely out beyond the bus time-tables. If you were the local bobby would be having a conversation with you at some point. My Dad (to be) was probably okay because he was in uniform.

My mother who had started her working life as a draughtswoman at the pit, stayed at home and looked after my sister and I until the late 50's when she started work in a mobile grocery van which patrolled Bentley and Scawthorpe on alternate days excluding Monday and Sundays. The proprietor was called Roy Wills and the van was a converted ambulance with access to a platform and a counter through the back double-doors. The van acted as a mobile shop but Roy used to take orders and delivered to many a doorstep for people who could not get out to do their shopping. My Mother eventually left the job to work at the John Carr Wood Yard down Watch-House Lane where she worked until retiring in 1982.

In the early 60's, Roy Will's delivery van was in head-to-head competition with Thompson's Mobile Stores, run by Mr Thompson who owned a very early mini-market on the Bentley High Street. His vehicle was a converted red bus which had large megaphone speakers on the roof. He would pull up on the street to the call of "Thompsons the mobile stores for groceries and provisions". There was also a grocer on the High Street who sold vegetables from the back of his horse and cart. The manure from the horse was targeted by many of the local gardeners for their rhubarb patches.

My earliest memories of life and Bentley are of living in the farm cottages in the photo (below). Three separate dwellings, two on the left had front doors. Ours on the right had only a back door. My parents moved us there in 1952 or thereabouts. Some of my misty memories stick from a year or so later, when I was 3 or 4 years old.

The cottage on Chapel Street

These cottages were sited behind the present day library in Bentley. To the right of this picture is the Bay Horse pub. To the front and left of the picture was a small row of terraced houses leading to the old library and the Bentley High Street.

The Bay Horse Inn

Scawthorpe Bound

We left the cottages in 1954 to move to Petersgate in Scawthorpe. It was a brand new house, in the post war boom, as the man said "We never had it so good". Certainly I can recall as a child that my mother was so proud of her new house that she ensured that it was spotless at all times. Even in the face of dirty pit clothes, muddy football boots, bikes in the kitchen, a dog and holding down jobs herself it was always spotless. We were "flitted" by Jack Rose and his horse and cart. He lived in one of the back-to-backs near the pit. It was a nightmare going over Jossey Hill on top of a horse and cart, at 4 years old, clutching a goldfish bowl and not really knowing what was going on.

One of my aunts moved into the cottage with her husband after we left, Roy and Mavis Machin. They left in 1956 and moved to Park Lane/Truman Street. After some recent discussions it looks like the cottages were demolished at some time between 1956 and 1961. Any more information on that date would be welcomed.

My great Aunt Annie lived in the middle cottage with her "partner" who we knew as "Uncle Bert". I found out many years later that they actually owned their dwelling and the one our family lived in. That must have been pretty good going in those days to own two properties. Uncle Bert was a classic pipe smoker; trousers and braces over the top of a collarless shirt with a pin-striped waist-coat. He was my hero when he rescued me from a toad, the first I had ever seen, which stood in my path when I was heading back from the outside loo to the back door. I was about 3 years old and this toad was a dinosaur in my eyes. He calmly picked it up and transferred it over a nearby wall into some undergrowth.

The cottage had one big room downstairs with a floor of massive stone tiles. And it was cold. There was a huge cast-iron fire range against the end wall below the chimney stack. There were ovens and flat plates which could be swung over the fire to provide a flat base for a saucepan or kettle. I still have a lovely scar from a burn on my left elbow from one of them.

The staircase was like climbing a cliff-face; it went directly from in front of the back door, straight into the main bedroom at the front of the house. We had to pass through the main bedroom to get to my bedroom at the back. In the photo, the top right hand window is the front bedroom. The small window below was a pantry.

There was cold running water but I cannot help but think that the hot water came from a big pan on the fire. I recall that it was definitely used to fill up a zinc bath so my Dad could wash all the pit muck off him after his shift. It used to make us all laugh when he came home with only his eyes and mouth showing and the rest of him pitch black. It can't have been too long after that he started to use the pit-head baths because I never saw him again in his Al Jolson disguise.

We had electric lighting but there were still many houses and streets at the time with gas-lighting.

The loo was down the bottom of a small garden at the back of the house. The less said about that "in" convenience the better.

The wall at the front provided a good deal of entertainment through jumping it, climbing it, running along and falling off it. It was also ideal as a horse. Two cycle brake-calipers tied with rope to act as stirrups. Christmas cowboy outfit and I was Roy Rogers. On one occasion I was a little over-enthusiastic as I threw pebbles over my shoulder at the advancing Indians and ending up producing a perfectly round hole in the window of the house at the other end from us. "Who, me? No it was like that when I came ......the bigger kids did it and ran off". Some grown up talk of payment and a few shillings changing hands and me in serious trouble for days.

The Perils Of Childhood

To show how different things were back then, my mother asked me (told me) to walk round the corner to go to the corner shop, Heinz's, to get a bottle of pop. Dandelion and Burdock. My sister, who was born in 1953 was taking all her attention and we needed some pop and I was doing nothing. I was 3 or 4 at the time. I was also asked to take our little ‘57 terrier with us for some exercise. Having negotiated the road both ways, purchasing the pop and getting the customary gift of a few sherbet lemons from Mr Heinz, my trip back met with disaster. The dog decided to go a different way in front of the Bay Horse, I got tangled up in the lead, tripped over, dropped and smashed the bottle of pop on the big concrete slab in front of the doors and ripped a hole in my knee and chin. I still have the scar on my chin. There was murder and mayhem when I got home dog-less, pop-less, covered in blood and crying.

To the left of the cottages was a patch of waste-land which contained a fabulous nettle patch higher than me. Some of the older kids used to trample down pathways in the nettles and make dens. One day, whilst exploring the nettle "paths" I heard my mother calling me so I set off at a run along one of these paths, tripped over on a bend and went headlong into the nettles. I went home screaming and yelling this time and covered in stings. Doctors, chemists, calamine and bed and in the dog-house yet again!!

My Dad, Norman (Nobby) Hoyland was a face-worker at the pit. I remember he was once brought home in one of the pit ambulances. It was like a normal ambulance for the time but a deep blue colour with the letters NCB on the side. My mother was having fits when she saw it pull up outside the cottage until my Dad climbed out of the back with his arm in plaster and a sling, alive, walking, talking and smiling. "A lump of muck fell on me" was all he would say. Not until I was much older did he clarify that a lump of muck could be the size of a brick or half of the roof.

One of my uncles, Mo Griffin, used to visit us regularly at the cottage when he was in his early teens. He was always a source of much joy and laughter and still is in his 70's. I remember he took me to Bentley Park one day where he met up with a whole bunch of his friends. They were in their early teens, strong and boisterous and were playing on this swing which has long been forbidden. It had a horse's head and a series of seats behind it in a long line. It hung from a frame by four corner poles and could be swung back and forth gaining quite a height and quite some momentum. I was meant to stand still while they swung, played and had a good time; however I walked in front of this beast and remember waking up in Mo's arms as he was passing me to my parents at the cottages. Another trip to the Doctors, aspirin, bed and in the dog-house again. I carried a cracking black eye for weeks after. On reflection methinks I should have died back then. I was lucky not to.

The wooden horse at Bentley Park.
Photo courtesy of Graham Westerman

As children, we sustained a hell of a lot of injuries by being out on our own but recovered from them with scars and memories. We had fewer cars to deal with so most of the danger was born of the crazy interaction of the many kids messing around together looking for all sorts of ways to have a good time or disagree with each other and to push whatever boundaries, physical or authoritarian, were put in their way. Anything could happen at any time and often did. Parents ended up laughing or crying but grateful that the war was behind them and they were not still facing the prospect of bombing.

We'd Never Had It So Good!

In the 50's the streets were littered with kids playing football, rounders, hidey, hop-scotch, cricket, skipping, tiggy, war, cowboys and Indians, Tarzan swings, the list was endless. Strangely, even though we had enough to do and more than enough friends to do things with, early television, for the few who had them, had a magnetic drawing power.

There was full employment and rationing had been lifted so many couples started having families big style. How different this was for people who had had to endure the earlier decades of the century. All the shops were thriving, people were optimistic and the pubs and clubs were full of people celebrating their lives every weekend.

When I walk the streets these days it is unusual to see many youngsters about. I suppose there aren't that many but what few there are tend not to use the streets for diversion. I guess there are pockets here and there and always will be. Some of whom will be getting up to the same old stuff that we did and getting ASBO's rather than the local Bobby's "fear of God" lecture as a consequence.

School Days

What few friends I had in those early years were mainly children of my Mother's friends. I do recall occasionally sneaking across the road from the cottage and joining in with the kids during their playtime at Cooke Street School. How perverse is that? Going to school when you didn't have to? The teacher even caught me one day and led me into the classroom much to my embarrassment. I can't help but think that my Mother was in on it because not long afterwards I was enrolled at Cooke Street.

I started in the nursery class which included a few kids I already knew but were older than me. Dick Cross is the only one I can remember clearly. He and his family lived somewhere near the laundry in one of the terraces. We ended up in the same year at Don Valley High School in the 60's and also played football, rugby for the school and Rugby League in the early Bentley Amateurs together. Sadly Dick is no longer with us.

Cooke Street School

Those early school days seemed to be all about activities, milk break, playtime, being read to, dinner break, playtime and then having a sleep in the afternoon. Small fold out canvas camp-beds arranged in lines in the classroom. There were little pink fluffy blankets like sleeping "pockets" with embroidered sheep in the corner. I don't think I ever slept. I just used to lay there getting bored. Watching the motes of dust play in the sunlight through the windows. My mother used to get me to bed so early I don't think I ever had the need for an afternoon nap. Not like now!!

At some point I moved to the older class which wasn’t as much fun. They were doing some serious learning and not just activities. The first day the teacher was showing pictures of objects up on the board and asking firstly what the object was and then what the letter was at the front of the word for that object. One of the first pictures I saw was that of a kite and then I saw all these older kids stretching their arms into the air until one of them was chosen. “K for kite” was the answer. This seems pretty easy thought I. The next picture came up; I shot my hand in the air and was immediately chosen, probably because I was the newcomer to the class. “ K  for kite” I said. I have no idea what the picture was of but I gathered pretty quickly that this was not the answer. The outburst of laughter I received was embarrassing but rewarding since I was now recognized by all the class as a numpty with courage. The pictures continued and I gradually got the drift of what was going on so sat eagerly awaiting the kite to show its face again. The teacher sensed this and the last picture she showed was the kite. She turned straight to me with a raised eyebrow and said “Michael?”. “K for kite Miss,” said I. I received my second round of laughter and applause of the morning. It must have been traumatic to remember this scene all these years later.

Part way through that second class we moved to Scawthorpe. However I had to continue attending Cooke Street until I could be enrolled at Castle Hills Infants School on Jossey Lane. The daily two way trek between Scawthorpe and Bentley was a stressful activity from what I can recall. More often than not, one of my Aunties, Ennis Kerry, used to walk over the hill from Bentley and take me to Cooke Street then either she or another relative would collect me later in the day.

Castle Hills School

A quite terrifying aspect of the journey over Jossey Hill was when one of the farmers from the bottom of Jossey Lane was herding his cows over the hill either to or from their grazing fields in Castle Hills. We had to scrabble over the fence and take refuge in the nettles. At the age of 4 a herd of cattle snuffling and snorting down the hill toward you was the stuff of nightmares. I still have a strong aversion to cattle and them to me. I now live in Norfolk and go fishing regularly on the broads. I have often had to turn down some excellent fishing due to their being cattle in the field. Much to the amusement of my friends.

A high spot though was if a train was coming through as we were crossing the hill. If one of the signals was up we would wait to give a wave to the driver and were occasionally thrilled when he blew his whistle in response. These were the old steam trains which, although not very efficient, were wonderful to behold as they pounded along the lines with steam and sparks everywhere. In the early 90's I was taking the same journey over the hill with my youngest son, Julian, who was then about 3 years old. One of the modern, diesel high speed trains was heading toward Doncaster at full-tilt, a white-shirted driver, complete with shades, in control. I perched my lad on the bridge and we waved at the driver. You got it, we got a lovely daaa-dah in acknowledgement. Simple pleasures.

National Health Orange Juice

I can remember that one of my treats in the cottage was a glass of orange juice. The juice came from the chemists or Doctor’s as part of the program to ensure kids got the vitamins they needed in their early days. I have no idea whether or not it was real sugar in this juice or if my Mother was not mixing it correctly but it was lovely. It came in a thin, rectangular bottle, and was as sweet as nectar.

Orange Juice and Cod Liver Oil

In my late 30’s, whilst working in Saudi Arabia, I lived in shared accommodation with a group of other expatriates. One of my friends and I used to pool our food and take it in turns to do shopping and cooking. One day he came back with some obscure orange squash with Arabic written all over it. Having poured himself a glass, he took a sip and his eyes lit up. He said “What does that taste like to you”? After one sip, my eyes also lit up and I said National Health orange juice, early 50’s. For a brief moment in time we were connoisseurs of fine orange juice in the desert lands. I have never come across a drink similar since. If anyone knows of a source, you will bring energy to my ailing taste buds.

__________

Mike Hoyland 2014


For part two go to Bentley and Arksey as an Outsider - Part Two.



Edited by Alison Vainlo 2014, updated 2020.

Bentley and Arksey as an Outsider - Part Two

Back yards near Bentley Pit.
Photo courtesy of Colin Hardisty

Mike's Memories

Presenting the second part of Mike Hoyland's wonderful account of growing up in the Bentley area in the 1950's and 1960's.

For part one go to Bentley and Arksey as an Outsider - Part One.

Contents Of Part Two

• Paper Rounds And 'The Seat'
• Avenue Adventures
• Paper Rounds
• Tarzan Swings And Orange Water
• The Seat

Paper Rounds And 'The Seat'

What is to follow is written from my first experiences of Bentley as a youngster but living in Scawthorpe from about 8 to 12 years old (1958 to 1962). There will be other reflections to follow which may overlap a little. Reminiscences and nostalgia are never clean cut nor in a straight line.

Most of my family still lived in Bentley when we moved from Chapel Street in Bentley to Petersgate in Scawthorpe. In fact you could have thrown a brick in any direction from Playfairs Corner and you would have probably hit one of the Griffins, my Mother’s side of the family. The Hoyland side of the family, my father’s, lived out at Wheatley. You would have had to have a good throwing arm to hit them.

 Avenue Adventures

In those early years in Scawthorpe, I had a real life hero in the form of my Mother's youngest brother, Gary (Gaz) Griffin, from The Avenue in Bentley. Although technically my uncle, he was only 4 years older than me so we were raised more like brothers. As both my Mam and Dad worked, I often spent most of my early weekends and school holidays down The Avenue, in Bentley, staying with my Grandparents and enjoying the danger and excitement of knocking around with Gary and his friends who were much older than me and crazily adventurous.

Junction of The Avenue and Arksey Lane

Most of our “adventures” took place outdoors, in the streets, the colliery tips and open countryside beyond Arksey. There was never any direct supervision but grown-ups i.e. those who had left school and older, were always ready to correct us should we be treading a fine line. I am not saying that they were always listened to, their wisdom was often sometimes more suspect than our parents.

School leavers became adults very quickly through going straight from school and into a job. Their teenage rebellion thwarted by older workmates who soon straightened them out much to the relief of their parents. These new adults held some authority over the younger kids by being part of the “older” generation. They left school, started wearing adult style clothes and behaved, to some extent, like young adults. The 50’s, however, was the birth-place of a new generation of teenagers, ahead of my generation who had a separate identity from kids or adults.

Most of my Bentley adventures started when I was about 8 years old and Gary was 12 and had started at Bentley High Street, Secondary Modern School. He had a dog, a ginger lurcher called Tim, who went everywhere with us. Occasionally the dog’s mates would join us too.

We would leave the house in the morning with some coin(s) and maybe a few bits and bobs to munch on during the day. If you had the last drink of the luke warm water in the lemonade bottle you always had to contend with the bits of sandwich floating about which had been left by the previous drinkers in the queue! If hunger prevailed mid-day, we headed home, or someone else’s parents stuck a sandwich and a drink of tea in our hands or a convenient chippy or shop provided for our needs. At some point, usually before it got dark, we would head home for tea which was “gobbled” down so that we could get back out on the street for the night activities. It was an endless run of excitement which always had an edge to it.

Adventure for us took two forms, either with or without the dogs. If we had the dogs with us it was hunting/poaching, if we didn’t it could be a whole range of stuff. The act of hunting/poaching with dogs, ferrets and guns has been a long tradition in mining communities. It became a necessity during the wars when meat was scarce due to rationing. I am surprised there was any wild life left over the fields surrounding Arksey and Bentley after the Second World War!

Paper Rounds

The day started early with getting the paper round done. We collected the papers from Shepherds at the Avenue/Arksey Lane intersection. The morning at Shepherds was mayhem with all the bikes and boys; newspapers being bundled into large canvas shoulder bags ready for dispatch. Mr Shepherd and Mrs White frantically folding papers and magazines inside each other and penciling the house number in the top right hand corner. We had this well planned system through which we could complete Gary’s round in about 20 minutes. His round covered the Victoria Road end of the Avenue and surrounding Streets all the way to the pit gates.

The daily papers

I think he earned something like 10/- for the morning round and 5/- for the evening round. He was also expected to collect the “paper-money” from the customers on a Friday evening and/or Saturday morning. That was often very odd. Occasionally people were very generous and gave tips. On other occasions we would have to listen to an adult explaining apologetically to a teenager, sometimes through the letterbox, why they were unable to pay their bill this particular week; it was a different world.

Tarzan Swings And Orange Water

After the paper-round, with the day to ourselves it was then what to do, where to go and who else is kicking about to join in. Very rarely was there nothing to do.

At the intersection of the Avenue, Elm Crescent and Victoria Road was a wood which we knew as the Little Wood. This distinguished it from the much more interesting Daw Wood, between Victoria Road and the pit, which was often referred to as the Big Wood. The Little Wood had two separate dykes on its boundaries, which merged together and ran away under the Coal Warf supply line to who knows where. We never did work that one out. The dyke running from the pit left a stain of orange, probably (hopefully) ferrous deposit on the banks and bed whereas the other bore a strong resemblance to a small stream and often held minnows and sticklebacks to prove its purity. There were a good number of mature specimen trees with high branches spanning the streams which made them prime targets for Tarzan swings!

A 'Tarzan' Swing

A good swing hung down directly above the straight dyke. Some hefty rope was used which had been “discovered” or “liberated” from the Colliery Works or slag heap. Then some older boy would defy death to suspend it from a branch, 30 feet high at least.

Swinging was exhilarating to say the least. It was not short of danger, especially when the rope snagged in one of the lower branches and then loosened itself with a bump whilst you were in mid-swing. If you were not strong enough this could give a sufficient jolt to break your grip and give you an inelegant shower in the Red Ditch. That’s why I hope it was ferrous and not some poisonous by-product which may catch me out when I am old. Hang on I am old …..

Each new swing became a social centre for a few days, attracting different groups of teenagers. Swinging abilities varied immensely as you can imagine. The top-dogs completed the circuit one-handed whilst smoking a cigarette, demonstrating their youthful strength to the young ladies on the dyke edge. The young ladies would also join in by swinging with encouragement from the boys, of course.

Eventually the swing would lose its novelty to the teenagers as they moved on to some other fad. We youngsters would move in to adopt it as our own for a few days but without the energy of the teenagers, it soon lost its novelty for us and we would also move on.

The Seat

On the corner of the Little Wood between The Avenue and Elm Crescent, at some point in the late 60’s or early 70’s, there was a seat erected. This became an institution for all generations. Youngsters would gather around there at odd times in the day but were soon moved on when some of the elderly retired miners and workers came to reminisce, compare betting tips, take stock of who might have passed away since they last met and generally put the world to rights.

I have no idea where the photo (below) came from nor who took it, but it brings tears to my eyes when I see it. I believe that it was taken in the early to mid 1970’s.

The Seat

My Grandad, Harry Griffin, is the gentleman sporting the flat cap at the left hand end of the seat. I know of a couple of names of his friends but I cannot recall who they are on the seat. I would welcome any guidance as to who else is sitting on the seat with my Grandad.

Over my Grandad’s right shoulder, in the photograph, I think you can just make out the Union Box, further down The Avenue toward the pit gates. The pit tips are in the background. To the front is what we knew as the Little Tip. Overshadowing it in the distance is, you guessed it, the Big Tip. This was also known as Tollbar Tip or the Red Tip since it was primarily made up of red shale and was closer to Tollbar than Bentley.

A second photo of the seat

I would sometimes sit with my Grandad and his friends for a while during my visits. Not that I could contribute anything to the conversation but it was a fine feeling sitting amongst these men listening to their memories, pit-talk, betting tips and what turns were on at the Comrades. Conversation was probably toned down a little for my benefit.

Another photo of the seat

I recall the occasional drifting into joke-telling, some of which I did not understand, others of which I was prevented from hearing by being sent on some unnecessary errand. One of my Grandad’s favourites, which would get him first of all laughing, then coughing, then almost choking, due to his Emphysema, went as follows : “Old Albert came into t’ Comrades today and asked me if I wanted to buy a cat. I said “Is it a tom?” He says “No it’s outside in me saddle-bag””

I still chuckle even now ….

All the men looked forward to these daily and regular gatherings which, on a fine day, would be broken into shifts covering the whole day. 

After breakfast my Grandad would walk to the front gate, mug of tea in hand, Woodbines and matches in the other. He would look toward the seat and, if it was empty, he would lean on the gate smoking waiting for one of his mates to show up. I got the impression that they, or their wives, would be snooping out of their windows across the road and would pass on the news that my Grandad was out. Pretty soon a small procession of men would slowly head towards the seat and any kids who were around would disperse to get up to no good.

I think that now there is some sort of home on the Little Wood and the seat appears to be long gone. As are most, if not all, of The Seat’s residents. Rest in Peace.

______ 

This further shot of the seat was sent in by Tracey Peacock in 2020 and probably shows some of the same gentlemen as in those supplied by Mike Hoyland. Tracey was able to provide a couple of names for her photo - third left is Jim Peacock, and Mr Chipman is on the far right.

_______

Mike Hoyland 2014

For part three go to Bentley and Arksey as an Outsider - Part Three.

Edited by Alison Vainlo 2014, updated 2020.

Bentley and Arksey as an Outsider - Part Three

The Drum

Mike's Memories

Presenting the third part of Mike Hoyland's wonderful account of growing up in the Bentley area in the 1950's and 1960's.

For part two go to Bentley and Arksey as an Outsider - Part Two.

For part one go to Bentley and Arksey as an Outsider - Part One.

Contents Of Part Three

• Pubs, Clubs and Bentley Pit
• Magical Trips To The Pit
• Playground Pit
• The Pit Bus
• Pubs And Clubs
• Cleethorpes And The Club Trip

Pubs, Clubs And Bentley Pit

Magical Trips To The Pit 

As collieries multiplied and disappeared in response to the fickle nature of demand, Bentley folk felt the full impact of the heartbeat of the pit. A big proportion of people in Bentley worked at the colliery, a neighbouring colliery or one of the many engineering companies, depots and services that supported them. The relationship was so strong that matters affecting the lives of the colliers, good or bad, rippled through the community and all the way out to the shops and farms.

Bentley Pit workers

A big day at the Pit was always the collection of wages on a Friday. When my Dad had to pick up his wages, depending on the shift, either my sister or I would go with him. Out comes the derelict but well-oiled bike, complete with a smaller seat, affixed to the cross-bar. I perched there as we headed over Jossey Hill, through Bentley and either took the park and then through Daw Wood (my favourite route), or Playfairs Corner and then Askern Road, Winnipeg Road or The Avenue and Arksey Lane.

Along the route my Dad would whistle some tunes that I had heard when the radio was playing at home and some tunes from “years gone by” that were distinctly different to the “olden days” that my Grandparents often spoke about. More often than not it was an indistinct whistling which just said he was happy. That was enough for me.

The whole journey to the pit was steeped in magic for me; the magic of expectation. I knew at the end of it there would be much good feeling which acts like sugar to a child. Meetings and greetings, serious faces but much joviality in the pit yard and all the way there. Wages were dispensed through tiny windows in the office wall, after a long and tedious wait in a queue, followed by much debate about the parentage of the government and how much money had been lost in tax. And then there was the climax; a visit to The Pit Canteen.

I loved it. Everyone in there was either serious and joking or joking and joking. Immense voices from giants of men. My Dad, reassuringly holding my hand as the giants smoked their cigarettes, waved their hands and boomed at each other with laughter in their big eyes.

The whole visit was full of men, huge towers and spinning wheels and noises which forced an imprint in your soul to remind you what and where you came from.

The canteen trip was the icing on the cake. Tea, toast, bottle of pop, crisps, occasionally sweets, you name it. My Dad was carrying money and goodwill. With a weekend of leisure ahead and a successful week behind, what child would not benefit from such circumstance? And, look forward to it again in the future.

Playground Pit

As I grew older I started to see the pit and the surrounding tips in a different light; that of a playground. I expect that many of the youngsters in and around Bentley and, in all probability, the kids around Carcroft, Skellow and other colliery villages were no different. Adventure. That word again.

Willows were cut with blunt Cleethorpes bought pen-knives to make bows and arrows which were used by the Apaches to defeat the cavalry, who all had cap guns from the previous birthday or Christmas. Custer’s last stand was re-enacted daily, complete with Davy Crockett hats made out of rabbit fur, the outcome never the same as history.

Dens were built on the slag heap beyond the Union Box which we knew as the Little Tip. Some dens were in trees, some made out of trees, some made out of railway sleepers and some in patches of nettles or bracken. Once they were built, a fire was needed, but how do we hide the smoke from the “pit cops”. The answer was a long tunnel underground so that the smoke comes out away from the den and someone “keeping konk” to let us know if anyone turned up.

Bentley Pit and surrounding land

If enough kids were interested, two dens were built at either end of the little tip and we raided each other’s dens. The anticipation and planning was always more exciting than the actual raids since we all knew that the bigger kids would win. By fair means or foul.

There was also the Big Tip or Red Tip which was the larger one closer to Tollbar. This is where the big kids went so when you were invited along you knew you had made the right of passage. This was mountaineering at its best though I found sliding down the shale slopes in wellies much more fun.

Lengths of discarded conveyer belt were used as sledges to slide down the shale slopes. As many as a dozen kids would clamber aboard a long strip of belt and “hudge” it toward the edge of the steepest drop we could find with our feet. If the shale cooperated and allowed us to slide, the end result was always hair-raising and hilarious and always resulted in a number of cuts and bruises and something to relive and laugh about.

All these activities were always acted out under the threat of being caught by “the pit cops”. Not quite an elite force of armed mercenaries who made it their business to keep the grounds of the colliery secure from a Russian invasion, more a small group of elderly men who wandered around the colliery grounds every now and then to make sure kids were not playing around on the railway lines, stealing coal or trying to shunt wagons by boy-power!

The most classic chase of the time was when we were out over Tollbar Tip with the dogs. Below Tollbar Tip was a large pond where the black silt from washing the coal was allowed to settle. Ridiculously dangerous as a place to explore which is why we were there. On the pit side of the pond, the “pit cops” had surrounded us! The only way out was through the colliery workings. Across the lines and into the buildings we ran, accompanied by our dogs who thought this was great fun. Through a doorway, heading to who knows where and we entered the Pit Head Baths where the miners were showering. A group of lads tearing through the baths, with dogs skidding about on the tiles, all being chased, lead to a great deal of laughter and encouragement from the miners. We did get away but, when he found out, as he always did,  were told off by my Grandad who had more than a little laughter in his eyes.

It was unlikely that you would be captured by the pit cops since they were not hired for their pace. However, since they knew who you were, they would report back and your Dad and/or Grandad may get a dressing down by one of the pit bosses when he got to work. Then there were consequences!

One of my fondest memories was making pea-shooters from lengths of cow parsley stems which grew in abundance in Daw Wood. Hawthorn berries were the ammunition which were also in abundance. Someone had the bright idea one day for us to climb one of the big trees that bordered the approach to the pit on Arthur Street and, hidden by the branches and leaves, shoot at the colliers as they passed below us at shift end.

Nervous at first, we rapidly gained confidence. When a hit was made the collier invariably spun around looking for who had done it. Cursing and blinding and none the wiser because he never thought to look up. Each hit was met with uncontrollable laughter which was suppressed into tears and giggling until we almost fell off the branches.

The climax came when a chap with no hair came past. We all ignored whose turn it was and all let loose at once. He was peppered. Rubbing his head, growling he looked this way and that for someone to kill. Meanwhile we had laughed ourselves into side splitting pain. Quietly of course.

It all ended when we were spotted by a younger miner who scared us to death by starting to climb the tree after us. Dropping from a height that we should not have dropped from we all legged it into Daw Wood to the safety of yet another den at the top of a hawthorn tree through whose branches we had made a thorn-free route to a flat canopy on the top. Safe, secure and well hidden.

Please note that this was good fun and by no means malicious. No miners were injured in these activities and the children involved grew up with rich memories.

The Pit Bus

One of the things that always fascinates me about miners was when they congregated somewhere outside. Eventually, as the conversation progressed, one or more of them would crouch. Others would follow. As a kid I thought that it was good fun to follow suite but soon stood up when my legs began to ache. Once again my Grandad came to the rescue with an explanation: down the pit there isn’t much headroom so most of the time it is easier to crouch than lean over and you get used to it.

I had a lot of conversations with my Grandad and he would often listen as I tried to make him laugh with some of my innocent tales. One day he came out with a classic which has stuck since I have a reputation amongst friends and colleagues for being long winded. As evidenced by these articles. As he sat patiently listening to a tale of a recent fishing expedition he said “Why do you always go round Arksey to get to Bentley?”

Along with having their own ambulance service, The Pit had its own Pit Bus. A red double-decker which travelled through Scawthorpe, along Amersall Road to Jossey Lane and then through Bentley to the pit. I think a small payment was made for the fare, but not much. I rode it a few times with my Dad when I was going to stay with my Grandparents on the Avenue. My most poignant memory of the Pit Bus was when my Dad’s funeral cortege was heading past the Pit Bus stop on the corner of Amersall Road near the Adam and Eve, the colliers at the stop all doffed their flat caps. A seriously tear-jerking moment.

Typical bus of the era

We needed no watches in those days as there was always the pit buzzer giving us a warning for the change of shift and the Cementation siren telling everybody to get out of bed at 7:25 and 7:30 I think.

I have lived in Norwich, Norfolk, on and off since 1969. In all those years I have met a number of people from Donny in Norwich but the most unusual was at a wedding a few years ago. An elderly chap approached me and asked what part of Yorkshire I was from. When I replied Doncaser, his eyes lit up. He was a farm carpenter who had been called up in World War II. Instead of being sent to the front, he was transferred to Bentley Colliery to make use of his skills. He ended up lodging at a house on Arthur Street belonging to Jack Rose, the chap who flitted my family from Bentley to Scawthorpe in the mid 50’s. A small world.

Pubs And Clubs

Closely related to the colliery and the community were the pubs and Working Men’s Clubs. These were many: The Magnet, Druids and Bay Horse are pubs I can remember. The Comrades, Jet, Top Club, the Reform and the Whisper are the clubs I remember in Bentley. Then there were the Yarborough and West End clubs. There were probably others.

The Bay Horse trip, 1952

When I asked my Grandad why the Whisper had such an unusual name, he explained that this was its nickname. Apparently, in previous years, when work and money were scarce, the Whisper was the club favoured by the pit management and deputies. If a collier was looking for some overtime, a trip to the Whisper for a “whisper in the ear” of an appropriate manager supported by a pint of Freeman’s ale, could get results. 

Freeman’s because the recipient wasn’t paying for it! My Grandad always reckoned that Freeman’s was the sweetest beer to drink.

Pubs tended to be used by younger singles, courting and married couples with the Working Men’s Clubs being used by the older generations. This is a sweeping generalization since there was a lot of cross-traffic and a lot of cross-pollination! Enough said.

Public bars in the pubs, and particularly the clubs, were no-go areas for the fairer sex. More out of tradition than discrimination. It gave the men a time and place to “let off steam” with some dedicated drinking and colourful use of the English language.

All the pubs and clubs thrived. Any that failed in the 50’s and 60’s probably failed through mismanagement rather than lack of demand. People had money in their pockets and eagerly supported the drinking and entertainment provided through disco’s, dances, singers, comedians and groups. It was legendary and generally free.

Many acts cut their teeth in the northern pubs and clubs, occasionally appearing in Bentley. I remember Charlie Williams, a very popular comedian in the 70’s, appearing at the Comrades and bringing the house down with jokes which I cannot repeat here due to their being politically incorrect today. He went on to become a national celebrity.

"Ay-up mi 'owd flower", Charlie Williams

Speaking of the Comrades, I remember the “old” Comrades, sited behind the house at the top of The Avenue, which suffered the impact of subsidence, probably from collapsing coal-workings underground. It resulted in the dance floor having a ridge and a slope which led to all sorts of fun late on a Saturday night when the floor was open to dancing. Slow waltzes often became quick and vice versa.

Cleethorpes And The Club Trip

To a child in the 50’s and early 60’s, the most important event of the year was the “club trip”.

Parent’s signed up for their favourite club trips on an annual basis. The Comrades and Scawthorpe club are the only ones I can recall but I suspect that many of the other clubs had similar outings.

Subscriptions were paid throughout the year toward the family fares and pocket money for the kids on the day. For many of us, Cleethorpes was this magical place at the seaside that meant a day of freedom. A day when your parents seemed in a much better mood and there was a lot more money about for ice-cream, rides on the roller coaster in Wonderland, donuts, slot machines and a new toy.

Families gathered at Bentley station and formed a long queue onto Pipering Lane. The train arrived, pulling slowly into the station giving off clouds of steam, a toot or two on the whistle for the kids, and an occasional bonus of some skidding and a few sparks. As we boarded, a committee member would pass a brown envelope to each kid. This contained our passport to happiness for the day; a whole pound note! To relate that to today’s money; it was the equivalent of about eleven pints of beer.

The journey to Cleethorpes was probably a couple of hours but to a child it was an eternity. All the sandwiches had been eaten, flasks of tea had been drunk and kids were getting liberally clipped around the ear or told off as the journey drew to its close. Then one of the adults who had sighted a landmark would come out with something like “Get thee buckets ‘n spades ready” and a wave of anticipation would flood the carriages.

Seaside fun

Cleethorpes never let us down. Our family tended to make base camp near the pier. The kids would have a token splash around in the “sea” and then look to get away and join in the fun to be had on the rides and slots. The teenagers would be eager to get on with chasing the opposite sex and the men equally eager to make their way to one of the local pubs.

Cleethorpes had what has to be the coldest swimming pool I have ever experienced in my life. We tried it once, on a roasting day, paid a fortune to get in, jumped in, screamed, jumped out and never went back!

I went back there a few years ago with my sister and my wife. It was out of season but it still had the same feel to it. Complete with big families troughing fish and chips on the sea front with the mother chastising the youngsters and liberally dishing out “clips around the ear”.

__________

Mike Hoyland 2014

For part four go to Bentley and Arksey as an Outsider - Part Four.



Edited by Alison Vainlo 2014, updated 2020.

Bentley and Arksey as an Outsider - Part Four

Askern Road, Bentley

Mike's Memories

Presenting the fourth part of Mike Hoyland's wonderful account of growing up in the Bentley area in the 1950's and 1960's.

For part three go to Bentley and Arksey as an Outsider - Part Three.

For part one go to Bentley and Arksey as an Outsider - Part One.

Contents Of Part Four

• A Day In The Life Of
• Street-Corner Gatherings
• Bikes, Play Areas And The Home-made Trolley
• Train-Spotting
• Fishing For Mary Jane
• Tales Of The Riverbank
• Of Bubbles And Snakes

A Day In The Life Of

Street-Corner Gatherings

Many of us reflect on our childhood as if every day was full of riches and the weather was always kind. The reality, same as for youngsters today, is that there were days of ecstasy and days of excruciating boredom where friends were not available, the storms were relentless or parents had plans for you that conflicted with your own plans even if you didn't have any. It is handy how the mind remembers good things and protects you from the not so good. 

The street-corner gatherings concluding in “What we gonna do” were pretty much the same then as they are today. Although less instantaneous than texting or Facebook, the communication involved in pulling a gathering together was pretty efficient.

My fondest memories are of setting off early and finishing the papers, picking up the dog (Tim) from my Grandparents and heading toward the seat with our Gaz issuing forth a perfect rendition of the Johnny Weismuller Tarzan call.

Johnny Weissmuller (click image to listen)

This was a “hint” to our friends that we were heading toward the Little Tip and intent on walking over the Cuttings or Dugouts in search of whatever. Oh and with the dogs.

Many a collier, intent on sleeping off his night shift or night at one of the many pubs and clubs must have been dismayed when he heard that first clarion call. It was met with one or more responses and, true to teenage form, resulted in a battling crescendo as the parties drew near to each other.

The dogs would greet each other with a load of barking, yelping and face-licking and off we went for another day of bliss. Complete with dripping sandwiches and pop-bottles full of water.

The Facebook version of this is probably less stressful to the local community, and far less noisy.

What took place in our young lives back then may be slightly different to now. However, it is worth trying to record some of the activities, places and events before they start to slip out of our memories for all time and deny comparison.

Bikes, Play Areas And The Home-made Trolley

Bikes were the primary mode of transport. These were maintained with a ramshackle set of often, borrowed tools, with spoons from the kitchen drawer to lever off and on the tyres for inner tube repair. We had to keep the bikes in decent shape to do the paper rounds.

They were never locked and very rarely stolen. They also provided a means of racing either through the streets, woods or on the little tip. Calamities and collisions were frequent. Each crash was greeted with laughter, anger and sometimes tears. Cuts, bruises and even broken bones litter these memories.

There was a bike shop in Bentley sporting brand new bikes and fuelling the Christmas dreams of many of us. I think it was in the small row of shops near St Peter’s Church and Bentley High Street School; near one of the two barber’s shops on the High street.

Bikes were used to go everywhere. There were not many cars on the roads those days, so not many parents to act as unpaid taxi drivers. Trips in cars were for many of us a rare treat. Usually through a friend of the family or relative who had a well-paid job. Along with the lack of cars, refrigerators and phones were unheard of. Folk were regarded as “dead posh” if they had any of the above and royalty if they had all three.

Bentley and Arksey were not short of play areas. A good example was the air-raid shelters on the Avenue, in front of the New Village School in Bentley. They would have been even more fun if we could have gained access through the doors.

There was also a small park off a track between the Jet and Daw Lane. This was affectionately known as the Little Park to distinguish it from the main Bentley Park. The swings were on grass so many more bumps and bruises were acquired seeing who could swing the highest and who could leave the swing on its upward turn and leap the furthest.

Another mode of transport was the trolley; made from a plank and two cross-members with scavenged nails, nuts and bolts, and holes ‘drilled’ by red-hot poker from the fire. A length of ‘borrowed’ washing line tied to the front provided steering. Wheels and axles were scavenged from derelict prams, pushchairs, previous trolleys and even small-wheeled bikes.

The homemade Trolley

  

Seated on the trolley with feet on the front cross-member for steering, all you needed was a hefty push and Stirling Moss beware! Pushing was essential as the only two road hills at Tollbar and Bentley were a bit hairy and did get some traffic. The main race track was on the pavement alongside Bentley Colliery football pitch. That stretch was of road was known as The Tinnings. Presumably because the original fences were made from corrugated tin, occasionally however, there would be a smooth enough slope on the little tip to provide momentum for a scary run.

Like everything else we did, we did it with a passion and then moved on, picking up wounds and memories along the way.

Train-Spotting

Train-spotting was one of the fringe activities that would become popular for a while. Even “guys” who grew up to be “hard-cases” dabbled with train-spotting. Equipped with an Ian Allen book in which to record the numbers we would head to Arksey Crossing or the footsteps between Bentley and Arksey at the end of the cinder track. A more lucrative location was on Ings Lane near De Mulders between the York line which went through Arksey and the Leeds line which went through Bentley. The more lines, the more trains, the more numbers. Anoraks or what!

Arksey Crossing was always good because if the Signalman in the box was feeling good, he would let us ride on the gates as he opened and closed them. Forget health and safety.

Arksey Crossings in 1955

A big day out for some of us anoraks was a Saturday morning visit to Doncaster Station, sat on the cattle sidings, now the bus station and watching a string of steam trains coming out of the sheds freshly painted. The train Sir Nigel Gresley was a regular visitor and even Mallard showed her wheels from time to time.

We reached the platform by crossing the road from the old Bus Station, situated on the North Bridge, down the side of “Ye Olde Brown Cow”, a green glazed pub, same as the recently deceased Drum in Bentley. We then crossed wasteland of shale, now the bus station and car-park, to the platform sidings. No platform tickets. There were always a number of cattle and freight wagons in the sidings. Extreme anoraks even took the serial numbers of the wagons.

Fishing For Mary Jane

There are many places in Bentley and Arksey dear to my heart, none more than Arksey Pond. We never knew its real name, if it ever had one, we just called it Arksey pond; it was the one near the railway crossing. At the tender age of eight, equipped with some questionable fishing tackle, I set forth on my bike to the house on the corner of Burns Street and The Avenue in Bentley to buy a junior fishing permit from Jack Bretnall. He looked after the pond, I am not sure if it was a colliery fishing club or independent. All I know is that the day, the people I met and the fish I caught have stayed crystal clear in my memory.

Arksey fishing pond

My Grandad had got hold of one of the big tin boxes which used to hold ice-cream wafers in bulk. He neatly bolted a length of strap to either side to put over my shoulder and I had a readymade tackle-box and seat.

6d (2.5p) of maggots bought from a fishing shop alongside the Colliseum and carried in an old cocoa tin was the bait.

The pond was popular and, according to the older boys, held many legendary fish which they had been targeting for years to no avail. For example a pike that could have been anything up to 30lb, depending who was telling the tale. It even had a name: Mary Jane. Bank side rumour is the stuff of legends.

That first day of many was filled with magic. A small tench was my first capture followed by a couple each of roach and perch. I headed home at midday whistling and singing, and picked up some chips and fish-bits from Presleys in Bentley on the way. No finer way to celebrate.

I still fish today in and around the Norfolk Broads. One day I hope to have another go at Arksey Pond and maybe the Willowgarth and River Eabeck. Just to go full circle.

Tales Of The Riverbank

The affinity for nature was strong amongst the boys in Bentley Village at that time. Unsophisticated and not quite conservationists they still knew their stuff when it came to birds, nests, eggs, rabbits, snares, hares, foxes, rats, mice and bats and their interrelationships.

The Cuttings or Dugouts were beyond Arksey, toward Barnby Dun, and skirted the River Eabeck. We called it the Eabeck but it may be called Tilts or Thorpe Marsh Drain. The river was flood protected by erecting embankments from soil about 50 yards from the river’s edge. This scooping of soil resulted in long ponds following the river, on alternating sides, all the way down to its joining with the River Don; hence the name of the ponds, the Dugouts or Cuttings.

Some youngsters and dogs learnt to swim in the dugouts. Even amongst the weed, lilies and reeds. Anglers struggled through the weed to catch specimens. It was hairy and scary with dragonflies to scare the life out of you as a kid. And there was always the fear that you were trespassing.

The River Eabeck takes a severe left hand turn close to a drainage pump on the road between Arksey and Barnby Dun. The pond followed the course of the river and embankment and consequently it was known to us as the L-Pond.

Either on the way to the Dugouts or on the way back, we would head toward a small “outlet” on Marsh Lane in Arksey run by a lady who had a stall at her back door. I am not sure what else she sold since we were always concentrating on Dandelion and Burdock, Lemonade and crisps. They were wondrous to savor after a day “over t’ dugouts”.

Of Bubbles And Snakes

Some days, with energy on our side, we would make it to Barnby Dun. From Bentley Avenue, it’s a fair old walk especially with numerous distractions and mischief along the way. Crossing over the Barnby Dun Bridge over the River Don was always interesting. As kids we thought it fascinating to see the river run blood-red or deep blue. We knew that the factories on Wheatley Hall Road were responsible for the rainbows in the water but never understood the consequences.

My Grandad used to talk about swimming in the Don in the 1920’s, actually in the town centre. I believed him but I couldn’t see it. Reeds, lilies, weeds ….. All we ever saw in the 50’s was a rich palate of colours and detergent bubbles.

Take the Bentley or Arksey bus into Donny in the late 50’s and not only would you have a traffic jam but some days a display of bubbles clambering across the Don Bridge, part way up the bus, and giving a bubble display of sun-lit rainbows that 70’s rock-bands would have yearned for.
Thankfully we are now catching good fish where detergent from Sheffield and Rotherham ruled.

When we went “over t’ fields” the Willowgarth was always a place of magic. Inside, on a hot and sultry summer’s day, it was akin to the jungle. We swam or struggled in the silt-lined margins and revelled in the life around us.

Willowgarth fishing pond

On the railway line side of the Willowgarth undergrowth, one of the older lads captured a grass snake, by hand, which was seeking refuge in a discarded milk bottle. He carried it around Bentley Avenue and the backs, holding its head with the tail wrapped around his arm, quite a curiosity. Scaring mothers with their babies and impressing waking miners for an afternoon until he released it on the Little Tip.

Having immediate access to the countryside around and between Bentley and Arksey was magic. I experienced this from the ages of about eight to eleven; although in my memories it feels like a lifetime.

__________

Mike Hoyland 2014

For part five go to Bentley and Arksey as an Outsider - Part Five.



Edited by Alison Vainlo 2014, updated 2020.