THE GASMAN COMETH

My patience is slowly running out,

Just sat here by the phone.

Been waiting here so many hours,

Just me and me alone.

He said he'd come this afternoon ,

My boiler to maintain.

But there's no sign of him at all,

It's driving me insane.

I'll have to ring old British Gas,

And tell them I'm not happy.

I'll get the plumber up the street,

Now he's a helpful chappy

Hang on, hang on,

There's a ringing on my bell,

It's him, it's him the boiler man,

Now he's here, won't give him hell.

CHURCHYARD

The sturdy tower with flag atop,

In your tracks it makes you stop.

Saint George's cross you do see there,

Fluttering proudly in the air.

The mighty Yew stands proud and tall,

It's evergreen its leaves don't fall.

It's been here for many years,

Seen many laughs and many tears.

Many graves both old and new,

Some looked after, but just a few.

Most overgrown and covered in moss,

We've lost their names, and that's our loss .

"Joan the relict of John Malone,"

I read her name, it's carved in stone.

She only lived to sixty three,

But she may outlive both you and me.

Small grassy mounds which no cross adorn,

These are the graves of children stillborn.

So different from our Polish friends,

Whose photo so many memories it lends.

A newly dug grave I do see there,

The soil piled up with lots of care.

Not long now and with sobs and sighs,

To someone we loved we'll say our goodbyes

THE FANNY GREY

The closure of the pub that had been my "home" for nigh on twenty years prompted me to publish this potted history I compiled and which was inserted within the pub menu.

"...ye bruing vessell with other wood gear, £2-10-00."

Christopher Varley of Salterforth Lane Head died in 1679 and was interned in the graveyard of St Mary-le-Gill at Barnoldswick. Shortly afterwards on 2nd May an inventory was taken of all his belongings. The extract above shows that beer has been brewed/sold on this site for at least 330 years.

The original building, shown above, was a farmhouse, the farmer, having the raw materials to hand, would brew his own beer, and in times of plenty would brew enough to supply his friends and neighbours.

This was the origin of many of our countryside pubs, which, in time, were more profitable than farming.

The Fanny Grey stands on the old packhorse route from Colne, along which would come many trains of packhorses, carrying wool to Barnoldswick for the "piece-worker" cottage weavers, or salt from the Cheshire mines, which they would take down the steep hill, "The Drag", through Salterforth(the salters ford) and on into Yorkshire. Thus a steady trade from thirsty packhorse drivers would be assured.

The earliest record I am able to find of the building as an inn is an entry in the 1822 Baines' Trade Directory, when it was called The Bay Horse and the landlord was Michael Pickles.

Some more records of the inn:

1841 Census, Lane Head, Hannah Simpson, 72, Innkeeper

1851 Census, Bowling Green House, James Barrett, Innkeeper and clogger

The large flat car park at the rear of the pub is obviously the site of bowling green.

1853 the first edition Ordnance Survey named the pub Lane Head or Fanny Grey Inn. This is the first and only record of the name Fanny Grey.

1861 Census, Lane Head, James Barrett, farmer of 14 acres and Innkeeper.

1871 Census, Lane Head Inn, James Barrett, licensed victualler.

1881 Census, Lane Head, Anne Barrett, Farmer of 16 acres.

          Ann was the widow of James Barrett, there is no mention of the inn.

1901 Census, Lane Head Inn

Kelly's Directory, Salterforth 1908, Lane Head, Robert Barrett, Inn and farmer.

Robert was the son of James and Ann.

Kelly's Directory, Salterforth 1911, Robert Barrett, farmer Lane Head.

There is no mention of the pub. Perhaps the building was now in a state of disrepair?

The new building was erected in 1914 and named The Lane Head Inn.

Kelly's Directory, Salterforth 1920, Lane Head Inn, Hugh Ellison

The Lane Head Inn reverted to the Fanny Grey in 1974 after some renovations had been done.

As for the elusive Fanny Grey, I don't think we will ever find out who or what she was. There is no record of a family called Grey. It has been suggested it was the name of a famous race horse of the times and Michael Town, landlord of The Fanny Grey for many years, relates the story that a Mr Uttley, a manufacturer from Trawden, was riding by one day on his "grey" horse when he told the landlady, Mrs Sowerbutts, that he would whitewash the building if she called it The Fanny Grey.

Researched and compiled by:

Ken Ranson

February 2008.

OUR TOWN SQUARE

I can sit for hours and gaze around,

At the folk that I can see there.

Some I know and some I don't,

That's what we see in our Town-Square

School-kids on their dinner break,

Mingling here and there.

Lots of noise and flirting,

That's what we have in our Town-Square

The smell of bacon butties ,

Comes wafting through the air.

The smell of fish and chips as well,

That's what we smell in our Town-Square

There's a tick and a tock from the Millennium clock,

And a coo-coo from the pigeons out there.

There's lots of noise from the kiddies as well,

That's what we hear in our Town-Square

Outside the cafe they're sat in the sun,

A coffee and cake without care.

Nodding and smiling to those who pass by,

That's what we have in our Town-Square

Once every year The French Market arrives,

With stalls from to sell us their ware.

Crepes and cheese and fancy bread,

That's what we have in notre Town-Square

Every now and then there is a "big do",

And who comes? The Town Crier and Mayor.

Oyez, Oyez, you have a good day,

That's what we have in our Town-Square

There's Liddles the bakers and Shambles as well,

The girls at The Cutting Room who will style your hair.

The Albert Road Chippy, Victoria's as well,

These are the shops in our Town-Square.

CAMELOT

I am, at last, after many painstaking years of research able to publish my findings on the history of Barnoldswick. What I have to reveal is probably the most important historical find since the Saxon burial mound at Sutton Hoo in 1939.

It has taken me many hours of research using maps, walking over the site and scouring hundreds of manuscripts in archives all over the North of England.

Once my findings become public the town will never be the same. We will be flooded by TV cameras, newspaper reporters, possibly Tony Robinson and the Time Team will come and will cause more disruption with their excavations than Balfour Beatty and their new water main.

I know it will take some believing but my researches tell me that Barnoldswick is the original site of CAMELOT.

Over the years many places have laid claim to being the site of Camelot, Cadbury Castle being one of them. This is a small village in Somerset some 15 miles South of Glastonbury. All that remains today is a ringed hillfort with evidence of a large castle inside the outer walls. There have been some extensive excavations of the site, and there are detailed reports of the archaeological dig available.

Here are my findings:

By the side of The Greyhound Hotel on Manchester Road there is a street called CASTLE View, now whether this was the site of the castle or you could see the castle from this spot I have not been able to find out. More work needs to be done on this aspect and, if possible, some excavation would solve the problem.

In the oldest part of the town there is a street called KING Street and down by what used to be The Fosters Arms an ARTHUR Street, this is surely more than a coincidence.

On Station Road is a cafe called Genevive. This name intrigued me for years, until the day I found amongst the records of The Duchy of Lancaster a deed from the 14th century (with ref. Lia R.) which showed the owner of a previous building on the site. The name Genevive is a corruption of the name GUINEVERE.

I worked for many years for Rolls-Royce at Bankfield Shed, and for a while actually worked building engines. I did some research into the history of Rolls-Royce at Barnoldswick, most of the engines were named after rivers, Nene, Trent etc. but the name of one early engine caught my eye, one of the earliest engines was called MERLIN, after the wizard.

When I married in 1966 I obtained a council house on Coates Estate on Avon Drive. Every morning I would walk along the road to work and then back again at night and quite a few times I had this eerie feeling surround me of something that was mystical, until one November morning, when the mist clung to the canal, this hand appeared clutching a sword and it suddenly dawned on me that Avon was a corruption of AVALON. This was the place where King Arthur was said to have been taken, when he was dieing, to be healed. There are lots of theories as to where Avalon might actually have been. Some say it was not a geographical place, but a euphemism for the otherworld.

King Arthur's father was called Uther Pendragon, it is from this that we get the old Lancashire saying "Pull the uther one, it's got bells on"

Now this is true, the wood on the left, past the quarry, as you leave Thornton is called Merlinwood

This one is surely the icing on the cake, there is a sign outside the front door of The Anchor Inn in Salterforth that reads, "THE ROUND TABLE meet here every Tuesday at 8 o'clock".

"...JUST FADE AWAY"

I've reached the age when I must slow down,

That's all I have to say.

I can't go any faster now,

Or I'll just fade away.

I really need to take my time,

To keep my age at bay,

To make the most of every hour,

Or I'll just fade away.

To sit and rest that's what I'll do,

This, the next and every day.

And count my blessings every one,

Or I'll just fade away.

The day went by I need my sleep,

And on my bed I lay.

I'll close my eyes, whisper a thanks,

And then just fade away.

...AND I SEE THEM THERE

I see them here and I see them there,

In fact I see them everywhere.

In every road and every street,

They're seen by everyone that I meet.

Not very big but they stand out proud,

Their garish colour is so loud.

Why they're there we do not know,

We just see them lined-up in a row.

I stand and stare and look at it,

And take it in just bit by bit.

I've picked it up it's in my hand,

The bloody postman's red elastic-band.

THE COLD CALLER

I see him walking towards me, suit, tie, identification badge round his neck; clipboard in hand, The Cold Caller!

Many, many times throughout my working life, I have given thanks to a/some/The God that I have had an office environment job, warm, light, quiet(ish).

I think of all the jobs I would hate to do.

And the Cold Caller is the one that I would hate the most.

Walking the streets in all weathers, knocking on the door of people whom you don't know, never knowing what would appear when the door(if it did) opened.

Knock, knock, a long pause, or so it seemed, the light appeared in the fanlight above the door, the door wrenched open in a "what the bloody hell do you want?" manner.

It was one of those houses where the front door opened straight into the living room and in the background of the lightless room glowed The TV.

The shadowy figure standing in the doorway, TV Times in hand, his eyes continually glancing at me and then darting back to gaze, longingly, at the TV, a look that said "please say what you have to whilst the adverts are on, and then go."

Knock, knock, the door slowly opened, just a few inches, to expose the security chain and there, some distance down from me, I saw an eye, a bloodshot watery eye, attached to a frail elderly lady with an hearing -aid.

"Good evening madam."

"eh?"

"Good evening madam."

"eh?"

"Good evening madam."

"What do you want?"

Knock, knock, No! Your worst nightmare, there stood in the doorway a "Slob", unshaven, tattooed, mucky vest, fag in mouth, fat belly, beer can in hand.

"What do you want?"

"Er, sorry sir, wrong house."

Knock, knock, BANG! The sound of bone against glass sets you shaking in your shoes, sweat flows from every pore in your body, you have never been as frightened in your life, for there in the window the large head of a snarling, white spit dribbling, Rottweiller.

"Don't think I will bother with this house."

Knock, knock, The door slowly opens to expose a soft red light within which is the silhouette of a voluptuous lady, possibly in her sixties, hair dyed an Autumnal ruddy brown, deep red lipstick, dressed in a diaphanous negligee.

"Well, hello darling, and what can I do for you?"

"Er", gulp, "Er", gulp. "Could you tell me where I could find...?"

Now sat in the car, tie wrenched off, third cigarette smoked in two minutes, whisky bottle from glove compartment gently caressed, the end of another day.

All you want to do is sleep, but sleep only brings tomorrow closer.

DEATH OF OLD BARLICK

I've just walked round Old Barlick town,

And don't like what I see.

These poncy shops that have sprung up,

To sell to you and me.

There's fancy frocks and fancy shoes,

And fancy other things.

There's coffee this and coffee that,

Bracelets and golden rings.

No screws or nails, no pot of paint,

No wallpaper or copper pipe,

Just one butcher there is left,

And he don't sell tripe.

A WALK IN LITTONDALE

It's early morning, Sun's up high,

The Falcon's hovering in the sky.

On rocky crags the sheep are seen,

On mountain tracks where I have been.

The car's parked up, the door is locked,

On telephone wires the Swifts are flocked.

"Morning", that's the only word,

From passing strangers you have heard.

A "Finger" points, "This is the way",

That sets your course for you today.

On your own you want to be,

So hurry by a crowd you see.

The lush carpet of sheep-cropped grass,

Lies underfoot where you will pass.

The well-worn path it lies ahead,

Pebbles in dried-up river bed.

Skeletal outline of ancient barn,

"Dogs on lead", the sign did warn.

The mossy ranks of limestone walls,

The stile ahead to me it calls.

Amongst the vetch and buttercup,

A Wagtail playing, "catch me up".

The fresh piled hills of Mr Mole,

The gentle mare and lovely foal.

The river's dry, no water there,

To quench the thirst of foal and mare.

The stepping stones no need to use,

Your path ahead you will not lose.

The enticing glimpse of whitewashed inn,

Through trees you spy, it's beckoning.

You're nearly there your thirst to quench,

Soon you'll be there sat on that bench.

With beer you sit and look around,

See every sight, hear every sound.

Three elderly guys (I think they're gay)

"What's your drink?, my turn to pay".

Time to leave; your day has gone,

Retrace your steps, one by one.

The beauty around it is unfurled,

To you, the only person in the world.