Industrial Bentley

Bentley 1854

The Bay Horse

Housing and the Population

Broughton Avenue under construction

Religious Houses

Mission Room next to the Druid's Arms

The new Wesleyan Chapel built in 1889

St Peter's Church

20th Century Bentley 

Bentley Tram arriving at the Chapel Street terminus

Trolley bus on Askern Road

Bentley Colliery 1912

Council offices, Cooke Street

Bentley Park

The Coliseum

Bomb damaged Royston Avenue 1940

Medieval and Tudor Bentley 

Moat Hills

Moat Hills (highlighted)

Moat Hills (site of) today

1379 Poll Tax

In 1379 a poll tax was levied and everyone over the age of sixteen was counted. An estimate of the population of Arksey and Bentley can be worked out. Going on the theory that families consisted of 3.85 persons the total population of Bentley and Arksey combined was 250 people. The tax was charged at four pennies, but for those of trade it was higher, usually six pennies. In Bentley and Arksey traders mentioned in the villages were a ‘Smyth’, ‘Chapmen’, (peddlers), and a ‘Taillour’. Not many traders were found in the manors as goods could be bought at nearby Doncaster.

Bentley Water Mill

A mill at Bentley is first mentioned in a transfer deed of 1332, when Robert de Hathelsay transferred 'Two messuages, one toft, one mill, nine and a half bovates of land, six acres of meadow and 11s. 5 1/2d. rent in Kirksandale and Bentlelay' to John le Botiller. As there is no record of a mill at Kirksandale (Kirk Sandall), it seems likely this must be the one at Millgate, Bentley, which was demolished in 1980.

The mill is mentioned again in a transfer of 1554, when Edmund Wyndam, Knight., transferred rights of the 'Manors of Bentley and Arksey and 100 messuages and a water-mill with lands there' to three other knights. In both cases the deeds do not specify what the mill was manufacturing, but is safe to say that a mill existed in Bentley for around six hundred and fifty years.

Bentley water mill

 

Plague in Tudor Bentley

Pestilence and plague were the most feared diseases of Tudor times, and although the terms 'pestilence' and 'plague' were in fact blanket terms for a number of often fatal afflictions, these diseases ran rife in communities, and often decimated the local population. 

Bentley did not escape the ravages of this terrible time, in fact, Bentley and Arksey were central to bringing the plague to Doncaster town itself in the year 1582. 

It is recorded in Arksey parish registers that a man named William Munkton was travelling south from Thirsk in North Yorkshire along the Great North Road when he was found collapsed at Amersall in the township of Bentley. He died shortly after being found and as Bentley was in the parish of Arksey, William was buried in the churchyard of All Saints. 

There followed ten months of disease and suffering in an area reaching as far south as Cantley, south of Doncaster. There were over fifty recorded burials at Arksey due to the pestilence in the years 1582/1583.

There were nine lethal epidemics in Doncaster, over the next one hundred years, but the plague of 1582/1583 remains the worst to hit the Doncaster district.
See herefor more on this plague and a list of Bentley victims.
 

Seventeenth Century Bentley

The Hearth Tax

The Hearth Tax provides the next census of the population. Introduced in England in May 1662, a tax was levied on the amount of hearths per household. There were exemptions, and the act was revised in 1664 which made the tax payable by all those with more than two chimneys. The tax was abolished by William III in 1689.

The hearth tax records give an indication of the size of each house assessed at the time, as the number of hearths is proportional to the size of the house, although not every house of the same size had the same number of hearths and not every room had a hearth. 

In Bentley and Arksey an indication of the number of houses and their sizes can be learned from the returns, for instance, there was one house with 9 hearths, this house, home of the Wilbores, once stood in a the small hamlet of Bridge End, on the north side of the river Don, where the caravan park now stands at the north end of St George’s Bridge. Of the other houses in the villages there was an assortment of sizes ranging from one with eight hearths, three with seven, one with six, four with five and nine with four. Then there were thirteen with three, and at the poorer end, twenty one with two and forty eight with one. In addition there were four properties in Shaftholme and eleven at Almholme, making 101 houses in total, with a population of about 485. 

The Manor

Pottery finds at Moat Hills in Bentley suggest that the Cooke family resided there until the second half of the seventeenth century. Sir George Cooke had bought the Manor of Wheatley in 1658, and following his death in 1683, his brother and heir Sir Henry Cooke built the four-storey Wheatley Hall, which became the family seat of the Cooke's for the next two hundred and thirty years.

Wheatley Hall, built in 1686

As non-residential Lords-of-the-Manor, the Cookes still worshiped at Arksey, using a boat to cross the river. They also provided the poor of Arksey with a school and almshouses, although they did relatively little for the people of Bentley. 

Despite this, there were several sizable farms in Bentley, whose income ensured their family names would be notable for over two centuries.
See here for more on the Cooke family.

Rural Bentley in the Eighteenth Century

Poor Harvests and the Population

Bentley in the eighteenth century consisted of several farms built around a village green, with more farms further afield, rented from the Cooke Lords of the Manor. There were also several beer-houses in the village, but no church, with the nearest being at Arksey. However there is evidence of a rise in certain non-conformist religions.

With the population of Bentley dependent on agriculture, it only took a series of bad harvests and severe winters to affect the mortality rate of the parish to such an extent, that special mention was given to it in the parish register for the years 1727-1729. Writing in the parish register, Cha. Herring declared:

"The greatest mortality that ever can be remembered or made out to be in the Parish of Arksey."

Prior to 1727, burials averaged at about 15 to 20 per year, but in the year 1727 there were 52, in 1728 there were 51, and in 1729 there were as many as 55 before numbers fell back to the average the following year.

By the 1760's things had improved considerably, and by the 1770's births outnumbered deaths by one third.


Acts of Enclosure
The 1700’s saw a change in the way land was farmed. For centuries owner-occupiers and tenants farmed in strips of land in huge common fields. The gradual change from this practice to a more efficient method of enclosing holdings in small, fenced or hedged ‘closes’ was first carried out by the lords of the manor, however, in the first half of the eighteenth century a huge number of acts of enclosure were passed. 

The acts for enclosing land at Bentley and Arksey came in two phases, starting in 1759 and concerned the lands immediately north of the river in an area known as ‘Bentley and Arksey Ings’. The straight roads across the common were laid out at this time and were named.

The open field system which had been in operation since the middle ages around Bentley was still evident on a map of 1735, which shows Amersall, Broad Ax and Scawthorp Fields arranged in narrow, numbered strips. All this would change in the second phase of Enclosure in 1827.

Continues in 'A Brief History of Bentley - Part 2'.

  

Army Days 

The Battle of Arras  

The Victoria Cross

Life After the Army

Thomas Bryan in later life

Memorials

Thomas Bryan's VC is now on show in the Lord Ashcroft Gallery of the Imperial War Museum, London.

Memorial to Thomas Bryan

Notes

Further reading on Thomas Bryan can be found here.

Cheering, shouting and dancing down the street, scores of children follow Nurse Ann Brown. They are a few of the 4,000 she has brought into the world during her 35 years as midwife at the pit village of Bentley, near Doncaster.

But now - with the birth of the 4,000th baby - she is retiring, aged 64. And this was the children's way of saying farewell to her, as Mrs Brown walked home from church yesterday.

Health officials and her colleagues are to say a formal "goodbye" later, and villagers are arranging a V.I.P. retirement party.

Said Mrs Brown: "It has been such a happy and yet sad week for me. I am happy that people should be so kind to me, but sad that I am retiring. It was a wonderful gesture by the children."

She has averaged 1,000 miles a year walking through the village streets. She cannot drive a car, and every time she tried a bicycle she fell off. Mrs Brown has twice delivered triplets and for the past few years has been delivering the children of babies she brought into the world.

Now she plans a very quiet retirement. "I feel I've earned it," she says "Mind you, I shan't object to delivering more babies in an emergency."

The Story of the Massarella Family

The Story of Mister Softee Ice Cream 

Cone Head

Massarella's Ice Cream vans in the 1960's

Since then, Mister Softee ice cream has enjoyed worldwide success, but by the 1980's the popularity of home freezers, coupled with the availability of cheap supermarket ice cream, led to a decline in the mobile ice cream trade. The brand suffered when the smiling 'cone head' symbol was withdrawn, and Allied Lyons eventually sold the brand to Nestle in 1992. By the mid 1990's Mister Softee and Lyons Maid had been dropped from all Nestle vans and they finally sold their ice cream business to Richmond Foods Ltd in 2001.

Mister Softee ice cream is still available in America and celebrated its 50th birthday in 2006. 

More Old Photos

Richard Massarella

A Massarella cart on The Avenue

For information on Massarella's champion show-jumper - Mr Softee, click here.


Adapted and extended from a story on Arksey Village, A History.

This post has been updated.

1. Mary Ann b.1820, d.1820
2. John b.1822
3. Eliza b.1824
4. William b.1826 (the main subject of this article)
5. Adin Samuel b.1830
6. Jesse Windle b.1832, d.1836
7. Samuel b.1836
 

John's Elder Children Move On

Adin and Susanna Marsh

Tom Cockin Marsh Inherits the Mill

Sarah Marsh grave

William Marsh 

The Move to America

"A beautiful embalming of the most fugitive thing in the world."

Photographing the Future President

Working for President Lincoln

The first battle of Bull Run, July 1861

The Move to Altona

The memorial to Lincoln Bennet Marsh

Map of the Schleswig-Holstein region

"The political horizon of Germany has been darkened for a moment by rumours of war with Denmark - touching the difficulties in Schleswig-Holstein. But now I think it will blow over without there being recourse to hostilities. These Duchies are German states - Holstein having a population entirely German; Schleswig, mixed German and Scandinavian. Both states are appendages of the Danish Crown, but Schleswig rebels against Denmark enforcing the Danish language upon the German element, and are opposed to all such Scandinavian influences. This is a strange feature in Danish provincial policy, particularly, as Denmark is one of the most liberal governments in Europe, then as is now."

Songs and Poems by William Marsh

Otto von Bismarck

William I of Prussia

Returning to Bentley

Sir William R C Cooke

Leaving Bentley Again

Hoddom Castle

Final Years in Bentley

Addendum

The Marsh Scrapbook

Poems

Published in the Freemantle Journal, 23 December 1864

In Memoriam

of our infant daughter Lena

Thou art gone to the shades of rest, sweet babe,
Thou art gone to the shades of rest;
This world possess'd no charms for thee;
Thou smil'dst, and then it set thee free
To join the blest.

Thou art gone to realms of peace, sweet babe,
Thou art gone to the realms of peace;
In that land, which is ever bright and fair,
There is no sorrow, pain, no care,
But endless peace.

Thou art gone to a Heaven of Love, sweet babe,
Thou art gone to a Heaven of Love;
Thy little bark will be toss'd no more,
There's no troubled sea, nor broken shore,
In the world above.

Thou art gone to thy long last home, sweet babe,
Thou art gone to thy lomg last home;
And we shall shortly follow thee there,
When our sun has set in this world of care,
We shall come. 

From The Daily National Republican, 22 June 1864

Other Publications

 

Published in the Charlestone Daily News, 21 October 1867

Cutting from 8th January 1867

Diplomatic List 1868

Help for William Marsh

Published in The Sun, New York, 21 March 1912

John Windle Marsh

John Windle Marsh and his sister Hannah Cass, right (the lady pictured left is Elizabeth Reeve, featured in the article, but no connection to the Marsh's). (Some of the article is not pictured here).

From all parts of the world today tenuous threads of memory will weave a web at the centre of which will be the tall, stooped, uncouth figure of the man whose birthday in 1809 the country today celebrates. These threads of memory grow more and more mellowed, more and more rare; each year finds them broken; more than four score years have passed since the stirring decades which preceded and followed the Civil War. Of the few who cherish personal memories of the Great Emancipator, two, at least, are residents of Long Beach.

One of these is Mrs. Elizabeth Reeve of 1490 Linden Avenue, the other John W. Marsh of 5427 Dairy Avenue, and his sister, Mrs. Hannah Cass, of San Francisco, now on a visit with her brother in this city.

While the personal reminiscences of Mrs. Reeve cover mostly the period before Lincoln’s election to the presidency in 1860, those of another Long Beach family cover the period immediately before and after that event. John W. Marsh of 5427 Dairy Avenue and his sister, Mrs. Hannah Cass, now visiting here from San Francisco, were children in a home which was a daily rendezvous of Lincoln in the years during which sentiment was being formed for his nomination, and during the campaign that resulted in his election. Mr. Marsh who was born in 1861, does not remember Lincoln clearly, except as a friend of the family, but recalls his father lifting him, a tiny boy, to look at the dead face, which he remembers clearly.

Mrs. Cass on the other hand who is 77, recalls clearly the tall, gaunt figure of a man who used to call at her mother’s house in Springfield to consult an uncle, William Marsh, a young Englishman who organised the “alien” vote in the district, (Scotch, English and Irish), giving Lincoln a majority over Douglas of 740 votes. Marsh was, in a sense, Lincoln’s campaign manager, and they had daily conferences. It is about these days Mrs. Cass’ memories cluster.

“He gave me the first china doll I ever had,” she relates of Lincoln. “It was a very beautiful doll, and of course all the children envied me. One day we saw a funeral pass the house and decided to have a funeral too. We buried my doll in a flower bed, but that night I cried so hard that early next morning mother went out to dig it up. The neighbour’s children had been there first and the doll was gone.”

Let the News Wait

“My mother was a seamstress and made shirts for Lincoln. I remember the black tie he used to wear never tied right, and how careless he was in his dress, and how it annoyed Mrs. Lincoln. I recall seeing him one time in a high hat, a long-tailed black coat, one trouser leg in his boot and the other one out.

When the telegram came announcing that Lincoln was elected, he was out in the lot behind our house with father and uncle and another man, playing cricket, an English game, but Mr. Lincoln wouldn’t come in to read the message until he’d finished the game. He was very fond of children and always noticed them. More than once he sat and talked to my father and uncle with a kiddie on each knee.”

Mr. Marsh’s father’s name was Aden Marsh. When he came to America from the English estate where his family has lived for more than 500 years the countrymen he met called him “Haden,” so he changed his name to Haden, and then they called him “Aden.” The uncle, William Marsh, after the election of Lincoln to the presidency, went with him to Washington where he became Washington correspondent for Mr. Greeley’s Paper, The New York Tribune. Having the “ear of the president,” of the President’s secretary, John Hay, and the assistant secretary, Nicolai, his news was always inside stuff and his services always valuable to the papers: and, as he lived at the old Willard Hotel, he dined with the prominent figures in the politics of the day. Later, Lincoln appointed Marsh U.S. Consul to Altona, Hamburg, where he had many thrilling experiences, as indeed his life was filled with them, but that is another story. In his later years he devoted his time to forestry in which he was an authority.

Calls Masters “Nut”

The Marsh family is one of long and prolific lives, several living almost a century. Mr. John Marsh has six children living, with 13 grand-children, and two great grand-children. Of his own memories of the great American, Mr. Marsh says:

“I think Edgar Lee Masters not only a “nut,” but a coward as well.

“I am the son of a man who was an intimate friend of Lincoln. My older sister and brother and myself have sat on Lincoln’s lap often. And what I know of Lincoln’s life has been told me so often by my father, mother and older sister that I came to know him as the best, kindest friend a boy could have. I have always remembered him and taught my children to so remember him as the greatest American.

My father’s brother, William Marsh, who was an Englishman, was a politician in Springfield and we organised the alien vote, and formed the English, Irish and Scottish club. And so thoroughly was it organised that the precinct was carried for Lincoln, and Lincoln never forgot him, offering him anything he wanted in his cabinet, and finally induced to take the consulate at Altona, Hamburg.

My aunt was music teacher to two of Mr. Lincoln’s children, and he presented her one of his pictures which she in turn gave to my mother and mother gave to me before her death, and I still have it. I have been told that there are but two of these pictures in existence, but I have the third one that history does not know about.”

“I think we are all foolish to let Masters work us all up so much over Lincoln. Why, not only we Americans think Lincoln the greatest man, but also England thinks the same. I have clippings out of the Gazette, a paper from Bentley, England, praising Lincoln as “the greatest of American presidents’.”

William Dawson Marsh, Letter to his Cousin, John Windle Marsh.

Image does not show the whole letter.

Tweed House
Bentley Road
Doncaster
Yorkshire
England
29/10/19

John Windle Marsh Esq.

Dear Cousin,

I have just come across a letter addressed to my mother, your Aunt Charlotte Marsh. I am the only son of your Uncle William Marsh late U.S. Consul and it gives me great pleasure to write you, as I had lost sight of the Marsh Family in the United States. Of course I have been away from Bentley for some years and this accounts for my not been in touch with the family. However, I am back again as you see. I am a land agent and Engineer. I have been married 22 years and have only one son William Seton Dawson Marsh, aged 20 years. He has been all through the Great War and is still in the army of occupation as a Company Sergeant Major, stationed at Dunkirk, Belgium. I am expecting him home for Xmas.

I see by your letter dated 1916 that you are 54 years of age, I am 54 years of age so there is not much between us. My mother is still alive and lives with us. She will be 90 years old next June. I have often wondered which one of you [rest of sentence illegible].
 
You must all of you made a pile of money. My father died April 5th 1913 aged 86 years.  I consider he made a great mistake when he left the States, as he did not do so well in this country although he held some important positions as a land agent he never made money.  The war and strikes has ruined this old country of England and now it is not worth living in.

I have made up my mind that when my mother dies, I and my wife and son will try a new country and we may come over to the States or Canada, so as to give my son a chance to make his pile.

I shall be pleased to hear what California is like and what are the prospects for a newcomer.

I would like you to write full particulars relating to yourself and family and let me know what you are all doing.

I suppose my Uncle Sam is also dead.  What family did he leave, if you put them into communication with me, I shall be very pleased to write them.

I enclose you my photo and my son’s, as far as I know my son has been the only Marsh in the war and has seen some hard fighting, but I am thankful to say God has spared him and he has been at home on leave three times.

I will send you my Father's Poem's when I hear from you and I have only two copies left, [illegible] poems sold at 50 dollars each [illegible].

My father had one sister Eliza; I take it she is Mrs. Falkingham? and pleased to hear her three sons are doing well, remember us to them.

I am pleased to hear you are building a house for yourself and hope someday I shall be able to see it.  Your son looks to be a fine young man and about the age of my boy. All the photos are very good and I am very pleased to have them. You yourself are a Marsh and have great likeness of my father.

It is very kind of you to offer to send me some stamps. I am sending you my father’s book of poems.  I have only one left for myself now. So you can let the others read it, the poems of Bentley are very interesting.

I have just received a letter from Mrs. Hayden Tom Marsh and was very pleased to hear from her and will answer it in due course.

My mother is still alive, but cannot leave her bedroom.  She will be 90 in June.

My wife and self send you all the best wishes for the New Year.

Your afft Cousin
W. Dawson Marsh

Adin Marsh Family Photos

 

 

Penny for the Guy 

Bonfire night was one of the annual events which was full of fun for the kids of Bentley and Arksey, but full of dread for others.

Kids would form gangs to scavenge the streets, woods, gardens and sheds for any timber whatsoever, including front gates! Anyone missing a gate near bonfire night would probably get it back because they usually knew which kids had it on their bonfire. It was the last kid they had reprimanded or withheld a ball from.

Parents would also take it as an opportunity to offload rubbish. Although in the 50’s people did not generally have as much “stuff” as we have today. Rubbish tended to be garden waste.

Fires were assembled in back gardens and places the council deemed “Out of Bounds” and zealously guarded to prevent competing gangs from sneaking in during the night and making off with the odd log or two. A big branch was worthy of guarding in shifts, such was the competition; with no prize other than bragging rights, some bonfires were sabotaged by being set alight before November 5th.

“Guys” were made by stuffing old clothing with newspapers, topped with an old flat cap and wellies as feet. Sat inside an old pram, he was pushed from door to door, including pubs and clubs, accompanied by the appeal: “Penny for the guy mister”. Of course outside the pubs there would always be one comedian who would pass on a penny and then run off into the distance with the guy, much to the amusement of his mates.

An alternative approach was to stick one of the lads in the pushchair with a balaclava on backwards, hope his disguise was convincing, and proceed to beg. Easy to see through but once more caused a lot of amusement and good natured jokes, and occasionally the odd coin or two.

Money was frantically accumulated to go toward the purchase of bangers. No other firework would do for young lads. The best cost 3d and were called “3-2-1 zero” or “Zeros” to reflect the time fuse. Fat little blighters they were with a good bang particularly in an enclosed space like an upturned tin bucket in your Mum's back yard!

This leads me to the second aspect of the buildup to bonfire night; mischievous activity, hence the dread of others. This was not the sophisticated October 31st Halloween, Trick or Treat, but a week or two of escalating misbehavior, climaxing on the eve of bonfire night with what was called Mischievous Night.

Most of the antics were on the level of knocking on doors or windows and running. Other kids were not so wholesome.

One of the funniest tricks I remember was straight out of the Beano. Using carefully unraveled clothes lines tied end-on-end, the handles of two doors of neighbouring houses or the back doors of opposite houses were tied together. Doors were then knocked simultaneously and loud, the kids retreating far enough away to get a good start. The resulting tug-of-war, raging and resultant laughter was the stuff of legend.

Bentley was such a small community, it soon got around what had happened and it soon got around who had done it. Parental retribution was usually short and swift but worth it.

The bonfires themselves were splendid affairs; many a back garden ablaze with a healthy bonfire supervised by parents, their friends and neighbours. Toffee apples, Parkin, roast potatoes from the embers of the bonfire with lashings of butter, all washed down with hot cocoa or tea. There were bangers, sky-rockets and one or two small fireworks which shot out a silvery rain, sparklers too where always good value for leaving images in your mind.

There were the usual non-spinning Catherine Wheels, fireworks which wouldn’t go off, and kids getting liberally clipped around the ear for pushing the boundaries of common sense and safety.

There were a few burns experienced across the village but never anything requiring an ambulance. After all in a coal-mining community we were used to dealing with fires.

Here We Come a Caroling

Another annual institution was carol-singing. Well rehearsed by school assemblies, we knew most of the words and would be able to get through most of the carols. We took it seriously and tried hard. After all, the better we sang the more money we might get for Christmas goodies.

On one dark cold night, three of us were knocking on the doors of the tall houses leading down to the pit gates. We were not having much luck when we heard the voice of an angel. One of our friends was carol-singing on his own and, unknown to him, was following us down the row. He had a lovely voice.

We re-formed into a quartet and proceeded to make a fortune, all down to this lad. We did the Whisper, Jet and the Comrades working men’s clubs, on a mid-week evening, and made a mint. The hat went around and all the drinkers joined in.

The lad with the voice said that he only had the confidence to do the pit-houses so he was glad to have joined up with us because together we had the confidence to go on stage. We were grateful to him for his lovely voice, without it we would have been “Paid Up”.

A further money-making scheme was known as “New Yearing”.

At the stroke of midnight, on New Year’s Eve, a group of us would set forth with our faces blacked with coal-dust and carrying small bags of coal. Being young, we went around in groups, knocking on doors where the lights were on, especially if we could hear music. We would hammer on the door and yell through the letter-box: “Old Year out New Year in, open the door and let me in”.

The tradition of 'First-footing'

It was based on the superstition that if a tall dark handsome stranger was the first over your threshold on the New Year, then the year would be full of good luck. Hence the blacking of the faces, the tall and handsome took a bit of imagination.

If you were let in, a piece of coal for the fire was a tribute and hopefully you went away with a few bob.

Bear in mind most of the people were partying heavily and sometimes very generous.

There was a big party taking place at a house on Arksey Lane. We were allowed in but the coal was refused since they had a posh electric fire. A collection was made but was withheld until the youngest of the group, which was myself aged about nine, drank down-in-one a drink that was held forward by the man with the money. I found out later it was neat whiskey.

It was a big party and the hat was full of silver. Amidst cries from some of don’t be silly and a look of hesitation on the part of the chap holding the drink, I snatched it out of his hand and threw it straight down. The desire for money being strong!

What a shock, I thought my throat was on fire so I legged it through the door to the back of the house where I expected to find the kitchen. Oh yes I found the kitchen, complete with an Alsation dog (German Shepherd) behind the door. The adults and my mates came in and dealt with the dog whilst I drank copious amounts of water and retched into the sink.

Once everything had calmed down, and apologies made, a bit more was added to the collection. We were then supplemented with party food and bottles of pop and sent on our way.

We counted up under a street light, cheered mightily and called it a night. My street credibility in Bentley, amongst the older lads, went through the roof.

A Grand Day Out

Our Bentley years were punctuated with a number of events, none more wholesome, varied and enjoyable than the Annual Fete on the cricket ground. I can only remember those days being bathed in sunshine.

There were running races, dog shows, football matches on the Colliery Ground across the road. A budgie show, garden show, tea tents, fancy dress competitions and of course the Jet club in the corner serving most of the afternoon to people sat on the pavilion terraces, all having a grand day out.

Hundreds of people and kids would be milling around. It was a day for all to share in the prosperity of the 50’s and 60’s. Though some of us still found it necessary to get in over the fence, so we could use our pocket money on ice-cream.

When the evening came, and all the stalls had closed, we invented an excellent game of clambering onto the top of the canvas tents and sliding down the side and off the edge to see who could go the furthest without getting too many friction burns. The dogs joined in, beat us hands (paws) down and loved it.

It didn’t take long however for some of the committee from the Jet to send us on our way.

The Last Hurrah

Although my connections with Bentley and Arksey have weakened through time and distance, my family are still well-represented in the area, more so in Bentley and Scawthorpe. We are a close family so I usually get to know some snippets of life and get an occasional copy of the Free Press.

In the early 2000’s, my Uncle Mo’, referred to in an earlier section, a retired Blacksmith, apprenticed at The Pit, was commissioned to rebuild the Arksey Church gates. We think that the main gate had something to do with a gentleman called Peter Lee since there is a plaque in his memory on the gate. The maingate arch was commissioned by Mrs Ingesfield as a tribute to a granddaughter who passed away quite young, and the side gate by Mrs (Jenny) Hufton.

Arksey church main gate

Plaque for Peter Lee*

Arksey church side gate

The photographs (above) were taken on one of my infrequent visits to Arksey and then made up into cards for him.

As I write, I feel my words coming to a close. So I will try to give you a smile to say goodbye:

This tale should have been in an earlier edition but it has only just come to light. During the general strike of 1926, the Arksey Club became a very popular venue for the striking miners since Sam Smiths, the Brewery, had allowed miners an indefinite slate. My Grandad however, never believed in getting indebted so he used to mournfully watch as his mates headed down the cinder track from Bentley to Arksey to have a few brews and then come back full of joviality.

The irony was that at the end of the strike, Sam Smiths wrote-off all the slates. My Grandad was still shaking his head 40 years later.

This tale is also out of time but I hope it gives you a smile. It could be one of the many yarns I used to hear as a kid. I like to believe it is true.

One of the many Bridlington (Brid) trips, as described in an earlier edition, found a group of friends re-united with some local mates from way-back. Many glasses of foam passed their lips on the day and many a laugh was had. However, there were one or two casualties who had fallen victim to sleep on the beach front. They were however, carried back to the coaches, late afternoon, to make the return trip to Bentley.

On arriving in Bentley that evening, one of the sleepers was woken up by his mates in the bus. He looked out of window in shocked disbelief and said “Where am I? I’m meant to be in Brid with me missus this week!” You can guess the level of laughter.

Having scratched the surface of my earlier days, I feel this phase of writing coming to an end. I sincerely hope that I have managed to jog your memories and given you reason to smile or even laugh. Perhaps some of the readers might want to share their memories in a similar way so that the younger generations know that we too were young once.

I have chosen the word ‘cornerstones’ to represent some of those aspects of our lives which were familiar, even intimate, and were felt to be permanent. In time many of them would disappear or evolve to satisfy new demands.

The Coliseum, or Colla, as we knew it was one such cornerstone. It also carried more derogatory names such as the “Bug Hut” or “Flea Pit”, no explanation needed. Showing films throughout the week it was well supported by all age groups.

My first visits as a youngster were with my Dad. We went to watch films such as Tarzan and Moby Dick. It was a thrill to sit with him at the back, or to be perched on the back partition as he stood alongside some of his mates smoking and commenting on the film. The smoke drifting though the film-projector beam was sometimes more fascinating than the film itself.

Then there were the Saturday Matinees. I can’t remember what year I was allowed to go alone, however from that point onwards I was addicted. Daft as it sounds, 2/-, or 10p, did the lot. It paid for a visit to Jacguards on the High Street for a modest number of sweets or a gamble on a Lucky Bag.  I also recall supplementing my sweets one day by spending two farthings I had found in my Grandma’s button tin to buy two Black-Jacks.

6d was the entrance fee to the Colla, and 4d for a bag of Nibbits or Plain Crisps at the intermission. Not quite plain since there was the dastardly blue bag of salt embedded somewhere in the crisps. Finding it in the darkness of a cinema whilst engrossed in the film was impossible. If you did find it and use it, you could never guarantee that there wasn’t a second one lurking in there which would find its way into your mouth with the next handful of crisps and ruin the whole taste experience. Yes, the bags of crisps were big enough to last more than a few seconds in those days.

The serialization of Flash Gordon was the main feature. I just loved the spacecraft.

This blissful escapism was destroyed when the “responsibility” of primary school football took precedence on a Saturday morning.

On entry to the waiting room, the protocol was to ask who in the room was the last patient waiting to see the same Doctor as you. You would duly wait for them to be seen before awaiting your turn. The next patient was requested by the relevant Doctor pressing a button on his desk which caused a very strange gadget on the wall of the waiting room to vibrate. There was one for each Doctor. I have since found out that there was a similar device used in wealthier homes to summon servants.

This process was written into legend when a group of families from Bentley flew to Majorca in the late 60’s. When the seat-belt light came on in the aircraft with its customary bong, one of the elders of the party was heard to say “Who’s next for Dr McKirdy”. How I miss the Northern humour.

Ice Cream Van Man

Also in Bentley, along Church Street, toward the Bentley railway crossings was Masarella’s ice-cream depot. It was conveniently situated opposite a dairy. From there, on a daily basis, come rain or shine, ice-cream vans would set off for all corners of Doncaster and district. Sometimes further. There would also be caravans selling ice-cream which were towed by an ice-cream van to a suitable location and left to sell their wares until evening.

My favourite was the ice-cream bike which was a bulky and unruly tricycle with one wheel at the back and a big cold-box at the front with two wheels, one on either side. The ice-cream was kept cold with dry-ice (lumps of solid carbon dioxide). To be able to peddle this beast you needed thighs like a rickshaw driver! 

In the mid sixties, after pea-picking became exclusive to a closed group, I sought summer employment at Masarellas. On my first day I was shipped in the back of an ice-cream van, with others, to York races and wandered around the Silver Ring with a tray of ice-creams and made a fortune. I remember a Geordie bloke, well the worse for drink, asking me “Have you got any ice-cream left”. I politely answered “Yes” to which he said “Serves you right for bringing out so many”, much to the amusement of his mates.

Massarellas ice cream vans

In his defense, he felt guilty at seeing my crestfallen face so he bought a round of ice-creams for his group. Needless to say I overcharged him.

I went home with 30/- for one day’s pay, not bad for a 14 year-old in 1964. Sadly, it was all in copper, weighed a ton, and took me days to offload.

Not every day was as profitable. I was shipped in a caravan to Hexthorpe Flatts one cold, late summer’s day. I sold nothing and, since my flask broke, ended up eating a couple of lollies and wafers to alleviate the hunger and boredom of eight hours with no customers, nor any young ladies to chat to. Andrew Masarella was feeling charitable when he collected me that day so he let me have the basic 10/- wages as I shivered my way home. Most of that went to my Mam to replace the broken flask!

Bentley Park Fun

Back along Church Street, and at the far end of Cooke Street was the centre of Bentley for many of us; the park. The playground housed some excellent swings and roundabouts which would have Health and Safety officials of today quaking in their shoes.

Bentley Park and Pavillion

There was an ornate lily pond, complete with a rocky fountain at its centre, you could see goldfish and all sorts of critters when you laid on your tummy and peered over the edge. It was situated at the edge of the tarmac play area. On hot days kids would splash around in it until the parkie came and “suggested” it was not allowed. The shrubs around the pond then provided cover for cowboy, war or jungle games.

There were sandpits and tennis courts, bowling greens and a paddling pool, bandstand and more tennis courts, trees to climb, soft tarmac and grass to run across; and the magnificent pavilion.

Beyond there was a shelter overlooking the football pitch. The shelter was used by the football teams as a changing room and a meeting area for teenagers. Enough said.

In the 60’s, near the Park Road end, there was a superb little road system set up for children to learn cycling proficiency. Complete with cross-roads, white lines and the lot.

Our leaders were very forward thinking back then. As they also appear to be now with the re-generation of the park. Well done whoever is responsible you have my complete and utter support.

Along the Askern Road side of the park ran the dike. I have seen it recently and it looks to be a trickle of its former self. To us it was the Amazon, and it filled our wellies should we venture too far into its depths. We caught minnows, stickle-backs, the occasional drenching, and colds whilst exploring. Rats and voles were also spotted. Occasionally, fish further up the food chain were spotted but we were never too sure what they were.

The park was not just a play area for children; it was a social, meeting, gathering, courting and well-being area for all generations. Born out of the Victorian imagination it was the place to go for many. Teenagers loved it. It was like a magnet on a warm day. Parents loved it. It made their children happy. Their children loved it. If the swings got boring, there was always the prospect of an ice-cream from the ice-cream van or Shipstones on the corner of Cooke Street and Askern Road.

It’s a Dog’s Life

In my mind I cannot think of Bentley Park without associating it with Playfairs Corner; the most devious collection of junctions you could ever imagine. I suspect that some establishment of the past, which was located on the corner, carried the name of Playfairs.

It was also the site of some confusion when the trolley buses were negotiating that turning; and indeed the turning from Arksey Lane into the Avenue, then into Victoria Road, and then back down Askern Road to the junction at Playfair’s Corner. If the driver was a bit too nimble going around the corner, the overhead connector from the bus to the power cable, would swing loose. Inevitably, the bus would come to a standstill. The driver then had to pull out from the chassis of the bus a long bamboo cane with a hook at the end. Using this he would reconnect the connector with the overhead power cables. All good fun, unless you had to be somewhere on time.

Trolley bus turning into The Avenue

Another hazard in Bentley, unless you were an owner and used to them, were the dogs. Not like today’s pedigrees or special mixed breeds; these were the result of a natural “bonding” in the streets.  Heinz 57 they were called. Many homes had dogs. Without the traffic, most dogs were allowed “out” and were called back by a whistle or a call, or they came back of their own accord when hunger overcame their ability to empty bins unnoticed.

More often than not, the dogs would lie on the pavement outside their house and chase any car or cyclist who had the audacity to invade their space. Occasionally, in the heat of a chase, a dog would broach another dog’s space and so on, down the road. All hell would break loose with dogs barking and fighting and owners leaping into the fray to pull their dog out.

It seemed to be accepted as part of life. As was the time when a neighbour’s dog wandered into my Grandma’s kitchen and made off with the Sunday roast. Kitchen theft by dogs was not an uncommon event.

Traffic and Trains

Dogs chasing cars down the Avenue came to a halt in the late 50’s as did riding trolleys or spinning down the road inside tractor tyres. The Coal Wharf was closed so instead of shipping coal to the Coal Wharf for distribution, along a short railway line, the pit hired big wagons to drive it to the coal wharf for distribution and also to the newly built Thorpe Marsh power station directly. The big trucks rumbled down the Avenue relentlessly.

At an earlier time, the shale from Tollbar Tip was being used as foundations for the Thorpe Marsh power station. Big trucks called Thames Traders were filled up at the back of Tollbar Tip; they then went across Tilts Crossing and through Arksey to Thorpe Marsh; with once again a relentless onslaught of vehicles.

Thorpe Marsh Power Station

The building of the power station did have a direct benefit for the kids of Bentley and Arksey. Its building resulted in the excavation of a big rectangular pond, which still exists, where many of us tried out our first strokes of swimming and cut our feet on the glass or barbed wire in the muddy shallows. It stands to the left, as the road from Arksey rises to cross the Don. Why didn’t we just pay 6d and have a splash in the new or old baths? I like the way that stuff was labeled new or old and the labels are still there umpteen years later.

Any trips beyond Arksey, either by bike or walking, would bring us back to Bentley either across the marsh toward the cinder track or down the lane alongside the Willowgarth. Isn’t the Willowgarth an evocative and haunting name? Either way, both routes took us across the main Doncaster to York line.

For all our recklessness in the face of any other danger, the railway line commanded respect. There was always someone would insist that we should take care crossing the lines either at the crossings near the Willowgarth or the steps connecting to the cinder track. We were only children, chaotic and reckless, but we knew when to be sensible.

One day when we were train spotting at the steps at the end of the cinder track a lad called Ken dropped his back door key on the wooden steps without realizing his loss. One of the other lads sneaked it onto the line and the next train ran over it and flattened it beyond usefulness. He was a few years older than us and saw the funny side and took it well. He was a good lad. However, the return of a flattened key to his parents did not go down so well! That was the only time I recall anyone getting hurt from playing near the lines.

An Impromptu Performance

Where the road from the Willowgarth into Arksey intersects with the lane toward the railway line, I recall a collection of bungalows on the bend. There was a community centre in the middle. I am taking a liberty by jumping a decade and taking you to a time when my summer job was cutting grass for the Bentley with Arksey Urban District Council (BUDC), in 1969. Our grass-cutting A-Team was a group of four students complete with very early rotary mowers and strimmers.

Arksey Community Centre

It was a hot day and we decided that we would step up the tempo of the mowers and cut the grass as quickly as possible, leaving maximum time to sneak off to the Arksey Plough for a few brews.

During early afternoon we were invited to wait in the bungalow community centre until our truck arrived to take workers and mowers back to base. In the centre was a piano. One of my friends was pretty good on the piano and started with a few bars of “Bridge Over troubled Water”. I sang along and once the John Smiths of 10 minutes earlier gave me confidence let loose with a full-blooded rendition. All the lads joined in not realizing that the resident pensioners were coming through the door to enjoy their afternoon’s bingo session.

As we came to the crescendo and finished, all crowded around the pianist and feeling reasonably good about what we had just sung, we were met with cheers and rounds of applause from behind. When we looked behind us there was a collection of lovely, elderly people applauding us for our song. They insisted we did it again. It was a moment of gold. By the way the last I heard of the pianist was that he ended up playing keyboards for bands in California.

Golden Summers at the Greenhill

Another golden place in memories is the Greenhill (Roundabout Moat), the small pond toward the end of the lane from the Willowgarth to the railway crossing. There was an island with a surrounding moat and path accessed either from the Arksey side of the cinder track or the lane down by the Willowgarth. Crystal clear water, full of minnows, sticklebacks, newts and every form of wildlife you could think of. On a summer’s day it was really a very special place. The air thick with pollen, dragonflies and other insects and the strong scent of wild flowers released when you walked through the long grass.

Round About Moat (Greenhill)

We took it for granted back then as part of the furniture of our lives; same as the Willowgarth; permanent, unchanging. I will go back there to see and taste the world to see if I or it has changed. I will also visit the old folks’ home at the end of the road now that I qualify by age for entry.

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

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.

Train-Spotting

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.

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!

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 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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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 sighted 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 sherbert 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 dogless, popless, 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!!

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.

Wooden horse ride

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Marsh Gate level crossing 1908

The first tram to cross North Bridge in 1910

Tram and trolleybus routes

'There is hardly a week that passes but what a gang of men are to be seen repairing the tram track and yet, in spite of all their labours, the Bentley route remains the worst of any on the whole system.'

From Trams to Trolleybuses

An early trolleybus alongside a tram near the Grand St Leger, Bennetthorpe

'The reconstruction of the road [along which the tram tracks ran] will necessitate an approximate expenditure of £21,000, towards which the Corporation has agreed to contribute £8,691, and the County Council the remainder. The roadway will be reconstructed in accordance with modern methods... Alterations to the overhead and electrical equipment of the line will cost £5,000... An extension of the existing route from the Bentley Village terminus, along the Avenue and Victoria Road, and thence a southerly direction along the Doncaster and Selby main road is contemplated.'

Bentley trolleybus turning near the Brown Cow public house on North Bridge

Playfairs corner turning junction

Rolling Stock

A Garratt trolleybus on High Street in 1928. A filled in tram tack can just be seen in the centre.

An original trolleybus from 1929***

The Karrier E6 at North Bridge

A BUT trolleybus travels along Askern Road

Maintenance Vehicles

A tower wagon in operation on Bennetthorpe, Doncaster

The Demise of the Trolleybus

Half cab bus in 1972

A Little Piece of buried History

Evidence of tram tacks on North Bridge Road*

Public Transport Photos

Tram making its way up Arksey Lane towards the junction with The Avenue

Bentley Road 1916

Bentley tram 1920's

 

Tram terminus at Chapel Street 1920

Tram near Yarborough Terrace end of Bentley Road

Trolley bus passing the Toby Jug public house (being built) on North Bridge Road

Trolleybus turning into The Avenue from Arksey Lane

Trolleybus passing over the flood arches on Bentley Road

A Karrier E6 at the North Bridge station, with an Arksey bus by its side*

A Karrier E6 trolleybus bound for Playfairs*

1954 Sunbeam W**

Bentley bus 1974

Single deck bus 1974