Every picture tells a story

   Hambledon Hill played a great part in the first 15 years of my life as it did for most children of the village. My very first memory is the huge bonfire built on top of the hill to mark the end of WW2, both my Father (Guy Moon) and George Diffy from the Post Office found some fireworks, this was the first time I had seen fireworks. While at the village school we used to be taken on nature walks on the hill and used to go into the Yew wood at the Hanford end of the hill. We were also taken to see the pre-historic pits left on the hill from the huts that must have been there, we found many flint tools which we used to carry back to school. Much of the holidays were spent on the hill also, we used to take tin trays up to slide down into the dips, or in winter proper sledges. I also used to go rabbiting on the hill with Mr Walt Wareham who seemed to make a living from it. It is only in recent times that any crops were grown up there, in my youth it was all grass or scrub.  

From a memory by David Moon. Click here to read the full memory.

   As local village children we used to walk from Fairy Cross meeting other children from the council houses along the way and wind our way through the narrow lane, sometimes picking wild strawberries in summer - moving out of the way of cars that needed to pass us - usually on their way to church also - until we arrived at St. Andrews, Alwington. We always sat up in the choir stalls with Mrs. Elston (who had been my first teacher at Abbotsham school - Alwington school, where my mother had attended, had closed some years previously because of low numbers and all from our village then went by bus to Abbotsham). I can remember at special services - Christmas etc. - that some of us children would read from the Bible to the congregation and when I did this I was always very nervous and once I lost my place and it seemed like ages before I found it again! Old Colonel and Mrs Pine-Coffin were always in the Portledge pew and often when the sermon went on a bit long I think the old Colonel used to doze off - he certainly had his eyes closed regularly!  

From a memory by Derek England. Click here to read the full memory.

   I was born in Market Street in 1939. Later, because of the war, my mum left me in Millom for my Grandad and Grandma Kirby to look after me. Mum went back to be with my dad in heavely bombed Manchester. I spent the war years here and they were very happy years. After the war I went back to Manchester, but came back to Millom for all my school holidays. Wellington Street was a nice shopping street and I used to go to the co-op with my grandad and grandma and watch money catapulted from the counter across the shop to the office and then the return journey of our change and divi book. We used to go to the co-op bakery just as the newly baked bread had come out of the ovens each day (just like mother used to bake). We would take the bread home and my grandma would cut me a thick crust and spread butter on it. That taste cannot be repeated these days. I used to sit in the yard and enjoy it. The shopping trip used to take ages because everyone wanted to stop and talk to you. The atmosphere was so friendly and all the shopkeepers knew you and what you wanted. We would buy meat and bread from the Co-op and vegetables and fish from Dockers. Yes - I wish we had "Wellington Streets" now...  

From a memory by Ian Jordison. Click here to read the full memory.

   Just after the war during our summer holidays I was sent from Rochester (where we lived at that time, Dad having been demobbed and then working at Short Bros on the airport), together with my trusty Hercules cycle to spend the full summer school holidays with my Dad's Aunt and Uncle and their little fox terrier here in St Blazey. At that time they lived in Sea View Terrace and seeing Kittows shop brought back memories of my daily morning walk down the steep hill to them armed with an enamel jug to collect the day's milk, and woe betide me if any was spilt on my way back up the hill (only joking, they were two of the kindest people I have ever met). Auntie Beat was almost as round as she was tall and what a marvellous cook she was, cake was on the table at every meal and Cod liver oil and malt was dished out after breakfast, a lovely gooey mess. Our family, all being of Cornish origin, used to pride themselves on their pasties, but I can honestly say that none could hold a candle to hers. Maybe it was Kittows skirt that did it, now we'll never know. Life then seemed ideal. Just nearby was Kittows field where twice a day the cows were brought to and from for milking in their milking parlour behind the shop. We didn't need a clock as we could tell the time from their comings and goings. Part of the field was fenced off, containing, I was told, an old mine shaft and this was our rubbish patch. No dustbin men for us. Just stand near the fence and throw as far as you could. Keeping a wary eye open for any cow that had its calf there and ready to run for the field gate if she decided we'd come too close. The fields were our playground and the hedgerows were full of blackberries so we would always be sure of blackberry and apple pie, the apples scrumped from Ada Legg's garden when we were sure she was out.  

From a memory by Melville Grigg. Click here to read the full memory.