Shelf, Wade House Road c1960

Buttlers' belly bashers, 1963

Yes, that's the name we gave them later on in our youth. No one did fish and chips like Mr Buttler and his wife, only costing a few pence to my knowledge. We used to put loads of salt and vinigar on. Then this loud voice would say 'That's enough lads, off you go' . Buttlers even became a hang-out place for our gang once over. When I look back I think it was his fish and chips why we hung out there. My wife even became a lover of his fish and chips in our courting days. Yes, it was a sad day when he retired, end of another era (long live my thoughts of Buttlers' belly bashers). For those who don't know where Buttlers was, it was down by Shelf roundabout, they have built flats there now.

Moving house

At the time we lived near Coley church, mum, dad, sister June, brother Paul and me, Steven. I remember moving up to Burnley Hill Terrace near the Duke of York on a  horse and cart. I didn't realise then but it was our first house with a bathroom, it must of been heaven for mum and dad not having to get that bath tub out anymore. It was a loving warm house where 3 more brothers came later on. I have fond memories of dad, God rest his soul, washing all Saturday morning with that famous twin tub. The hours we spent down on Houseman's Farm at hay making. Great times at Shelf youth club and round the dam fishing. My dad worked at Sam Smith's mill, and mum worked evenings there. My dad many times came home with cuts on his head and I often wondered why until later when I worked at Crossley Carpets and I had to clean the machines that I  now know how he got them. And when the rag and bone man came around the streets we used to run out with the bits of rags and get a few pence, then me and our  kid would run down to corner shop to penny tray. Oh, I can taste the black jacks and fruit salads now. Yes, I've great fond memories of Shelf.  

My Fading Memories

I was but a lad of 8 when my folks bundled us all off to a wide land downunder. Since 1968, Australia has been my home.

I often speak of my fading memories of Queensbury, my walks through the village, living on 'The Mountain', which I see has now been torn down. Life for me was all about the mountain, living there in a small two-storey house, two bedrooms upstairs, a sitting room and kitchen downstairs - no bathroom or toilet, they were down at the end of the street. The moors across the road, often populated by 'Alan the farmer's' milkers. Nanna and Grandad lived just a few doors along, easy walking distance for a small boy. Nanna's house was much better than ours, with a bathroom and toilet having been added upstairs by my carpenter uncle.   

School was at Foxhill to start with, with Mr Smith, a fine elderly gentleman, as the headmaster. Mr Smith often mentioned to me that he had taught my parents at that very school, many years beforehand. Then, with infants no longer accepted at Foxhill, I moved to the the Church School in the village.  After this, we moved to Ambler Thorn, at Moor Close Avenue, which I see from Google is still standing and looking so very much the same. But I notice also that the wide open space across the road has now been swamped with housing. I take a virtual walk, on the Google maps, remembering my daily trek come rain, sleet snow or shine, from home, to the end of the avenue, through a snicket, bringing me out next to the shop on Ford Hill. Then there's the climb up the hill, to the West End, to drop my brothers off at the Church School, then I continue up New Park Road to school at Fox Hill. On the way home I get to visit Nanna's new council bungalow, on Ashbourne Crescent. I remember how much smaller it is, the ceiling lower, so much so that Uncle Joe, the carpenter, has to shorten the legs of her wall unit.

I remember getting my first box brownie, and snapping pictures like mad, of everyone who would let me. I remember hating having a photo taken of myself. I spend only another months there before we move to Australia.   

Now, I remember the tears, as we waved goodbye to my Grandad and my Uncle Joe, as the trains leave. I remember wondering whether I would ever see them again. I remember the excitement as we boarded our plane in London, and the boredom that followed during the long two day flight. I remember drinking Coca-cola on the plane, and sleeping very little, as we neared our destination. I remember the smell of Bombay, of Singapore, and the incredible heat of Darwin, then Melbourne.

I often reminisce, thinking about the bus trips to Bradford, or Halifax, not remembering much of those two towns. The bus companies, Hebble in red and the Corporation's Bus in blue, are few of my treasured memories.

I remember walking along the main street, across the road from the Co-op and the jeweller on the corner, and seeing my very first colour TV. I stood there, mesmerised at the colour and movement, not seen before. I remember the walk past the old mills, Mrs Page's shop, and the stone wall along New Park Road, all leaning over, looking as if it would topple upon us at any time.

I remember the Lollypop man, at Foxhill every day, come rain or shine, and I would ask him to swap lollypops with me, as I crossed the road in front of him.

But alas, my memories are fading fast. Only so much of an 8-year-old's memories can be retained after 41 years in a totally remote location. Perhaps, if there is someone kind enough out there, who can help to return these lost memories, in photos old or new, then I ask you share them.

And last, I remember no-one. The faces are faded, the lives have ended. Time has been so cruel to my memories. How I long for a visit, to refresh these memories.