Waltham Abbey, Essex

My Town

I call it my town because it is, it is everybody’s town that lives here.
My wife Patsy and I moved here very recently, in October 1999, this was after visiting the town in previous months, we found the people warm and welcoming, where please and thank you are the norm, this was unheard of back in north London, where we lived in a 2 bed semi off Hornsey Rd N19. Waltham Abbey is like old England, separated from the rest of England by a thin strip of green belt on all sides.
I can remember coming home every day after working in London, coming over the brow of the hill on Stewardstone Rd seeing the town spread out in front of me, the Abbey standing proud in the forefront, sadly now that view is lost due to the warehouses on the Meridian estate.
We quickly assimilated ourselves into the community and the town way of life, meeting great people, and great personalities and we both love it, as do our two daughters who both moved out to be with us.
After only 4 years I was offered the opportunity of standing for election for the town Council, and won, this was my opportunity to give something back, and I hope I have, I only want to help my town and its people to improve their lives and the services they rely on. More recently I have been elected as a District Councillor and sit on Epping Forest District Council, representing my town.
But looking back, our best memories are when driving from our home in London to visit the town on Saturdays in the summer of 1998, and after looking round the Abbey, we would walk up the path with its stalls of paintings and drawings flanked on both sides, then through the opening that separates the Welsh Harp pub from Philpot’s tea room, out onto the square, with its market in full flow, happy smiling faces, shouts from the stall holders to come and buy their wares, then turning back to look round the square, the old beams and plastered walls of the pub, the streams of flowers cascading down from hanging baskets, the sun glinting on the polished sign above the door, the welcome you would get from the bar staff, knowing you were just a visitor, that is what I remember, the real feeling of being welcomed.
Well that welcome worked and we moved here, the people we met when visiting are now our good friends, the Abbey gardens with its flowers and lawns are now our gardens, the historic Abbey is now our Abbey. I still work in London, and can't wait to get home, that is how much the town has had an impact on my life.
The Welsh Harp pub where we would have a drink and lunch became our local, all those strange smiling faces are now friends. that is what I remember.
Now I am the landlord of that pub, that is how much I love this town, I stand behind that counter and welcome people as I was welcomed 10 years ago, they thank us for the drink or the lunch we have served them, but I thank them, it was our pleasure to welcome them, and hope they come back to visit our town again.
Why don't you come and visit us, lean on our bar, see our Abbey and walk in our gardens, have a tea in the tea rooms, or a meal in one of the many small cafés, have a drink in my pub, or a meal, but do come, and see what made me move here, and I will say to you, welcome to My Town.

     

The Waltham Abbey Choir and other memories

My family lived in Waltham Abbey from 1955 to 1961 and living there left a lasting impression on me.
I attended Waltham Holy Cross County Primary School during this time and at the ripe old age of 8 auditioned there to become a chorister. The teacher was one Mr. Goodger whom I remember as a kindly old man. (I guess all adults seemed old in those days).
Anyway I passed the audition and went to the Abbey and met Canon AVG Cleall, who taught me to understand Roman numerals and the choirmaster whose name escapes me, but was known by all the boys (it was an all male choir then) as Moppie on account of his long(ish) silver hair.
Well Moppie took me through a whole bunch of scales which I could sing with ease and which made me later think that choir practice was a waste of time. I had no idea other members wanted and needed the practices.
I should explain that I was by no means a Christian in those days and church was the ultimate in boredom. No, my reason for being in the choir was purely mercenary. They paid me! 5 bob a month, with threepence deducted for each practice missed and sixpence for each service. Springtime was great as we were paid half a crown for weddings. I can remember going to 6 in one day once. I was rich!!
Probably the most notable memory I have of the choir was at the 9th centenary celebrations held in 1960, with everything decked out and spruced up and the Abbey was packed. (This wasn't such a common occurrence). We processed outside, which I thought was great as it was crowded outside too. I'm not absolutely sure if it was this particular occasion, but I think I was chosen to sing a verse of one of the hymns solo. I remember feeling very proud. After all the celebrations all the choir members were presented with silver engraved medallions to mark the occasion.
Our head (boy) chorister was a guy named Peter Lilley, who wasn't averse to keeping all the boys in line - not only with words, but (often painful) action. I was terrified and jealous of him. Terrified because when I got out of line (which was quite often) I got thumped and jealous because he had this large silver choristers medallion on a purple ribbon which I coveted! It was so much better than everyone else's ovally shaped brass "Royal School of Church Music" medallions. The colour of the medallion ribbons, incidentally, were a mark of seniority. White, yellow, blue. I only got to blue!
Christmas and Easter also feature in my memory as times of much pomp and ceremony. I loved singing the high note descants to many of the Christmas carols. Whenever I hear carols now, though I can't sing a note anymore, I do in my mind. Very nostalgic that!
Most of us young boys (of which I was the youngest) used to get up to all sorts of mischief almost all of the time. We were anything but the little angels we looked as we processed down the nave in our red cassocks with ruffled, totally starched, collars, spotless surplices and coloured medal ribbons to the choir stalls at the front of the Abbey.
One particular piece of potentially fatal naughtiness occurred in those very stalls. They were installed during my time as a chorister, complete with overhead book lights. These were, from memory, strip lights. You could take the insulating end piece out of the tubes - which we did - being careful not touch the metal on which our psalters etc. were placed. Looking along the row of boys we would catch an unwary one, singing with concentration, with his hand on the metal. Then (at times) 3 or 4 of us would touch hands and the guy next to the unwary one would touch him and we'd all get an almighty boot of electricity. Needless to say, this didn't do anything to improve our choral harmony! Moppie got pretty angry.
I have many other memories of the old Abbey and believe, despite my (then) somewhat heathen outlook, my time as a choirboy there was instrumental in my eventual conversion to Christianity.
Suffice to say I am one of those people who was so clearly confronted by Christ that it was impossible for Him not to get my attention! What happened next was tears such as I've never cried before or since, followed by the reality of being forgiven and restored. That happened on a Thursday in the (Australian) autumn in 1976. The following Sunday I went to church for the first time (barring the odd wedding etc) since Waltham Abbey. It was a Lutheran (what on earth is that I asked myself?) church in Adelaide, South Australia.
Anyway I was bothered that I wouldn't know what to do. Sit, stand, kneel - when, where? It was a Vespers service and though I hadn't even thought of worship before, there was the familiar litergy, creed, (OK I did say the quick and the dead, rather than the living....) the Lord's Prayer. I knew all the responses. Quite like the High C of E place I went to as a kid. Yes, this was church. A baptist, Assemblies of God, whatever, church wouldn't have meant nearly as much to me as hearing that old service order in that almost empty church. God knew, yer reckon!
I live in Australia now and have been a Christian longer than not. Now, I wouldn't (and couldn't) have it any other way.
My rememberence of the Abbey itself, as well as the town will always be close to me. Someday I hope to visit again. Soon perhaps.
God bless you all,
Bill.
11th September 2008.

Waltham Abbey the place I call home

I was born in Waltham Abbey and lived there until I was twenty eight. It is the place I call home, where my roots are. Many times I remember going into the Abbey Church; there is such a feeling of serenity and the presence of God there. As a young person I went there for quietness, to meet with God and on so many times I left feeling refreshed and restored. nowdays when I go back and open the big oak door I am drawn in by the awesomeness and wonder of such a wonderful building. I love the stain glass windows both in the main church and the Lady Chapel, the wax painting (discovered in 1960) showing the judgement day, the engraved pillars, the marks of the old chained Bible, the Rose Window deplicting the days of creation, the reredos showing the story of the birth of Jesus and flight into Egypt, the sound of the large pipe organ, the roof showing the signs of the Zodiac and the crypt where the church shop is situated. Many, many wonderful and happy memories bought back by looking at one photograph.

Essex Pocket Album

A wonderful view of Waltham Abbey in the inter-war years. This view looks up Highbridge Street from the river bridge to the Abbey church and its impressive 16th-century west tower. The M25 now skirts the south of this former market town, and link roads have destroyed some of the town’s ancient character and streets.

Essex Pocket Album

The Town Hall stands on the left of this photograph, which was taken from outside the church and looking down Highbridge Street. Of interest are the vans on the right advertising a ‘Scenic Railway’; perhaps they were part of a summer fair?

Essex Pocket Album

An unusual view of the Abbey Gateway—in the centre—and the bridge over the Cornmill Stream, a tributary of the River Lea, with people relaxing around the broken walls. A modern link road now runs through the background to this picture.The abbey is associated with King Harold—he who was killed at Hastings—who paid for its rebuilding in 1057.An Augustinian monastery was founded here in 1177.