Hesleden In The 1950s 1960s

A Memory of Hesleden.

I've visited the old place several times and where I was born and lived has gone!
I was born at no.1 West Terrace in 1950, then moved across the road to Gladstone house on Station Road. My dad, Reg Wright, had a printing shop in the 1950s and later my mam, Doris, had a general goods shop in the early 1960s. Dad was also organist at the church and was involved in a lot of village activities. I was only tiny in the early 1950s when the powers to be decided that everybody should move to the 'new' town of Peterlee. Dad composed a little ditty which went something like 'We don't want to go to Peterlee, town of misery, not for you or me.....'etc. We lived in Peterlee for a few months then moved back to Hesleden.
Funny how things stick, isn't it?
My first day at Hesleden infants was most memorable for the thwack on the back of the hand from Miss Hewitson's ruler for not paying attention and believe me, I've paid attention ever since! Mr Bruce was my teacher in the juniors and he was brilliant. Strict but fair. I still don't know to this day why he had a limp, but the general opinion was a war wound. We had exams every year and either Pam Kerr or me came first. When it came to the 11 plus I think 3 of us passed, the other one was Trevor Dixon. When I left, I think the headmaster then was Mr Boyd.
Pam and myself were sent to Henry Smith Grammar on the Headland at Hartlepool and Trevor was sent to Wellfield Grammar at Wingate. I think Pam moved to Blackhall, but I was fated to catch a bus from Hesleden to Blackhall, then Blackhall to West Hartlepool, then another bus to Old Hartlepool just to get to school.
Childhood then, compared to now, I think was idyllic. The dene, once you got over the railway lines (before Beeching massacred the railways) was a different world. Given jam sandwiches and a bottle of water, we used to roam for miles. We picked bluebells, primroses, cowslips and all sorts. We collected rosehips every year and got money for them at one of the local shops, before they went off to be made into rosehip syrup. Our mothers showed lots of appreciation for the half dead bouquets we brought them. Blackberry season meant eating 3 bowlfuls before taking half a bowl back to be made into blackberry pie or suet pudding served with milk.
Bob Kelly was a small nut-brown man with a hat. His wife was Pauline and they had loads of kids. Bob always had chickens, goats, sheep, horses and a host of skills and set my mam up with the chickens and Elizabeth the goat she had years later at Blackhall Rocks.
There was a butchers about halfway down Station Road in the 1950s and he used to slaughter his own animals. All the village kids knew when this was going to happen, as he'd shut the big wooden gates across the yard from the back of the shop and we'd all compete to peer through the best knotholes, trying not to retch as we watched guts dropping and blood running down the channels in the concrete.
Old customs, like throwing a handful of coins to the crowd of kids watching the wedding party turn out of the church, could be lucrative if you were prepared for the bruises. The morning after Bonfire Night could be a nice little earner if you got up early and poked through the ashes with a stick. Pennies and ha'pennies that were lost down the backs of burnt settees, armchairs and pianos could still be spent.
Auntie Charlotte (no relation) had a fish & chip shop in the village. If she was short handed and we were waiting for chips, you'd be picked from the queue and sent into the 'back' to chip peeled potatoes on a contraption that would have Health and Safety reeling nowadays. I seem to remember seeing huge blocks of dripping for the frying when it was my turn to 'chip'.
Backpedalling, I'm remembering what my mam told me about my birth. Apparently I decided to enter this world premature and Dad was sent to the phone box at the junction of Front Street and Station Road to phone the doc, who said my imminent arrival was impossible, as it was too early. Mrs Routledge, the local person who dealt with 'emergencies' (the village 'wise person'), ended up delivering me. Every year on my birthday I got a bar of Cadbury's chocolate from Mrs Routledge. Result! No wonder I'm fat!
Mam and Dad (Mam mainly) kept loads of records and photos of the residents of the time. We moved from Hesleden to Filpoke Lane, Crimdon, when I was 14, but I kept cycling up Filpoke Lane to Hesleden for church services and choir practice until I became a proper 1960s nightmare teenager.
Thank you for reading.