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Letters to
the Editor - May 2011
The article on hop-picking in Herefordshire (April) reminded me of our experiences when we retired in 1985 to our cottage in the village of Old Wives Lees, about seven miles (11 km) west of Canterbury.
Hop-pickers, or ‘hoppies’ as they were known locally, who had been coming down with their families over the years, were still given hop-picking jobs by the farmers, but I have not seen any in recent years.
Some of the huts were still standing, with concrete slabs for floors and sheets of corrugated iron on a wooden framework for walls and roof. Outside was a stand-pipe with a cold water tap, but I am not aware of any other facilities.
The pub and the two village shops no doubt welcomed the extra trade the hoppies brought, but my next-door neighbour, who was born in our cottage, told me that when she was a child she would hide under the bed in fear when the bottle fights started in the road outside after the pub closed early on a Sunday.
Perhaps the hoppies enjoyed their annual visit, but there are tales of unpleasant sickness due to the primitive conditions.
Every year we followed local custom and decorated our kitchen with hop bines, and, for a few weeks, enjoyed the delicious fragrance of the hops all over the house. Then we would be given the hops in the fresh condition in which they were cut down. Now, shops in local towns sell tatty branches for £9 a metre.
Douglas Lancaster, Old Wives Lees, Canterbury
Memories came back to me on reading the article about Camm Farm in the Yorkshire Dales (March).
In 1946, my sister, a student friend and I went youth hostelling in the Dales at Easter. About the third day we planned to walk from Kettlewell to Dentdale YH.
As we toiled up Wharfedale the mist and rain increased, and we followed a track to a remote farm, from where we could not see which way to go. I knocked on the house door to ask for help and was invited into a dismal living-room by a tired-looking woman.
The hearth mat was an old feed-sack (hessian in those pre-plastic days) and the weak fire was hidden behind a rack of wet clothes, I think known as a ‘winterhedge’ in Yorkshire.
She said, “Just follow the wall all the way over the fell.”
Before setting out, we sheltered in the adjacent stone barn for our late midday snack. A lad was looking after two very newborn lambs, and stared at us speechless as if we were from another planet.
We duly followed the wall up the hill until it disappeared under a snowdrift. Half-guessing in the mist we stumbled over the snow until a wall emerged, which at long last led us down to a deserted road. However, we could not decide whether to go right or left to find the turn to Dentdale, and our map was no help.
While wondering what to do, a police car appeared, coming southwards at speed. Our thumbs went up and arms waved, but it sped past.
Disappointed, we hoped for another vehicle, then my sister cried, “Look, it’s backing up!”
The cheerful policeman asked if we were lost. “Dent Youth Hostel?
I’ll take you there.” He turned the car round, and three wet and weary girls, who never wanted to see Cam Fell again, piled in.
On the long downward twisty road to Dent he gave us a driving lesson, repeating as we went, “Braa...ke on the straa...ight, acceleraa...te round the bend”. In all my years of driving that dictum still comes to mind. We arrived in early evening just as the hostel was opening.
There, on page 54, is the farm and the stone barn, and on page 56 you can see the wall that we followed.
By one of life’s odd coincidences, my sister married Hugh Dent, a South African, who traced his ancestors to Dentdale.
I wish great success to the new project, and take heart to see that the sun can shine on Cam Fell.
R Parker, by email
Having lived around and worked in Farnham for well over sixty years, I must agree with Jack Watkins that this area of Surrey is a beautiful part of our country.
What a pity it is that Castle Street, the finest-preserved street of Georgian architecture in England, is about to be disfigured, by Surrey County Council, with dozens of parking meters.
Arthur Brown, Hindhead
A very dignified lady came upon some little boys bathing in the village pond in their birthday suits. She was horrified. “Little boys,” she asked reprovingly, “isn’t it against the law to bathe here without bathing suits on?”
“Yes,” replied a freckled urchin, “but Johnny’s father is a policeman so you can come on in.”
Fred Trasker, Hythe, Kent
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