Woods Ware China at the Serving Hatch

Maud When the squire of Bradbridge Manor finally took the decision to sell up and move to Eastbourne, it came as a great relief to his wife. Several of their genteel neighbours had already taken themselves off to milder climates, putting their heirloom furniture up for auction and selling their homes off to the Youth Hostelling Association, or to private schools. The Dukes of Devonshire and Rutland kept their Derbyshire residences going, but it had been a strain – Chatsworth, Hardwick and Haddon were all millstones around their necks.   The Hooper-Dakindales of Bradbridge however were ready to throw in the towel. Maud Hooper-Dakindale, the squire’s wife, had a great friend in Gertie Lampton, late of Wye Grange. Gertie had taken off to the New Forest six months previously. Her husband had developed gout and their son and heir had been last seen in a Belgian trench in 1916. Wye Grange, previously a burden with no new generation to pass it on to, was shortly to become an agr...

In 1938, the villagers of Ewelme in the charming Chiltern Hills seemed to be having a disagreement about whether they needed a village hall or not. One resident wrote to the local newspaper, setting out the reasons why a village hall was needed. As well as a requirement for young people to be able to have recreation under supervision of their elders, the anonymous scribe railed at certain matron types in the village who displayed an “astounding attitude”. “Are not these women the very ones who either loudly deplore the fact that they cannot keep maids because there is nowhere for the said maids to go in an evening? And also the ones who condemn their granddaughters for wasting bus fares to go to the cinema in Wallingford?” Fair point, I would say. But the following point was even fairer: “Who stood between ourselves and death 20 years ago? The lads of this brave little village…who would we call on again in like danger? Those same lads to whom a shelter for a concert or danc...

No village hall and really call itself a village hall until it has hosted a whist drive. Stalwart of local fundraising initiatives, whist drives have paid for all kinds of items, from spitfires to social outings for pensioners. Before television took over our lives, whist drives were also a reliable form of entertainment where the whole village could come together. It was a chance to win something and have a look at your neighbour’s new hat, maybe even settle old scores. So it came of a surprise to read of one churchman’s severe disapproval of this once ubiquitous activity. In 1936, the Reverend F Donkin Roberts, a former soldier, was vicar of a village near Barnsley. It was in the parish magazine that he vented his concerns: “I think it an insult to God’s house that its maintenance should depend upon profits from whist drives…I do not approve of any other means than free giving for maintaining the church and its services. I do not favour whist drives at all…I look on them as...

In 1948, the Kent Courier reported on a village fete wardrobe incident.  A young girl was staying at a local guest house, and was eagerly anticipating pony rides at the highlight of the village hall summer programme of events. She went to the cupboard and found that the jodhpurs that she sought to wear had mysteriously disappeared. Changing into a different, less horsey type of garment, she went along to the fete anyway.   While wandering around what should she see but her own jodhpurs covering the legs of the guest house maid. The maid eventually admitted to being a kleptomaniac and was bound over for two years. My new download and book is all about crime in British cinemas from the 1920s - the 1950s.  Click here to go to Amazon.co.uk

The village hall stool with the steps attached Brings nearer those bits that are out of reach, Provides a spot for the worker to rest And ponder the floor’s need of a good bleach The blue vinyl top has battered edges But the chrome legs and hinges still give shine, It’s the sturdiest tool in the kitchen Its inventor among the divine. https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B08D4SJWRZ/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=

It is probably quite a well-known fact that during World War Two, Womens’ Institutes came into their own in terms of food provision for their villages and towns. Jams and chutneys were produced in record amounts by women in the spare moments between other essential war work. Apparently, approximately 4,700 tonnes of jam was made throughout the conflict. Village halls were often the headquarters of the production lines. You can imagine the sort of person who would be in charge, can’t you…the school mistress, the doctor’s wife or the parish clerk’s wife? Or how about the local bobby? Rosedale Abbey, a tiny village near Pickering on the North Yorkshire Moors, was flying against stereotypes in 1945. There, the village policeman was in charge of jam production and was, according to the Food Ministry Liaison Officer, “Adept in the processes.” I imagine that the jam making centre was housed in this lovely little building here: I delight in the Yorkshire Post’s handling o...

In January 1930, Mountfield Women’s Institute (Sussex) held an interesting meeting at the local village hall. Mrs Egerton presided over a debate entitled “Married Life v Single” I was very disappointed to read that married life took an easy victory, with the single status receiving a paltry two votes. A sign of how difficult it must have been to be single in those days, where one was typecast as sad, lonely and having missed the boat. Strange that this was such a predominant view so soon after the end of the Great War - a time when many had lost husbands, fiancés and boyfriends and when women outnumbered men. The unmarried must have felt disillusioned with life. The freedom of a single status that we take for granted today just did not exist then, we really have come a long way. I would definitely vote single and I know many other women who would too. On a lighter note, Mrs Pike won the competition for the 6 best plain buns. “The meeting terminated with the singing of...