Family visits

My Grandmother (and oatcakes)

Some Saturdays I was taken to see my grandmother who lived at Northwood in a small shop where all the family had been born, (three girls, and three boys,) six in all, of which I am the youngest. I enjoyed these visits as sometimes I was allowed to stay over until Sunday afternoon and, on the Saturday night after the shop had closed, grandmother started to prepare the oatcake mixture she would need for Sunday morning when she baked them fresh to sell that day.

First she would fetch a very large container made of terracotta, a deep red in colour with a glazed interior standing about two feet six high and approximately eighteen inches across the top. My job was to chop a large block of salt into small pieces which would be added then to the mixture. Water, yeast and some other ingredients were all mixed in to complete the process. The top of the container was then covered with a pristine white cloth and left to stand overnight.

 

Early on the Sunday morning I was awakened by the most delicious smell of baking oatcakes wafting up the stairs. Grandmother had been, busy since the crack of dawn giving the mixture her final attention and now, once the stove had reached the required temperature, proceeded to pour the required amount of mixture onto the heated stove in small round pools. She used the tip of the spatula to flip the half cooked oatcake over to complete the baking. Then with great dexterity, she lifted the oatcake off the stove and, all in one movement and with the accuracy of a programmed missile, skimmed it through a connecting doorway to land on a table in the other room that was covered with a snow white table cloth.

There was always two or three specially made small ones for me. Then came the culmination of all the time and expertise: an ample spreading of butter while still hot ensured a taste to remember and the pleasure of butter running down your chin.

The shop was always full of customers waiting to buy the piping hot discs as fast as they were made and would rush back home to eat them. The shop at 46, Mount Street, (next to the Albert Inn) Northwood, was known far and wide for these Oatcakes.

 

making oatcakes

Grandmother had the unenviable task of cleaning a very large firegrate range made of cast iron with a preparation called blacked, When completed, this gleamed beyond belief and to have bacon cooked on a wire made fork over the flames of a coal fire, with the bacon fat dripping and spattering onto a piece of bread, defies all description.

Clothes as I explained, were difficult to came by even if one had the clothing coupons to spare, so "hand me downs" were always welcome. At one period clogs were worn by many children including myself. It was always fun for us to make sparks on the pavement with the iron tips on the clogs while going to school.

My Aunt (and the farm)

On very rare occasions my aunt would take me to a farm at Beech owned by a family friend, Frank Wood. Several times during our visits, Frank would take me with him to do some rabbit shooting which, as a youngster, and a Townie at that, was out of this world. Even more so when I was allowed to carry back to the farm house the rabbits that had been shot. This extra source of meet was more than welcome as it meant the family would have meat more than once that week and would give me more than enough stories to tell of the stalking and killing of those savage beasts called "Rabbits".

During one such visit a deer was spotted on his land. It was not long before they were out with the guns and, not much later, the animal was on the way back to be cut up for the pot. On one of our return visits we were treated to a dinner of venison, which I recall was a dark meat somewhat like heart and of a similar texture, which we all enjoyed. To my surprise Frank gave me one of the hooves of the beast and told me how to dry up the blood and fluids in the hoof by rubbing in a mixture of alum and saltpetre. This was done and worked very well and cured the hoof nicely.

I put it to very good uses I had a very large sheath-knife blade without a handle so the hoof made a very good replacement when fitted and, of course, when it was fastened to my belt, my normal four foot six suddenly became six foot as I took on the imaginary role of Tarzan stalking through the jungle with only my knife to protect me. Then all too soon the every day humdrum chores reared their ugly heads and reality was once again the order of the day.

If it rained and I was unable to go out into the fields, Frank's wife Joyce would show me their collection of cigarette cards and silks, the latter also being given away with cigarettes. Both cards and silks covered a variety of subjects from famous people to badges, flowers, etc. and today are much sought after as collectors gems.

Other memories of the farm include my first taste of venison (deer), a dark meat I recall, somewhat like heart in colour and texture. Another vivid recollection was the taste of milk straight from the cow. After it had been passed through the cooler, it was something, special, mmm? But of course, in those days food had much more flavour. This I am sure, was because all fruit and vegetables were organically grown and, with meat and poultry, there were none of today's intensive farming methods used. I realise that, because of the great demand from today's society for cheaper food this has been needed to help to feed the country's growing population. But at what cost?

The days spent on the farm I remember with great affection, but, on each visit, the time to return home came around only too soon. Frank would get out his car and take my aunt and me to the bus stop down by the village post office. This journey always amused me as, on every occasion, Frank would burst into song, his favourite being "I'll be with you in apple blossom time", which he repeated as many times as he could over the short trip. I think that song had a special meaning to him and Joyce. If my recollections are correct, there was a small cottage in a hollow across the road from the village shop, where Joyce used to live with her mother, Mrs Hallam, before she married Frank.