Shropshire

Ups And Downs On The Broseley Jitties

The Broseley Jitties are quiet these days. On our early evening rambles we meet only a now-and-then walker with their dog. And then perhaps a stray chicken. Or a watchful cat in a cottage gateway. The atmosphere is somnolent; a sense of falling back through time. There’s the subtle scent of cow parsley along the verges, of garden flowers wafting over the walls and hedges.

Yet a hundred/two hundred years ago there would have been no quietness (or cleanly odours) here. Only the shouts and chatter of working men, women and children; rattle of clogs as the folk of Broseley Wood went about their day – to the mines and quarries, to the pot and pipe factories, to the taverns, to the chapels, to the wells.

Botswell Lane Jitty down and up – and as the name denotes, a main route for fetching water from the well in the valley bottom. Hard work fetching washing and cooking water, especially in the winter.

Another water source was the spring on Spout Lane, not far from the bottom of Jews Jitty where the Wolfson family lived and ran their pottery factory. The daughters of the house apparently carried out the ritual bathing rite of mikvah at this spring – a somewhat public spot.

Jews Jitty up…

And Jews Jitty down …

And a final up on Gittings Jitty yesterday evening, the cow parsley in full flourish…

Cee’s Black & White Photo Challenge: steps or ladders

Another Jaunt Down The Jitties

For those who missed my earlier post, the Broseley jitties comprise a hillside maze of passages and pathways that served the ancient mining community of Broseley Wood. Today they wend between erstwhile squatter cottages, now restored and extended to make highly desirable homes with terraced gardens and magnificent views across Benthall Woods and the Severn Gorge.

In the early evening sunshine, the place feels idyllic, but back in the seventeenth, eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries this hotchpotch of dwellings built on the wastes around coal, iron and clay pits would have been more shanty town than orderly village. For one thing think taverns on every corner to quench the thirst of hard labouring folk. And for another think no sanitation.

There are seventeen jitties, most of them cross-paths between more substantial lanes and each named after individuals, wells or particular landmarks associated with them. We began this particular exploration at Crews Park Jitty, hiving off Woodlands Road not far from the town May Pole.

At the foot of this hill is Gough’s Jitty, that runs crosswise, left and right to Crew’s Park. We turned left and soon came upon the very noteworthy retaining wall built entirely of saggars. These are fireclay boxes, the remnants from one of Broseley’s clay tobacco pipe factories.

Adaptive re-use: the pipe factory saggars make a fine wall.

There were three Broseley factories in the 19th century, although pipe-making had begun in the area by at least the seventeenth century. The pipes were exported across the world and often referred to as ‘broseleys’. During firing, and to protect them from ash damage, the pipes were packed inside saggars, which were then stacked up inside the bottle kilns.

And by way of a further digression, talking of clay pipe factories, here’s a glimpse inside Broseley’s last surviving pipe works, operated by the Southorn family until the 1950s and now owned by Ironbridge Gorge Museum Trust:

Pipe-maker Rex Key demonstrating his skills at Broseley Pipe Works Museum.

The museum is closed at present, but you can glimpse the top of the King Street bottle kiln from the end of our road.

See also an intriguing article from the 1950s that talks about the Southorn family and their Broseley pipe works: https://www.broseley.org.uk/cutting/kings%20head.PDF

But back to the jitties.

As I said, Gough’s Jitty runs crosswise from Crews Park, and following the south westerly end along the saggar wall you soon collide with Mission Jitty heading north east. Near the intersection there’s a delightful ‘farmyard’ filled with fun activities: swings, coops, rails and ponds, for ducks and hens. You can buy the eggs too (honesty box provided). The hens came hotfoot to the fence when they saw me:

At this point we left the jitties and stepped out on to Quarry Road which then presented us with a choice, downwards towards Ironbridge:

Or upwards towards home…

…passing the cottage that was once the Broseley Wood post office:

And a new jitty sign:

This will have to be explored another day, although I’ve since discovered this path leads down to Bridge Road where in the 1930s and 40s the Wolfsons, a Jewish family ran a pottery works making plain plates and dishes. A branch of the family also set up another works nearby where they made china petals for Woolworths, and also painted porcelain dolls’ faces, all of which meant useful employment for local women who could work from home. The family apparently paid good wages and were well respected, although it is said their faith kept them socially aloof.

And next the sign to Ferny Bank, which again must wait for another day:

And so onwards up Quarry Road, views up and views down across the valley to Benthall:

And of course this was an offer I could not refuse. In fact we have learned that this is very much a Broseley custom. Residents put out on their doorsteps still useful items they’ve finished with, but others might like. We passed a microwave on a wall the other day. Also a large etched glass vase outside another house.

Then comes the star find of this particular jitty jaunt. At the junction of Quarry Road and King Street is a telephone box. And inside the telephone box is…

It closes in the evening, but is open earlier in the day. I think we might be making one or two donations to this particular institution.

And just in case you looked at the link about the Southorn family which included a 1950s photo of the King’s Head inn on King street – here’s the link again https://www.broseley.org.uk/cutting/kings%20head.PDF

This is the King’s Head today; an inn no more:

Finally, a salutary reminder of how things were:

Still Life After The Allotment

I’m still pondering on how I feel about giving up my allotment. Hmm.

But then given the long, wet and laboured lead up to spring, I know the soil on my plots will be cold and claggy and in no way suitable for any kind of cultivation. Probably for weeks yet. I also know the wind will be whistling up there, and I can do without the added chill factor. Yet there’s no denying it (as I look at these photos), we’re going to miss the produce, freshly gathered as needed and all grown without the taint of pesticide.

We do have a small garden at our rented house, and I’ve already sown lettuce, rocket and spinach in big buckets. I have them covered in a large plastic covered cloche affair, and they’ve all germinated despite unpromising temperatures. I’m also going to get carrots going in large pots (they anyway often work better in containers) and peas in seed trays for sprouts. Yesterday I sowed cherry tomato seeds (in heated trays on the kitchen cupboard) and hope to plant them out along the sheltered walled border, though at this rate probably not till June! And then there might be room for some French climbing beans.

On the other hand, we might suddenly find we’ve bought a house. In which case, my (mostly) portable garden will be moving with us.

Lens-Artists #246: Still Life This week Patti sets the theme, a favourite with me when it comes to photographing garden produce. I’m sure I’m not the only one to see beauty in freshly dug new potatoes.

April In The Ironbridge Gorge

For the past weeks it’s been more ‘blow blow thou winter wind…’ than balmy spring breezes. Still, on Monday the gustiness subsided long enough to enjoy an afternoon stroll along the Wharfage to Dale End Park in Ironbridge.

As you can see, there wasn’t much sun, but it was good to see the River Severn safely back in its bed after its March uprising – the almost-deluge after rapid snow-melt upstream.

And it was good, too, to see tree-life greening, slowly-slowly – willow and ash, birch and hazel, larch, sycamore, hawthorn, horse chestnut:

And then the park cherry trees were at full flourish ~ tarrah!

And this horse chestnut tree (centre) was all set to light up its creamy ‘candles’:

Many of the trees were in full flower too. My computer issued a high pollen warning this morning.

These willow flowers were spotted the following day at Jackfield, a couple of miles downstream of Ironbridge, caught here in a brief sunny interlude.

And silver birch catkins caught on the breeze: catkin cascades. All we need now is a little warmth, and less bluster.

Broseley: A Town Of Many Views

Well they say that moving house is one of the most stressful things you can do ~ and it was, and for more than a year, but here we are in a new small town, scarcely a crow’s flight from our old home in Much Wenlock.

Broseley as a town isn’t as ancient as Much Wenlock. There were only 9 residents recorded in 1086. Much Wenlock, by contrast, had its Priory which saw much growth from the Norman period onwards, the new cult of St. Milburga (who was abbess of the first religious house there in the 7th century) attracting pilgrims, and thus spurring demand for local trades and services throughout the Middle Ages.

Broseley, with its once well wooded and agricultural lands, was part of Wenlock Priory’s domain, providing prime territory for deer-hunting monks. The Priory also exacted various rents from Broseley manor tenants, including the lord himself, who held his land according particular obligations to the Prior.

In the 1200s the Lord of Broseley kept his possessions on the basis that on St. Milburga’s day he was to dine at the Priory and carve the principal dish. His immediate neighbour, the Lord of Willey was obliged to bear the Prior’s robes to Parliament. Rents were charged for pannage (grazing of pigs in the woods) and also for operating coal pits in the area.

In 1570 Broseley was a small (mostly) agricultural village of around 125 individuals. But this changed when the lord of the manor, James Clifford encouraged the immigration of miners to work the local coal deposits. He let the newcomers build cottages on irregular plots of the uninclosed commons and wastes to the north of the village above the River Severn, a part of the town now known as Broseley Wood.

Soon the mining households outnumbered the locals’ homes more than 2:1, their presence leading to riots during the early 1600s, as Broseley villagers grew increasingly angry over their loss of common rights. Nonetheless, the hugger-mugger building of cottages in Broseley Wood continued as the mining enterprises(ironstone and clay as well as coal) thrived. As might be imagined, there was a proliferation of taverns to serve the workforce, and by 1690 Broseley Wood apparently had the looks of ‘a country town’. Miners were the main inhabitants, but there were also watermen (handling the export of coal down the River Severn), potters (making tavern mugs) and clay-pipe makers. Interestingly too, the hillsides down to the River Severn wharves were, from 1605, laid with a network of railways, the earliest ones made of wood, the haulage of trucks provided by humankind, often children.

New builds in the town emulate traditional local idioms and continue the habit of filling every available space, no matter how awkward to reach.

The cottages cling to the sides of precipitous ridges, access only by winding narrow lanes and cross-paths known as jitties.

I still have much to discover about the jitties, but on my short walk from the house yesterday, I revisited Maypole Jitty. It hives off Woodlands Green where the new maypole stands (reinstated in 1985), also the locale of the 1600s riots between villagers and miners.

Standing here, you can just see the top of the Severn Gorge above Ironbridge.

And here’s the maypole:

A nearby information board tells me that maypole dancing was part of an age-old fertility rite:

And now in case you’re wondering where the header image comes into this, well it was an unexpected discovery. After passing the maypole I found myself at the end of a cul de sac on Maypole Road where a discreet footpath sign caught my eye. It took me down a narrow bosky bridleway of celandines and wild garlic…

And in no time brought me to this spot at the top of the Gorge, and thence to the wood on Ball’s Lane and the maypole.

And so back into town:

With a here and there burst of spring colour if not spring warmth:

More Broseley views to follow.

Lens-Artists: New experiences This week the theme is set be Anne at Slow Shutter Speed

A Blooming Fanfare ~ Installed, If Not Quite ship-Shape

I ‘activated’ the Amaryllis bulb in February, as soon as I knew our house sale was settled and our moving date fixed. It was a Christmas gift from our best chum, Lesley, and I’d dithered over planting it up precisely because of the (sometime) imminent move.

I have to say when I finally opened its package, it did not look too promising: as in more dead than dormant. Still, I followed the instructions, installing the bulb’s bottom two-thirds into moist compost. The reaction was almost instantaneous. By the following day fresh leaf shoots were peeping out the top. Monitoring progress then became an amusing diversion from packing-up stress.

And come the snowy moving day, five leaves had emerged along with a fat budded stem. I transported it in the car and popped the pot on the kitchen cupboard by the new-house French doors where it had the best light. A few days later the flower stem was off on it own trajectory, clearly prompted by the Lance Penny work on the wall behind it.

And now, a week later, and moved to the dining table, all four flowers have opened, stealing the show from John Scarland’s Cafe Women:

So: the Farrells have landed; and most important of all, the kitchen is up and running. I’m getting the gist of the gas cooker that comes with the place, this after years of electric cooking. Several batches of soda bread have turned out well, and today’s first attempt at rye and almond shortbread proved passable:

We like the kitchen with the French doors that catch all the morning sun and open onto the small walled garden. Most of our stuff seems to have fitted in. Well, almost. He who no longer has a shed is busy trying to rein in the chaos of surplus possessions in the garage, this after setting up music and viewing systems in kitchen and living room. My writing den is pretty much set up; the too many books on new shelves. We even know where most things are, which has to be a first.

Next stop: Operation Explore Broseley. We’ve already located the old clay pipe works, the ancient Quaker Burial Ground and the town’s handsome striped maypole on the green near Maypole Jitty. More of which anon.

For now, it’s A Big Thank You, Lesley! So much entertainment from this extraordinary life form.

Farewell Townsend Meadow

Oh, how the weather gods teased. Well, they thought, why not bestow snow storms in March just when humankind are expecting spring and the Farrells in particular are booked (within a very narrow window of opportunity) to up sticks. We’ll show them, the deities said, taking us for granted, thinking they’ve got everything planned to the nth degree

And so it was that our first attempt to move house (two weeks today) failed, the main roads blocked with car accidents and jack-knifed artics, and the removal vans unable to reach us.

And then once the mover crew did manage to extract their vehicles from a two-hour jam, they decided to cut their losses and go and move someone whose house they could reach, meanwhile rescheduling us for the following Friday morning.

We felt stranded; misplaced; displaced. It was all very weird. We wandered round a cottage full of boxes, bereft of ‘home’, trying to locate the kettle and emergency tea-making kit. As the day wore on it began to rain, and spirits lifted; there were signs of a thaw. When we went into town later to find some supper, the roads were clear and the pavements slushy, we were sure that the snow would be gone by morning. We were still thinking this when we bunked down for the night on the mattress, the bed having been dismantled.

So it was a very bad moment when I opened the bedroom blinds at 7 a.m. on Friday to find the world white again and more snow falling. I had visions of our buyer trying to move in with us.

I needn’t have panicked. The movers were on the phone early, saying that although the main road was still closed, they would come the long way round and be with us at 9 am. And so they were. They had us away in 2 hours, the loading much helped, (surprise surprise) by the snow. The bad weather reports and the ongoing road blockage beyond Wenlock meant we missed out on the the usual morning traffic mayhem. There were no big container trucks squeezing by the house.

So: all there was left to do was to say goodbye to no. 31…

It’s a tad hard to process just yet – the moving on, but we seem (physically at least), to be settling into the rental house. And, besides, there’s so much to learn about our new home town of Broseley. Of which more anon, although I can report in advance that the locals are proving most welcoming. The snow is long gone too, although the weather gods are still teasing and giving us wintery gales instead of spring.

Moving Day Snowed Off!

The snow that was supposed to stop yesterday (according to the weather oracle) didn’t. There was a good six inches this morning – the slushy, slippery stuff that causes havoc on untreated roads. And havoc there was. The removal trucks did try valiantly to reach us this morning, but found themselves caught up for two hours in traffic jams of accidents and breakdowns on the highway down the Severn Gorge. And even if they had managed to reach Wenlock, the bottom of our street was blocked by two huge lorries that strangely, and within minutes of each other, had broken down; there was no way out to Broseley.

Now at lunch time, it’s raining not snowing; the road is almost slush-free and the broken down trucks vanished. Graham, after reinstating the internet connection, has retreated for a nap (on the mattress on the bedroom floor), having been awake half the night, and I’m pondering on what bare minimum needs to be unpacked for an unanticipated camp-over. (My last ditch packing up session early this morning saw stuff popped wildly into nearest bags and boxes, thus leaving some items untrackable). The movers are rescheduling jobs and plan to be with us tomorrow. Meanwhile, we have the trusty wood burner and a stash of logs. Our lovely neighbour, Josie has brought us chocolate cake and a bottle of wine. And later we may well treat ourselves to dinner out at one of Wenlock’s hostelries.

So as they say: tomorrow is another day. And hopefully the snow will soon be on its way out.

Primrose Peace In The Midst Of Moving House

Some of you may have noticed that I’ve not been around much in the last few months. And the reason? The Farrells are on the move, out of Much Wenlock and into next-door Broseley (ten minutes drive away), leaving the edge of Wenlock Edge for a new edge atop the Severn Gorge and above the world’s first cast iron bridge (1779).

In fact the Iron Bridge will be in walking distance of the new house, although maybe only on the outward foray. The Gorge is so steep, a bus ride back could well be called for. Anyway, this is what’s been going on – house selling, possessions culling, allotment retreating and finally, in the last three weeks, the hair-raising dash to find a rental property before the new owner moves in. Phew and double-phew. (Who knew that renting anywhere these days is so fraught with difficulties).

We began this whole moving process over a year ago, and it scarcely needs saying that it’s been very stressful. It’s definitely been a matter of snatching peaceful moments as and when. And of course, for gardening types, spotting signs of spring is always a welcome distraction from domestic chaos. I was busy repatriating allotment tools when I first noticed the primroses along the hedge bank beside Townsend Meadow. This was around the end of January, and I was surprised to see them flowering so early (neck and neck with the snowdrops). Clearly, unlike Mrs. Farrell, neither mind the frigid temps we’ve been having.

Some of you may also be wondering why we’re moving when there’s no obvious necessity. On anxiety-ridden days I have been wondering this myself. But then I have long been hankering for a home with a vegetable garden attached as opposed to one a field’s walk away. Not that I won’t miss the walk, or the views above the town, or the raven that flies cronking over my polytunnel in the late afternoon, or the chats with fellow allotmenteers.

But I will be glad to leave the allotment’s dispiritingly claggy Silurian soil, the endemic pests and weeds typical of free-for-all community gardens and the outrageous numbers of snails. And of course, I am getting on a bit! I would like to nurture my soil, not do battle with it. Nor do I really want to dash across the field for the lettuce I forgot to pick earlier.

So the plan: to rent for a time in Broseley while looking for a place to buy – hopefully somewhere over Wenlock Edge into South Shropshire and closer to dear younger sibling, the hill country, and also to better functioning public transport systems.

And yes, I will be sad to leave our upstairs-downstairs garden, and Graham his custom-made, super self-built shed. We’ll also miss our quirky cottage (though not the spiders). I’m sure, too, we’re going to feel more than a touch stranded in a rented house that’s not at all our style, to say nothing of the daunting prospect of moving TWICE.

Summer garden and Graham’s peaceful place freshly built

But then Broseley is a very fascinating old town, whose maze-like streets (jitties) of higgledly-piggledy cottages, reflect the arrival of immigrant miners way back in the 1590s when the town’s population of 5,000 was apparently much the same as today’s. The other key industry was clay pipe making, the products exported around the world, and the pipes themselves referred to as ‘Broseleys’.

Here’s a nice taster of what’s to explore from Broseley Historical Society.

Meanwhile, as the packing cases pile high in the living room, and sixteen years of covert dust alarmingly reveals itself, out in the garden, all is still wintery, the crab apple tree eaten bare and the guerrilla garden over the fence very endy.

But then in the shady corner behind Graham’s shed there’s a small scatter of miniature crocuses. So soothing to spend a few quiet moments with them before the big move at the end of the week (with the added thrill of forecast SNOW!)

Lens-Artists: Finding Peace This week Tina’s theme could not be more apt here on Sheinton Street.

Days Of Frost And Sun And More Upended Reflections

This week the weather gods are treating us to hoar frosty nights and chilled, sun-filled days. The wind has dropped too – ideal conditions, then, for watery reflections. So here’s a flipped image of the River Severn, and a mysteriously vivid mirror-world that, in this photo at least, looks more real than reality. Strange how that can happen.

The photo was taken yesterday afternoon on a trip into Shrewsbury, our county town. Here it is restored to uprightness.

And now the upstream view, showing off the Welsh Bridge, the town’s westerly exit. (There is also an English Bridge over the easterly stretch):

The Severn is Britain’s longest river (220 miles). It rises in the mid-Wales mountains and then meanders down England to the Bristol Channel and thence into the Celtic Sea. At Shrewsbury it all but encircles the town centre, a hilltop settlement of ancient Saxon origins and ever a busy centre for trade and manufacturing. The river was once its super highway, woollen cloth and wool being key export commodities from which great fortunes could be made. These days the riverside parks and walks are a precious resort for tranquil pursuits (and reflection) away from nose-to-tail traffic that clog up the mediaeval streets. Interesting the ways things change.

More sun and frost promised tomorrow.

Tish Farrell

Writer on the Edge