Post: This is a jaunt ’round the back of Bolton’ to explore part of our local history, but Charlie gets caught up in the history of the Romans, (I don’t quite understand the connection!) and we get an interesting article.
Tuesday, September 1 Hall I’ th’ Wood and the Jumbles
At 7pm tonight, Ben came over, and we headed up Blackburn road to Astley Bridge, turning down a cinder road that gave way to a ‘ginnel’ and crossed a footbridge, afterwards climbing steeply to the fine, timber-fronted mansion called Hall I’ th’ Wood, where Samuel Crompton invented the ‘Spinning Jenny’, an invention that revolutionised cotton spinning, and from which eventually sprang the ‘mule’, that mechanical wonder of modern times. Hall I’ th’ Wood was purchased by Mr W. Lever, (afterwards Lord Leverhulme), who presented it and a sum of money for its restoration to his native town, Bolton. The Corporation then restored the property and opened it as a Museum in memory of Samuel Crompton, furnishing it throughout with genuine furniture from the 17th and 18th centuries.
The Hall is bigger inside than would seem from the outside, and is vastly interesting, with its old chairs, tables, chests and massive sideboards, pottery, cooking utensils including a weird device for turning the spit, paintings, wainscoted walls and rich plaster ceilings. The staircase, circular, is attached to a central newel post such as is seen in the round towers of ruined castles, except that it is of oak. The oak floors are uneven and knotted with age, and the whole timber work is held together with wooden pegs, no nails being used. From one of the latticed windows a gorgeous sunset streaking the rugged clouds above the moors was beheld, then we took a walk round the rear of the house, where is a smooth lawn and tastefully laid out garden. The back of the Hall is stone-built.
Carrying on up Tonge Moor Road we came to Bradshaw, where the church there has a detached tower, then to Ruins Lane at Harwood, and up the rutty lane past the cottage where my Grandparents lived and died. This lane, with the old, worked out quarries at the head, brought memories back to me of the times, 12 years ago, when I used to accompany my father on Sunday mornings to visit the old folks. I always used to look forward eagerly to the huge piece of apple pie made in the good old fashioned way, and I never failed to get it. There is the same old hen-pen that Grandpa owned. There never were hens like those of Grandpa! Or eggs.
Higher up, amongst the quarries, my cousin George and I used to play at soldiers or climb the precipice. ‘Spion Kop’ is still there, the hill that was oft defended and rarely taken, a fortress of childhood – or boyhood – days. I looked for that tree at the foot of which we firmly believed it was an apple tree, though whenever we went there, no fruit was to be found. It is a sycamore! Those ‘dear dead days beyond recall’! A happy memory with a tinge of sorrow that the cottage is not in the hands of the good-hearted old folks who always gave us a welcome and who gladly gave us the best of their simple food. I am not one who thinks that my boyhood days were the best – I am enjoying my best days now, thanks to the wheel, but still…… they were happy days.
We traversed the narrow tracks which I had almost forgotten, over many stiles and through moorland farmyards, the while twilight deepened and a great golden moon tried to break through scurrying clouds. A high wind was blowing and the evening was chilly when we struck that line of Roman Road, Watling Street. Up here, almost 1,000 ft above sea level, the increasing darkness, with the wind-swept village street of Affetside before us and across a moorland valley the blunt ridge of Holcombe with its tower in black silhouette, little imagination is needed to stand aside and let the Legion’s pass. I wonder if the villagers, looking through their bedroom windows on some such night as this is, catch a glimpse of the ghostly legionaries as they march along towards the wild North? Or hear, as I thought I did, the crunching of chariot wheels, the rattle of reins and the hoarse shouts of Roman captains, borne down to them on the wind? Sentimentalism perhaps, but what a sentimental night! We came to the ancient cross which we used to call Roman, and which we used to kiss, though why, I never could find out. It is just a cylindrical shaft about three feet long placed on three round steps, and I have an idea that its origin is not Roman at all, but Saxon, as the name Affetside seems to suggest. Probably it is a Saxon market cross. A rapid descent took us to Hawkshaw Lane Ends, where is the Edgeworth road and then a dark, bumpy tree-shaded track brought us out above Turton Bottoms. It was quite dark now, but we joined a track, carrying our bikes down to a mill, and then crossed the River Tonge by a narrow footbridge, and entered the Jumbles. This is very pretty, with a deep waterfall and a river course over huge masses or rock just as is found in the wilder rivers of North Wales. It was a long, beautiful walk beneath shadowy trees and by a tinkling stream, but there is one marring effect – the odour. Regaining rideable roads, we soon sped down to the Oaks and then home. I think that the various types of scenery about Bolton would justify a ‘Beautiful Bolton’ campaign. Who’ll start it? 15 miles
