大象传媒

There were virtually no cars. It was difficult to get fuel and those cars that did run received no maintenance, except of the 鈥榤ake do and mend鈥� variety. Post-war, these ancient wrecks soldiered on for a couple of decades because new cars were 鈥榚xport-only鈥�. My Dad paid 拢400 (in 1948 money!) for a ten year old Morris 10. Twelve months of spare time restoration gave us mobility, limited still by fuel rationing. Later on the MOT was introduced, better late than never.

So, personal transport was mainly the ubiquitous 鈥榩ush bike鈥�; another factor in the general, national state of fitness. We also walked quite a lot. School started for me in early 鈥�45. Bierton Road School was about a mile. Lunch at home meant 3-4 miles walk each day.

We managed an annual summer holiday in Dolgoch, near Towyn, Wales, between 鈥�43 and 鈥�47. In war time, the farm has special appeal because the owners, who were our generous hosts, did not demand our ration books before they fed us. Farmers did not know about rationing.

We journeyed there by train and by bus from Towyn. The buses were mainly single-decker, Crossleys I think, built pre-war. Towards the end, they got new buses, built to Utility standards, with slatted wooden seats. 鈥淯pholstery? Don鈥檛 you know there鈥檚 a war on, isn鈥檛 it?鈥� I learned to say goodnight in Welsh: 鈥淣os da, Mrs James!鈥� It was around this time I learned that rain was a feature of the Welsh climate. We walked the lanes and occasionally warned each other about approaching vehicles 鈥� 鈥淭here鈥檚 a car coming!鈥�

Public transport in Birmingham included electric trolley buses, picking up power from the twin parallel overhead wires. These ran from the city centre to a terminus at Sheldon. They were as manoeuvrable as a conventional bus within the limit of the power pick-up arms on the roof, and emitted no sound, foul gas or smoke.

The trams were terrifying! They clacked along iron rails embedded in the crowned centre of the single carriageway roads, which meant that to travel in the beast you had to negotiate the traffic when it stopped. For a child the climb up two or three steps to the lower deck was daunting. Once aboard, the ride was nosy and uncomfortable, slatted wooden seats again!

At night the single pick-ups emitted blue flashes every few yards, which made nonsense of the 鈥榖lack-out鈥�. Later on as a teen-aged cyclist, I found the tram rails were a trap for the unwary; bike tyres fitted the rail groove perfectly, so that it was impossible to steer out of. A crash was inevitable.

Another hot summer expedition to the Greswolde Hotel in Knowle involved a 2-mile bus-ride to Tyseley rail station, train to Dorridge, a 2-mile walk to Knowle and the luxury of a dip in the Greswolde outdoor pool. I recall the adults standing, chest-deep in the pool. I was persuaded to launch myself from what I think might have been a water-slide, to drop into the pool. From the submerged point in the water, I clearly remember the bright dappled surface, viewed from below. A few years later this pool was a notorious health hazard. The hotel owner鈥檚 child caught some disease (polio or typhoid?) and it was closed.

I distinctly remember that walk from Dorridge to Knowle; it was very hot and seemed to take ages. We had met a lovely dark-coloured horse, separated from us by a gate so, of course, we to stop and chat with it. This brief stop was a welcome rest.

Horses were still the mainstay for daily deliveries of milk and bread. Our Co-op milkman was pat of our life for decades, as I鈥檓 sure was the horse. It was a gelding, and knew the road so well that commands were redundant as it plodded along whist the man walked the round. We lived in a cul-de-sac located on a hill. Winter snow made manoeuvring the cart a difficult effort, so at the start of our road the cart was unhitched and the horse pulled a sledge, loaded with the deliveries for that part of the round. Looking back it is obvious that the relationship between horse and man was complete and secure. They were confident and considerate each to the other.

I had only one other encounter with a horse, just post-war. A local man was working a horse with a two wheeled, tipping cart, taking sand a little way inland. I got interested and was invited to ride on the cart and hold the rope reins. The memory of the feel of this rope and the response of the very gentle pulls is quite clear. Today I wouldn鈥檛 go near a horse, let alone get on it. Machines are tricky enough, a horse has a (dodgy) mind of its own, ready to be spooked by the most trivial things it might encounter.

This story has been entered by Jenni Waugh, 大象传媒 Outreach Officer, on behalf of Eric Branson, who accepts the site鈥檚 terms and conditions.

For other stories by Bran, see
Now That I Hear Planes: bbc.co.uk/dna/ww2/A9001748
German PoWs In & Around Birmingham: 鈥�/A9002125
The Chicken Expedition: 鈥�/A9002251
Strangers In Uniform: 鈥9002288

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