Creswell was the pit.
The pit was Creswell.
I thought everything was covered in coal dust.
In fact
the pit put food on the tables of my relatives.
Its winding wheels,
the large wheels which pulled the cables
lifting men from the centre of the earth - or so I thought,
now adorn the entrance to the village,
unceremoniously cut to make a display.
...I once saw them spin.
A small piece of me is forever Creswell.
'Pit Bridge' up the lane at the top of Morven Street
spanned the railway which sent the 'black gold' out to the world,
crossing the line,
the metal structure echoing under the stomp of our Clark's shoes as we crossed.
If we were lucky
a train would pass underneath us!
...I can hear it all now.
Morven Street, Skinner Street, Duke Street, Welbeck Street,
names I remember.
Family members lived and worked in the village,
relatives,
my relatives,
people we came up from Devon over-night to see.
This was the place of my parents upbringing.
My parents lived here,
but I have memories too.
In my mind I can see small industrial steam locos
shunting coal wagons at the bottom of Grandad Cockings garden in Skinner Street,
on lines long since closed.
Crossing gates closed on Elmton Road.
There was 'Hallams' the butchers on the corner of Duke Street and Morven Street
the ones who made the 'Tomato Sausages' which I didn't like,
and Jones'es 'Beer Off' in Movern Street which would serve bottled beers to us children when we were sent to fetch them.
There was a corner shop that we walked to from Granny and Grandad Cockings house at the top of Skinner Street.
We'd buy bottles of 'Dandilion and Burdock'
which seemed very exotic at the time!
The shop's now just houses I think.
Grandad Cockings duck-egg blue
Ford Escort Mk 1 was in his garage.
The Grandfather clock which sat on the half landing at 70 Skinner Street,
chiming all night long
...but nobody seemed to care,
the one that now sits silently in my lounge.
High teas with maiden aunts at number 35 Skinner Street,
best silver and lace doilies no less!
The smell of bacon cooking,
wafting down Morven Street out of Granny Thompsons 'Vent Axia' from her kitchen,
the one with the 'Rayburn' and the 'Bush' radio.
Grandad Thompson's shed at the end of the garden at Morven St,
filled the nostrils with smells of coal,
paraffin and oil,
when I breath in now,
I can can still smell it!
Jam jars fixed to the under side of shelves,
full of screws and fixings of every kind,
labelled of course!
...Grandad labelled everything!
The garage on his allotment behind Morven Street which housed his 'J' reg
turquoise coloured Mini,
'Mr A',
and before that,
his dark green Austin 1100 which he called 'Sal' because of its registration plate.
S.A.L.
The marks Grandad Thompson made on the outside of the shed which showed how tall we'd grown since our last visit.
The beautiful tone of Grandad Thompson's 'wireless' which sat under the table in the window of the lounge
and which also sits silently in my lounge!
'Pot Black' on their colour telly.
'Pears Soap' and the pink bathroom suite with the huge mirror next to the bath
and the comforting feel of smooth cotton sheets on their huge double bed.
Warm and safe.
This was my family
and this is the Creswell I remember.
