MEMORIES OF WHITCHURCH & LLANDAFF NORTH (1950’s n 60’s)

BY TERRY CHARD

I was born in 1952 and have fond memories of my youth. Apart from spending a few years in Tongwynlais (Ironbridge Rd) after I got married and working abroad for a few years I have spent my life in Whitchurch. It has always been home. I was born and bred in on the Ty Newydd estate just behind the Three Elms. I was born at home as was my brother in 1956. My birth certificate is stamped Caerphilly Urban District. My parents moved here when the estate opened as a council estate probably at the beginning of 1952. Prior to that they had lived in rented rooms at Great House near the Mellingruffydd. They had moved there when they got married after the Second World War. My older brother was born there in 1951. Both my parents are Llandaff North people, my father from Llandaff Yard, bottom end of College Road and my mother from West Road.  

My early memories take me back to street football, king ball, chain touch and rat tat ginger. Dark winter nights kicking a ball around under street lamps on an open piece of ground. The lads knocking on my door to see if I could come out to play and me praying that my Mam would say yes. I remember going home covered in mud and dog shit for a telling off and I probably never touched the ball because there were some many of us crammed onto such a small area of grass. We later progressed to playing on the road, Saturday morning cup finals with a lamppost and kerb as a goal at one end and a drain and kerb for a goal at the other end. Garden hedges acted as the touchline. In those days we adopted the names of Allchurch, Tapscott, Charles, Medwin and strangely enough, Ferenc Puskas because somebody had read about him and he had beaten England single-handed in 1953. All sorts of skills were developed and honed on the streets and half time came when a car passed. In those days a 2-hour run out would only ever be interrupted by a car or two. As car ownership became more and more popular we were forced to relocate our pitch away from the road onto the green outside Ty Nant flats. A solitary tree acted as a goal post. We had some major football epics and always longed for having real nets to score into.   

Our playground in those days was the derelict farm on College Road on the Whitchurch side of the railway line close to The Crown. We lived in Maes Glas and the garden backed onto the corner of the ploughed field. In the early days it was a working farm. I remember my father, a very keen gardener, suddenly rushing out of the living room to the back garden to scare of the pigs that had escaped from the field and were busy eating the vegetables that he had nurtured and cultivated for our seasons supply. We later moved across the road because the garden was bigger (c. 1962). The farm became derelict in the late 1950’s early 1960’s and was later built on to provide the newer houses that make up the centre of Felin Fach. I have lots of good memories of that field. It was the place that the old farmhouse became our den and we played a substantial part in its demolition. The field provided us with a place for football and cricket with home made bats and wickets. Lost ball was a ‘6’.  We built dens from the corrugated ‘tin sheetings’ recycled from the old farm buildings and had campfires where we baked potatoes on the end of a stick. Bird nesting and blowing eggs was a science. We melted lead off the farmhouse roof and poured into the ‘frog’ of a house brick to make ingots. We picked blackberries and what your mam didn’t need we would sell door to door to earn a few pennies. We passed the time playing ‘stretch’ and could handle penknives like circus performers. The bottom field close to the railway was the pig field, ‘Queeny’s field’. Queeny was the white shire horse that pulled the hand held plough and she occupied the field with half a dozen pigsties. Queeny was often seen on the ash path and as kids we often went to see her. On occasions we jumped on her back and rode her up and down the ash path with maybe 4 or 5 of us on her back. (We were only 5 or 6 years old at the time before any animal rights campaigners curl up in horror). She was docile and pliant, one of the gang.

When the farm was abandoned we used the slopes of the bottom field as a slide. The side nearest The Crown was the best because it offered the longest and steepest slope. The tin sheetings were used as toboggans with an upturned front. Both the underside of the sheets and the slope surface themselves became polished and slippery with a hard summers use. The field itself however had a darker side to it. It was the site of many a conflict with ‘the Llandaffs’. The tin sheetings on these occasions made useful barricades as a stone battle ensued across the railway line. I recall on occasions that even the artillery were called up as reinforcements on both sides as catapults, air guns and air rifles were deployed. The brick works was located just behind The Crown in those days and would’ve provided the enemy with a constant supply of ammunition. The original ‘fatwah’ originated here and I often see the ageing enemy now and laugh at having avoided injury or, worse still, capture.  Queeny’s field is now the site of Limebourne Court.    

This wasn’t the only farm in the area. Just north of this was ‘Stokes’s Farm’, Little Mill (Felin Fach). It was a smaller farm in comparison occupied by the Stokes family. It was a white washed, stone cottage with a thatched roof and a ‘lean to’ barn to the side. The two farms were separated by an ash path and Stokes farm had a rough drive leading to it. The mill stones could still be seen when we were kids and were located close to the railway line where the ash path broke out into a series of steps. My mother (89 at the time of writing) remembers the farm as a working mill when she was a little girl. The mill was probably therefore working in the 1920’s. An 1896 map of the area shows it  operated by a stream (the Mill Race) running as a tributary from Whitchurch brook. For us kids Stokes’s farm was less of an attractive proposition. The family was more territorial and protective and apart from taking the risk of nicking apples it wasn’t the place to go. The ash path however provided a tactical route across the railway line for outflanking ‘the Llandaffs’ whenever battle was in full swing. The farmer’s son had a motorbike that in its day was something of a high performance sports machine. If my memory serves me right the machine was the cause of a major incident when it caught fire and eventually burnt down the barn and the thatch on the farmhouse (approx 1959 / 60). As kids we stood on the ash path and watched it go up as the local fire station dealt with the situation. The houses on Little Mill now occupy the site.

Another farm close by was the one next door to the Mason’s Arms on the corner of Manor Way and Tyn y Parc Road. A good one for apple scrumping because the orchard was close to the fence and made for an easy getaway if you were seen. Towards the end of its days it was used to store caravans over winter.

Eglwys Wen was our infants and junior school, a stones throw from where we lived. It stood in the shadow of ‘the Big Trees’ a major landmark of its day and one which gave pride and identity to the locals in the same way that Bow Bells does for a cockney. For some strange reason I always remember the sound of the air raid siren from Whitchurch Police Station being tested on a regular basis whenever I think back at my early school days. As far as I recall the air raid siren was tested throughout the 50’s and possibly early 60’s. In a twist of fate I later came across my form teacher of many years, Mr Ivor Broad, then headmaster of my daughters’ school at Coryton Junior.

Fred Stansfield a retired professional footballer and Cardiff City captain owned the sweetshop at the Ty Newydd flats. There was a greengrocers (Fletcher’s), a butchers (Fawcett’s) and a grocers (Jenkins) alongside. Grocery deliveries (cans, cereals, flour, sugar etc) were made by Vince who would just enter the house via the backdoor and place a box of goods in the kitchen, half the time without being seen or heard. All ‘on the slate’ paid at the end of the week. Milk was delivered from the back of a battery operated milk float which we used to jump on for a ride up the road. ‘Pip’ the baker delivered the bread. Now and again a mobile chip van came around the streets during winter. Some Friday nights the butcher would make hot faggots and peas to sell and that’s where I was off with my Mam when Kennedy got shot.

The rag and bone man was another regular visitor. “China for old rags” was his call. We all harmonised to the tune of ‘Steptoe and Son’ as he wandered the streets on his horse and cart. He was friendly enough but never gave any ‘freebies’. Any droppings from the horse were scooped up by the quickest neighbour, for the garden.

The area was also commonly known as the Polo Ground. My parents often reminisced about the ‘old days’ watching the polo. My father uncovered one or two horseshoes while digging the back garden. I’m also told that Glamorgan Wanderers RFC also used the ground in their early days and used the Three Elms as a clubhouse.

The Wenallt was a place for a day out particularly on school holidays. A bottle of water and some sandwiches neatly packed into a duffle bag would see us off for the day. On some occasions we would light a campfire and warm up some baked beans when we got there. The Wenallt always had a mystique about it for me and try as I might I have had little success finding out anything about the stone remains on the slopes close to its summit. If we were feeling particularly adventurous then Roath Park was our destination but it didn’t happen too often mainly because of distance and the fact that it’s a boring walk no matter how old you are.    

The village was the central shopping area for local people. No super stores or even supermarkets in the early days. Nothing in cling film, no frozen packs of microwave food and no takeaway curries. The only ‘chippie’ was Victoria in Old Church Road for a ‘six a’chips’ and a Clarkies.  In those days the shopping area on the west side of the road was dispersed with rows of terraced houses. A furniture shop was located where the bed shop is now and between there and The Plough was all that the village offered by way of shops on the east side. Not that its any bigger now. I kicked and struggled at the barbers opposite The Malsters while sitting on a wood plank placed on the arms of the barber’s chair. I hated having my hair cut. It was only when that plank wasn’t needed anymore that you realised that you were growing up. The post office was at the village end of Bishops Road and next door to that was the clinic where childhood inoculations took place to the overwhelming aroma of methylated spirits . I remember Parkman’s sweetshop and his toothless smile. The village toy shop was located at the bus stop (west) and that’s where, in the early 60’s, I spent my pocket money, on little Airfix models of aeroplanes for 1/6d (7½p). The Bon Marché (opposite Boots) supplied clothing and had a unique vacuum system for handling cash payments. A grocers was located where Bird’s is now and was particularly memorable because they had boxes of biscuits sold by weight in brown paper bags. My Mother always bought a bag of broken biscuits as a treat and that way we had a choice of different ones to choose from when we got home. Gooch’s gardening and hardware shop stood where Boots is now and the remaining buildings to The Plough were terraced houses.

Another way of spending pocket money was the Saturday morning cinema at Monico and Plaza. 6 old pence bus fare (3 pence each way) to the Plaza and 6 pence to go in. The Rialto didn’t last long as a working cinema and was probably disused by the end of the 50’s and then acted as a storage unit before lying derelict for many years. Rialto Court is there now. Merrey’s ran a coal merchants from the corner house. I can remember watching a film at the Tivoli in Llandaff North with a small gang of kids from the street. The Tivoli was located where the car show room is, next door to The Cow and Snuffers.  

A matronly woman ran the library and scowled with a threat that could curl the covers on hard backs. It still didn’t stop us hiding behind bookshelves laughing and giggling for no other reason than it wasn’t allowed in libraries.

Whitchurch has expanded and developed in a short space of time. In most cases not for the good either. The moment it was swallowed up by the expanding Cardiff City council boundary it spelt the end of village life as we knew it. Apart from the continuing threat to countryside and diminishing green belt the city planners have a lot to answer for. The village centre was a potential model for design excellence yet we suffer the cheap and nasty structures that now represent Codas House, the post office (I suppose we’re lucky to have one), Kwiksave, Iceland and Boots. All lack character, they are charmless, bland and sterile. The police station is now no more and at the very least could have provided a unique exhibit at the National Folk museum. Prince Charles would have a field day if he ever felt the need to conduct himself as the architectural Prince of Wales.  

Whitchurch Brook was a good form of recreation and offered a variety of wildlife. A few old Robertson’s jam jars with the “gollys” taken off were perfect fish tanks. We soon learnt that bullheads liked running water and didn’t last as long as sticklebacks in the still water of a jam jar. It was always disappointing to find them next day, upside down and lifeless. We always gave them a Christian burial in the garden by the bean sticks mind. The brook also seemed to have an abundance of eels and trout particularly under the shadows and protection of the bridges, the larger ones hiding in the deepest water. Not easy to catch but good to know that they were there. During a hard winter in the early 60’s the brook froze over with ice over 4 inches thick and enough to walk and slide on.

The old Glamorganshire canal was a complete eyesore. That’s one thing that has improved over recent years. Both the canal and the feeder were stagnant cesspools that stank by mid summer and the Mellingruffydd was a dangerous, rusting monument to an industrial past. That said the Taff itself was just as bad. All were appalling examples of industrial pollution at its worst. Just about any amount of waste went into the Taff as it coursed through the south Wales valleys to Cardiff and it was also a convenient way of discharging waste from the old coal washeries. In summertime, at low flow, distinct ‘islands of mud and coal dust glistened in the sun and whatever way you want to romanticise about the past it was an environmental disgrace. The Taff of course fed water to the ‘feeder’ forming a thick soup of black sludge. An old water pump now stands as a tourist attraction. It has been refurbished, renovated and relocated and stands a few metres away from its original, working location. The canal was a stagnating pool leading all the way to Tongwynlais. It was possible to walk all the way to ‘Ton’ along the towpath. By the same token, the road through Fforest Farm also went all the way to ‘Ton’ and came out at the bottom end of Ironbridge Road. My father took me on my first driving lesson along that very road in 1971. The public right of way was ignored when the M4 was built. The Long Woods were a ‘no go’ area when we were kids. It had more bandits than Sherwood Forest. There was always more of them than us and they were always bigger and older. One rope tree swing hanging from an old oak on the slopes would definitely have proven fatal if anyone had fallen off at its outward swing. We only had a go when the ‘bigguns’ weren’t around.

Only locals and those able to race around the streets on their bikes, before cars dominated the scene, will know of Bonzo Hill. Great to ride down, bugger to get back up again. I can remember back in the 60’s, standing at the top with my father, looking at the entire Mellingruffydd area in flood as the Taff burst its banks after heavy storms. A few remaining old farm buildings had water up to their roof eaves and now it’s the site of some very expensive housing.

Christmas and Easter were favourite events on the calendar and apart from ‘ducking apples’ at home Hallowe’en was a non-event. It’s now another American import and another that the Middle East will resent just like the firework displays they had in Baghdad. Penny for a guy was a harmless distraction and we trawled the village for generous patrons. On one occasion we were being out marketed by rivals so we dressed up one of the boys in the ‘Guys’ old clothes and mask and sat him on some pram wheels to improve our chances. There’s always a gimp in a street gang. Bonfire night was a family thing with a bonfire of garden and house rubbish and a 5 shilling box of Standard fireworks. Hot dog and onions with real sausage followed and after that trawl the streets looking at somebody else’s display from over the fence.

I was one of the less fortunate that didn’t go to the Secondary School. Most of the street did. Instead I passed the eleven plus and went to Whitchurch Grammar in 1964. It was challenging to say the least from an academic point of view and also from the view of a cultural change in sport. Street life wasn’t a qualification there. Rugby was foreign to me, even though my family was rugby people and cricket in front of the pavilion with whites wasn’t quite for a council estate boy whose passion was football. Latin was something I never took to and couldn’t find anyone north of Mynachdy that spoke it either. On one occasion I managed a 17% for an exam and I wasn’t the lowest mark by far. To this day I fail to understand what that was all about. I was always envious that the ‘Sec’ could have a football team and we couldn’t.  It evened itself out in 1968/69, after the school went comprehensive and we won the under 17’s school league without being beaten.

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