I am not sure of the year but I would be about 10 years old so probably 1959. We lived in Heaton Chapel and just across the field was the clay pit of Jacksons Brickworks. Now this place was a magnet for the local kids as we treated it as an adventure playground and as it was not fenced-off we regularly spent summer days in there and nobody told us to get out unless we strayed too near to where they were actually digging the clay out. Vast areas where the clay had already been dug lent themselves games of cowboys and indians and re-enactments of WWII with tommies and jerries. We even bult a raft out of empty oil drums and some planks, for the D-Day landings, on one of the many large ponds that were dotted around the place. It was truly a great place for us kids to play in BUT, my parents, like many of the others, did not like me going there because the considered it to be too dangerous and I was banned from going on pain of a good hiding if I did. Looking back I suppose it was a dangerous place, full of potential hazards. Health and Safety, had it existed, would have had a field-day. Did this stop us from going? Well what do you think? It was during the school Summer holidays and it had been a particularly long and hot summer. We had witnessed the pond on which our raft floated, gradually dry up until there was no water at all and the raft was left stranded several yards from the edge so we decided to try and move it to another pond that still had some water in it. A dried-up crust had formed that resembled crazy paving and this was tested to see if it would hold the weight of a ten year old boy, ME. And I was duly dispatched with a rope to tie to the stranded raft in order that we could pull it back to the side and re-float it on the next pond. Tentatively I set off, rope in hand, ready to become the hero of the hour and rescue our marooned raft. All went well until I got to about 6 feet from the said raft when the inevitable happened. One foot broke through the crust and plunged down about 12 inches into the sticky, slimy mud beneath. For some reason this act seemed to cause my companions more than little mirth but undaunted I proceeded to try and extricate my foot. Unfortunately this only led to the other foot breaking through and causing even more mirth for my so-called mates. I began to rock backwards and forwards in an effort to free myself and it worked . . . . . . to a degree. The suction that had been holding my feet suddenly released when my body was at an angle of about 45 degrees to the vertical and gravity began to take over. I now plunged headlong and broke straight through the, all too thin, crust of dried up mud to the near hysterical laughter of my appreciative audience. Once through the crust the slimy and extremely smelly mud began to close over the top of me and within seconds I was completely covered and it was at this point that I actually thought I was going to die. Not by drowning in the mud, but at the hands of my mother who I was going to have to face when I got home. It was actually quite easy to get out now as a larger surface area had been broken and I emerged like the Creature from the Black Lagoon, the sight of which reduced my chums to jibbering idiots, laughing uncontrollably. I had now to get cleaned up somehow before I could even contemplate going home, or face the wrath of Attila the Hun for (a) getting in that state, and (b) being somewhere I shouldnt have been. No one was willing to let me clean up at their house as their mothers would also have realised where we had been and they would cop a similar fate to that which awaited me................. I was doomed. Suddenly one of them said, I know. My Grandad has an allotment with a hosepipe. We can go there and hose you down. I was saved from a fate worse than death. The only problem was the allotment was a good mile and a half away which under normal circumstances would have been a doddle for us 1950s kids who walked everywhere anyway. The trouble was, being a hot, sunny day, the mud began to set as we went, making walking extremely difficult but help was at hand as one of the guys had brought his Trasher with him to run down the hills in the clay pit. I was bundled unceremoniously into said trasher and we set off again for the allotment. What a sight it must have been, a gang of around 8 small boys pulling a trasher with a rather large, unpainted garden gnome in it. We eventually arrived at the allotment after having gone on a massive detour just because they wanted to show me off to everyone and instead of going the direct route we went by way of the most heavily populated areas. They then proceeded to hose me down and scrub me all over with a sweeping brush until I resembled a human being again. Stripped to my undies I rinsed the rest of my clothes in a handy water butt in an attempt to remove any incriminating evidence and hung up on raspberry canes to dry in the hot sunshine. I returned home at tea time safe in the knowledge that my escapades would remain secret from my mother. Happy days ! Like
Posted on: Mon, 21 Jul 2014 11:06:43 +0000
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