A childhood walk in Western Park

Sunday mornings hold special memories of time spent walking with my father. We were a family of five, I was the eldest daughter and had two younger sisters. For Dad, the family was not complete without a pet dog. Our black and tan Alsatian was very low maintenance, his bed a blanket on the kitchen floor. Each morning he was simply let out to wonder at will, returning home when tired or hungry – pretty much like us ‘free range’ children. On Sundays, Rex was privileged to be taken out for a walk. The offer to go with dad on the long walk was open to all, but invariably it was just Dad, Rex and myself that ventured out.

Our house was on a large newly built, post war council estate. At the bottom of the road was the extensive Western Park, our main childhood playground. The objective of the Sunday walk was to collect chickweed to feed the canaries and budgerigars in dad’s aviary. The walk took us over open fields that would later become more housing and industry on the Braunstone Frith area of the estate.

From Frolesworth Road, we turned right and headed along Sacheverel Road. My friend Jean lived along here, she and I played Snobs for hours at a time, sitting on the pavement outside her house. Just over Liberty Road we turned left past the newly built Braunstone Frith Junior School, which I attended. We continued past the school into Elsworthy Walk. There were only six houses on one side.  Another friend, Ann, lived along there. Her house was unique in the area as it had a plaque on the wall stating that her mother was the District Nurse. Ann’s home was the ‘go to’ area for people with all manner of cuts, bruises and minor ailments - just as the Police houses were the port of call for the very few criminal incidents.

At the end of Elsworthy Walk, we had to cross a stile.  Rex, who was never on a lead, went ahead of us here and jumped the stile into the old aerodrome fields. It took me rather longer to negotiate the stile to try to avoid stinging my bare legs on the invading nettles and brambles. Of course, if unsuccessful, I knew - thanks to Dad - to find a dock leaf to rub onto my tingling skin.

On the other side was the old aerodrome. Mum later worked in one of the aircraft hangars as a wages clerk. Another of the hangars had been used for the Queen’s Coronation celebrations in 1953.  Paper ribbon trimmings and bunting in red, white, and blue decked the enormous space, an exciting experience for a six-year-old after the confines of war.  Long tables with white cloths were laden with food, most of which had been previously unavailable, and much of it still on ration. We each received a free Coronation mug, a gesture much appreciated and so much nicer to drink from than the tin mugs that mum and dad had retained from their army days.

Dad loved birds and wildlife and I learned much from him on these adventures. Our walks lasted for a couple of hours, crossed several stiles, and continued onto the Golf Links. When we reached the Airman’s Rest pub on Ratby Lane, I knew we would then be making our way back.

Upon our return, the gathered chickweed was thrown into the aviary and we removed our wellies to enter the kitchen through the back door. The smell of the Sunday roast was most welcome. If cooking apples were in season, there would be the tandem aromas of roasting meat and sweet apple pie baking in the oven or cooling on the cardinal-tiled kitchen windowsill. If no apples, then we saved our Yorkshire pudding to eat for afters with jam or golden syrup. 

Every ring on the gas cooker had a bubbling saucepan. Every window in the house was obliterated with steam. Our vegetables were boiled to death, and it is doubtful a single vitamin survived in the insipid looking pale mush that had been greens. Dad told us that eating our greens would make our hair curl; this seemed of little consequence to three girls with thick mops of curly tresses.

The wireless was always playing at the weekends - day and night - as we had no television. Family Favourites was a Sunday morning request show for the serving armed forces, most addresses were BFPO followed by an area number. Following that, and usually as we ate dinner, came the Billy Cotton Band Show. Billy started his show by bellowing, ‘Wakey, Wakey!’ at full volume.

We all sat around the table in the ‘Breakfast Room’ and ate together. Sometimes, if finances allowed, we children were sent to the local off-licence to buy a bottle of fizzy pop, carrying the last empty bottle to claim the return 3d deposit. The flavours alternated between Tizer, Dandelion and Burdock or Raspberry Cream Soda, depending on whose turn it was to choose.

Carolyn Wheatley