STREETLY,
STAFFORDSHIRE
MEMORIES
(1936 - 1961)
... FROM A
SMALL BOY'S
"DIARY"
...
SATURDAY 11th
AUGUST 1945
STILL THE SAME
and Beeson
and Beesands
by Chris Myers
|
Saturday 11th August 1945
It's all been the same, for days.
The war still hasn't finished. And we've
been happily carrying on
with our holiday, sometimes
forgetting what's happening
in the big, wide world but
then remembering
that it is really a very
important time. Dad listens
to the news whenever he is
in the cottage at the right
time.
But then, the day before
yesterday,
Thursday,
August 9th, there
was ANOTHER one. It was
a place called
Nagasaki. I
have never heard of it
before. Nor
Hiroshima, come
to that. The only place in
Japan I have ever known
about is
Tokyo. That's the
capital. To me, it's all as
far away as the moon.
The Japs still haven't given
up yet, even though the
first bomb
was on Monday, there was
this second one on Thursday
and now it's
Saturday. Dad keeps
saying that they
can't possibly carry on
after this and he's told me
that they've said they
are ready to surrender. So it
really looks as
though the war is nearly
over. But nothing is
settled. And so the war
carries on until everything
is agreed and we are still
not at peace.
Anyway, that's
all happening a long, long way away, as I
say. So let's get back to where
we are in Devon.
Beeson, where we are, is
a tiny village, about a mile
from the sea. This is almost
all of it.
You'll probably recognise our
cottage right in the middle
of the picture. Our rooms
are on the right-hand side.
The bedroom, where I sleep
with Mum and Dad is the top window,
as I've told you before.
And the window of our
sitting and dining room is
underneath.
The
food is lovely. All sorts of
things I've never had
before, like
fresh crab for the first
time and I love it. We also
have chicken, fish and lots of other things. And
loads of Devonshire cream to
go with the raspberries.
Mrs. Honeywill has a big bowl on her
scullery floor which she
makes it in. The crabs are
absolutely huge. I think
they are called King Crabs
and they all come from
Beesands, just down the
lane. I think I can say that
we eat like a king - but we
probably eat better than our own King
George VI because we all know
he only eats what's allowed
on the ration. But
there doesn't seem to be
much rationing here. Perhaps
His Majesty
should come to Beeson if he
feels like a really good
feed, just like people used
to have pre-war!
This is a picture of our
village from the other
direction, with the back of
our cottage just down on the
right, straight after that
funny lean-to thing on the
cottage next door, nearest
to us. You can see the
gardens on the opposite side
of the lane and, beyond
them, a little orchard and
field with a gate to it from
the lane.
You can see that there
aren't many houses. Opposite
us, in those gardens of some
other cottages, everything
seems to me so lush,
compared with home.
Everything packed closely
together, rows of peas and
beans and carrots and
cauliflowers and other nice
things. (Apart from the
cabbages, which I hate!)
The cottage we are
in is part of
Beeson Farm
which you can't see in the
picture. You get to it up a
rough, narrow track just by
where we park the car and
past the
Post Office. Or,
as I said before, out
through a little gate near
the back door of Mrs. Honeywill's cottage. The
farm has cows and grows a lot of
corn. The farmer is
Mr.
Honeywill Sr. and my Mr.
Honeywill is one of his
sons. There's another son, John. And sisters.
I think they all still live at
the farm with the mum and
dad. Also on the farm is a
German prisoner-of-war. He's
supposed to be a nice man but
I've never met him. I've
seen him working away, in
the distance, with his fair
hair and looking as brown as
a berry. I don't know his
name. I wonder how unhappy
he is to be so far from
home. And when he'll be able
to get back there to his
family.
I think
Mr. Honeywill has been in the Army.
There's a picture of him on
the wall, upstairs in the
cottage, in a great big
greatcoat and looking a bit
sad. But he's home now. And
it might have been the Home
Guard he was in, so that he
could still work every day on the
farm and help produce the
country's food.
If you walk along the
lane in the direction we are
looking, for about twenty
minutes, you go along a
flattish bit first of all
and then the lane suddenly
dives down, ever so steeply,
going round one or two very
sharp hairpins until you
reach sea level. (There is a
very sharp bend, just like
these, in the middle of
Beeson. That one got made a
bit less sharp by the
Americans when they were
all around here. They couldn't get
their big Army lorries
around it. But it looks as
though they decided to put up
with these, further on
towards Beesands).
After the bends and the road
has flattened out, it's just
a few yards to the village
of
Beesands. This is a
sleepy little place although
it's bigger than Beeson.
It's a long row of
fishermen's cottages with
the front doors straight
on to the road. On the other
side of the road the shingle
starts and then slopes right
down to the water. The men
here all fish for crabs.
They have open boats for one
or two people with an engine
in. You can see their round
crab pots all over the place.
And lines of bait drying and
waiting to be used. At first
you wonder how they get
these heavy boats out of the
sea and up the beach. The
answer is a lot of chains
or cable and, all along the beach,
little tiny sheds which
aren't much more than big
boxes. I've had a look in
one of these. Inside was a
very old car engine. When
they start it up, the engine
drives a big drum which one
of the chains or cables is attached to.
As it goes slowly round and
round, it pulls the boat up
the beach. It all looks very
clever to me. But a bit
rusty.
This is a
picture of Beesands. It's a
pity you can't see much of
the beach and the boats and
all the other stuff.
Halfway
down the row of cottages is
a pub, called
The Cricket.
It's small and everybody
crowds into the bar. I
expect it is busier than
usual with the visitors,
including my mum and dad
quite regularly! I sit
outside with a glass of
lemonade and a packet of
Smith's crisps with its
little blue bag of salt.
(Children can't go into
pubs, of course). I'm quite
happy. There's plenty to
look at and especially the
sea. You can gaze out towards
the horizon past the crab
pots, the boats, the washing
lines and all sorts of other
stuff on the beach. And
then, if you look to the
right, that's where there's
another village, around the
headland. It's called
Hallsands.
And, to the left,
at the far end of the long
beach and around another
headland, there's the village of
Torcross and beyond it
Slapton Sands. I'll probably
tell you later about what I
saw in both these places.
But let's stay in Beesands
for a moment. It's so quiet
and peaceful, especially in
the evening, and you would think
that nothing could ever
happen here. But then,
almost next door to the pub,
you see there is a big gap
in the row of cottages. And
a wrecked cottage where
there's a large car parked.
I think it's the local taxi.
Bombing didn't just happen
to us in Birmingham. One day a plane came
and dropped a bomb, just
near here. At least one cottage
was destroyed and several
people were killed. It's difficult
to believe, in a peaceful
little village like this.
We sometimes see walking
along the lanes, being
helped by a member of his
family, an elderly gentleman.
(Well, he looks elderly to
me, just like my dad and
he's 45. That's pretty
old!). This
gentleman is blind.
I think he lost his sight
when the bomb fell. He was
on coastguard duty at the
time, looking out of an
upper window at The Cricket
and the glass shattered in
the blast. Dad
offered him a lift one day
but he said, no, thank you,
he enjoyed walking. The gentleman's name is Mr.
Edwin Hatherley
and this is a picture of him
and family - his daughter
Winifred and
granddaughter
Gillian. And the
family dog.
And we enjoy walking as
well. Dad
never takes the car down to
Beesands. We always walk.
Going is OK. But coming
back is hard work. The lane
is so steep that I wonder if
our car would ever get up
it. (Dad sometimes tells me
the story about a place
called
Clovelly where, when
he was there years and years
ago, the road was so steep
that some cars had to
reverse up it because they
couldn't get up it going
forwards).
Our lane isn't quite as bad
as that, but you never know!
But the coming back,
even though the hill is so
steep, is nice. That
sometimes happens at dusk.
We will have gone to The
Cricket after supper. As you
climb the hill you can still
hear the waves breaking on
the beach behind you, and,
if you listen carefully
enough, you might even hear
the hiss of the shingle as
the water flows back over
it. Gradually that all
fades. Then there's almost
nothing apart from
our footsteps. Just some
clicking in the hedgerow as
a grasshopper or cricket
gets ready for bed after a
busy day amongst the
hawthorn and the hazel. The
scent of honeysuckle hits
you as it gets stronger in
the evening air. And the
hedgerow starts to show
pinpoints of light as the
glowworms become visible.
There are a couple of
cottages, further on, and
you can usually get a whiff
of wood smoke as you walk
past. It's a lovely smell. I
think that the people who
live there use wood for
cooking. They certainly
don't need it for heating,
not on an evening like this.
Then back into the
cottage. The door is never
locked. There's a light on.
(We have electricity here.
And a proper bathroom). I'm
worn out. The heat, the
exercise, the fresh air. So
straight up to bed while
Mum and Dad have the last
natter of the day
downstairs. I'll be fast
asleep before they come up.
This holiday gets better
and better.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Please see INDEX page for
general acknowledgements.
Grateful
acknowledgement is also made
to:
- the several owners of the
Myers Family Archive of which most
of
the images shown on this page are a
part
- Martyn Northsworthy (for
Edwin Hatherley information and
image)
This family
and local history
page is hosted by
- The History of the Home Guard in Great Britain, 1940-1944
-
www.staffshomeguard.co.uk
All text and images are, unless otherwise
stated or implied © The
Myers Family 2025
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