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    Granny Fenwicks Recipes and Remedies
    Granny Fenwicks Recipes and Remedies
    Granny Fenwicks Recipes and Remedies
    Ebook94 pages53 minutes

    Granny Fenwicks Recipes and Remedies

    By Steve Rudd

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    About this ebook

    It all started with a biscuit tin. Writer and editor Steve Rudd was finally clearing out some boxes that had been stored in various places at his home since a house move in 1996. But it wasn’t as simple as that, for some of the boxes were actually boxes that had been following him round the country during various previous house moves since 1992. And some of those boxes contained stuff that originally came from his parents' home, dating as far back as 1980, when his maternal grandma, the redoubtable Granny Fenwick, died.

    So it was that, one day in the summer of 2012, Steve found he was holding in his hand the very same brown biscuit tin which had stood on his granny’s mantelpiece when he used to visit her in the small village of Welton, near Hull, back in the 1960s, from a box which had been unopened since 1980. Inside the tin was not, as he had first surmised, either a bundle of old white fivers or a tangle of bits of string, hooks, and odd buttons, but in fact lots of pieces of folded paper, which turned out to be recipes and household hints either handwritten onto the back of old envelopes dating back into the 1920s, 1930s and 1940s, or clipped from contemporary newspapers of the time.

    "It was like opening a window and suddenly being able to see back almost 80 years. As I read them to myself, in her own words, as she wrote them, I could hear her voice again.” said Steve, who has now collected them together, along with a few relevant family photographs, a bit of background history and an afterword by social historian and biographer Maisie Robson, into Granny Fenwick’s Recipes and Remedies, an 80-page illustrated paperback.

    Of interest to students of both cookery and social history, especially the make-do-and-mend, "Keep Calm and Carry On” years of the second world war, when rationing was prevalent, this book will also appear to all those who know the old East Riding of Yorkshire, particularly Welton, Elloughton, and Elloughton Dale.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherKings England Press
    Release dateFeb 1, 2013
    ISBN9781909548039
    Granny Fenwicks Recipes and Remedies
    Author

    Steve Rudd

    Steve Rudd was born in a prefab in Hull, East Yorkshire, in 1955, completely naked, unable to walk, talk, or fend for himself. He began writing poetry at school, in common with many other misguided adolescents. Fortunately for all concerned, none of that early work has survived. His chief poetic claim to fame is that he once served Philip Larkin in a bookshop. Unfortunately for both parties at the time, he mistook the great man for Eric Morecambe. He now has three poetry collections in print , the most recent, Albion, being published in 2012. His first book, Here Endeth The Epilogue, grew out of a long-standing love affair with the BBC Radio Soap The Archers, and is a collection of blog postings which often took the programme as a starting point, but then rambled off in all directions, seldom retracing their steps, in a weekly picture of life in Huddersfield’s Holme Valley. The other major love of his life has been The Isle of Arran, the inspiration for the trilogy of travelogues, Arran Diaries, Loitering With Tin Tent, and Two Returns to Arran. In 2010, a bout of serious illness meant he was confined to hospital for six months, and during that time, conscious of the fact that summer was passing by outside his window, he decided to write down everything he knew about cricket so he could pass on the knowledge to his seven-year-old nephew when he was old enough to understand it. This became Zen and the Art of Nurdling. He lives in West Yorkshire with a wife, a cat, and a variable number of dogs, but not necessarily in that order. His hobbies include annoying people, lying under the table with an empty can of Special Brew (which is, in itself, a form of prayer) thinking about Abraham Lincoln’s hat, and having staring contests with the linoleum.

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      Book preview

      Granny Fenwicks Recipes and Remedies - Steve Rudd

      How this book came to be written

      Granny Fenwick was my mother’s mother, born Sarah Jane Walker in 1887 in Hailgate, Howden, in the old East Riding of Yorkshire. She had an interesting, albeit peripatetic, childhood, as her father, John Jackson Walker (1852-1925) was a policeman, starting out as a Bobby in the East Riding Constabulary, and retiring in 1910, with the rank of Superintendent. As he was posted around the Riding, as part of his duties, he took his family with him, and they lived at a variety of Police Houses in places such as Escrick, and Molescroft, near Beverley.

      By the time of his retirement, he was incumbent at Welton Police Station, ten miles west of Hull, a delightful village with a medieval church dedicated to St Helen which sits picturesquely behind a mill-race with a stone bridge. Welton also has (probably mythical) associations with Dick Turpin, of all people. I recall being shown, as a child, the narrow little window (boarded up now, high under the eaves) of the Green Dragon Inn, (which faces the church across the village green in a quintessentially English grouping) where Dick Turpin is supposed to have wriggled through and escaped his pursuers. He dropped down, to land in the saddle of his faithful mare, Black Bess, who happened, fortuitously, to be grazing just below, thus enabling him to make his escape to York from the pursuing Redcoats. Like all legends, it really ought to be true!

      Gran had connections with Welton all her life. It was there, in the years leading up to the First World War, that she met Jim Fenwick, whose father, Albert, was a master bricklayer in the village, the latest manifestation of a line of Fenwick plumbers, bricklayers and glaziers in that place, stretching back into the 1700s. Sadly, as a householder, I have inherited none of their genes, which seem to have gone elsewhere in the family. Anyway, the General Register of Births, Marriages and Deaths says that the couple were married in the Summer of 1911, in Howden. Over the next 20 years, she gave birth to eight children, the youngest of which was my mother, Barbara Isabel Fenwick, born 18th July 1928.

      Something must have gone wrong with the marriage, though, because at some time after 1928, Gran and her children who were still at home had moved to Elloughton Dale cottages, only a mile or so away from Welton, but much more remote, set back amongst the trees off a neglected country road that led off up over the Wolds towards Riplingham and Beverly. By the time my mother fled the family nest in 1954, when she married my Dad, Gran had already given up Elloughton Dale cottages and moved back to Welton, where she lived with my Mum, her last remaining child at home, at number 9, Ladywell Gate, just up the hill from St Helen’s Church.

      During this time, my mother was working at the Flying School attached to Blackburn’s aircraft factory in Brough, and was often offered flips in various planes, including one day when a daredevil pilot offered to take her up in a DH Rapide, and then proceeded to buzz the tower of Welton church at a very low altitude. When my mother called round to see Granny Fenwick that evening, she said Eeeh, honey, you should have been here today, some bloody fool in an aeroplane nearly hit the church tower! to which my mother replied, I know. I was inside the aeroplane!

      It was there, to Ladywellgate, Welton, as a child, that I was taken to visit her by my mother, and – if I was on my best behaviour – occasionally be given a ten shilling note. A long bus-ride from Hull, 10 miles out into the country, it seemed like a whole day’s adventure in those days, courtesy of East Yorkshire Motor Services. It never occurred to me, during those visits, to ask what was in the old biscuit tin on her mantelpiece, over the black lead range where she used to sit, her chair resting on one of the many rag-rugs she used to make from old scraps of cloth; at the time, I was more preoccupied with being allowed to play in the garden and climb on top of the solid, substantial, brick-built air raid shelter that still stood there. That in itself was a risky business in short trousers, often resulting in skinned knees or grazed shins, not to mention incurring the wrath of my mother for messing up my best

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