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Tin trays and even dust pans Eric Swales, Nevinson Avenue, Sunnyhill, Derby. Reference your request in Bygone Derby (Issue No 69) for memories of the winter of 1946-47. It was September 1946 and, having passed the 11-plus examinations, I had been allocated a place a Derby Central School, which, I thought, being located in Darley Park, was a wonderful place to go to school. My thoughts were confirmed as that most memorable winter arrived, lasting through to march 1947, during which there were about seven continuous weeks when the temperature never got above zero, day or night. Transport to school for me was by a petrol double decker bus which I boarded at the Cavendish cinema, which then proceeded via Warwick Avenue and the arterial road to Duffield Road. However, the bus loaded with schoolboys and sledges (I cannot remember if taking sledges was eventually banned) used to encounter difficulties on the steep part of Warwick Avenue due to deep snow and ice. I remember, on one occasion, the bus failing to negotiate the hill and we all had to get off. Still, the bus continued to struggle. Eventually, with numerous boys pushing at the read, success was achieved. One morning, after a blizzard, it was noticed that the snow had drifted and had formed what looked like a giant surfing wave between the hedge boundary of Normanton Rec and the tree tops on the grass verge of the road. That afternoon, returning home on the school bus, some of us alighted before our stop in order to try to walk along the crest of this unusual shaped drift. However, in some parts where the snow was not strong enough, we fell through, only avoiding a quick, long drop by the fact that the satchels on our backs acted like a brake.
A way from school, at home in Dover Street, an area of terraced houses, the snow was well over knee-deep on the level, with drifts everywhere of several feet blocking lots of roads completely. This did not deter the local milkman who would leave his float on the main road where he would load milk crates onto a sledge and continue his round by foot. A long, hard day indeed. With everywhere just a canopy of white and the reflections of the street lights, we could play outside until late into the night because it was almost like daylight. There was one danger though. With no roof insulation in those days, when the heat from the house got to the roof it caused the snow to melt and slide off the rood with a tremendous thud, bringing with it slates and guttering and, because they were terraced houses, that meant straight onto the pavement. The things we used to get up to included building barricades and igloos (the snow when packed down was ideal to chop out in big blocks). We would defend them from rival gangs (more akin to Richmal Compton’s Just William type than what the word conjures up today) and, in return, raid their territory with sledges piled high with ready-made snowballs. Making slides in the school playground in St. James’ Road was another pastime but we had to contend with grumpy, old adults complaining about the noise we made (I understand now). Sledging down Stanhope Street was well patronised but, because Pear Tree Road ran across the bottom, a look-out was posted to warn of the approach of traffic, mainly a trolley bus in those days. On seeing the warning, sledges would be turned into the huge piles of snow stacked at the roadside. Those who did not possess wellington boots used their Dad’s socks worn over their shoes to prevent slipping. There were times when you had to go inside, to dry out your gloves and warm your hands and suffer the pain of “hot aches”. Eventually, it all had to end and, in March 1947 came the thaw, to bring its own devastation and disruption with widespread flooding. |
