By Joan Simmonds (Nee Evans)
I was born in Llandaff North in 1930, in one of three small cottages which were along the lane which went up to the Infants school at the back of what is now the Indian restaurant on Station Road. They have long been knocked down.
I always consider myself very fortunate to have been born and brought up in Llandaff North. It always seemed to me to be a very caring community.
When I was very young I thought it was the whole world and I couldn’t imagine there were people living anywhere else that I didn’t know because Llandaff North seemed so compact and safe and every face you looked at you recognised. Indeed, most of them were related to you in some way.
The boundaries of the village I knew as a child were the bottom of Station Hill, to the bridge over the River Taff to Llandaff City, the Infant School, Hailey Park, the Black Bridge and along the canal path to the Cow & Snuffers and Llandaff Yard on the Freehold (I never did find out why it was called that).
We never ventured much further than that; there was no need – Hailey Park, our schools, churches and chapels were all we needed. There were always plenty of exciting things going on.
THE SHOPS
Apart from a few shops in the side streets, we had all the shops we needed in Station Road. It’s amazing to compare it then to what is there now, all take-aways and off licences. We had newsagents, grocers - which sold only groceries, greengrocers sold only fruit and vegetables, butchers just sold meat and products, bakers just bread and cakes, sweet shops only sweets. There was a chemist, a clothes shop and drapers. They all only sold their own products, never intruding on any others domain. We had a wireless and bicycle shop,(Gardners) a watch repairers, hairdressers and barber shops. But woe and betide any man in our family who didn’t go down to Fred Richards barber shop to have their hair cut; my mother would be on the warpath because, as far as my mother was concerned, there was no-one quite like Fred.
And, wonder of wonders, Llandaff North possessed a hat shop. It’s hard to imagine a shop selling only hats nowadays. In the front room of a terraced house next to the railway car park in Station Road. As a child, I would stand on tiptoe with my chin on the window sill and see just 1 hat perched on one of those tall stands with a mushroom-like top to hold the hat and a chiffon scarf draped around the stand. I longed to see inside that shop; I was sure it held hidden treasures there. It was so posh, I thought, and mysterious. The owner, Miss Watkins was quite a superior-looking character, she too was mysterious, I thought, as she very infrequently drifted in and out of her shop, with the little bell going ‘ping’ every time she did so. She was a tall, slim lady with fair wavy hair, which was swept back in a severe bun. Weekdays she always wore a brown cardigan and skirt with a cream high-necked blouse with a large cameo brooch. She was pince-nez spectacles which were secured on a chain and pinned to her cardigan. On Sundays she always wore black as she strode down to church looking neither right nor left.
I used to spend ages looking in that window to see if I could catch her changing the hat in the window, but I never did. As if by magic a different one would appear. I never saw any customers going inside, but I’m sure they did, as no wedding was complete in Llandaff North without a hat from Miss Watkins.
I longed to see the treasures I was so sure were inside. But once, years later when I did get inside, the bell ‘pinged’ magically as I opened the door. What a disappointment! No gold or jewels, just a bare room with a few hat boxes and a glass display cabinet on a wooden floor. On it was a big black velvet ball filled with hat pins, but no treasure, nothing wonderful. Another childhood dream shattered!
THE CANAL
It was always exciting for us children when the barges came along the canal on their way through Llandaff North to the docks. They were pulled by those magnificent horses. We used to stand by the little bridge that led to Hailey Park to watch the Bargee unharness the horse and quickly run over the bridge with the horse while the barge slowly drifted under it. The small arch of the bridge wasn’t big enough for those huge horses. If we had the time we would run along the canal bank to watch the Bargee and the Lock Keeper manoeuvre the barge through the Cow and Snuffers Lock, which seemed a work of art.
SCHOOL
Going to school was never a daunting experience, because most of the teachers knew you and had taught your older brothers and sisters and, invariably, taught your parents too.
Most of our teachers lived locally and knew your family background. If there were any problems in the houses they knew of them and understood and could cope with the children’s behaviour if it affected them.
Going to Infant School on a cold winter’s morning, I remember blazing coal fires in every classroom and the crates of little bottles of milk alongside the fires so the milk would be warm for us to drink at playtime. Often in really hard winters, the milk would be frozen, and had to be thawed out before we could drink it.
On hot summer days we would sit outside on the grass for one lesson. It’s funny on reflection, you only remember the good things that happen, never the bad; I’m sure there must have been some.
THE MELINGRIFFITH
Apart from a very few men in those days, most of the population was employed either on the railway or in the Melingriffith Tin Plate Works. As my family all worked in the tin works, I remember more about that.
It always seemed strangely exciting to me around change-over times of shifts, the men worked 6a.m. – 2pm, 2 pm – 10pm and night shift 10pm – 6am. Most of the men cycled along Ty Mawr Road and along past the woods to work, very few walked. About 10 minutes before change-over it seemed the whole road was full of cycles with men in work clothes exactly the same, like a uniform. Flat caps, short flannel shirts, grey and very rough to absorb perspiration. A striped towel was worn around the neck like a scarf - they were called sweat cloths to mop their faces in the intense heat. And long white stiff calico aprons to protect them. They always had a cheery word for each other as they pedalled along. A short time later, cycles would be coming back in the opposite direction. A different look on the men now. Slowly pedalling, most of them walking leaning heavily on their bikes, their faces tired, grey and streaked with grime and sweat. The effects of dehydration all too plain to see, brought on by a long and physically hard shift in very high temperatures. And on hot summer days their clothes would be wringing wet.
Most would head straight for the Royal Exchange, where they would mix some salt with their beer, in an attempt to prevent the painful night cramps that were a consequence of sweating so heavily in the day.
It was a very hard life, but no-one seemed to complain. It was their job, their way of life, and they accepted it.
I remember when I was older my father took me inside the tin works and that experience will always be imprinted on my mind. It was unbelievably hot in there, like another world, with blazing furnaces. The men slowly drew the almost white-hot sheets of metal from the furnaces with huge tongs and gently slid it across the floor where it was ‘caught’ by other men with tongs. It was passed to a man who doubled it over with a huge steel boot. Then it was rolled expertly back and fore through giant rollers, only to begin the whole process again and again. The skill, expertise and split-second timing of these men at work was strangely beautiful. I can remember thinking, if someone could put these movements to music it would make strange but wonderfully artistic ballet. I’m sure the workers didn’t think of it like that, but I did, and I will never forget it. And with the age of technology, we will never see manual work like that done again.
But the hardships and the comradeships these arduous jobs entailed brought closeness, friendships and care into one community that will never be felt again.
FAMILY
Because we lived in a village-like atmosphere and so many of us were related, it wasn’t unusual to live with, or very close to, relations, as I did. We lived next door to my grandparents on my father’s side and having them and young uncles living so close gave my brother and I a lot of fun and excitement. The kind that is only felt when you are a child in a grown-up family. All special occasions and traditions were kept and celebrated. Birthdays, Christmas, when all the family gathered in their front room around a piano singing and reciting. We all, grown-ups and children alike, had our party pieces which we were expected to perform every time we were together. Hallow’een nights were fun – Duck Apple Bob Apple nights we called them. No cruel trick or treats frightening people, just fun.
My grandmother always made the Christmas cakes and puddings for the whole family. We would all gather on the appointed nights and watch the whole process. We all had to stir and make a wish. It was a real party atmosphere and the day after the cakes were mixed, they would be carried along the lane to Mr. Hoffman’s bakery, at the rear of the post office in Evansfield Road – the ovens opened onto the lane and almost everyone that end of Llandaff North had their cakes baked there.
My grandmother used to hover around until she managed to get her cakes into the best position to be baked to perfection. The smell that pervaded over the whole area that day was magnificent, with all those beautifully rich cakes baking at the same time. When cooked and the ovens opened, all eyes would eagerly scan them to see if their cakes were better than their friends. All the tins had little pieces of wood with names on them. My grandmother, a very forceful woman, was the biggest culprit, glorying over the others; “It’s not for me to say” she would tell us, “but even if I do say it myself, my cakes were darker than the others and properly risen. If mine looked like some, pale and sunken in the middle, I’d be ashamed to collect them. But mine were beautiful, even Mr. Hoffman admired them”!
It was always the same every year, just like a pantomime. There must have been disadvantages living so close to relations, but as I’ve said, in retrospect you only remember the good times.
THREE CUPS ROW
My other grandparents lived at the opposite end of Llandaff North and a different life style altogether as my grandfather never seemed to work, but it was always lovely visiting them every Sunday morning. My father would take us; they lived alongside the canal in a little row of cottages called 3 Cups Row. There was a huge house at the end, which used to be a public house called The 3 Cups, hence the name 3 Cups Row.
The little houses had just 1 room only downstairs, the sink and the stove were behind the front door hidden by a curtain; 2 very small bedrooms upstairs. No back door and to get to the toilet you had to walk along the row, turn a corner into a lane and into a large barn-like building where all the toilets were housed – all in a row just partitioned off. There was no light, it was all very primitive and, as my granny’s house was near the end of the row, so was their lavatory. I hated it, it was so dark and eerie. My granny used to say “Don’t you dare use Mrs. Pugh’s lavatory” – hers was the first in the row and nearest the door, so you had a little chink of light. But, in spite of being told, I always did use it. She was always so pleased to see us each Sunday, it was a real treat to drink her cabbage water, which I loved and drank like lemonade.
LIFE AT HOME
When I was about 10, we moved to Number 50, Ty Mawr Road, and my mother lived there for many years, until her death in the late 1980s.
I remember how we all hated Mondays, which was always washing day whatever the weather. The boiler would be lit early and it used to take almost the whole day, with a row of baths and buckets all in a line to boil wash with a washing board, rinse blue then starch everything.
The house was full of steam and we always had fry-up for dinner, which I hated then – but would love it now. Every day was designated for house work, shopping and cooking. Tuesday the ironing was always done and Fridays were manic. We had a big black range in our kitchen and every Friday it was a ritual to take the whole thing apart, clean the flues and ovens – then everything was black-leaded, polished and put back again. What a back-breaking chore in almost every household on a Friday. The surrounds of the room and the long passage were always polished with Red Cardinal polish.
Slave labour, but on cold winter days, what a sight to see a bright red glowing fire in that shining black range with the red tiles gleaming too. My mother used to put a brick in the oven wrapped in flannel to put into the bed like a hot water bottle, but unlike the bottle the brick retained the heat until morning, until you got up and put your feet on the icy cold linoleum; no central heating then.
Sometimes if we had been good and if there was any spare money, we would be taken to the Tivoli cinema on Saturday evenings. Supposedly a treat, but I could never really enjoy it, as every Saturday night we had to be given opening medicines to keep us healthy – it was torture really and one particular torture was senna pods. I can smell that revolting stuff to this day. My mother would put the pods in an old cup without a handle, pour boiling water over it and put a saucer on top, then onto the hob to stew for hours. The smell, the taste and the effects of this revolting stuff were horrible. All through the film I would think of that cup without the handle and what was in store. That is one of the unpleasant things I do remember.
Good Friday we would go for a whole day to picnic on the Wenallt or Garth, or gather bluebells and primroses from the woods. We’d take sandwiches and a bottle of sherbet water. I don’t think we were warned not to talk to strangers, it wasn’t necessary.
Some thoughts at random.
I remember the travellers of the road, or tramps we called them, who used to walk from Cardiff to Pontypridd workhouse. They would knock on doors and were rarely refused a bit of bread and cheese. We were never afraid of them.
Spring cleaning when the whole house was literally taken apart – mats, rugs taken up and beaten on the line. Every inch of paintwork washed, curtains changed. I wish I could boast the same nowadays in my house.
Shopping in the small grocers, taking a list. My mother taking a seat at the counter having a chat with the assistant. Then paying for the goods, seeing the money whiz across the ceiling in one of those magic little boxes into the glass office in the corner and miraculously whiz back with your bill and the change. My ambition was to work up there in a glass office, whizzing money to and fro.
Packing clothes the day before going on holiday, when the GWR horse and cart would collect the cases and for sixpence they were delivered to your destination before you arrived the next day, never failing. Then you would spend a week having room and attendance in someone’s house …. Paradise.
Apart from baking cakes, the preparations for Christmas didn’t last for months in the home. Most of the shopping, buying presents and food was nearly all done on Christmas Eve. The decorations were put up only after we, as children, had gone to bed. So, on Christmas morning everything had transformed….. the tree, the decorations, the presents, food, everything was wonderful. What a difference now, where in shops on Christmas Eve every trace of Christmas has been cleared away for the January sales. Are we missing something? I think so.
Children playing in the streets, the marbles and allies would come out. Whipping tops, skipping ropes, hoops and sticks, bogey carts – all had their seasons. And rap tap ginger – knocking doors and running away.
But that was all. If you really misbehaved, like stealing apples or making a nuisance of yourself, the local policeman would tell your parents because he would know you and them and if you were a cheeky kid you would get a clip around the ear.
Milk and bread delivered to your door. Milk-man with horse and cart and those difference measures that he would dip into the milk churn. The bread delivered by bicycle with a huge basket in front. Bread still warm and smelling so lovely. The salt and vinegar man delivering huge blocks of salt. The man who sharpened knives and garden shears on a bike. Bonfire nights, where we burned just garden rubbish and boxes, sparklers and, if you were lucky, 1 penny bangers or Catherine wheels; only held on one night of the year and never frightened anyone.
Llandaff North has changed a great deal since those days, but it still has some of the small village character that I remember in the 1930s.