Going Home
When all the hops had been picked a sort of melancholy overtook the
youngsters,
the holiday was over and it was back to school—in my case Corngreaves
Junior School
in Cradley Heath
But there was the little matter of getting paid and this event is my only
real memory of the shutdown
It was a very formal occasion, a little like an Army Pay Parade;
“ Just off the lane
in the flat space in front of the Barracks a table and chair appeared
together with the Estate managers, Messrs Ballard and
Selby—Ballard seated and
Selby looking on (but not on his horse)---with all the
“dosh” and the paperwork on the table
Each cabin was called up in turn and the amount earned was
called out and handed over so
all were aware of what everyone else had earned and the odd
murmur went up when a
particularly large amount was involved
I’m afraid that my mum was way down the list!”
I can’t remember a thing about
the journey home
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Post Script 1
This website could not have been written without the help and
encouragement of Jean Bloomer,
great grand-daughter of Ruth Billingham—she also provided most of the
photographs
This
is Jean’s mother, Leah Johnson, pictured at the Dumbleton
She died on
26th December 2003 aged 95 and amongst her papers
Jean
found a number of poems about the Dumbleton,
This is one of
them, written by a Mrs Lillian Draper
She lived in one of the cottages in the lane opposite
Dumbleton Barracks
They Came Hopping to Dumbleton
Gone are the days when the
charra’s would roll
up country lanes to reach their goal
The
barracks would be ready to receive their guests
having been scrubbed and
looking their best.
Then the air would be filled with Black country talk
after sorting themselves out they’d go for a walk
down to the farm for a mattress or two
some potatoes or whatever was due.
And when nightime came with the lamps all lit
round the big fires in the shanties they’d sit
swapping tales they had told time and time again
and silently praying there’d be
no rain.
for
the next three weeks when the hops they’d pick
at three ha’pence a bushel they had to be quick.
Some people looked on with much
disdain
What
they thought of the hoppers was made very plain
But
“they’re the salt of the earth” one writer said
“these people live and die by their bread”
now all this is gone, automation is there
country lanes are quiet when September is near.
no more apples to scrump, no hawkers galore
fewer hops to be picked as there were before,
automation came at an awful
cost
we cannot replace the friends we have lost.
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Post Script 2
In later years I
have been fortunate to travel to most parts of the world, both on business
and pleasure,
staying in some very exotic and luxurious places
Hop picking at the
Dumbleton is amongst my best memories
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On the death of the Wallace
sisters, the Eardiston Estate passed to their nephew, Colonel Eden J. Wallace
He eventually sold out and
moved to Bishops Castle
End