WßD Chapter 5 ~ From Eyford Park to Cotswold Grange (Revised Edition)

Windsor Street Days

Chapter 5

From Eyford Park to Cotswold Grange

Pte Horace Albert Webb in Western France 1916, exercising the commanding officer’s Charger. My grandfather explained to me that the three lines on his charger’s left shoulder is a repaired schrapnel wound. We too easily forget the animals caught up in man’s inhumanity to man …

I

MY FATHER’S parents were in service to gentry. Upon marriage, Grandma and Grandad lived in Eyford Lodge - a grand lodge even today - on the Eyford Estate and owned then by the Cheetham Family. Their firstborn, Arthur Horace James, arrived in 1914 and then Grandad went off to war.

A coachman-chauffeur, he continued the family tradition of fine horsemanship. Grandma’s father, too, had returned to England on retirement from the Indian Army, known for his skills in breaking horses in India, a fact mentioned to me on many occasions and which, no doubt, served to strengthen my desire to one day take up horsemanship seriously. I’ll pick up this thread later in Part IV.

The family archive has correspondence between my grandparents, my grandmother writing to my grandfather at Rockcliffe, Lower Slaughter in North Gloucestershire, the Cotswolds.

II

I knew that they lived at Eyford Lodge, Lower Swell, and that the Swells and the Slaughters were adjacent. Wondering where Rockcliffe might be, I used Google Maps and Street View. Yes, for sure, Rockcliffe does indeed still appear to exist. I then inserted the second direction address to ascertain the distance between the two. That’s odd!

I found myself in a country lane. Using the compass I navigated myself around, and after several minutes came across the rear of a property. As I moved along a few more feet … you know, webbey, I can’t help but think I’m looking at the rear and side views of Eyford Lodge, it’s the same stone work.

And, sure enough, I was.

Just as I had changed (stupidly) the name of my house from Abbots Croft to Beit El in the 1990s (oh, that fundamentalist church has so, so much to answer for in a temporarily wrecked life that followed and took me almost twenty years from which to extricate myself by the application of sound common sense and reasoning, an eye on history, and an awareness that actual events and stories in the retelling become ever more fantastical) so Rockliffe had later become Eyford Lodge.

The Lodge is on the entrance to the Eyford Park Estate, at that time owned by the Cheetham Family, and it is, therefore, quite possible that estate management had seen fit to bring things into this new and tumultuous twentieth century, for we were just entering into the closing months of the Great War (later World War I) and a new and frightening influenza pandemic.

III

Reading the CDC website - the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention - it is pertinent, in 2022, to record here a note by the CDC:

The 1918 influenza pandemic was the most severe pandemic in recent history. It was caused by an H1N1 virus with genes of avian origin. Although there is not universal consensus regarding where the virus originated, it spread worldwide during 1918-1919. In the United States, it was first identified in military personnel in spring 1918.

It is estimated that about 500 million people or one-third of the world’s population became infected with this virus. The number of deaths was estimated to be at least 50 million worldwide with about 675,000 occurring in the United States. Mortality was high in people younger than 5 years old, 20-40 years old, and 65 years and older. The high mortality in healthy people, including those in the 20-40 year age group, was a unique feature of this pandemic.

IV

Picking up that earlier thread regarding my grandfather’s horsemanship, I am so glad that I realised an ambition that germinated in the days of the ‘trotting donkeys at the seaside’ , namely, that I would one day learn to ride.

I often smile at the thought that Grandad must have scored a plus with my grant grandfather (his father-in-law) in having natural riding skills. And it is something that has continued on, when I, too, took to saddle and dressage, adored the fast gallops across Cleeve Cloud above Cheltenham and the Rides of Worcestershire in my twenties, and as a 1973 photograph bears witness at the end of this chapter.

My father’s only grandson learned to ride too, and his wife rode her own pony from early childhood. So the equestrian theme does run in the family, although probably petering out now.

After the war, my Grandfather returned to his post as chauffeur with the Cheethams.

Eyford Lodge sits on the bend in Lower Swell at the bottom of the steep valley that one climbs, to the ancient town of Stow-on-the-Wold. The River Eye runs close by.

Stow is 800 feet (244 meters) above sea level, the Lodge about 500 feet, and when I was stationed in Stow in 1980 as a constable, I was left in no doubt about that fact. Would I dare to challenge the sergeant-in-charge? Not bloody likely!

But each day, driving back down the hill to the old police station at Moreton-in-Marsh in the other direction, I used to think, Well, ‘stripes’ may say that, but I just damned well know that Cleeve Hill is over a 1,000 ft and therefore has to be the highest point in the Cotswolds! 

In fact, Cleeve Hill is 1,083 ft (330 metres) above sea level. Diplomacy won the day, however … one never crosses one’s sergeant!

V

I also learned very early on, that rural towns and villages are completely different in their attitudes, and, therefore, their policing, to the urban towns and cities. What could be argued in Gloucester or Cheltenham simply would not stand in Stow or Moreton.

An amazing image. A record of times past. The constable moves and does not deviate. The snow shows progress by footprints, the chap in the distance now enjoying a ciggie.

But another local tradition in Stow I actually quite enjoyed, (a throwback, no doubt, to my liking the March Winds I’ve mentioned in Chapter One) was that the town takes the brunt of the biting east winds arriving from the Steppes of Russia.
Well, as a constable standing “on point duty” on the Stow Crossroads fifty years ago (1980), my view is that there is indeed truth in that adage.

It is not without reason that sometimes I wore the cape over the raincoat.

It is why I love this image. For although it is from the early 20th Century, the uniform is identical to that worn by me on those days of biting east winds across the top of the Cotwolds!

Rockcliffe or Eyford Lodge sat in the well of a deep valley, so it is not too difficult to understand why Grandad gave Grandma a lift up the hill into Stow! He was most likely going that way anyway. That climb is not for the fainthearted. 

Isabel Alice Webb and Arthur Horace James Webb (18 months) 1916 at Eyford Lodge … that beautiful smile, always present, for 92 years until June 2006

But these were still Downton Abbey Days and an unimaginable deference held sway. This tends, I think, to be confined to the Royal Households, and also where the Royal Standard flies, indicating that Her Majesty the Queen is very much in residence.

The oft-quoted Cheetham retort in this family’s folklore … Horace! The motor car is not for joy-riding to Stow with your wife… in a way, backfired. Not on my grandparents, but upon their employers.

This must have been one infringement too many. For my elder sister recalls another incident … something to do with “you are not to walk on the grass!”

Obviously, there may have been a reason. But it reminds me of that unbreakable rule on RAF stations - “Don’t you dare take a short cut across the parade square, even if walking round does make you late. It’ll teach you to be more punctual in the future!”

My grandfather was amenable and jovial. Nothing ruffled him. He was kind, very kind, loving and always with a smile and a giggle and a tremendous sense of fun. He was extremely hardworking and conscientious; qualities he duly passed on to his three sons and three grandchildren. I realise, too, his sense of genteel presence both in Windsor Street and when visiting us in our new police house in Orchard Terrace (now Libertus Road).

In retrospect, I realise only too well, how close our parents were to Grandad and Grandma Webb. I came across a letter when writing this chapter from my mother, Nancy Webb. It is truly heartwarming. A daughter to her mother, in the first year of marriage following the arrival of Carol “a little treasure”.

When I wrote the First Edition it was still too soon after Mum’s departure. So I read it again, scanned the letter, then slowly re-folded the letter and placed it back in the archive for some other day.

Nancy was writing to Isabel. I noticed Mum’s handwriting. My formal writing slants to the right. Occasionally, I will slant it to the left. But the hand that enabled me to speed-write is the upright. Now I know where my normal day-to-day handwriting comes from. It is exactly the same as Mum’s. In later years, Mum wrote to the right.

I think, perhaps, in 2022, there is no harm in letting the letter sit here.

The letter, in fact, was found inside Uncle Ken’s letter dated 1941 in which he confirms to his parents that he was departing for the USA that week with the Royal Air Force.

It is imperative that the original of this beautiful letter passes to Carol.

Letter written by Nance (Mrs D B Webb) to her mother-in-law Mrs Isabel Alice Webb circa 1950.

Mrs D B Webb (Nance) to Mrs HAJ Webb (‘Mum’) 1950

VI

To continue, in short, Grandad did not take life too seriously. 

He most certainly exercised responsibility, but I suspect he saw things in the Great War - as did most men and many women - that enabled them to take a giant leap forward and shake off the shackles of blind servitude of subservience. And this most certainly applies to Mum’s father, Grandad marshall,who had, in contrast to Grandad Webb, a most violent war.

I think, too, that this jovial nature and refusal to be ruffled, certainly helped Grandad Webb cope with the splinter in his thumb in the 1930s that led to the amputation of the left hand and lower forearm. By the time we all came along, World War II had been and gone, and Grandad was still a chauffeur and driving a specially adapted Vauxhall Convertible that had the gear stick placed on the steering column, with a tiny metal support protruding from the steering wheel upon which Grandad would lock his prosthetic brown gloved thumb.

Engine on, into gear
and vrhoooooom! Off we’d go.

I adored that Vauxhall. it had a motif - like wings - on the front and which I’d constantly follow, and found myself still doing a lifetime later with my first two Mercedes. There’s something almost hypnotic.

VII

At this point, permit me an aside. I penned this chapter on December 30, 2018. The second edition came out on April 3, 2020, and in the midst of the Covid 19 Pandemic. 

In 2020, I wrote “and of one thing I am absolutely certain. I agree with the current popular sentiment that things will never be the same again.”

I also agree that our NHS has proved itself in ways that, until now, the general public could not envisage. Which leads me to conclude that we will do everything we have to, to protect our NHS (National Health Service) - a service that is the envy of many countries - and most certainly looked on with envy by the USA, a country that has no excuse for not having a fully functioning state-run national health service. When health depends upon life insurance, it is obvious to all, it will break under the strain, and it is the poor in society who suffer and carry that unforgivable burden. And I write that with deliberation. It is an unforgivable burden.

We know full well that after Covid 19, there must be a reckoning.

We have to bring our pay, service and conditions, and strength up to capacity. Austerity has runs its course. It is no longer warranted, to plead necessity on the basis of the calamity that hit our economy in 2008-2009 with the global recession. In comparison, the present situation stands alone. Yet, we are doing things with our economy that were unthinkable ten years ago. 

Well, all of that was written in April 2020.

VII

On March 1, 2022, as I write this third edition, how strange to find myself using that same phrase again “that things will never be the same again.”

But this time is is because of Vladimir Putin’s Invasion of the Sovereign People and Country of Ukraine.

Yesterday, the man threatened use of tactical nuclear weapons. That is not as theatrical as it sounds. Russia, even as the Soviet Union, has always maintained the view that it might use tactical, as opposed to strategic, nuclear weapons in order to ‘de-escalate’ a situation.

Experts, tonight, quietly remind us that he is more than capable of ‘de-escalating’ the situation in Ukraine by such means!

Experts also quietly remind us that in such a situation, even though it will be beyond that man’s reasoning, we will, thereby, find ourselves in a ‘major nuclear conflagration’.

We are also, this evening, reminded that we would be short-sighted if we presumed that Ukraine is the end game.

Ukraine is, alas, that dictator’s opening gambit.

And with both Sweden and Finland stating today that they will now consider applying for membership of NATO, that is unprecedented.

Yes. We do indeed live in a completely new world.

That which has existed within the accepted order of things swiftly exited during the biblical ‘watches of the night’ of Thursday, February 24, 2022.

We have a ‘new reality’.

It is chilling.

VIII

Isabel Alice Budd circa 1905-07 whilst in service as a Lady’s Maid at Warwick Castle … and who went on to catch Horace’s eye! My grandmother often talked to me of the balls, and quite taken up that her card for the evening’s dances was always full … amazing days

Returning to Windsor Street, my grandmother, on the other hand, was quite different. A wonderful lady in her own right; again, very kind, loving and most certainly Grandad’s other half. If ever two halves complemented one whole, it was Horace and Isabel Webb, and their three sons - Arthur, Kenneth and Desmond - Arth, Ken and Des all benefited from this and made our family the richer for it. 

I often ponder this and consider how fortunate I am. Not everyone has such a foundation upon which to build their lives, their own families.

I like to picture a scene playing out perhaps, on the Cheetham estate - pure fiction, of course - of the butler having to find a new chauffeur, of writing good references. I smile, as I recall all the lessons in diplomacy Grandma will have learned as a lady’s maid that started, I believe, at Warwick Castle at the turn of the 20th Century, and which I most certainly saw in daily life in that Windsor Street era, both sides of the street.

For it was my grandmother who, as we say today, “ran the books”; who organised family life, who wrote the letters, whose blue Parker fountain pen - always in use - I used to hold so gently when Grandma was alive, and which Dad gave me when Grandma died. I used it into the early 1970s, then the rubber perished, and it now sits as a treasured family heirloom, on display, behind glass. Some have said, Oh, you can get a new rubber. Go on line. Go on eBay. Is there nothing beyond our reach because of this infernal internet?

Yes. My grandmother organised family life and maintained the finances, and was a wonderful wife and mother. How can I say this? 

In short, because I’ve had the privilege of reading much of the correspondence that has come to light between mother and two of her sons, Ken and Des, and firsthand accounts from her firstborn, Arthur, over a lifetime, that endorses that correspondence.

Like his father, Arthur was not a letter writer. But like his father, he worked hard and built up a very successful Inductoheat business in Tewkesbury - at the time a quite innovative method in industry.

These letters were by young men, not children, Ken (17) discussing the morality of going to war, Des (21), newly married, seeking his mum’s counsel to make sure he is a good husband, and admitting that he had not made life easy for his parents after Ken was killed-in-action in 1943.

It’s fair to say that Des took his brother’s loss badly, went a bit off the rails and openly admitted to us all, in later years, that it was Nancy (mum) who had put him back on the rails and pulled him back into line …

Watch it! I was brought up with brothers!

And my mother was still saying that to me and my sisters - and sons in law - in 2016! Ah! Wonderful memories.

Arthur (who went on to buy the freehold of 20 Windsor Street) was exactly like Grandad. 

Neither of them, and I’ve already intimated this - and it always makes me smile - liked writing! A tremendous sense of fun and derring-do, but Arthur was a very successful businessman too; but chiefly, I remember him for the characteristics of parents that I picked up on. 

The Author … riding La Roche on Aggs Hill en route to the Gallops on Cleeve Hill 1973 (20) - people used to ask me what it is like to ride, and to ride alone … Aloneless is not loneliness… but I used to imagine, purely in my mind’s eye, what my Grandfather and my Great Grandfather would be saying to me riding alongside … wonderful memories now lost in youth

Arthur (please understand) was ‘uncle’ or Uncle Arthur and I had a sense of pride beyond measure at addressing him, for he was my senior uncle, and head of the family (from January 15, 1966 until June 6, 2006 when he quietly passed the baton to Dad. I’m not into this disrespectful approach I see around me today, by kids and teeny-bops to their elders. It tires me, and moreover, drives a wedge that breaks down relationships and causes me to take a backward step.

Arthur, as my uncle, had a way of making me feel even taller than I was! And I was fast approaching 6 feet and would soon be taller than Dad at 6’3. That was tall in those days. Now add on the policeman’s helmet, and I spent the first eleven years of my life replying to gigges and torts by happy members of the public, women and men alike, coh, bleedin ‘ell. What’s it like up there? You in the stratospehere?!?’ followed by rumbustious laughter. Days long gone, I suspect. Sadly, I pick up the vibe that the public today senses that it does not have its very own constable.

But my uncle helped much. No bad thing when going through teenage and into adulthood, with all of the challenges that this tempestuous period of life brings to every boy and girl in every age, of struggling with exams that, quite simply for me, did not come naturally. I’m sure my sisters agree.

VIII

Whilst Arthur and Ken started life at Eyford Lodge in 1914 and 1921 respectively, Des started life at Number 25 in 1927, and twenty-six years later, in 1953, yours truly started life at Number 20 across the road from Number 25.

And in a way, I see that as the beginning of my own metamorphosis from childhood to adulthood. Even now, I feel such an affinity with Windsor Street, Prestbury Road and Pittville Circus. For the whole family moved to Number 25, in the employ of Miss Bellhouse of Cotswold Grange, Pittville Circus Road, a Canadian timber merchant family. 

Miss Bellhouse was cousin to Hastings Ismay, later General Lord Ismay, Churchill’s chief military assistant throughout the Second World War, going on to become the first Secretary-General of NATO (North Atlantic Treaty Organisation) 1952-1957.

As I write this third edition and reading that last paragrapgh, little did I know that NATO would be so large in my mind when revisiting to upgrade the edition from second to third.

The name Ismay is very familiar to me, not only because of my interest in this period of history, but because of what my father said to me, and which Arthur confirmed.

It went roughly like this:

‘Dad - Grandad - liked Lord Ismay a lot, Ken. He used to visit the Grange often during the war, and so grandad used to chauffeur him locally; and Dad was impressed how he remembered the names of me, Ken and Arthur, a very compassionate and understanding man, very saddened when he heard that Ken had been shot down.’

General The Lord Ismay KC GCB CH DSO PC during the Second World War as Churchill’s Military Assistant, and to become the first Secretary-General NATO, cousin to Miss Bellhouse of Costwold Grange, Pittville, Cheltenham

Lord Ismay was a man of immense courage, stamina and ability, hence becoming NATO’s first Secretary-General. And these qualities are reflected in even greater measure today in our present NATO Secretary-General, Mr Jens Stoltenberg of Norway.

It is these little individual building blocks of family history that need to be recorded. For if they are not, then, because of the way society has developed - with its demand for instant gratification, its disdain for all things printed, or that need writing down conventionally, preferring a few keystrokes on the iPhone, iPad, Laptop, Apple Watch, or saved to a USB Stick, or simply addressed to Siri or Alexa - and then lost forever on some ‘cloud’ then these things will be lost.

It behoves us all to choose very wisely and carefully how we make arrangements for archival after demise.

I administered estates of clients who had died and whose wills I had often drafted, for 28 years, and know only too well how things disappear, are thrown out or sold as ‘junk’ - not always intentionally - and as the sole remaining member of my family name, I must choose carefully.

To readers may I proffer this advice learned over a lifetime, and through my profession. 

When recounting an event within family history, watch carefully the reaction. This will help to make the right decision on whether to continue the recollection or reflection.

This is no criticism. It is quite simply, horses for courses. 

What I find interesting in my family, may be a complete switch-off for other members or branches of the family.

Look for the glazed expression, the stifled yawn, the urgency of reactions to an interruption, grabbed as a lifeline. If, following the interruption, the listener fails to invite one to continue, quietly shorten the story, or let it drift noiselessly away, imagine landing safely and lightly. Let conversations find their direction, quietly slip into the shadows, and just enjoy good company.

Let me let you all into a tiny secret. The one proverb that is my constant companion for well nigh 60 years is this …

“Even the fool is considered wise when he remains silent.”

— Proverbs 17 : 28 (in the Old Testament of the Bible)

I will continue this account of the family’s move from Eyford to Cotswold Grange in Part II, shortly. My mind, I admit, is on far more pressing things … located 900 miles away to the East, where this very night the People of Ukraine are being dealt with in the same fashion that Adolf Hitler dealt with all those nations he unilaterally saw as his right and his destiny to both occupy and subjugate. There is little difference between the former Austrian Corporal, Napoleon who made himself an emperor, and a nondescript black-belter with a background in military intelligence and a passionate desire for revisionist history.

May 27, 2022
All Rights Reserved

© Kenneth Thomas Webb 2022

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