Nostalgia: Happy days heading off on sunny mornings in search of pastures new

I couldn’t remember when I’d last seen a buttercup, so just looking at them was enough to send my mind spinning back to childhood.

It brought back memories of the days when all the kids up our street would set off on sunny mornings in search of pastures new.

Clutching our bottles of water and slices of jam and bread wrapped in newspaper – no cling film in those days – we’d set off in high spirits.

Our destination could have been anywhere because we didn’t really plan our route but we knew wherever it was, we’d have a great day.

I remember we never fell out or argued as to where we might end up because we had a good leader showing us the way.

The leader of our little pack was usually my older sister Winnie, who, although gentle and kind, led us on with certainty and confidence.

Bluebell Wood was one of our favourite places in the spring, but we also travelled further afield to Howley Ruins in Birstall, or Coxley Valley in Netherton, where they had tearooms.

What a wonderful escape it was for us to have a day in the country far away from belching mill chimneys and the confines of our overcrowded streets.

We always set off early in the morning and wouldn’t return until dusk, tired and weary after spending a day in the fresh air completely unsupervised.

With no adults dictating what we did, we could wander on our own without a worry in the world, picking wild flowers and searching in the grass for ladybirds.

Whenever we found one we would all gather round and sing this little song – “Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home, your house is on fire and your children alone.”

We roamed through woods, ran across meadows, climbed trees and paddled in babbling brooks, breaking off occasionally to play leapfrog.

I cannot remember any of us ever falling out or getting hurt as we rolled about and it certainly never rained.

We loved searching for interesting things which we could investigate, tell stories about, and weave a little mystery and magic into.

We would look at dandelions but never pick them, and certainly never take them home because if we did we would certainly wet the bed.

The other flowers we avoided like the plague were the white ones growing on bushes in the hedgerows which we called “mother dies”.

Childhood legend warned that if we ever took any of them home, then our mother would surely die, and no-one was going to risk that.

We were always on the look-out for anything of interest which we could investigate, weave stories around, and make our own.

If we found a woolly boy, which was a fat, hairy caterpillar, we carefully placed him in an empty matchbox which we had brought with us for that very purpose.

We would punch holes on the top so he wouldn’t suffocate, and also put a little bit of grass inside for him to munch on.

The humble little buttercup also had its own story to tell, which we never tired of telling.

We would hold a buttercup under the chin of every child and if it shone a golden light on their skin, it was proof that they loved butter.

After exploring everything there was to explore, we made buttercup and daisy chains to hang round our necks as mementoes of our travels.

We also picked huge bunches of bluebells to take home and place in milk bottles on the windowsill outside our homes.

If I was in a spiritual mood and not too tired, I would place mine in front of a little statue of Our Lady which stood on a small table at the side of my bed.

I knew it would make her happy because we had been told by the nuns at school that blue was her favourite colour.

The peace and quiet we experienced on these travels was so different to what we were used to in busy industrialised Dewsbury, and the silence sometimes seemed a little eerie.

But the occasional sound of a train in the distance or church bells ringing at evensong were reassuring signs that we weren’t all that far from civilisation.

We didn’t have a garden at home and there were no trees down our street so we didn’t hear much birdsong, just the occasional cooing of a passing pigeon.

There was so much we children needed to learn about the countryside and how best to respect it and preserve it, but there was no-one to tell us.

There was no grass to sit on near our homes and there was no grass in our Catholic schoolyards or church grounds, just Tarmac.

The nearest patches of grass we could sit on without being chased off were in local parks and the countryside surrounding us.

Sadly, our grandchildren may never know the joyous freedom which my generation once knew because the world we traversed seemed a much safer and secure place than it does today.

Our parents didn’t even ask us where we were going when we were setting off on those sunny mornings of yesteryear. They didn’t even ask us what time we’d be back.

I never tire of recounting childhood memories or looking back at the enchanting places I once traversed with my little friends on those long, sunny days.

How content I felt lying in the grass making daisy chains to adorn my neck or blowing heads off dandelion clocks to tell the time.

And how important it seemed that whenever I saw a buttercup I just had to pick it up and hold it under my chin to make sure I still liked butter.

Oh happy days!

If you would like to share your memories of the Heavy Woollen District in years gone by, please write to us at [email protected]