Red Dwarfs of Coxley Valley

The Rambler

Writing in The Wakefield Free Press, ‘The Rambler’ recalls a visit to Coxley Valley, Sunday 22 July, 1888.

Strolling in Coxley Valley
Haymaking, Coxley Valley

I arrived at this much talked of “beautiful and charming resort” with senses refreshed by the newly-made hay and the various wild flowers that send forth their perfume from the woods up the slope. A turn of the road soon brought me in sight of “Belmont Shanty” as it is called, and as I read a bill on the boards my spirits began to revive. Here is a copy of it:

“This way to Belmont Gardens.”

Pleasure Boats

Proposed scheme; there’s no evidence that there was ever a steam launch operating on Coxley Dam.

Following the directions thus pointed I failed to find any, but continuing down the western slope, I reached the bottom, when lo, I beheld a small lake, and on it several pleasure boats plying their living freight, as busy as if Sunday was of no moment to them.

The Photographer

The Charlesworth family photographed in Coxley Valley
Photographer's stamp

In disgust at the sight, I went on my way until I came in close quarters with a photographic establishment, the proprietor of which, finding six days’ work not sufficient, continues to labour on the seventh.

‘Terrible Red Dwarfs’

visitors to Coxley Valley
Danger! Red Dwarfs at work in Coxley Valley!
The Rambler, artist's impression
‘Sad at heart’ (artist’s impression: I haven’t yet discovered the true identity of ‘The Rambler’).

I certainly expect when his plate of the concert of last Sunday becomes fully developed, I shall be immortalised in the same, with a book in hand and sad at heart.

Yes, sad at heart, pained in mind, and trembling for the awful doom that awaited those “terrible red dwarfs” seen in Coxley Valley last Sunday.

And were there really some in the Valley? Yes, and of all the dwarfs that ever did live these certainly did the most harm.

Terrible Red Dwarf
‘Rambler’ is quoting from a satirical book, ‘The Terrible Red Dwarf’ by M. Guy Pearce, popular with the Temperance Movement.

This was all the more wonderful because they were so ridiculously small, measuring only a few inches in length. Then I noticed that the caves in which they lived were dark, low arched, but strongly guarded. Then there were two ivory gates shut them in fast, and outside there were two other gates that were made to fasten quite closely.

There was no other in all the land that was so secured; and yet, in spite of all this, there was not another dwarf that it was so difficult to shut up.

Their conversation from beginning to end was discussing that all-important event to come off shortly between Horbury Bridge St. John’s and Thornhill cricket teams for the Challenge Cup.

The Band Stand

Finding no cessation of their obscene language, I left the dwarfs’ quarters and wended my way to the band stand, when, by the strains of sweet music played from the heart and soul by the bandsmen, my frame of mind came back again to its former self, and for the the rest of the afternoon I delighted myself in listening to the various selections and enjoying the beautiful scenery up the slope, and the warbling song of birds.

Projected scheme by George F. T. Charlesworth for Coxley Valley pleasure gardens. Only the right-hand bay of the building below Sun Wood was ever constructed.

The band, which consisted of about 21 performers, played remarkably well, under the conductorship of Mr Wm. Atkinson, the bandmaster, andd the following programme was gone through :- The “Gloria,” from Mozart’s 12th Mass; chorus, “Maritana,” by Wallace; “Hallelujah Chorus”; rect. &c., “Comfort ye my people,” “And the glory of the Lord,” “The hours of beauty,” concluding with the National Anthem.

Wicken Tree Hall

Wicken Tree Hall and the ‘Rose Garden Pleasure Grounds’, Coxley Valley, from the Ordnance Survey 6 inch map 1888-1913, National Library of Scotland.

During the performance a collection was made in aid of the band funds, and, it now being turned four o’clock and threatening water clouds hanging overhead, I drew myself together, went on to the old well-established Wigantree* Hall (kept by an old lady over 80 years of age, and her daughter), refreshed myself with a cup of good tea, and after becoming the recipient of a bit of grand-motherly advice from the old lady, I made my way back home again, and on the journey determined to let your readers know about the Sunday visit to Coxley Valley of the poor, old “Rambler.”

*Wicken Tree Hall, probably a transcription error from ‘Rambler’s’ handwritten article.

Extract form The Wakefield Free Press, Saturday 28 July, 1888

Link

Coxley Valley I’m reprinting my A6 booklet later this month

Headwaters

Sessile oaks, holly and bramble drawn with a brown 08 Pilot Drawing Pen.
Looking  south; Sessile oaks, holly and bramble drawn with a brown 08 Pilot Drawing Pen in Hahnemuehle Travel Book.

4°C, no breeze, 90% stratus, 1 pm

IS THIS the perfect lunchbreak? – twenty minutes brisk walk, yomping through the mud in places, twenty minutes with my sandwich and flask and even time for a lightning sketch of oaks, holly and bramble, then twenty minutes yomping back.

Nothing but the distant white noise of machinery (or is it the rush of the flooded stream?), the drone of aircraft and the occasional clatter of Wood Pigeon’s wings.

The upper branches of the oaks meet to form a canopy, a tree-top highway for a Grey Squirrel which carefully examines the mossy upper-side of the boughs before stopping to nibble some item – an acorn perhaps – that it has found.

I’ve got a long session of research on the computer today, so I can justify the break as essential rest for my eyes but I better be getting back as my twenty minutes has already extended to thirty.

Coxley Dam is well up – at its maximum, giving an impression, as the opaque eau de Nile water laps around the Crack Willows of its former extent. Plenty of headwater to power the looms of the silk and blanket mills, both now long gone. Power that didn’t have to be translated into electrical current before its final use (that isn’t strictly true as energy can neither be created or destroyed although my post-lunch dip doesn’t seem to recognise that law of thermodynamics).

A Blackbird alarms – perhaps because of the Squirrel.