History Repeats Itself

Further Info

This workshop was based around the Number 77 First Bus service which runs between Henbury and Hartcliffe. Three passengers and two drivers came together to share their stories and experiences, with the help of Aikaterini Gegisian and Paddy Uglow and support from Bristol’s Museums, Galleries & Archives.

Transcript

This is a story about the changing face of where I was brought up, Whitchurch, in Bristol. In 1963 my parents bought a brand new house which had recently been built on farmland belonging to the old Bridge Farm. This expanding group of houses was called Bridge Farm Estate. There were only a few roads on our housing estate at the time. From the ages of four to six I had to walk two miles a day to the nearest infant school, Wandsdyke Primary School. Then they built an infant school on our estate, only a few roads away from our house. Later, just in time for me, a new, plastic-covered junior school was built next to it: Bridge Farm School.

Opposite the school they erected a red-brick church, St. Augustine’s, which many viewed as an eyesore. A few years later the bell tower had to be pulled down as it was faulty, and now the rest of the church building is due to be demolished as it is considered dangerous. With all our modern technologies we proved incapable of building a church like in the olden days when they lasted for centuries, even if they are then converted into modern flats. More houses appeared on the fields next to the church and the school, erasing the hollow tree where my sister and I used to go with our father to hide letters to Father Christmas. We knew he got them as they were never there again the next day when we returned to check.

Here are some photos of me at the the junior and primary schools.

And some photos of the front of our three-bed semi - setting out on a cycling excursion, me with the almond tree we planted - it had beautiful blossoms in spring, and my sister piggy-backing on a friend.

We were lucky as our house backed onto a field and open countryside. It was like living in the country, whilst still being a part of Bristol.

I have always liked writing stories - from a young age, sitting in the lounge in the early morning, facing the fields, which were always inspirational.

We had a lovely big elm tree in the garden. In the 70s Britain was ravaged by a disease which only affected elm trees, known as Dutch Elm Disease. We knew this meant our tree was an accident waiting to happen and needed to be chopped down, before it fell and damaged the house and garden, not to mention any neighbouring houses. One day my father happened to see the famer on his tractor working in “our field” (the one backing onto our garden) and asked him if he could chop it down if we paid him. The farmer kindly obliged. I remember a big rope being attached to the tractor to pull it down. Our tree was cut up into various pieces which we kept in the garden. The idea was that we would make a bench out of the trunk, but that never happened. It was a memorable day for me on two counts as it unfortunately happened to be my tenth birthday. Not a good birthday present.

But we still had the open countryside full of trees and wildlife behind.

When it rained heavily - especially in the 70s, our field used to flood. At one point the whole field was a lake. Houses were badly damaged in nearby villages such as Pensford where the flood levels are still marked on many houses. Although our garden sloped downwards, we were lucky in that our house never flooded, but houses further down the road had real problems, the flooded stream overflowing on several occasions, despite the many sandbags they piled up to stop it.

One day there were rumours that they were going to build new houses on our field and the surrounding ones. We protested, along with everybody else on the estate. My father sent letters to the council with photos of the flooded fields, pointing out the impracticalities of the scheme, as well as the houses being an invasion and scourge on the open countryside. Despite the councillor’s promise to return my father’s excellent photos, showing the field as a lake, he never got them back.

In the early 1980s the bulldozers moved in and built Windways Estate. My parents sold their house and had to pay double to buy one of the new ones so that they could get back their open countryside and live on our old field. This time the countryside behind them was classified as green belt. Now they had the peace of mind that this wouldn’t happen again and they would always have their lovely garden full of birdsong, squirrels, foxes, with tadpoles in the stream at the end of the garden, and the view of open fields. They would be able to carry on walking across them up to Maze Knoll, an old iron-age fort, - or the “tump” as it is known locally.

It’s strange how regulations change to suit planning needs. Recently there has been a proposal to build a ring-road right behind their house, just a few yards from the end of their garden. A pipeline has already been installed and everybody thinks that coincidentally this will correspond with the route of the ringroad.

I recently moved back to Bristol after living in Paris, Barcelona, Madrid and London, and immediately joined a protest march through Stockwood and Whitchurch, to oppose the ringroad and preserve my childhood environment.

My mother died this month so will not see the ringroad. There are no new expensive houses for my father to move into (not that he could afford one anyway now he has retired). He will no longer have the beautiful peaceful garden my mother tended so lovingly, surrounded by countryside, full of birdsong and happy memories.

It’s sad how history looks likely to repeat itself.

Credits

All media not otherwise credited created by the story author, or permission obtained, used under copyright licence.