Border Memories
(By Bob Armstrong of Pictou, Nova Scotia).

Recently I read "The Railway To Langholm" by R.B. Mc Cartney. It shows Canonbie Station as it was in 1904, the way I remember it some 70 years ago. Memories flooded back of summer holidays at Parkhouse, Caulside, home of my grandparents 1918 to 1928.

Halfway between Canonbie and Copshawholm, (Newcastleton), Parkhouse stood, and still stands, at the top of the brae, eight to ten acres, part of the Buccleuch estates that had been occupied by generations of my forefathers. Originally a thatched cottage, it was extensively rebuilt by my grandfather John Armstrong in 1889 with a slate roof and two skylights.

To a small boy born and brought up in the drab brick streets and smoking chimney pots of industrial Tyneside, the transition to the open countryside of my father's native Borderland, with its sights, sounds and smells, formed a striking contrast. Father always took his holidays at haytime, especially after grandfather died in 1920, when I was 7, leaving grannie and one unmarried aunt to look after 3 milking cows, 4 or 5 stirks, and a large flock of hens.

Summer holidays started by taking a tramcar to the end of the High Level Bridge in Gateshead. There we could walk across, or take the horse brake, always providing that the horses hadn't been unhitched to pull the Swinburne Street fire engine. Walk or ride, it cost one penny. From Newcastle Upon Tyne central station by train to Carlisle, then after a short wait, we boarded a train for Canonbie. There, waiting at the immaculately kept station, would be Fanny Armstrong, daughter of "John o' the Road End" the local carrier, and a Digby trap, drawn by Sandy, a wee grey pony.

I can still hear the crunch of the gravel as we turned out of the station yard and set off at a fair trot for the 5 miles or so to our destination. My older brother and I would stand at the front of the trap catching all of Sandy's horsey smells.

At Archerbeck, we 'men' would have to get out and walk until more level ground was reached.

The road was often quite rough with numerous potholes, but here and there along the roadside there would be heaps of large round stones from the river. A man, usually one not too bright, was employed to break up these larger stones into small pieces with a "knappin' hammer" to be used for road repairs.

I heard of one such knapper who was seen contemplating a broken hammer shaft. When asked "Did ye break it on the way up or on the way doon?" He replied acidly, "Ye'll ken weel eneuch when I break the next yin ower yer airse!" {A quaint old Scots word,- Ed}.

The air would be filled with the scent of the woods and the sounds of the cushats (woodpigeons) in the plantings bordering the road. Approaching Harelaw Road End, old Sandy would pull hard to the right, heading for his stable, but Fanny would give him a wee touch of the whip and keep him going for the final mile. At last we would reach Parkhouse to be greeted by grannie and whichever aunt was biding home at the time.

The table would be set with lots of good plain food, barley bannocks, toddies, (scones) country butter, fresh eggs and all the milk we could drink.

We boys slept 'up the stair' and we'd wake in the morn to the sound of the cock crowing and clatter of clogs on the stane floors of the milkhouse. Standing on a chair we could look out of the skylights over the tops of the trees and the valley of the Liddle to the English side.

The milking would be done by 6am, the milk separated and the cream set aside for butter making. The skim milk, fortified with linseed meal would be fed to the stirks, which formed the main cash crop when raised to marketable size. Usually there would be 4 or 5 and my aunt would line them up in order, each with its own bucket and a sharp rap on the neb wi' a stick soon taught them to behave. On 'kirnin' day, we boys would be allowed to 'ca the haunle of the kirn.' (churn).

Grannie was the butter maker, working it up in a small tub, adding the salt and weighing it out into 1 pound blocks. The scales, besides the 1lb weight, also had a penny, green with salt, just to ensure that she gave fair weight, - but not too much!

The butter and eggs would be handed to the local carrier when he came round with his horse and waggon, and exchanged for staples such as flour, sugar etc. I never saw any money change hands, but grannie no doubt kept a sharp eye on the going prices at some place called, "Carel market" and it was some time before I realised that "Carel" was none other than Carlisle where we changed trains.

As it was always haytime when we were there, we would be allowed to 'ca' the grindstone while scythes were sharpened. Grandfather and my father would then "open up the corners" of the hayfield in preparation for the horse-drawn mower hired for the day from a nearby large farm. Now and then they'd stop to resharpen their blades with a whetstone, hung from the belt. It made an unforgettable sound. "Dinna get ower near laddie" grandfather would say as he sliced through the wet grass. Once the hay was cut it would be left lying in wet, green rows to dry. Even as small boys we were expected to lend a hand and given short handled rakes to turn the rows. Before nightfall the half-dried rows would be gathered into small heaps, 'kyles', and if the weather was suitable, would be "shaken oot" next day, a process that might have to be repeated several times as the damp winds blowing in from the Solway Firth would delay drying.

Eventually it would be dry enough to 'pike' and again, a man and horse from the nearby farm would come with a bogie and the pikes would be hauled in to near the hayshed, where the hay would be pitchforked into storage.

Everything had to be done by hand; water for drinking and cooking was carried from a spring on the hillside some distance from the house. Rainwater was collected for washing.

Oil lamps were the only illumination apart from candles, the kitchen fire was kept going with wood from a stack of windfalls gathered from nearby woods.

There was never a lack of work to be done, if we were not at the hay we could be out gathering branches, or in the garden picking gooseberries or blackcurrants for making into jams and jeelies.

As nothing was ever bought in glass jars, any old cups minus handles, or any like container would be used to store the jam when it was made.

The open fire had a 'swye', a sort of hinged arm over it, from which hung a few links of chain where the kettle was suspended.

Sundays were special, only the necessary work of milking and feeding was done. I recall one day when the sun came out hot and strong and the new cut hay lay steaming in the field. "Aye! it'd be a gran' day for the hay the day!" said grannie. But not a rake would be lifted! As boys we were not not allowed to play any games on Sundays. We could sit and read "a guid book" and sometimes go for a walk, maybe even visit other houses, but we were expected to "be seen but not heard." Likely we'd be given a 'jammy piece' and made to sit, often on a horsehair covered settle that would prickle the backs of our bare knees. Sometimes we'd cross the Liddle to visit Lea Gair, the house where my uncle lived.

When I was about ten years old, having been rather sickly, I remained behind after the usual holiday, and for several weeks I attended the local one-roomed school about a mile down the road. The teacher was Miss Mac Knight, a lovely person who was very kind to me. She introduced me to the decimal point and I can still recite the poem she made us learn by heart.

The Slave's Dream
By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Beside the ungathered rice he lay,

His sickle in his hand,

His breast was bare, his matted hair

Lay buried in the sand.

Almost 30 years later in Canonbie I happened to meet Miss MacKnight but I doubt if she remembered me.

All the other children at school wore wooden-soled clogs with iron caulkers and I begged to have a pair. Accordingly I was sent to "Bob the clogger", (another Armstrong), who lived up the Harelaw Hill Road, and had a pair made.

When I called to collect them he was busy tacking on the copper pieces round the toes. I was happy then to be able to clatter round wi' the others and not get teased too much, even if I did speak 'funny'.

I can't say that the local speech was any problem to us. I soon learned what a 'pirn' was, if grannie dropped her reel of thread, or told us, "dicht yere shoon, dinna bring a' that glaur in the hoose."

My aunts, like most of the young women, had been "in service" in the larger country homes and could speak a more refined English if required.

[My father told me of 'Aunt Belle' a pipe smoking old lady who got the addiction through lighting her master's pipe when she was a domestic servant as a young girl].

My father, born at Parkhouse in August 1880, was the second oldest in a family of 3 boys and 4 girls. In 1893, when he was not quite 13 he "hired out" to a farm called Shawes, on Hermitage Water. The term was 6 months at a wage of ?.10 shillings, (4 pounds ten shillings sterling), for the term. Hiring was done at Copshawholm, where those seeking work would stand in the town square.

{Editor's note: This is Douglas Square where the Trust museum is located}.

In 1894 he again hired out to a farm called Braidlea, also on Hermitage Water. When the farmer hired him he asked could he handle a horse, - a big horse. Being a weel built lad of 14 he assured the farmer that he could handle any horse. He was soon put to the test.

At the same hiring a cook from Annan was engaged, who was apparently a carrier of some communicable disease, possibly typhoid.

Soon after the 3 daughters of the farmer became ill. My father had to harness the "big horse" and gig to drive some 5 miles, in the dark, to Steele Road station to pick up medicines. This being in December.

The children died, and for many years my father kept the black-edged mourning cards dated 17th, 20th & 23rd of December 1894. Unfortunately they were later lost.

Later still he worked at Whisgills farm and at 21 he joined the Police Force at Gateshead in County Durham. {see page 26, Lineage, summer 1990. Ed}.

In retrospect it is hard to imagine the amount of hard physical work required of 2 women in order to maintain the old style of crofter life. Grannie continued to look after "they birds" until well into her 80s, nevertheless, the property was always kept in good shape, the hedges trimmed and the roadside grass cut.

In 1928 I stayed behind after the hay was in and assisted my aunt to "skail" the contents of the midden by barrowloads, over the recently cut fields. They were a proud, hardworking people, and even though the system of land tenure was not too far removed from feudalism, the land was cared for as if it were their own. Hard as it may appear, people were quite content with their lifestyle. At least there were none of the problems that beset modern day life. There were no internal combustion engines to pollute the air, garbage was no problem as anything that could not be burned was taken to the woods and buried. I remember being given the job of disposing of some boot polish tins in this manner. No one was unemployed, the Factor would find work for any able-bodied man.

My grandfather worked for the Factor of Buccleuch estates as a "Drainer & Dyker" laying tile drains to dry out wet land and building "dry stane dykes", stone walls made without benefit of mortar. He was also a basket maker and a carver of walking sticks, one of which I still have, and cherish.

After his death in 1920, grannie continued to occupy Parkhouse until her death in 1939.

From 1940 to 1966 it was occupied by my father's older brother Bob, the last Armstrong in a long line of tenants.

In 1979 the house was extensively modernised.

Before me as I write, is a small coloured photo of the house as it was in my youth. Just to look at it carries me back over the years to some of the happiest days of my life.

Bob Armstrong, Pictou, Nova Scotia, Canada. Nov. 1991.

{In a letter from Bob's father in 1970 is a tale of a cottage which was near Parkhouse in his youth. It appears that Bob's grandfather took over the land and demolished the old cottage. It had been the home of a sad recluse, Jemima Little. Her husband had been arrested with two brothers named Hogg, for shooting a gamekeeper while they were poaching. Little committed suicide in Carlisle gaol, leaving a note. "I am innocent but the Hoggs are guilty, but rather than come under the hand of man I am taking my own life."

"Poor Jemima, she was very young at the time and lived alone thereafter always keeping her door locked. Your Uncle Bob and I often did small jobs for her and when I left for service in 1893 she gave me two shillings which I valued very much at the time."

There is also a tale of an unnamed shepherd who took a drove of sheep from Caulside to London, (?) and lost his dog, which arrived home tired out, a week after he came back on the coach. This theme is widespread of course and a famous case on Tyneside was known as 'Wandering Willie', the true tale of a Border Collie who lost its master at the North/South Shields ferry landing.

It lived on the ferry thereafter till its death many years later. These were the things loved by those folk who lived close to nature}.