They say
that you should never go back and whilst that is something I have not always
adhered to; I feel there is more of a grain of truth in this adage. This post,
and the pub-related ones that follow, is an account of last
Friday’s return
visit to
Ashford, made in the company of son
Matthew who was perhaps, rather
less enthused than I was, at re-visiting the town I grew up in.
I spent my
formative years in or around the Kentish town of Ashford. My parents had moved
to the town in 1959. I was 3½ years old at the time, whilst my
sister was around 18 months. We had moved from London, in search of a better
life, trading the cramped rooms the family shared with my paternal
grandparents, as well as dad’s brother and his family, for the joys of life in
an expanding Kentish town, and the luxury of a new-build, three-bedroomed,
semi-detached house.
The fact
they were able to make the move, was due to my father working for the Royal
Mail, or the GPO as it was in those days. Dad had been able to get a transfer
from the London office he was based at (I never did find out which one), to the
Crown Post Office in Ashford. Our spacious new abode was a new-build Taylor Woodrow
property, on an estate on the edge of the rapidly expanding village of
Willesborough.
It wasn’t
that far to walk into
Ashford, from where we lived, although to shorten the
journey time, dad preferred to cycle to and from work. He also had a motorbike
and sidecar combination, for transporting the family around.Moving from
the familiar surroundings of northwest
London to a provincial town, must have
been a real culture shock to both my parents, more so for my mother who was not
only missing the support of her parents, but was left in the house all day,
whilst my father was at work.
I also
gather that with a mortgage to pay, money was tight, certainly to begin with.
It’s hard to comprehend now, especially as the sum borrowed was a mere
£2,000,
but everything is relative. We didn’t really go without though, and living just
a short drive to the coast, meant trips to the seaside were plentiful. Also, as
dad’s position within the
Royal Mail advanced, he was able to install central
heating, erect a garage and buy a car – a converted
Austin A35 van.
Despite
there being three years difference in our ages, my sister and I attended the same
primary school, starting off at the newly built infants’ school, before
transferring at the age of seven, to the junior school, about half a mile away.
At the age of
11, I secured a place at the nearby
Ashford Boys Grammar School,
where I remained for the next seven years.
When I was
14 and my sister 11, the family moved again, this time swapping our three-bed
semi, for a detached bungalow, with a large rear garden, in the nearby village
of Brook. The latter is a small linear settlement which lies at the foot of the
North Downs, close to the much larger village of Wye. It’s main claim to fame
is its largely intact Norman church, complete with some original medieval
wall-paintings. The village also possessed a rather good pub, the Honest Miller, closed, and
boarded up, at the time of writing, although I hear there are plans afoot to
restore it to its former glory.
Leaving
Brook for another day, it was the our old house at
Willesborough, the
schools I attended and the town in general, that prompted the return visit to
Ashford, 48 years after flying the nest to attend university and make a life
for myself.
Ashford is
a bit of a pain to get to by road, and with the Brexit-related, traffic issues,
affecting the
M20 motorway, best avoided at the moment. Instead
South East
Trains will transport you in speed and comfort, to
Ashford, following the most
direct route possible, from
Tonbridge, along what is claimed to be the longest
straight stretch of track in the
UK.
So, with a
journey time of just 40 minutes, letting the train take the strain, was a
"no-brainer," particularly to someone with an
“Old Git’s” Railcard. I met
Matthew
outside the station, as I’d had some financial business to attend to in
Tonbridge, first thing. There is a half-hourly service to Ashford, and the
10.52 train that we boarded, allowed sufficient time to look around, before we
even thought about pubs, beer, and something to eat.
The station
calls itself
Ashford International, even though very few
Eurostar trains stop
there anymore. Having cross-channel passenger trains calling there, was always
something of a white elephant, and whilst I have made three return
Eurostar
journeys from
Ashford, the opening of another international station at
Ebbsfleet, rendered
Ashford more or less redundant.
Ebbsfleet itself was another white elephant
and, with its so-called
“Thames Gateway” connection, something of a vanity
project as well.
Somewhat
ironically, Ashford station underwent at least two re-builds, prior to the
arrival of Eurostar, and I can remember from childhood, the old wooden station
buildings, painted in their old Southern Railway colours of cream and green,
being pulled down in favour of something more functional and “modern.” We walked
up into the town centre, via Station Road, now a busy dual-carriageway, almost
devoid of buildings. The shops at the top of the road, along with Tiffany’s
café – the scene of many mis-spent teenage afternoons, have all vanished, along
with the Duke of Marlborough pub, with its attractive corner turret and clock.
We crossed over
and walked up through the town’s War Memorial Gardens, and then through the
Vicarage Lane car park, at the back of the Odeon. The latter was another place
where I spent much of my youth, and whilst the Odeon is still standing, it has
been closed for years and under threat of redevelopment. With its almost
intact, art-deco interior, there is a long-running campaign to save it but
given the track record of Ashford Borough Council (ABC), I don’t see much
chance of its success.
And so,
following the alleyway at the side of the cinema, we arrived in Ashford High
Street, a wide, attractive, and once bustling thoroughfare, befitting of a busy
and successful, market town. Now it is just another pedestrianised precinct,
with a few sad-looking shops, and equally sad-looking inhabitants.
A quick
word then about
ABC, a body that surpassed
even the Luftwaffe in its appetite for
the mass-destruction of any buildings of character, but with a peculiar desire
for the elimination of the majority of Ashford’s stock of once thriving
public houses. The local authority worshiped the motor car and it worshiped
modernism, as not content with the bypass taking the A20 around the town, the council
decided that Ashford needed a ring road as well. Then, on top of the ring
road, the High Street shops needed a service road behind them, so that
deliveries wouldn’t conflict with their plans for pedestrianisation.
The ring
road involved the widening of existing roads and enhancing the junctions, and
as pubs are often sited on street corners,
Ashford’s stock of licensed premises
took a severe hit. A substantial number of the surviving pubs disappeared
following the construction of a modern shopping centre – what our American
friends would call a
Mall. This involved the demolition of a swathe of
Victorian properties, including shops and public houses, the centre of town. To
say that the
County Square shopping mall tore the heart of
Ashford, would be an
understatement, but the council hadn’t finished yet.
Mining
consortium
Charter Consolidated were allowed to construct a massive
9-storey
office block in the centre of Ashford. What made things worse was the building
was
“Y” shaped, so there was no getting away from this ghastly monstrosity, as
it as visible from all directions. Even worse was the destruction of one of
Ashford’s
best surviving pubs, to make way for a service road for the building. So, not
only was the multi-room,
Lord Roberts one of the town’s best and most
characterful public houses, it was also my favourite place for enjoying a beer
– a view shared by many of my friends.
Fortunately,
one of the only parts of
Ashford to escape the wreckers’ bulldozers, were the houses
surrounding the churchyard of
St Mary’s Parish Church. This oasis of
tranquility and antiquity is Ashford’s showcase in the heritage stakes, with
almost a dozen listed building, including one housing the town museum.
This tiny area illustrates what might have
been, or what could have been, if a more sympathetic and sensitive council had
been in charge during the
60’s and
70’s.
Time was
getting on and
Matthew and I were getting thirsty and hungry.
My plan was to take a bus, alight outside my
old school, and then walk along to have a look at what was the family’s first
house. We jumped on
service bus C, which runs at regular intervals, from the
town centre, out to the area’s main hospital – the
William Harvey. After
getting off, we passed the
Fox, the pub that my grandfather liked to visit,
when him and my nan came to stay. Apart from a paint job, and the acquisition
of the prefix
“New,” it didn’t look much different. My
old school, on the other
hand, had been renamed, after its founder, and had also increased in size.
We
continued towards our goal, but what seemed like a lengthy walk at the age of
eleven, turned out to be nothing more than a stroll, and it wasn’t long before
we reached the estate where the house is located. The property didn’t look a
lot different, as apart from a set of replacement
UPVC windows, and a new
garage, not much had changed.
This is the
bit at the beginning of the article which advises, not to go back, although if
I’m honest, apart from satisfying my curiosity, I didn’t feel much in the way
of emotion. It was good to see that from the outside, the house had been well
cared for, but houses were well-built, back in the 1950’s so there wasn’t much
that could have gone wrong.
I wasn’t
temped to knock on the door, explain who I was and request a look around, as
that would have been far too embarrassing for all concerned.
Matthew would
never have forgiven me either, so we continued on our way, climbing up the aptly
named
Windmill Close, towards the local landmark that is
Willesborough Mill.
The path I had planned to take though, was blocked off, so we headed in the opposite
direction to
Hythe Road.
There wasn’t
long to go now, before we reached the pub that I’d earmarked for our lunchtime
stop, and in my hurry to get there, I forgot to double back for a proper look
at the windmill. That will have to wait for another time, but the fully restored
smock mill, constructed in 1869 is well worth a look. I often walked past it,
as a young boy, on my way home from school.
School was Willesborough
County Primary School, and its mainly Victorian stone buildings are still
standing at the top of Silver Hill. The school itself, has moved to a new site complete,
with all modern facilities, and the original buildings converted to domestic
use. We carried on by them, passing under the M20 motorway which has absorbed the
former bypass.
Our
lunchtime stop was just a few hundred yards away now, but I’m afraid you will have
to wait for the next post to find out what it was called, and what it was like.