A historic article supplied by Ferrensby resident John Ross, possibly dating back to September 1989. I’m not entirely sure which newspaper this was in, but it is a historic account of living in the village. This has been transcribed by Google’s Bard AI software, so there may be errors or inaccuracies:
Ferrensby Village: A Nostalgic Look Back
When I was born in Ferrensby, the village was made up of 18 houses, a pub, a chapel, and a blacksmith’s shop.
It was at Mrs. Midgley’s village shop, which was at the front of her house near the crossroads, that I was allowed to listen to Big Ben on her cat’s whisker radio.
The village supported most of its inhabitants. The blacksmith, with its whitewashed cottage, was a meeting point and a hive of activity.
The General Tarleton was run by Mrs. Simpson (no Sunday license in those days).
Most of the houses were in some way connected to the farms, or to Loftus Hill, the home of the Thompsons.
There were no amenities. Gas came first in 1934, and four years later, electricity. And around the start of the last war, a sewage system. Water was a precious thing in those days; every drop had to be pumped by hand and carried in buckets to the houses. The farms had their own wells and pumps.
There was only one car in the village: Mr. Dunn’s of Lake View Farm. The first bus was run on a Wednesday to take people to the market, called the Canary Cage, and later, a larger bus called the Bluebird.
The horses were let out of the stables and walked on their own to drink at the village pond, and then returned after drinking their fill.
We were lucky if Jack Dodsworth gave us kids a lift home on a Wednesday; otherwise, we had to walk there and back to Arkendale School. Miss Faircliffe, who lived in a cottage behind the pub, taught there most of her life.
Things have changed. Things wasted to change, getting built up all over the place. We know our neighbors not anymore. Don’t let it change much more.
At least we did get some religious education. Meadley Herring and his wife Alice taking Sunday School every Sunday morning. She played the harmonium, swaying as she peddled.
The post lady walked from Knaresborough, and we had our mail delivered by 7:15 AM. We are lucky if it arrives by 11:30 now.
I wonder what the villagers would think if the present-day farmers drove their cattle down the roads to be milked, with their cut verges and open land gardens.
Please don’t let agriculture run down to the same extent as it was allowed to pre-1939. Next time we may not be so lucky.
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