At the turn of the century there were four rows of houses built on the right hand side of Reddish lane just on the boundary of Reddish and Gorton. They were terraced houses but they had a suggestion of a garden in front of them. A garden gate, a low wall with a row of privet behind. At the back was a concreted yard with an outside toilet. Into the backyard wall was built a square zinc container for the household refuse. On the outerside of the wall was a sort of wooden door into which the dustman inserted a T type key, turned it and the whole contraption opened and tipped the contents into a bath placed on a low wheeled equipage so the dustman could wheel it away to the horse drawn box cart.
The property was divided into three streets - Cranbrook Road, Athol Street and Granville Road now renamed Goulder Road. At the bottom of the streets was a large area of grassland. To the side of Granville Road was another field but the lower area had been converted into allotments and very nice they were too. The people must have been well rewarded for their efforts. On the extreme right hand side had been built two pigeon cotes, real custom built for they housed some Northern Union Racing Pigeons. All ringed birds and there was great excitement on race days as the rivalry was intense. Also built on that site were some rather nice outhouses. They were used for a variety of reasons.
As you can readily understand the property being new the dwellers were strange to each other but reservation was soon broken down and once people had familiarised themselves and communal spirit prevailed they started to create interests according to their own particular bent. One small group started a Social Cycling interest - mixed sexes - just small runs, nothing ambitious, local beauty spots, Reddish Vale, Northenden. In those days there were a few cottages by the river. The Cock Hotel at Didsbury. Werneth Low - that was considered quite an accomplishment. As you full well know as with any excursion you have to go where it is possible to obtain some refreshment so a little thought was necessary in the choosing of the runs.
There were three gentlemen - the proud owners of motor cycles and side-cars. Mr. Scrivens had a new Hudson - the sidecar was like a wickerwork arm chair with a piece of waterproof fabric to pull over your legs and that was it. On one occasion Mr. Scrivens pulled up rather sharply and Mrs. Scrivens was precipitated forward and out she went into the road. I think her dignity suffered rather more than her person, Mr. Gaskell had a make of machine by the name of Wolf. The firm did not seem to have a long career and soon sank into the realms of oblivion. Both of these two machines were belt driven. Mr. Powell had an American machine - 'Indian' by name -powered by a seven horse twin engine. I do not know if this was belt or chain driven but it was reputed that it could attain the blistering speed of seventy miles per hour. Mr. Powell looked an awesome figure with his cap - the neb to the back - a pair of goggles to protect his eyes and adorning his legs a pair of corduroy riding breeches, the nether part of his legs encased in a long pair of laced up boots. He certainly looked the part. It is said if you cannot be a champion at least try and look like one.
On runs, Mr. Powell must have exercised a great deal of patience for his machine was quite capable of far outstripping the other two. They seemed to make Cheshire their favourite touring area. Alderley Edge where it is said on a clear day it is possible to see ships steaming up the Mersey estuary. Congleton was another venue,the town that unchained its bible from the pulpit and exchanged it for a performing bear, earning for itself the appellation of 'Bear Town'. Or to Knutsford, immortalised by Mrs. Gaskell (no relation to our motor cycling friend) in her novel 'Cranford'.
The field at the bottom of the streets was called into use for many functions. One day in Summer in particular the day was set apart for a grand gala. All sorts of sports for young and old, everybody entering into the spirit of things. Tables were laid out for an al-fresco meal. How the ladies must have worked - the tables were absolutely groaning under the weight of the viands.
A football team was formed. It was named 'Granville'after the road of that name. It achieved quite a measure of success - one season completing the double of both winning the cup and the league. They played in the Manchester Amateur League Division I and to celebrate the event a Grand Dance and Prize Giving Celebration was held at Denton Co-operative Hall. It was a glittering occasion. All the neighbourhood was involved in the running of that football club. The ladies laundered the kit and at half time served out cups of Bovril or whatever. Some of the men cleaned and dubbined the boots and looked to the studs.
The dressing Rooms were accommodated in one of those rather nice outhouses next to the pigeon cotes. A section each for both the home team and the visitors. The building was put to a variety of uses. It was the gym, the committee rooms, the treatment rooms and sometimes a retreat for many a mild mannered husband to find a little tranquillity from the demands made upon him. All this was of course even before the innovation of wireless when the pattern of your life depended on some effort from yourself.
When the football team had an away fixture that necessitated travel the services of Mr. Knott's charabanc was commandeered. Mr. Knotts booking office premises were at the corner and his garage actually in one of those streets down Hyde Road that revelled in the names of those delightful places situated in Derbyshire. Mr. Knott's company languished under the name of the White Rose Carriage Company. The vehicle was a celebrated Leyland fitted with solid tyres. The seats were fitted from side to side with entry on either side. You clambered aboard and sat there like a row of battery hens but when the vehicle started to rumble over the granite sets the sensation was as if you had suddenly been struck by the palsy - conversation was an impossibility, your teeth were chattering in your head like castanets. Whoever had devised such a contraption must have been a member of the Spanish Inquisition 'Oh death where is thy sting.'
On reaching your destination kind hands reached up to help us down. You were absolutely submissive - all that you wanted to do was to totter away to some quiet place to lick your wounds. How those young players who endured that journey every played football remains to this day to me one of those unsolved mysteries. Off they went into the dressing rooms to come out reeking of Wintergreen Rubbing Oil after a liberal application. The stench that emanated from them permeated the atmosphere. I do not know whether it was the drugging effect of the aroma or their football that brought them success - one can only ponder.
After the game the ordeal had to be faced once again. You approached it with determination and the frame of mind that those poor soldiers must have had when they went over the top at the Battle of Mons. When you arrived home the pain was excruciating. Tea was out of the question, all that you wanted was to lie down in a darkened room in total solitude until the pain abated somewhat. I am not a psychologist but I would like Someone to explain to me just because in the name of sport you presented yourself there again ready to submit yourself to the trauma all over again. What were we trying to prove! Perhaps it was pride or perhaps it was stubbornness that does not like to admit defeat. Talk about mans inhumanity to man, you could not have a better example.
In summer cricket was very much in evidence. The men took a patch of the football pitch, nurtured it, mowed it, rolled it, into some semblance of a cricket pitch. it was by no means up to test match standard hut they consoled themselves that it was the same for both sides. The team was composed of men who had the allotments, hence the name the Cabbage Patch. They were not in any league. The games were all impromptu affairs. They played all and sundry, mainly works teams Armstrong Whitworths and Prices Bakery spring readily to mind. The matches look place after tea and usually took two evenings. Of course adequate refreshments were laid on, the ladies officiating and adding colour and glamour to the scene bedecked in their pretty summer frocks. They admired their husbands prowess with either bat or ball. Many's the time I have heard one exclaim her voice hoarse with admiration - "Oh isn't he just wonderful, is there no end to his talents" and he, characteristically modest, was oblivious to all this. How is it men shrink from being the sinecure of eyes whilst the ladies embrace and revel in it. I suppose as always it is put down to the genes.
The Captain of the team was a gentleman by the name of Harry Crawley who commanded respect both on and off the field. He always looked immaculate and his manners and deportment were impeccable. He seemed to stand a class apart. He took it upon himself - apart from his other commitments - to form a mixed bathing class. He was himself very adept at the sport and many a person under Mr. Crawley's watchful eye and studied tuition learnt to swim. I think at some time or another he must have been a member of the St. John Ambulance Brigade. If anybody was unlucky enough to sustain a cut or an abrasion, off they would go to Mr. Crawley, he would clean it, sterilise it and bandage it, give you a pat on the head and if you were a young one a few sweets and send you merrily on your way. If you had an obstruction in your eye he would pull the lid down or curl it up as the case may he, sharpen a match stick and with a quick flick remove the offending particle, give your eye a rinse out with an eye lotion. What implicit trust you placed in the man.
One thing comes over loud and clear in the vast majority of cases. People are all the better for knowing. You may ask where did our family figure in all of this. All I can say is the pathway to our door was worn very thin.