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The village of Fitzwilliam, what remains of it, lies somewhere between the Yorkshire towns of Barnsley and Pontefract. The reason for its existence was the Kinsley coal-mine, which is now gone, so too are the rows of small Coal Board-owned houses, where friends of mine once lived. I had not been to Fitzy for 30 years, and there was never much there; a post office, a shop, a pub, a miner's social club, and of course, the pit. The post office is still there, the shop has become a fish & chip shop, everything else is gone. Many of the people are gone too.
Train's still stop at Fitzwilliam, from time to time, serving what is left of the former pit village, and the neighbouring towns of Hemsworth and South Elmsell, which sit together along the Barnsley-Pontefract road like three crows on a length of barbed wire.
I had been warned that seeing what had become of the old place would break my heart, but it doesn't. I get off the train, prepared to be shocked, and I am. It's hard to figure my bearings, to work out where everything was. The village was so dominated by the pit and the slag heap, by everything connected to the place, that it's total disappearance, however expected, leaves me disorientated. I had anticipated some remnants, some skeletal remains, but there is nothing, except for a slice of fake pit-wheel buried in the dirt next to a half-empty car-park.
The old houses are gone, as are the streets on which they stood. Like the old mine, they have been flattened and grassed over, nothing remains to show they were once there. Signs bordering the vacant land, warn against the tethering of animals on threat of prosecution.
The reason for my visit is a mid-week car-boot sale I've been told goes on here. My informant marvelled at the size of the event, and that it could be viable during the week, when most people are usually at work. I guess, 25 years after the pit shut, there are still plenty of locals on the dole.
There is nobody around near the train station, in the area which used to be known locally as 'The Bronx'. Then I see a woman pushing a pram, heading towards me, down what was once the pit lane. I intend to ask for directions to the car-boot sale, but my mind goes back to the first time I visited Fitzy. The local accent was so thick I could barely understand it, and my own cast me as an outsider. In this area, they fight anyone from the next village, let alone those from 20-odd miles away. I summon my broadest Yorkshire and hail the young mother. I am immediately struck by how relatively soft her accent is, and she politely directs me to where I want to go, warning me that it's a long walk.
I pass the site of the old pub. Again, there is nothing to indicate it ever stood. I take a photograph of the post office and chip shop, a woman at a bus stop looks at me like I'm daft. I can see her point.
Before long, I see a man walking down the road carrying a large slightly bedraggled-looking teddy bear. I guess I'm headed the right way, and sure enough the car-boot sale is not much further.
Despite the prior warning, I'm surprised by how many stalls there are, and by how many people are there. I guess if you're not at work, there really isn't a great deal to do roundabouts, and the car-boot has a van selling bacon sandwiches and cups of tea, as well as plenty of vendors offering bargains.
To some extent, the event is more like an old-fashioned English Bank Holiday country market than a boot sale, with lots of traders selling marked-down new goods rather than householders clearing out their unwanted tat. There are piles of cakes and pastries, and gardening supplies, rows of garden gnomes stand to attention, stony-faced. There are stalls selling fishing tackle, and others selling fish food, there's even one selling fresh fish. Among them are stalls selling second-hand junk and bric-a-brac, and I look round them hoping to spot a pointy bargain or two.
I see a few half-broken Chinese-made fake SAKs among the junk, but little else, until I come to a stall selling militaria. Inside a Perspex-fronted display case, I spy a few Richards knives and a handful of clasp knives. There are also some bayonets. The stall-holder is busy trying to sell a surplus jacket to a posh-sounding lad, and is having a good-natured laugh at his expense. Other punters chuckle away as the vendor plays to the gallery. I'm struck by the variety of accents. Eventually, I get a chance to ask about the clasp knives, and have a look at them. They're not up to much though, and priced unrealistically.
Further along the same row, one of the stall-holders is slowly beginning to pack away his wares. I get to chatting with him, and he tells me that he's been there since 6.00am, it's after eleven now. He says he's not had a bad morning, but that an early downpour soaked everything and frightened off the punters. He has some quite interesting stock and I ask him about pocket knives. Rather typically, he tells me that he has a box of them at home, but decided not to bring them, cursing his bad luck.
I notice that some of the other traders are also beginning to slowly pack away, so move on, and hurry round the stalls. I see little of interest until I come across a stall which seems to have nothing on it, but knives. In anticipation, I put on my reading glasses, so as to better examine any items of treasure. Unfortunately, there isn't anything too interesting. On inspection, a load of sheath knives turn out to be quite inferior, and undoubtedly made in the Far East. The rest of the stock, slip joints and lock-knives, I reckon are what might be called 'vintage modern traditional', and made in Japan, which turns out to be right. I get chatting to the vendor and he tells me he bought the stock in the early 1970's. I end up buying a Stockman and a locking Barlow, the lock being disengaged by pressing down on the pen blade.
There's more to come in the form of a Fisherman's Knife I find on another stall. I can remember seeing these when I was a boy, and am sure they're familiar to many here. It's only now I realise that the 'dishonest inches' are actually centimetres, which makes the corny joke even funnier these days. Like the other knives, it's inexpensive, and since it has the original box and is clearly unused, I snap it up despite having no real use for it.
The prize of the day comes as I'm almost ready to leave, when I spot, again new and in the original box, a Wilkinson Sword Gardener's Knife. These were made by Rodgers-Wostenholm in the 1970's, and feature stainless blades and a TL-29-style liner lock. It costs me a bit more than the others, but I still think I've got a bargain.
From the same stall I also buy this beautifully-made vintage saw-set, also unused and in it's box, which I can't resist buying despite lacking any use for it whatsoever. The stall-owner throws in an old Sheffield made scalpel/box-cutter too.
Leaving the boot-sale, I head back towards the train station and decide to go for a walk in the 'Country Park', a feature of just about every former pit in Yorkshire. This one leaves a lot to be desired, and it's hard not to be minded of the old pit tip which occupied much of the same area, and where everyone in the village took their dog to answer nature. The land roundabouts is rather flat and uninteresting, and the park is littered with empty beer and cider cans. The main feature on the horizon is the huge Drax power station, which as I've noted before, is now powered by imported coal.
I was glad to find I only had a short wait for a train, and on the whole, I was also rather glad to be saying goodbye to Fitzwilliam. I have nostalgic memories of the place, but it really doesn't have a lot going for it, and the car-boot sale is actually located in neighbouring Hemsworth.
The Hunt Continues.
Jack
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