THE KATES HILL PRESS, DUDLEY, ENGLAND

STORY OF THE WEEK, #7. AUTHOR; CLARICE HACKETT

GORSTY HILL.

When Mr. Heath abolished our familiar boundaries and created a number of tediously arranged districts, he destroyed much of the civic pride of ordinary folk. The damage he did was like a stone cast into a vast lake, the ripples will continue for years to come. He destroyed for many people their roots, for they no longer had the clannish feeling of belonging and the ability to speak of their birthplace with pride. They lost their identities as they were incorporated into huge conurbations.

What about the young people who had no recall of the place where they were born? Gone was the originally rivalry between schools and local football teams, the stuff which kept alive the competitive spirit. There were no vandals at footballs matches in those days, although the competitive urge was very strong.

I have lived in this area all my life, my roots are here. It is the home of my ancestors. There is a feeling about it almost like a time warp which goes back as far as its history can be traced, long before the Roman invasion On their way northwards the Romans formed little settlements or hamlets to supply their conquering army with nails, hand thrown missiles, and other weapons.

A typical hamlet was Gorsty Hill, and for generations it was recognised as such. Now it is called Gorsty Hill Road and has been moved through the years through various counties, finishing up half in Dudley and half in Sandwell, the boundary line being the line down the middle of the road. This definition of the boundary was originally the stream, which still runs underground between Worcestershire and Staffordshire, marking the division. It can still be seen on old maps.

The road rises steeply nearly two miles from Halesowen, (the bottom half being Coombes Holloway,) to Blackheath. One side of Gorsty Hill was taken over by Stewarts and Lloyds Steel works, latterly known as British Steel. Most of Mulberry Harbour was manufactured here and the thousands of people who worked on this project in the war years contributed greatly to our victory. The Steel Works has been demolished for many years. Instead we now have an industrial site that actually is not unpleasing to the eye and is split by a bright canal, once used to transport the steel tubes to the railway station.

Over a hundred years ago the site was covered in gorse bushes and some people say this is how the name came to be derived. Other people declare that it was taken from ‘gusty hill’ because it is exposed to the northeast winds, and a breeze almost anywhere else becomes a gale on Gorsty Hill.

There are still remnants of farms around the area. I can remember when there were farms on both sides of the rough track, and in summer time the fields were golden with ripening corn. Sheep grazed above the coal pits and in the August holidays the pit ponies were turned out for a week to feel the warmth of the sun on their blind eyes, for the mines and the farms still dwelt in close proximity as they had done since the early days of the Industrial Revolution. We have pubs too that are noticeably ancient farmhouses, and are registered as second class listed buildings

In the valley the infant Stour, which rises in the Clent Hills, four miles away, trickles down to meet the busy Severn at Stourport. Here it is known as Hayseech Brook. Local legend has it that Satan once stabled his hounds and horses at Hayseech, and despite the factories, which line its banks, there are still chunks of it, which have not altered in centuries. Tales have been handed down now only remembered by the old folks. The young ones have television and are not interested.

One particularly gruesome one tells of the time when Coombes Holloway was just a gash cut through a rocky hillside. There had been plenty of sightings of the devil, for the ale they brewed in the area was very strong and inclined to make one hallucinate. A policeman who was walking his beat from Halesowen to Blackheath, told a traveller who had joined him that he felt reluctant about climbing the Holloway that particular night and was glad of this company. Unfortunately the traveller had to leave him soon, as he was taking the left hand fork to Lodge Field Farm, but the two roads ran parallel for most of the way, so he reassured the brave arm of the law.

‘I’ll keep whistling, as long as I hear you whistle back I’ll know you are alright. Stop whistling if anything happens to you.

They whistled back and forth across the intervening fields when suddenly just as the traveller reached the farm the whistles ceased. The man smiled to himself no doubt thinking the policeman was pulling his leg. But early next morning the Constable was found dead. There were no marks on his body, just as look profound horror on his face, and his eyes had bulged so much they had come completely out of his head and hung on his cheeks.

In the winter when the east winds blow, it is very gusty on Gorsty Hill. And there is a feeling of unknown things in the air. Time seems to recede and one wonders what did the policeman see, and will it come again? Loud bangs assail our ears as dustbin lids go clattering round the gardens. On the wasteland at the back of the factory units, foxes breed and bring out their young to hunt and play. The mating call of the vixen, which is as shrill and unearthly as the beginning of time, wakes us in the small dark hours, but having heard it before we recall what it is and go back to sleep again. It is just the foxes calling from the last remnants of gorse bushes, survivors of the originals, which once covered all of Gorsty Hill, and together with the bleak winds that blow over it, gave Gorsty Hill its name.

Clarice Hackett

ROWLEY REGIS. A ROYAL HUNTING GROUND.

It has been a long time since the craggy hills of Rowley Regis were the hunting ground of Mercian Kings. Their wildness has been tamed by the hand and machine of man. They are not as craggy as they were, extensive quarrying has seen to that.

Towards the end of the seventeen hundreds, due to the creation of McAdam and Telford’s new roads, there was an urgent demand for a durable roadstone, and Rowley Rag, a hard basaltic rock was in great demand.

The quarries are still there, but the forty odd pits in and around Rowley at that time have long been closed. Some of the quarries have been filled in by masses of waste from nearby Birmingham, proving that a large hole in the ground can be a lucrative possession for a district council, the land has been reclaimed and grassed over. Parts of Rowley’s hills are looking green again.

The region was inhabited in pre-Roman times. Celtic burial mounds have been discovered. So also have Roman coins bearing the head of Galba who reigned in the year AD 68-9.

My grandmother was born in Rowley Village. When she was a child, 150 years ago, she did not go to school, but spent her time making nails. Most of the children at that time in Rowley did this unless they worked in the pits. The main trade, quarrying, was actually considered too tough for even these hapless children.

I lived within the sound of blasting which took place in the quarries. People set their clocks to the time of day when the ground was rocked by thunderous blasts and earth shaking tremors. Many people were injured by falling rock. The name Hailstone Quarry is metaphorical. The blasting charges sounding like the crack of doom, sent several tons of rock exploding high into the air, to come hailing down again onto the unprotected workers underneath.

Turners Hill climbs to a height of over two thousand feet, and is logged on some old maps of the area as ‘Cloudland.’ Once it was noted as being the highest agricultural point in the British Isles, because there was a farm on top of the hill. It was also said that on fine days one could see the Bristol Channel from this point. Another fact, which was frequently stated, was that should one throw a boomerang eastward from the top of Turners Hill it would touch nothing until it reached the Ural Mountains in Russia.

What else can I say about Rowley Regis? Until now nobody except the natives have found it a very interesting place. Like most Black Country towns it tends to ooze over and merge with its neighbour. Once it filtered through to Blackheath on one side. Now Blackheath is no longer on the planner’s maps. Its name has been taken away and part of it was designated to Rowley and part to Halesowen. On the other side Rowley melts into Old Hill, except that Old Hill has been taken off the map too and now half is in Cradley and the other half in Halesowen.

Rowley Regis was one of the many places that made the Ironmasters and Pit owners rich. Their great houses are still to be seen in the green of the surrounding countryside.

Eastwards, looking from the top of the hill, lies the sprawling urbanity of Birmingham while Westwards is a glorious vista of the hills and valleys of Shropshire, Worcestershire, the Malverns and Clees, and in the distance the mountains of Wales.

Rowley is definitely in the Black Country but there are still farms to be see, relics of the pre-industrial revolution. It is a region full of marl holes, canals, pubs pitshafts, and chapels. The new merges with the old as the past continually raises its head.

You won’t find much about Rowley except in specialist books written by people who loved the place. Another shift of boundaries and it may well be forgotten altogether. Maybe someone will at times recall that it once supplied the whole world with ‘Jews’ Harps,’ those strange musical instruments on which people wrecked their front teeth. And of course its Ragstone. As long as there are roads to be built this tough shiny blue-green rock will be needed, and when in the far off future al this has been worked out, and the great wounded gashes on the hillsides are grassed over, peace will descend, and once again it could become a place of sport and recreation. A playground fit for kings.

Clarice Hackett.

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