Coachman's Cottage

A Memory of Fontmell Parva.

These are the memories of my childhood week-ends and holidays, spent with my Uncle Harold and Aunt Lucy Mogridge at Fontmell Parva.
My maternal grandmother Annie Farwell lived at Fontmell Parva for 50 years, in the coachman’s cottage. Lewis Spencer Mogridge, my grandfather, was the coachman at the big house. Lewis and Annie had five children: Harry (1899), Alice (1898), Harold (1906), Bert (1902) and Phyllis (my mother, 1910). Harry lied about his age and fought in the Great War. Alice went away to Bristol to work. Harold went to work at the house in his father’s position, as Lewis died at the age of 46 from, I believe, Bright’s disease (kidneys). This enabled Annie to continue living in the tied cottage. Bert was the black sheep of the family; he worked on the estate farm with a large farm horse in the fields. I remember sitting on that horse. Phyllis was very young when her father died; it was hit and miss if she ever attended the village school. It was a one mile walk to get there (stopping at the warm blacksmith forge had something to do with it). She left school to work as a parlor maid at the house; she was a very attractive woman, especially when wearing her uniform. The Bower family owned the house and estate at that time; I can barely remember them, but they left to live in Africa and a Mr. Litton bought the estate. I spent many happy hours at Fontmell. In 1939 Harold married Lucy, who was the cook at the house, and it remained the family home until they moved to live at Gold Hill in the village. I worked in the kitchen with my aunt, and looked after Robin Litton’s children; he still lives at Fontmell. We gathered wood, picked wild flowers, nuts and berries out in the fields. So many happy memories. I always think about the house, surrounded by daffodils and narcisses, especially in the spring. Mr and Mrs Bridgeman lived in the gardener’s cottage. Bert and Marge lived in the farm cottage next door to Mr Moody the farmer. Robin Litton and his family lived in the farm house. Walking up Porters Hill, I always looked on the left side for the air raid shelter that was built during WWII, but I never found it! I remember the poor rabbits who ingested the myxomatosis poison, running around bloated and blind. No one wanted to eat rabbit pie after that! At Farington there was a spring of water by the roadside that was brown with iron, but we were encouraged to drink it because it was good for us. Evidently, during the war, the army was billeted at the big house; I remember seeing numbers on the doors. Oh, how I wished that I had asked questions, but my mother’s generation did not talk about things, especially with the children. I loved the summer garden fêtes that were held at all the big houses to raise money for the church. The pony rides held my interest; I loved to hold the horses while their owners had a break. The horses and hounds would meet at the house and we would follow on foot. I saw a new member being 'bloodied' with the foxes’ blood. I was a small girl, so you can imagine the outrage of today, and I would hold the huge huntsmen’s horses which were sweating profusely. Once a month, a van would visit to sell wares like pots, pans, cups, … you name it, he had it!. The fish van came on Fridays with fresh fish. Every day we would walk up to the farm with the billy can to fetch the milk, half the can was cream of course; it was not pasteurized. During the war, Gran kept chickens at the back of the house and they would walk over the brook into the back fields. My sister June Brockway went to the village school during the war and was friendly with Mr and Mrs. Curtis and their son Nigel. My grandparents and parents are buried in the village churchyard so, when I visit England from Canada, I always go to Fontmell 'home', as we still call it.

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