Ray TIM put this on his FB page a few weeks ago and I’ve been meaning to put it on the blog for those of you who may not have seen it. I’ve never seen any signs of the bungalow, but maybe we could have a look next time we’re up there. EtU knew the name when I mentioned it on Saturday. Ray’s post is below.
“A friend sent this poem about Winter Hill, that his aunt wrote. You oldies from Bolton should have no trouble reading it. His maternal grandparents, James & Mary Wood, lived at Hole Bottom Bungalow on Winter Hill from the late twenties until 1939. It nestled in a hollow about 100 yards from the summit of Winter Hill and the cast-iron column of Scotchman’s Stump. That was erected to commemorate the murder there of a Scottish traveller, (James Henderson if I recall). As a result of the depression, Jim was out of work and the tenancy of the Bungalow carried with it some gamekeeping on the moors (property of Liverpool Corporation from the gift of Lord Leverhulme). There wasn’t any electricity or gas, nor any mains water, but there was a spring nearby. Annie, his sister, lived there until she married in 1937. During the week she lodged with his family and went home to Winter Hill at weekends.
Today, there is no evidence of the bungalow, it being demolished sometime during the ‘60s.”
Wi Gooin Wum t’Winter Hill
Ann Fleetwood, August 1982
When aw lived up Winter Hill,
Mun a bin fifty yar back,
We used to goo bi Georges Loan
Or else bi t’Brunt Edge track.
Fro Georges Loan, thro’ Ramwell’s farm,
Pass t’pit and t’quarry too,
Reawnd a corner – stop for breath;
Eeh! What a lovely view.
Then, on past t’Butts and up thro’ t’cut
Th’owd brick kiln comes in seight,
Deawn t’track we goo , thro’ t’garden gate
At last we’re wum for t’neight.
“Hole Bottoms” was the name o’ t’place
At t’top o’ t’rough yewn track
It tuk us half an heawr t’get up
Only twenty minutes back!
Neaw t’other road we’d tak somedays
Wi’ t’weather feign an wearm,
Thro’ Barrow Bridge, then up yon steps
To Walker Fowt bi t’farm
Across the road an’ ower t’style
(We never oppent gate)
Along t’Brunt Edge and deawn to t’bruck,
Crossed even when in spate.
Past Sugar Loaf an’ up thro’ t’glen
An then another style,
The little stream to cross agen;
We’re wum fer t’rest awhile.
On other days we’d ‘ave a change,
Instead of gooin up t’steps
We’d goo up t’road that crossed t’Golf Links
To t’farm that Morrises kept.
“Hole Hill” t’was named, as I recall
Then along t’top road bi t’wall
Past t’place they cawd “Slack Hall”
Deawn t’hill agen to t’babblin brook
(Crossed wi a bit o’ luck)
The rest o’ t’ way we’en bin befooer
Back wum agen once mooer.
There’s mony a tale I ‘ave to tell
About yon Smithills Mooer
Of grouse and Germans, Whinberry Pie,
Aye pages scooer on scooer.
It would take me quite a spell
An awm seventy now, what’s mooer
So, I’d better get it down reight quick
AFORE THEY SHUT THAT DOOER.