In 1994 a ‘Village News’ reporter wrote an article about Eva Cole’ who lived for many years on the Petersfield Road. Eva’s father, Percy was the son of a William Coles who was himself the son of John Coles, a prominent Clanfield farmer born in 1825. William and Percy were wheelwright/blacksmiths. Percy had been sent by his father to train in London and both father and son ran the business from what is now Len Scott’s Joinery in Chalton Lane and the Blacksmith’s shop opposite.

Cyril, who wrote the story in the early part of the 20th century is the son of David Coles. David was the brother of William so of course, also the son of John.

According to Eva, David, a carpenter, had left Clanfield to work on the Canadian railway where he made quite a lot of money. Upon his return, he married. Rose. In 1901 just after Cyril was born, his father ran a coffee house in Fulham and by the 1911 census, David gives his profession as a carpenter presumably working for William his brother and his address as ‘The Firs’, Clanfield (later The Red House).

Cyril was born in Fulham, London so it was very much the city boy who arrived in the country together with his parents and his younger brother Eric.

From Fulham to Clanfield

An extract of village life around 1911, by Cyril Henry Coles.

Paving stones and parks gave way to lanes and open fields, the cab to the wagonette, and the horizon of roofs and domes to the distant view of the rolling South Downs. Life in the country had begun.

It was true that the village boys, and even those numerous Coles cousins, who were spread so liberally over the Clanfield countryside, eyed. with some suspicion, and even disdain, this rather weedy and. undersized newcomer with staring blue eyes, whose parents had. rented Packhurst, the elegant Georgian house on the hill. His neat blue and white sailor suits seemed incongruous along the hedgerow and. impracticable for tree climbing or scaling walls. The stout steel-bound. boots of the village boys kicked easy footholds between the rough stones, and. contrasted. sharply with his small well-shod feet. It was not long before he gained their respect however, for what he lacked in brawn, he made up for in mischievous ingenuity; his innocent blue eyes were a useful mask, and the culprit often went undetected. The days of the nose pressed sadly against the window in wistful longing were over. Here in the country he had a new kind of freedom. His new friends were Edwin Shawyer, the blacksmith’s son, a dark thickset boy of his own age, with a talent for drawing: runny nosed Gordon Adlam: Wally Baker and Cousin Peter, with their passion for taming animals: clever Jack Murrant, the pig killer’s boy, and the sly-eyed. Thompson, from Horndean, with an eye to the main chance.

The life and work of the village moved with the rhythm of the seasons; seedtime and. harvest each brought its own mystic rituals. In late autumn, the ploughman trod mile upon mile of furrows behind a team of shires, and on the hot August days, when the corn had been cut and. shocked, the boys would squabble to lead the docile horse between the sheaves. The prize was a shilling a day, but the field held other delights, more barbarous and primitive. Muscles tensed on stick and gun, the dogs nosed the electric air. At last the merciless binder forced a cornered rabbit to a hopeless dash to freedom out of the waning moon of bright corn and across the naked stubble. But boys are bloodthirsty creatures, and it was not the chase alone that compelled their jungle instincts; when Jack Murrant’s Pa was summoned to kill and. quarter a neighbour’s pig for the price of one shilling and sixpence, he could always be sure of an audience.

Christmas brought all the usual celebrations: carol singers, feasting and sliding and skating on the village pond and once a pageant of St. George and the Dragon that had its roots deep in the unrecorded folk lore of the past. But for the children perhaps, it was the Band of Hope’s outing to Hayling Island that was the much longed for occasion of the year. Four big farm wagons were harnessed, and. four men chosen to pilot the excited load, along its four hour journey to the sea. With the wagons went the banner of the Band, of Hope. In the bat hung twilight, the sleepy, contented load, returned, stuffed with sweets and. sandwiches, pop and ices, lolling drowsily together and. singing to the steady rumble of the cart wheels, and. the distant far-off screams and splashing still roaring in their ears. Even the chapel Elders turned a blind eye when those worthy carters returned tardy home from their dawdle along the wayside pubs.

The village was divided into two camps - the Church and the Chapel. The Chapel and. the Liberals, (were seldom separated) had the greater part. All the Coles but Uncle Henry were its staunch supporters. Grandfather had once had. a difference of opinion with the vicar and in a fit of pique turned Methodist, converting simultaneously nearly all his farm hands, which amounted to most of the congregation. Only once did a clergyman from the rival church come near to making a truce. He was the Reverend. Royce, a visiting priest from America. Perhaps it was his pioneer spirit which endeared him to the Clanfield villagers, so accustomed to the hymn singing and bible punching of these militant Methodists. He was a distinguished figure in his clawhammer coat, so reminiscent of portraits of Abraham Lincoln. He had actually been a bugler in the war between the States, and later wrote one of those novels so beloved of the Edwardians, entitled. “The Little Bugler”.

But alas, religion, like anything else, is subject to the whim of fashion. Fifty years ago, the swelling congregation having outgrown the small Bethel Chapel adjoining Aunt Annie’s house, built a new edifice opposite the pig-sties. It was filled two or three times a Sunday, and rang with the familiar sounds of raised voices to the harmonium, or the lay preacher’s impassioned denunciation of the evils of alcohol. How many times after Good Friday service, the pews were pushed back and trestle tables spread with cress sandwiches and. sticky buns. On one notable occasion, cold tea found its way into the harmonium and a horrified. Kathy Richardson sobbed as the usual windy groans were silenced, and little jets of brownish liquid issued. fitfully from behind. the fabric front Entertainments were seldom so unorthodox, however. They usually took the form of magic lantern slides of The Holy Land. More secular film shows took place at the school. These were provided. by travelling showmen, and usually included at least one of a funeral, as these were the cheapest on the markets But the programme always provided some thrills. Once Cyril saw “Rescued by Rover”, now considered a classic. The illumination for these shows was provided, by the original limelight - a hydrogen flame directed onto a pastille of lime.

Such were the unsophisticated, improvised, homespun entertainments that a village community could afford. But no-one complained of a lack of facilities. The hours of leisure were less, and rising at dawn encouraged an early retire to bed.

Packhurst, although an elegant and graceful house, commanding a good view of the village, had its disadvantages. But David was not anxious to make improvements, as the house had only been rented, and. his one idea was to build, on his own land. This ran on the south side of the village and adjoined Admiral Bailey’s property of Hinton Manor. It included a steep down with a clump of new trees which Grand Father had grown, known as the plantation. The house was to be built below this hill, but on the crest of the next, so that on three sides the vistas were long and pleasant, but it had the advantage of protection from the winds on the east side.