Although change is inevitable I had not realised the extent to which this has occurred in the village of Ballasalla and its surrounds until an American student sought my help with her project.

When I was a small child in the late 30’s the coal, bread, greengroceries etc, were delivered on horse drawn vehicles. Milk was delivered to the door from Glashen and Moaney Mooar farms in spankingly clean floats. We could also go to Balthane and Crossag Farms for milk and vegetables and there was a greengrocer’s shop at Bridge House. Mr Wyatt’s Whitestone nurseries on Glashen Hill sold tomatoes and eggs. Mr Kneale from Peel brought fresh fish on his van almost weekly. In the village we had Mr Wilfie Gelling’s cycle and radio shop (later a Baby clothes shop) in Douglas Road and Bob Corkhill’s general store and post office on the corner. On the opposite corner a cottage stood from which Mrs Cornie Evans sold minerals and sweets and, at times, her other room was a café and chip shop. The one telephone kiosk was situated on the expanse of grass in front. It was never vandalised as everyone depended upon it in times of illness. However, it seemed to be on a party line and callers would frequently tell the ‘gentleman’ listening to “get off the line!” The cottage and grass had to go when the corner was widened, but the chemist shop with library replaced it and is now a hairdressing salon. Tom Cubbon had a butcher’s shop near the Whitestone Inn, but that and two houses are now part of the extended public house.

In Main Road next to Miss Glassey’s Whitestone Stores and Off-Licence was a cobbler’s shop, and opposite in Wesley Terrace old ‘Mamma’ Oates kept a well stocked hardware store and also sold paraffin. Kermode’s Bakery (now Ye Olde Bakery) used to bake its own bread, and as the Primary School was in nearby Mill Road we would buy freshly baked penny buns at play time and sometimes buy minerals at the café, except on Tuesdays which was mart day when Mrs Corkish was too busy preparing dinners for the farmers. The cobblers, hardware store and café no longer exist.

The Cattle Mart was a large building standing on what is now the Whitestone Inn carpark. Cattle pens were at the rear and after the morning sales the cattle were driven at speed down the Martfield Lane onto Station Road to be put into cattle pens at the Railway Station to await transport by train to the Douglas abattoir. It always coincided with the time when we were walking back for afternoon lessons and it was a terrifying experience to be faced with stampeding bullocks, wild eyed with fear, which occasionally took a swipe at us as we pinned ourselves against the wall. We could actually smell their fear, but mother said we should feel sorry for them and not think about our fear which I think we wise words. The village was hosed down from the Mart to the Station at the end of the day, leaving a lingering smell of disinfectant. The local men working on the highways would carry out weekly maintenance around the village every Saturday morning using their sickles, spades and brushes.

Sometimes from our way back from school, we would stop to watch the horses being shod at the smithy owned by Mr Bob Oates in Station Road. On occasions we were allowed to warm ourselves at the forge and operate the bellows. Mr Oates would mend iron tools and make wheel hoops. The bus stop for Douglas was located there and on the timetable notice board was a poster of the films being shown at the Cosy Cinema in Castletown. There were also smithies at Cross Fourways and St Marks but all have now gone as has the joy of watching these craftsmen at work. Newark Villa, a guest house now demolished stood at the corner of the Station entrance which had a very neat and pretty garden where the American flag was flown by old Mr Corrin who had been in the American Navy. He wore a panama hat and rode a tricycle which he encouraged the younger men to ride whilst taking great delight in watching them being unable to master the steering. The small adjacent shop sold minerals and ice cream.

We, and generations of children before us, played rounders and football on the expansive grass at the Station and played Cowboys and Indians around the empty cattle pens. The site has been changed to offices and the large site of sweetly perfumed garden violets behind the pens buried under their foundations. Most of my generation still recall the names and numbers of the 16 steam engines which we used to watch being filled up from the water tower. The Station Master Mr Albert Kelly was justifiably proud of his floral displays at the station, but a new building is now on the other side of the rail track and passengers have to cross over the railway lines to purchase a ticket! After the Second World War, hundreds of visitors streamed off the train to visit Rushen Abbey. Many would stop to take their photographs at the adjacent paddock with the two magnificent horses (one a successful 17.5 hands steeple chaser) which rushed to the wall to greet them.

Before it was screened off with high boards, the paddock was a peaceful scene with the horses swishing their tails under the trees in a buttercup and daisy strewn paddock. The village sports took place there which included flower and vegetable shows in the marquees. I can remember the all-pervading scent of the sweet peas, roses and crushed grass. Later we ate a sumptuous high tea provided by the ladies in a marquee. The paddock, its snowdrop covered walk, orchard, two kitchen gardens, greenhouse, hen houses and tennis court have disappeared under houses. The paddock and its gardens belonged to Ballasalla Place where my father Benny Joyce was the gardener/chauffeur. The walled garden in front of the house contained a leanto greenhouse, three lawns, two rose gardens and herbaceous borders edged with boxwood and lavender surrounded by white gravel paths. Apple trees also lined the large lawn and their blossom laden bows would drape over the flowers. As these gardens were considered to be the best private gardens in the south of the island many garden parties were held there. There were regular visits from flower clubs and celebrities from television and the English press. Dad was showered with compliments. The smell of the giant eucalyptus tree, daphne bushes, sweetpeas, lavender and roses will always stay in my memory. A few years ago I was shocked and saddened to see the garden no longer bore evidence of the extremely hard work of his life time.

In the fifties, a large house, ‘The Rest’, in Station Road opposite the paddock (now demolished along with two cottages and a walled garden, site of the Isle of Man Bank) was a café at which teenage cycling club members would congregate in the evenings and I longed to own an expensive racing cycle similar to those propped against the railings. There were at least two other private homes which became cafes in the summertime.

Opposite the Railway Station was the entrance to Shimmin’s Pleasure Gardens at Bridge House which belonged to great Uncle Robert Shimmin. A wooden kiosk with white picket fence was at the entrance to a path meandering through exotic palm trees and fields, some of which were strawberry fields! These fields, now known as Silverburn estate was where we played among the corn stooks and hayricks. The Pleasure Gardens with pond were similar to the facilities at Silverdale with the main building and chalets at the rear. Strawberries and cream were served to children on Sunday School picnics. The building later became an Officers’ Mess, then a restaurant, later a public house known as the Poacher’s Pocket which was demolished last year. The Wesleyan Chapel held Sunday School anniversaries in the grounds on the Sunday afternoon and evening. Choirs were on the stage and the congregation sat on wooden benches near the river among the wild flowers and apple trees. There was also a leanto vinery (they sold grapes) and the entrance gates were white with terracotta pots containing vivid red geraniums gracing the gate pillars. There are few places remaining where the villagers have had continued access, but every owner of this property, including the present had endeavoured to serve the community as does the owner of Ballahot Farm who continues to provide the river walk from Monk’s Bridge to Silverdale, and this gratefully appreciated.

Over the Bridge was Rushen Abbey, another beautiful place where the gardener, Mr Bob Corlett, had a huge array of plants throughout the grounds and the paths wound through rose arches – a serene haven! Visitors ate their strawberries or fresh peaches and cream under the grapes in the large vinery which, according to a prestigious magazine, had the largest and oldest climbing geranium in the British Isles. Needless to say, the vinery and gardens are no longer in existence. I can remember Dad playing bowls on the green near the Tower when I was a toddler. Peacocks and pheasants strutted in their enclosure nearby. I can remember going to bed and falling asleep as the setting sun cast a crimson glow on the walls and peacocks made their last cry of the evening which could be heard throughout the village. There was a café with rustic tables of tree trunks and french polished surfaces upon which elegant afternoon teas were served. The diners were not far from the dance floor, one side of was open and hung with flower baskets, where a quintet played music in the afternoons and evenings. (Sometimes the feathered songbirds joined in!). On Sundays people sat in deckchairs to listen to a classical concert where local singers such as Louis Gale and Bob Nicholl performed. They were so good that visitors on entering excitedly enquired as to which opera singers were present! As teenagers we worked at Rushen Abbey in the summer holidays. The carpark at the rear, which the Commissioners purchased a few years ago, was full of coaches on Sunday evenings and it took two hours for the coaches visiting the South of the Island to go through the village to Douglas. Bridget Simmcocks whose father and mother owned Rushen Abbey told me that there were 89 coaches on the rear carpark in one day! We used to stand at the corner and wave to the visitors who all seemed to be in very good holiday spirit. In those days, the resident police sergeant was on duty at the Whitestone Corner when the children went to school at lunchtime and teatime.

Another excellent gardener of the old school was Tom Crellin who was responsible for the airport gardens. The lawns were immaculate and not a weed in sight in the flower beds. Before the airport was built, passengers had to go to Derbyhaven and I can remember a pilot was doing something with the propellers before take off. The airport was built after World War II when Ronaldsway and Ballagilley Farms were demolished to lay the runways, as was the imposing redbrick building of King William’s College Sanatorium near Hango Hill. Wild violets grew on the corner of Ballgilley Road near to the Creggans Farm and barns which were later demolished for the airport carpark. Two cottages opposite were also demolished for the Ronaldsway Industrial Estate.

Malew Football pitch was on the rather hilly Cronk Stowell (a good mushroom field) which is now Meadowcourt Estate. It then moved to Ballathane, behind the new farmhouse, which is now awaiting development as part of the industrial site, then to Crossag which became the Government Landbank. Its final abode is adjacent to Clagh Vane. Clagh Vane Estate was a Fleet Air Arm Camp with sentries at the entrance. The nissen huts became housing and subsequently replaced by houses. This also happened at Janet’s Corner which was then in Malew Parish. Balthane fields also had nissen huts and are now an industrial estate and Freeport. Before the road was closed to the public in the war time single decker buses travelled via Balthane and Derbyhaven which was the main bus route. Farmers used the road to collect seaweed from the shore for fertiliser. We collected watercress from the stream at Balthane, but is now highly polluted and overgrown. Surprisingly, a stile nearby remains to the public right of way over the fields which in the 1800s my Grandmother walked everyday from Bridge House to the School for Young Ladies at Derbyhaven. The runway now crosses the path and the road. At the old farmhouse at Balthane (demolished last year), Mrs Curphey used to give us freshly baked bonnag and buttermilk. German and Italian prisoners of war worked there and they often joined in our ball games whilst waiting for the train. Farmers’ wives took their produce on the train in baskets to Douglas market on Saturdays.

Ballahick Farm Road was magical. It had a canopy of Hawthorn blossom partway, the biggest primroses, meadowsweet, honeysuckle and wild roses. Catkins hung on the willows in the garey where we searched for tadpoles among the marsh marigolds. Later the land was drained under a government scheme, and the hawthorn hedges cut very low, but unbelievably, the yellow flag irises survive at the water trough! A modern bungalow now replaces the imposing part castellated large farmhouse which had a carpet of snowdrops and crocus in its western garden. An apple orchard to the east was on the lane to Balthane round. This lane remains a public right of way. Mrs Faragher, an elderly lady let me help churn the butter and take some home which I carried on a pretty plate frequently peeping under the greaseproof paper to admire my handiwork. The taste of Manx farm butter and home made blackberry jam was heaven. As I had admired this sandwich plate on the shelves of the large pantry I was told to keep it and I cherish it to this day.

Although everyone was poor by today’s standards we were happy, fed well from the land and home grown produce. Dad, and most men in the village hunted rabbits, duck, wild geese and salmon because we could not afford beef. Now I am almost vegetarian for various reasons. We played in the road as we could hear the occasional car and house doors were only locked at night. On the rare occasion when their mothers were late home children could go to any house in the village as most people were relatives. It was a lovely cosy feeling belonging to this extended family. A stranger in the village could cause a sensation! I don’t think it is an exaggeration to say that within an hour everyone knew his/her nationality, ancestry, occupation and reason for being here. However, I remember the smells of the village as being most evocative which were those of the countryside, freshly baked bread, jam making at Rushen Abbey, salt fish, paraffin, the train, melting tar and the Mart! I would prefer to have that than the exhaust fumes from thousands of cars travelling daily through the village as happens today. The last official count was an average of 70,000 vehicles per week!

There are about 40 smallholdings and farms in Malew either demolished or enlarged as private dwellings. The Wesleyan Chapel with clock tower was demolished as the walls could not support the roof and presented a danger. The strange thing is that when anything decent is destroyed, the excuse is ‘progress’, but to what goal? We must be thankful that the Abbey Church remains, that the Primitive Methodist Chapel in Bridge Road survived as a garage and that Manx National Heritage commenced renovation last year on the Rushen Abbey Hotel. Except from the Whitestone Inn and the Tai Restaurant, there is no establishment to have a tea and a chat. In fact there is no place to walk except the glen which is sometimes muddy, but as the only recreational area for all age groups this could become over used and far from secluded and peaceful. There are no green areas or fields where once we went ‘wild’ and used up surplus energy. I have my memories but cannot help but wonder where today’s children play other than on the Commissioner’s small playing field. Perhaps we should all watch television as it seems to be the only place where idyllic villages and communities exist.

Editors Note

The above article was contributed by Brenda Crellin, whose family has lived in Ballasalla for generations. It was originaly prepared for the “The Society for the Preservation of the Manx Countryside”. It indeed plucks a nostalgic chord present in so many of the older generation and we have been inundated with other like memories, which will no doubt adorn a future issue of the “Guardian”.

*Taken from Spring 2008 Village Guardian.