A Family Story

There came a time for me when I sat back and pondered on my own childhood memories of life in my early days with my parents, my brother, my grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins and how we would regularly come together for family gatherings of one sort or another. Poring over old photographs would bring those memories tumbling back into focus. At some point it dawned on me, as it does to many, that behind the two sets of grandparents that I remember lay four sets of great grandparents – shadowy figures who did not appear in any old family photographs. Who were these people? Thus began my first tentative steps into family history research as the next stage was to find out where they were born, when and where their marriages took place and when they died. In this way four new family surnames cropped up on the female side that I had never heard of – very intriguing. Then by finding relevant censuses it was possible to discover where they lived and what they did. Next by contacting a couple of cousins I discovered that they had been interested in family history for far longer than me and so I was able to collect a photograph of six of my seven great grandparents. This is quite a moment I can assure you as by gazing upon a face of someone is to bring them back to life in a way that no set of facts can ever do. However, you do in many cases need the facts first before any photos that you discover can be identified and so I began to build my family tree on my computer using Family Tree Maker. I also scanned old photographs that I came across and I found, in time, I could unite a photograph with a set of facts and add a face to a name. Wedding photographs are wonderful sources as they sometimes contain lots of unknown faces. Were they family or friends? Often as not they were family members. Two significant wedding photos turned up and initially I recognised my grandfather only in the later photo and no one at all in the earlier. By working with cousins, other photos and the information in my family tree I have now identified everyone pictured.

Arthur Collings marries Mabel Blandford 1908 in Christchurch

Eveleen Collings marries George Bicknell in Nether Compton in 1900

All of this has been an enjoyable, ongoing and it must be said an addictive process as it is rather like having my own very personal jigsaw puzzle to put together. Only siblings will share the same family tree going backwards in time.

When setting out I concentrated on my given name – Collings – and I could remember very well family holidays spent at my grandparents’ home in Nether Compton. These were happy times indelibly etched into my memory. As my family tree ‘grew’ I realised what very strong connections my Collings family had to Nether Compton and to the wider area of Dorset and Somerset. When David and I moved to Sherborne, from Winchester in 2011, I came to realise that I was, at the very least, the fifth generation of my family to walk down Cheap Street. Quite a revelation! With the discovery of a photograph of my great, great grandfather Solomon, located in a family album of a cousin, I now have photos of the four who preceded me. I doubt I will ever find a photo of Solomon’s father John, but I do know he is buried in Chetnole churchyard and the farm he worked on in Hamlet, Yetminster has been revealed to me via his burial record and his will. Being able to visit both these locations is one of the great pleasures to be had from all this exploration. John’s father before him, named Thomas, I have traced back to Lottisham Green in Somerset, but I have not yet found him for sure and this is what is known in family history circles as coming up against a ‘brick wall’. Will that wall come tumbling down one day? Only time and effort on my part will tell.

Inevitably the village of Nether Compton became the next focus of my research. Over and Nether Compton have always been collectively known as Compton and overtime I found everything I possibly could building up a veritable archive digitally, on paper and physically by way of objects. I loved the thrill of the chase as I tracked down facts, books, maps, photos, newspaper reports, directories and more besides. I also enjoyed talking to people and found many living in Compton or with connections to the village in the past with the same interests as me.

In 2012, the year of the Diamond Jubilee of Queen Elizabeth II a group of similarly interested people came together to look in more detail at the life of the villagers in the 19^th and 20^th centuries. Annette Sandison has written an excellent book Over & Nether Compton – Records and Traditions of two Dorset Parishes tracing the history from the 9^thcentury, but she stopped short with a brief mention of the 19^th. We intended to investigate further the lives of those who lived in Compton in more recent times but for a variety of reasons daily life stepped in and our best intentions came to nothing.

In early 2021 I had time on my hands, and I thought why not write my own family history as a story set in the time that they lived in Compton. I had previously been on a course entitled ‘How to write your family history as a novel’ with the Sherborne Literary Society and I also had a quite inspirational book: Family Fables – How to write and publish the story of YOUR family. I set out with the intention of producing something to give to younger members of my family but soon came to realise that perhaps this might have a wider appeal as I would endeavour to find out what was taking place in Compton and the outside world at the same time as my family lived there over four generations. I began with my great grandfather George signing his apprenticeship as a carpenter and builder in 1862 as I always knew this was an important event in our family as it led indirectly to another almost 30 years later when Colonel John Robert Phelips Goodden, who had inherited Compton House and the surrounding estate which included most properties in Over & Nether Compton, decided to embark on a major rebuild to upgrade the standard of housing in the area. George was put in charge of the estate builders, carpenters and stonemasons and was rewarded by being granted a tenancy for himself and his family in one of the improved dwellings.

I followed the ups and downs of village life through two world wars up until the death of the last member of my family to live out his life in Compton, my grandfather Arthur, who died just a few months after the Coronation of our late Queen.

The writing of the story took me about ten months – working on it every day. There were occasions when I nearly gave up but as I am what the occupational psychologists call a ‘completer finisher’ I kept working away. Right at the end it was suggested that a map might be helpful, and this would also solve my dilemma of what to put on the cover and I duly met with Laurence Belbin, the local Sherborne artist, and I was pleased and delighted when he said he would take this on. He went way beyond anything I could ever have hoped for with a beautiful 3D effect map in watercolour together with pen and ink drawings of some of the houses built by the long-ago village workforce. The map was digitally enhanced with some of Laurence’s drawn signs and a copy is tucked into the back of each book.

Laurence Belbin’s map

I do hope anyone reading my book will find it interesting and perhaps it will inspire others who have amassed the same sorts of information to have a go at writing their very own family story.

Barbara Elsmore November 2022

A First Tale from the Thatched House

The Thatched House appears to have been in Nether Compton overlooking the Green since time immemorial and like every ancient home there will be many a tale to tell about lives lived within its walls. This detailed description of memories of visiting the Thatched House was sent by James Hill, (grandson of George Kendall Gamekeeper and later Bailiff) to the Reverend Rutter and has been transcribed here by Rosie Elliot. It seems most likely that Reverend Rutter might have asked for memories of days gone by when he was the incumbent between 1973 and 1997. The photo above was sent to me by Robert Arthur, who lived in the house as a boy when his family moved in in 1953. The Thatched House is immediately behind the Morris van and has roses growing up and over the front door.

Dear Mr Rutter,

My grandfather, George Kendall, on my mother’s side was born at Bishop’s Caundle in 1837. The son of a stone mason, a descendant of a John and Lydia who took over a business in 1748. You can still see my great grandfather’s initials with that of his brother on the south side of Pole Bridge on the way to Bishops Down. They are reported to have rebuilt both Goodbridge and Cornford bridges and the account appears in the Bishops Caundle Parish Records for repairs to a footbridge over Caundle Brook. 

George’s father had two wives: the first from Brompton Regis down on Exmoor, the second, George’s mother came from Holwell, then an island of Somerset in the sea of Dorset. 

George was a gamekeeper at Glanvilles Wootton when he married Amelia in 1864. She with a pedigree you can trace back to 1650 at Wynford Eagle, a descendent of farmers, dairymen, independent personalities that “took over” a dairy producing calves, milk, butter, cream and cheese for “so much a cow” – including Blue Vinney, a dry hard, crumbly cheese which could be blue or white with a flavour all it’s own, not like the soft butter ‘Dorset Blue’ which I understand is now made in Devonshire. The Plough (?) at Stratton, near Dorchester and The Greyhound at Beaminster made speciality Blue Vinney lunches serving new crusty bread and real cider. It was a real feast flavoured with pickled onions to relish. 

He came to Compton as a gamekeeper living in ‘The Cottage in the Wood’ but progressed and made bailiff of the estate living opposite the Village Green in Nether Compton, a long thatched house with a woodshed, kitchen and dairy leaning on the back of the west wall, behind this was a large garden walled on the east side with a five seater toilet at the north west corner. On the south side of the garden, across the entrance was a little stone and tiled slaughter house with cow stall, cart shed with lofts over. West of this was a mixen, pigsty and run and small barton with a gate onto a two acre paddock, the bottom of which was the Compton Brook with a small stone bridge and gate over leading to “Gasson”, a large park like field that ran up to the drive on the south of the “Haw Haw” fence on the east and the Yeovil Road on the north. 

George and Amelia were blessed with seven children but only four survived to raise their own families. 1868 – Joseph Henry; 1870- Arthur James; 1872 – Alice (my mother); 1874 Bessie; 1875 – Ann who died in 1879; 1879 – Emily Georgina who died at 9 months; 1882 George Edward who died at 7 months. 

It was to this paradise that my sister and I were brought every Sunday. I riding on the back of my mother’s cycle and my sister, Mary Caroline on the back of Dad’s. They both rode ladies cycles, good solid Humbers. There we met most of our cousins from Clatcombe, Rimpton and Coombe on high days and holidays and pig killing. During the summers I stayed at Compton mixing with the village children and exploring the woods and fields. 

By 1910 when I was hatched Amelia was dead and George, on his own, had a housekeeper, Lily to keep house. 

The house had two floors and an attic. The ground floor consisted of a best room, larder cum storeroom and a parlour complete with inglenook fire on the hearth and bread oven with dairy, kitchen and woodshed tacked on the back. 

The attic was lit by two small windows in the north and south gable ends and ran the whole length and width of the house. Here we played on wet days and here was stored in summer the fire dogs and holding bar from the hearth. Here too stayed the little wooden barrels that were filled with cider for hot days in the hayfield and from the rafters hung strings of onions grown in the garden together with the ‘seed potatoes’ for next year in shoe boxes and cartons, set up for sprouting. 

Over the front door was a lead insurance seal and a large knocker on the door. Inside all the windows had seats and folding wood shutters, the table in the parlour was heavy mahogany, ‘Georgian’ with large bulbous legs and the six piece top were each cut from a single piece of wood measuring 4ft 6ins long by 2ft 3ins wide. On the sideboard was a huge ornamental ware teapot holding some three and a half gallon. I only saw it used once at a picnic in ‘Gasson’. The sideboard was also mahogany with deep drawers and compartments fitted with six huge glass decanters that each held a gallon of spirit or port or claret. Around on the right side was a ‘secret’ cupboard for a chamber pot used by late night card players. On a long shelf over the inglenook were two brass candlesticks and two steel candlesticks, the latter were sharpened (razor sharp) on a large flat stone and used for pig scraping. 

On a stool by the bread oven grandfather took a nap each day, using a wooden box covered in old baize, stuffed as hard as a brick with straw for a pillow. He was a huge man, six and a half feet, broad and thick in proportion. As a young man he had a stallion somewhere in Shropshire and been kicked by a horse with the result as he grew older he suffered from rheumatism and stiff hip and used two small tree trunks as sticks. 

When I first knew him he had a dog cart with 6ft wheels painted dark green and black lined, with a high stepping horse. This he drove like the wind and would not permit anyone to overtake. 

Thursday was Sherborne Market Day to which he went each week. On the way one week he came across a man with a sack and an 18in iron bar with a 2in hook at one end and a 3in fixed ring on the other. Grandfather stopped and asked what he was doing. The man replied gathering snails and drew from his sack several ‘cricket balls’ of snails clinging to each other. These he sold to the glass workers in Bristol as they were good for consumption. 

As Grandfather got older the dog cart became a four wheel cart, then a governess car, then a very low four wheeler pulled by a fat Exmoor pony. 

One Thursday Market Day I saw my first tractor. From memory an Overland. It had a very low speed engine and a low gear that would pull a tree down. These were used by a threshing contractor at Sherborne and lasted until the 1939-45 war being used by the USA army to pull crashed lorries out of ditches. 

Grandfather’s hobby was game birds, not for cock fighting but eating and to keep his stock in good order used to swap or barter cockerels with fellow enthusiasts. I well remember these trips to Marston, Charlton Hawthorne and Thornford, the latter via the two Silver Lakes across the railway line that only had a bell to warn you of trains and so to Thornford, both road and rail crossings no longer used. 

When he was a gamekeeper he had the job of going to Marston to bring back some white rabbits that were a feature of the Park for many years. 

On a ride to Yeovil I remember a part sack of corn being left with Mr Dodd for grinding and we collected the flour on the way back. The bread oven was heated by ‘furze’ or hazel. The oven was like an oval bottle laid on its side, the kindling was put in and lit and the heavy door left open, the smoke going up the chimney of the inglenook. Then the ashes were scraped out and the bread put in position with a ‘peel’, this was a tapering piece of willow wood on a six foot pole which lived on the roof of the woodshed which also housed the only cold water tap in the house. 

The privy was placed as far away as possible from the house and was strongly built of brick with a tile roof, brick floor and plastered walls and was a five seater cut from a single elm plank. The holes varied from large to small, each with it’s own cover. The two smallest holes had two little steps in front to assist mounting. Two large evergreen bushes and a Russian vine completed the camouflage.

The garden had blackcurrant, gooseberries, raspberries, strawberries and a single plum tree. The later grew a paper football one year, then some black wasps (hornets) moved in. Mowlem, the then gamekeeper was summoned, a piece of heavy serge carefully tied to a cloth prop and when it was dark the serge was soaked in cyanide carefully positioned on the hole at the bottom of the football and left all night. It was removed next morning and when they were satisfied all were dead both the cloth pro, serge and football burnt in a blazing fire, all careful to keep up wind.

One evening the village lads decided to stone a wasps nest on the Yeovil Road, half way between the Pump House and Canon Goodden’s entrance gates so collecting a shirt full of stone along we went. Wham, wham, wham went the stones, buzz, buzz, buzz came the wasps, away home went the ‘Townees’, sting, sting, sting went the wasps while the Jokers pressed back into the hedges, stayed still and got off sting free. I have never forgotten being stripped naked, stood on the kitchen table and being dabbed all over with the ‘Blue Bag’. I live and learn. 

One of the Gooddens ‘improved’ Over Compton Church removing three arches. These were rebuilt in the main wood. One in Home Park, one I believe filled in with a lovely pair of wrought iron gates and the third’s position I do not know. 

Two ‘inside out’ ricks (ears outside, not in) were built on saddle stones each year to feed the pheasants. Those were placed where two rides crossed. 

I remember being taken by Grandfather one Sunday morning to visit Mowlem in his cottage. As we sat round a blazing fire in his inglenook I was given a lead muzzle loader bullet to play with and remember the tears that came when it rolled into the heart of the fire and melted. 

Rook shooting was another event to look forward to. The Rookery, now under the new Yeovil Road. Our job was to collect the young rooks, twist off their heads and drain the blood otherwise they tasted bitter. Only the breasts of the young rooks were used and they were shared out between the guns. You got full of fleas doing this so it was old clothes, stripped on a white sheet and a flea hunt when you got home. Your clothes were put in large paper bags and gently baked. 

Mother was still living in the wood when Dad came courting. Villagers were allowed in the wood but must not pick the Pheasants Eye Narcissi, the pride of Colonel Goodden. Dad covered these so he picked some carefully, curling them inside his bowler hat. Along came the Colonel and his lady and up goes Dad’s hat and down came the flowers!! 

The house in the wood was both dark and damp until all the laurels were cut down to about three feet high to let in the light and the wind. 

A water garden was constructed in the orchard at the bottom of the Drive. All went well until the Hunt found a fox, then the garden was badly trampled by the horses and the dogs. 

Over Compton Mill was kept by a Mr Dodd and it was an undershot wheel some 1Oft in diameter by 20ft wide and it had the usual stone dressers. The son, Jonny and his sister, who bred spaniels, left and went to live in Lyde Road. 

Grandfather called the road from the top of Dodds Hill to Yeovil Bridge the New Road as the old one went straight down the hill, crossed the river by a ford just before the Mill and up Lyde Road. 

Higher Barton Cottage was an Estate House and in the alcove on the south face had a large Griffon (the Goodden Crest) and lead laurel wreath with J (John) R (Robert) P(Phelips) G (Goodden) and a date on it. When I was there in 1982 the Griffon was gone. 

There was a Marl pit where clay was dug to be spread on the Sandy Hill by the Bradford Abbas crossroads. It took two horses to pull a ‘Putt’ full up Marl Lane. 

They used to keep deer in the Park and the footpath was moved after a stag attacked a woman walking across the Park. The deer went in the 1914-18 war.

James Hill 

We are greatly indebted to James Hill for these wonderful recollections. I am yet to discover the whereabouts of the house referred to as ‘The House in the Woods’ and I would love to know if there is anyone who could enlighten me.

Barbara Elsmore