The Longmynd Adventure Camp and Me

By Alan Scriven

In 1965, Alan Scriven's life was changed forever by ten days in the Shropshire hills.

The Longmynd Adventure Camp was set up in the 1950s by Shropshire policeman Bill Williams, to provide a small group of boys from the poorer areas of the industrialised West Midlands with fun, adventure, and experience of the country

• Language: English
• Publisher: Heddon Publishing
• Release date: Dec 12, 2016
• ISBN: 9780993487064

Alan Scriven

Alan Scriven was born in Wolverhampton; one of six children in a one-parent family during a time of extreme financial hardship. Having attended Woden Road Infant and Junior Schools, Alan started at Springfield Secondary Modern in 1964; leaving in 1968 with no qualifications but having excelled in English and History. Leaving school was a necessity in order to begin earning and contributing to the family budget. Alan began working as a warehouseman at Carvers in Wolverhampton, going on to work in the public transport industry in the positions of Driver, Inspector, and Depot Manager. He has two sons, with whom he shared his love of, and commitment to, the Longmynd Adventure Camp. He still goes camping on the Longmynd at every opportunity Alan was awarded the MBE in 2001 for "thirty years' voluntary service to disadvantaged young people".

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Prologue

Some were of the opinion that having to do the cook’s washing-up was the worst of the Camp’s duties but it couldn’t be any worse than the task of fetching our drinking water! Trudging up the narrow Minton Lane to a fresh-water spring (still there today) and carrying it back in whatever vessel you could manage, or helping another of the lads with a tin bath which, when fully laden, was a nightmare to carry (downhill) back to Camp and invariably almost empty when you got there! The spring, which trickles out onto the lane from the hillside, seemed miles away from Camp when on the return journey, but the job had to be done because it was our only source of drinking water in those distant early years. Another ‘duty’ was emptying the portable lavatories. We would each carry a bucket down to the bottom of the field and tip its gruesome contents into a freshly-dug hole, backfilling it afterwards. And they told us this was a holiday!

I hated the place initially – well, for the first couple of days at least. I couldn’t possibly have imagined or envisaged in my wildest dreams that a small field nestled deep in the (admittedly beautiful) South Shropshire countryside would be the starting point of a long journey to Buckingham Palace and an appointment with Her Majesty the Queen.

This is a social history chronicling the first forty years of a registered charity¹ called The Longmynd Adventure Camp. It was founded by a police constable, Mr William (Bill) Frederick Williams, who was to be awarded the British Empire Medal in 1983 (the charity’s twenty-fifth year). The much-deserved award was in recognition of Bill’s tireless voluntary service for ‘under-privileged’ (as the term was then) kids, like me, as well as all his other very worthy efforts to help others.

The idea of starting up a Boys’ Camp came to Bill after he and his wife Hetty decided to give a short camping break at their home to a handful of lads from the urban areas of the West Midlands. This, the first Camp, was set up in the Williams’ back garden at the police house, Wistanstow, Shropshire, in 1958. The kind gesture was supported and sponsored by the Women’s Voluntary Service (later known as the WRVS in the early Sixties) and both parties felt it had been a great success.

Bill began planning to elaborate on this experience the following summer, which meant finding a field or a property in the countryside that he could preferably borrow or rent for a period of no more than ten days. With the continued interest and assistance of the WVS, he succeeded, and the WVS Boys Camp was soon up and running. It became the Longmynd Adventure Camp after Bill formed a committee in 1976, the main objective of which was to secure charity status for ‘the Camp’, which was achieved in 1978.

I became involved with the working for the Camp in 1968, having attended as a lucky recipient for four consecutive years. The ‘Skipper’ (Mr Williams) pulled me to one side and told me this would have to be my final holiday at Camp because I was now over the age limit. In fact, I shouldn’t have even been there that year due to having my fifteenth birthday in the July. I was gutted!

But Bill kindly said that I could become a junior helper (‘gofer’) for the remainder of the holiday. I accepted gladly, and took to my new duties keenly. At the end of the holiday I asked the Skipper if I could return the following year to help again. I wanted to put something back in, having thoroughly enjoyed my time as one of ‘Bill’s boys’. He left it open, simply saying, ‘We’ll see, Alan, we’ll see.’

In her letter of thanks to Bill Williams, post-1968 Camp, Mrs Marjorie Lathe (County Borough Holiday Organiser for the WRVS, as it had become) says that twenty-one boys had already asked if they could have a place the following year. She also asks Bill to let her know if there are any particular boys he wants to come again - and any he doesn’t; assuming, she says, that he would be running the Camp again. I was hoping to be on his list of helpers.

During my time as a beneficiary of the Camp, and indeed for years afterwards, Bill invited me to spend an occasional weekend at his home when it was convenient, and if he was off-duty. On a few occasions during the early years, my friend Terry Hogg - a neighbour and also a beneficiary - accompanied me. We slept in a tent in the back garden (which I suppose must have evoked memories of 1958 for Bill), or in the caravan - depending on the time of year - and I really took to it, and to Bill and his lovely family. This continued after the end of the 1968 Camp, although Terry was no longer coming with me, so I was hopeful that Bill would allow me back to Camp to help. It was during April of the following year that he gave me the good news.

He told me I was welcome to come as a helper, and he even arranged for me to travel to and from the Camp on the coach with the lads. That eagerly-awaited message began my thirty-year-long association as a voluntary member of staff with the Longmynd Adventure Camp. I steadily made my way through the ranks to become Skipper in 1990 and I was awarded the MBE in 2001 for Thirty Years’ Voluntary Service to Socially Deprived Young People.²

But the progression was far from all sunshine and roses, as the reader will discover.

This is a heart-rending, sometimes gut-wrenching, true account of a place much loved by many fortunate souls who experienced it, whether as a beneficiary, a valued voluntary helper, or both. I am indebted to all who have helped me to write it, by way of all the documentation I have collected along my fascinating journey.

I am most grateful to everyone who contributed in every way to the early editions of the Camp magazine. These annuals contained articles written by staff and children, and were posted to us usually a couple of months after everyone had returned home.

My thanks go to Katharine Smith of Heddon Publishing for her work in bringing my dream to fruition.

I am especially indebted to the Camp’s founder; the late Mr Bill Williams BEM. He very generously gave me valuable help and support by providing the original committee minutes and other important documents, etc., which greatly assisted me in writing a concise account of this charity’s glorious early history. Bill also allowed me to interview him as part of my research; and I am honoured to dedicate this book to his memory.

The Late, Great Bill Williams BEM

Bill Williams

Bill himself was born into a very poor family. He was five years old when his father died, leaving a wife and three children. Bill’s younger brother David was aged just one at the time of their father’s untimely passing. Their sister Mary was the older sibling.

It wasn’t difficult to see where Bill’s idea originated from.

Bill Williams was born in Wellington, Shropshire, on 15th September 1926. He left Wellington Grammar School in 1941 and joined the Great Western Railway at Wellington, as a junior clerk. During his time with ‘God’s Wonderful Railway’ as it was affectionately known, he served for six years as secretary of the Railway Clerks Union. Bill joined the police force at Wellington in 1948, and served for twenty-five years before health problems forced him to retire at the rank of sergeant.

From 1956 until 1973, he was Chair of the Police Federation for Shropshire, representing all ranks below Superintendent on matters of wealth and sufficiency. Bill was also first reserve to the national committee. Upon his retirement, the Federation presented him with the ‘Wedgewood Plate’ for outstanding service; a rare and honourable award. The plate is the regional award, as opposed to the ‘Bowl’ (national award) which James Callaghan MP received in the same year for his work as ‘Adviser’ to the Police Federation whilst opposition leader.

Bill’s other achievements during his police career included re-forming Bridgnorth (Shrops) Rowing Club in 1950, being appointed President and Captain until 1954. He also served for six years as Voluntary Field Officer for Salop (Shropshire) Association Youth Clubs and he was a founder member of Wistanstow (South Shrops) Youth Club between 1955 and 1968. During his time with the youth club he also started an ‘Old People’s Fund’ to deliver food parcels to local elderly residents at Christmastime, as well as arranging visits to various concerts and the like throughout the year. As well as all this, Bill led house-to-house collections for Doctor Barnado’s. He was also a member of Lydbury (South Shrops) Parochial Church Council and on the village hall committee between 1955 and 1968.

After he left the police force, Bill joined Evans Publishers for a while as a representative, and whilst in that position he was appointed President of the Association of Publishers Educational Representatives. He was, however, made redundant at the age of fifty-five, which is when he went into the Security business. Starting at Bill’s home on a forty-pounds-a-week enterprise allowance, the business gained momentum and soon Bill was working from his own shop premises, employing twenty-one people by 1994, and enjoying every minute of it. Bill’s was a very full life indeed but founding the WVS Boys Camp was without doubt his greatest and finest achievement.

Bill Williams passed away on 14th October 2013, aged eighty-seven years.

Life for one of ‘Bill’s Boys’

I was selected to accompany my elder brother Billy to an early Camp, in 1965. Billy had sampled Camp life a year earlier and had really enjoyed it, so from the moment I was told about it by my mother I was excited. Our younger brother David was to join us in 1966.

We were known to the WVS because we were a ‘one-parent family’. This very excellent organisation had helped Mom with clothing us periodically. Our mother loved and cared for us just as much as two parents could have but nevertheless we were extremely poor. The winters were the worst. Much of the time there was no money to buy sufficient coal to heat just one room and my brothers and I would go looking for bits of wood that Mom could burn. Ironic really, when one considers that her father had scraped a meagre living for his family by ‘hawking’ bundles of firewood (which he had made himself) around the neighbourhood.

When coal could be purchased, we had to walk to the coal yard in Fordhouse Road, Wolverhampton (about a mile or so from our house), and fetch the coal back on the old pram wheels (a ‘commodity’ most families seemed to have). Sometimes, Kenny Gordon the coal man would give us a bag of ‘slack’ for free. Ken knew the poverty and hardship which most of his customers lived with, and our family experienced it in the extreme - even, on more than one occasion, having to resort to burning items of furniture and the linoleum floor covering just to keep a bit of heat in the house. We survived mainly on the comradeship of the community, the stew that mother was so good at making from breast of lamb or rabbit, and good old-fashioned bread-and-dripping.

At Christmastime we had to wait for the welfare man, Mr Roberts, to visit us. He always left it late, but Mom assured us that he wouldn’t let us down, and he never did. However, with the big day just about forty-eight hours away, we would sit together in the living room, hoping he was on his way. That good-natured man was our real Father Christmas. When he did eventually arrive, Mr Roberts brought in a big sack and tipped its contents out onto the (more often than not) bare floorboards of our living room. We were then allowed to choose just one toy each.

Mother would take charge of the toys and, by the time Christmas morning arrived, our chosen presents had been lovingly wrapped and placed in our Christmas stockings with an apple, an orange, a few nuts, and perhaps a couple of pennies if we were extremely lucky!

During deepest winter (in a period of time when it seemed to snow every year), our double bed would be brought downstairs and the whole family shared it as a way of keeping warm. Mom and my sisters Pat and Carmel would sleep at the top while I would sleep at the bottom with my brothers, Billy and David. Michelle, our youngest sister, slept most nights in her pram.

Oddly enough, I enjoyed the atmosphere of those winter nights of long ago. Mom speaking softly, telling us stories of her own, even poorer, childhood, as the shadows from the light of the fire tantalised the walls when the wind from the chimney caught the dying flames and embers.

Because a lot of the families in Fifth Avenue (especially those who lived on the other side of the roundabout), where we lived all our childhood lives, were as poor as we were, we couldn’t go to the food cupboard, or ‘larder’ and help ourselves to even a slice of bread. We could never be sure that it actually belonged to us! The women would borrow foodstuff from each other (because money was almost always out of the question) and when it could be repaid, like for like, it was. If nothing else, this way of life taught me the value of money and to treat it with the utmost respect. When I was old enough, I got myself two newspaper-delivery jobs at different shops, which paid a total of one pound and fourteen shillings. I gave every penny to my mom to help with the housekeeping budget. If, later, I wanted a couple of bob to go and watch the Wolves at Molineux, if she had it to spare she would let me go. Hard, difficult times, but I wouldn’t swap the memories and experiences for a king’s ransom.

A Potted History – The Early Years

The original site for Bill’s first two Camps after the one in his garden, in 1959 and 1960, was a field on Minton Oaks Farm, loaned by kind permission of Mr D.O. Jones. It has a bit of an incline towards the farmhouse and lies to the right of a narrow lane which leads from Hamperley Farm up to the Forestry.

Bill catered for a total of twenty boys in 1959 and two of them (from Wolverhampton) actually made their way to his police house in Wistanstow a few days after the end of their holiday, to say thank you. As it was shortly after ten in the evening when they arrived, Bill and his wife Hetty put them up for the night. The Williams’ daughter Ann and her cousin Janet Clarke, both nine years old at the time, had to vacate Ann’s room to make way for their unexpected guests!

In 1961, Bill set up at a place called Endeavour Cottage, again on the Longmynd. Records show that he managed to secure the help of eight people, including the infamous Roy ‘Butcher’ Williams, to assist him on a Camp for a total of thirty boys; a ratio which would be acceptable even by today’s tough standards!

Amongst the items used were: four large dixies, two frying pans, one plastic bin, one gallon of Jeyes fluid, two waste bins, a tin-opener and a fish-slicer. In the field: two small ridge tents (supplied by the WVS); one bell tent and one fourteen-foot ridge tent (from Wistanstow Youth Club); one small ridge tent (belonging to a Mr D. Maund), and a large ridge tent (courtesy of ‘Mr Johnson’). Other vital items included a mallet, an axe, tables and chairs, as well as bed linen and groundsheets, which were provided by the Children’s Department and the WVS respectively. Food quantities included fifty-six pounds of oats, fourteen pounds of jam, three pounds of salt, sixteen gallons of milk, sixteen dozen eggs, eighteen pounds of cheese, nine pounds of tea, and 131 loaves of bread! The water was delivered on a Thursday, as were the coal and the meat. The use of coal indicates that the cottage was used as well as the field.

Bill’s camps always commenced on the last Thursday of July, and the boys arrived early afternoon on the following day, for a period of ten days. Bill was not given any extra holiday time by his employers so had to take his time at Camp from his allocated annual leave.

His helpers for Camp 1961 were David Maund, John Price, Keith Youles, Tony Carter, Tony Cox, Peter Carter, ‘Mr Cartwright’, Jim Culham, and Roy ‘Butcher’ Williams.

Roy would become a regular member of Bill’s staff over the next twenty-five years. He was never a butcher, no sir. Roy was a former Naval Lieutenant Commander and one soon learnt that if he shouted ‘Jump!’, your only response was ‘How high?’

In 1962, the Camp relocated again; this time to the first field on the left as you enter Minton Batch valley, once more by kind permission of Brian (D.O.) Jones. This very field was used for a second time (in 1981) whilst the permanent site up at Hamperley was made fit for a Camp to be held.

This fifth year of the Camp’s being was held between 2nd and 13th August, and was the first year in which a lady had assisted. Mrs Di Williams, a friend of Bill’s family, and wife of Roy, cooked for the whole Camp. This lovely couple’s help continued sporadically right into the late Eighties.

In 1963, it was off to Picklescott by permission of Mr Ross Smethcott. John Wilding’s lorry (our beloved cow truck) was making its second appearance at Camp while Peter Williams (son of Roy and Di) and Richard Lewis were additions to the staff. Notes from the programme tell of a fancy dress parade being held on Sunday 28th July. I know from experience that the Skipper was very keen on this particular kind of recreation; but I enjoyed it about as much as I did the barbecues during the Eighties!

Outdoor swimming at Brockhurst, the ‘home of the priests’, was scheduled for the following day, with a footnote suggesting a trip to the Stiperstones if the weather made the pool a ‘no-go’ event. The Whifflepoof Hunt (more on this later) was held on the Friday, as was the campfire.

Sunday saw the Catholic lads go to mass at 8:30am, and at 10:30am it was time for those of the Church of England faith to visit Wistanstow Church.

The cow truck was the Camp’s transport and everyone loved it. Over the years it was kindly loaned to Bill, the lads would be led in songs that would become Camp folklore, and sung by our grandchildren in the twenty-first century! Wonderful numbers such as The Worm at the Bottom of the Garden (favourite of Skipper’s youngest daughter Debbie); Green Grow the Rushes O; Sloop John B; Ham and Eggs; Gin Gan Gooly; and many more.

Skipper had a master-plan for getting us all to attend church on both Sundays of the Camp’s duration. It wasn’t compulsory but if we refused we were given the task of peeling the potatoes for the whole Camp’s Sunday dinner. Easy decision, then; off to church and no arguments!

In September 1963, Wistanstow Youth Club produced a magazine called Country Endeavour. This particular issue was Volume 1, no.4, and was edited by Bill Williams and a young man called Richard Lewis; one of Bill’s valued helpers at the Camp. Page four of the magazine was devoted to advertising (by way of an article written by Jim Culham, a policeman colleague of Bill’s) another magazine the club had produced, entitled Summer Camp ‘63. This was the very first of our Camp’s annual magazines which ran, spasmodically, right through the Sixties. It should have been continued; I would have loved to have been a part of its production team, but sadly it ended before I even joined the staff proper.

We arrive now at 1964. This was my elder brother Billy’s first of four visits to Camp, and also the first year of the Camp’s long association with Mr Jack Williams (who owned the field that Camp was set up on) and his very generous family. His son-in-law, Ted Challinor, was now the main working farmer of the two, due to Jack’s advanced years. Jack’s daughter, a lovely lady, who would almost always be seen in and around the hamlet of Minton where their farmhouse was situated, would give us a cake on occasions as we passed by on our many ‘travels’. John Preece (who returned in the early Eighties as the Camp’s cook) also came as a beneficiary for the first time in 1964.

The 1963 Camp had been held on the western side of the field, and nearest to Minton Lane, but in 1964 and until 1979 it was situated at the top end (or eastern side of the brook), which we all remember with much fondness and affection. Access was via the field which lies opposite the entrance to Minton Batch. To this day that field still bears the deep grooves from countless years of tractor routes to the topmost fields; and from the vantage point at the top of the hill one can clearly see how the ground has been left after years of medieval ploughing.

The 1964 issue of the Camp magazine states that the marquee had not yet been delivered at the time the coach (bearing its precious cargo) arrived, so lunch took place out in the open. And, when the marquee eventually did turn up in the late afternoon, it was too big for the spot Bill had allocated. Nevertheless, it was erected, but within touching distance of the tents; which tells me that they had been spaciously pitched because the following year and thereafter showed that there was definitely ample space for all ‘canvas ware’. Indeed, the patch for the final evening Campfire was annually dug out in a safe spot between the marquee and the tents.

The whifflepoof hunt was postponed on the Thursday due to wet weather, so Skipper treated everyone to a day in Shrewsbury, where one and all enjoyed a swimming session, fish and chips, and a visit to the cinema to watch Hard Day’s Night.

Skipper’s Camp journal for Monday 3rd August 1964 mentions that two lads, Philip Hayes and Colin Bradley, left ‘Black Death’ and went to brook after being told not to. As a result they were threatened with home, and their behaviour improved considerably. A definite indication of what the Camp meant to them; the same can be said for ninety-nine per cent of all the lucky lads who followed them over the ensuing years.

Black Death was a game we loved playing in a nearby wood and Mr Priestly, the owner of the wood, always granted Bill permission for us to use it.

Half of the lads would be given disease names: Mumps, Chickenpox, Measles, etc., and the other half would be the antidotes. One member of the ‘disease’ group would be Black Death, and one of the ‘antidotes’ number was Penicillin. The object of the game was for the antidotes to cancel out the diseases but if they chanced upon Black Death, he would ‘devour’ them.

Only Penicillin could defeat Black Death. He had to be careful not to challenge Penicillin, because if he did (and no-one knew who was who), it was game over. It was a great game which we enjoyed just as much, almost, as the other games our Skipper introduced us to, ‘Harbour Light’ being the overall favourite.

Other little gems mentioned in the Skipper’s journal throughout the week included: All sunburned, so Calamine lotion parade; "Hard Day’s Night four shillings seats reduced by manager of Empire; fish and chips reduced by sixpence each; Nigel in tent two complained of blankets being too tight; Buckley got lost twice; Ricky won sports with his tent, obviously a fiddle as he was the scorer and sausages all eaten".

There was one sad entry, however: Mrs Hull returned to Wolverhampton, grandson dead! She did return to Camp later in the week, however. What a fine example of what the Camp meant to the people who really cared for it, and enjoyed being a part of it.

Another entry in the Camp ‘64 magazine features the story of Jack Birch (one of the helpers, and a close friend of Bill’s), who fell whilst carrying a bowl of water to the wet pit, the fall causing him a gash to his nose and left arm. It transpired that a ‘Mr Jones’ had covered the pit with fern. This particular member of staff wasn’t very popular for a while afterwards!

Borth was the seaside venue that particular year, and it was a scorching hot day, with many requiring calamine lotion for sunburn upon arrival back at Camp.

It feels very strange for me to be writing these words about a place that, at the time, I had no idea existed, yet which was going to be a major part of my future life; my destiny!

A final word on 1964: my brother Billy gained three points for Tent Two, by winning the discus event on sports day. Not difficult when you consider that he was the sole competitor!

Jack Williams was a regular visitor, along with members of his close family, to the annual Campfire. Ted and Mrs Challinor had a daughter called Carol who was about the same age as the boys at Camp. Unfortunately, she was born with Down’s Syndrome, but this never once stopped Carol from joining in the fun with the lads whenever her parents brought her down to see us.

‘Farmer Ted’, as we kids used to call Mr Challinor, was a very likeable chap of slight build, with rosy-red cheeks and white hair. He would almost always be neatly turned out in his flat cap, brown cow-gown and Wellington boots. In the early years he used to bring us our drinking water, contained in a tank which he towed with his tractor. He would ‘hold court’ with Bill on many occasions, taking an interest in the Camp’s day-to-day affairs, and could always be relied upon for an accurate weather forecast. Asked if it might rain, Ted’s reply would either be, ‘Tinner tarkin of it,’ or ‘Oh ar, be comin’ down about eleven [or whatever time he thought it would rain], you’ll see.’ He was usually right.

A beautiful clear brook cuts its easterly course from the very top of Minton Batch, and runs in a south-to-north direction right through the width of the whole field. The water provided immense fun and pleasure for the lads over the years, except when ‘encouraged’ to wash in it every morning!

Bill saw this beautiful spot as the ideal place where the Camp could settle.

He asked Jack Williams if he would be willing to sell the field; and if so to name his price. The deal agreed, however, was that Jack would charge Bill a ‘peppercorn’ rent of just five shillings per annum; a rate he never increased, although Bill paid Jack ten pounds in 1979.

As for equipment, everything was, in Bill’s own words: begged, borrowed or otherwise obtained. The early staff members included a small number of Bill’s colleagues from the police. They all gave their time completely voluntarily, and that never changed. Every single person who has ever given their time to helping Bill (and later me) to operate the Camp successfully has done so purely and simply from the goodness of their hearts. I offer a sincere thank you from us both.

One of only two women on the Camp in those days was Mrs Hull (mentioned previously), or ‘our Winnie’, as the Skipper often referred to her. Mrs Hull, a proper ‘Northern lass’, was a very nice lady who was ‘mature in years’ and a WVS stalwart. The arrangement was that she would spend her days on Camp, as its very capable cook, and her nights at a house up in the hamlet.

As it turned out, however, she spent no more than one single solitary night in Minton before telling Bill, in no uncertain terms, ‘Stick us a little tent up somewhere, cock, I ain’t a’gooin up theere n’more!’

This was no complaint about the accommodation - far from it - but she had made her mind up thus: if canvas was good enough for one, then canvas was good enough for us all! What a great lady our Winnie was, right from 1964!

If lucky enough to be selected for a holiday at the Camp you were then invited along to the local WVS premises, where they would rig you out with clothing and footwear they considered suitable for ten days in the countryside. This was well organised by Mrs Marjorie Lathe who, in the middle and late Sixties, was Children’s Holiday Organiser for the Wolverhampton branch.

When you finally emerged from the building, you looked like a kid who had done well on that once-famous television programme Crackerjack; absolutely over-loaded with ‘clobber’ that fitted ‘where it touched’, and a pair of Wellington boots, or sometimes plimsolls (the posh word for pumps) which were usually