This section is dedicated to memories of residents. There are many contributions made by past and present residents about people and dwellings in the village. If you want to contribute or make comments, please use the feedback option or contact the authors directly if their contact details are provided. We will make every effort to put you in touch, should you wish so.

The order of the document is that first there is a section with contributions around memories in general and then those that concerned with a particular dwelling, person/family or event.

There are also more general document relating to the planning history of the village.

As published in the Village Venture April 2019

Brattleby at war 1939 – 1945 

Further memories of Arthur Melton 

Our family’s war began on 6th of April 1939, some five months before the official date, when we were forced to vacate the farm house we lived in at Ingham Cliff for the Ministry of Defence to begin to build RAF Ingham airfield. This, when completed, was to be manned by two squadrons of the Polish Airforce, flying Welling- ton bombers. 

From Ingham Cliff, we moved to Glebe Farm at the top of Brattleby hill, just a ‘stone’s throw’ from RAF Scampton airfield (RAF Brattleby became RAF Scampton in 1938) where my father took on the job of Stockman, looking after the animals. The effects of war became startlingly evident with the issue of identity cards, gas masks and ration books. My identity number was, TNSD 46/3.?Gas masks came in various forms, a standard one for adults and ‘larger’ children, a smaller ‘Mickey Mouse’ one for toddlers and an all-encompassing rubber/ canvas model with a plastic ‘window’ in it, for babies. I remember mine came in a metal box with a shoulder strap, which was very handy for carrying my school lunch in. 

(Gas masks were also available for horses and dogs) Food rationing was a big issue for families. Fortunately, as my dad was a farm worker, he was entitled to a 25 stone pig each year (part of a farm workers wage at the time) this was reduced to half a pig following the outbreak of war. 

Father had a 410 shot gun and supplemented our meat ration by shooting rabbits. However, it wasn’t long before cartridges became unobtainable, after which, we were obliged to ‘snare’ them, poacher style. 

As the war progressed, the local Home Guard was formed with Mr Fieldsend being appointed Commanding Officer, with the majority of the ‘troopers’ recruited from local farm workers. 

In the troop was a conscientious objector called Claud H, who refused to take part in any military exercises, but he was never ostracised for his beliefs.?Before any kit or arms were available, they had to carry out their ‘drill’ with long sticks, or pitch forks. They were eventually issued with uniforms and Lee En-?field .303 rifles. These could be fitted with a thing called, ‘A Cup Discharger’, this was fitted to the end of the rifle - which was loaded with a blank cartridge – a flat bottomed - hand grenade was placed in the ‘cup’ and when fired, had a range of about 100 yards. 

War games (training) took place in Pitts Wood at the top of Brattleby Hill, where ‘cracker strips’ (similar to those in Christmas crackers) were attached to the sten guns, which when pulled, sounded like automatic gun fire, blank cartridges not being available. 

Regular regiments too, were involved in training in Pitts Wood, notably, the Sher- wood Foresters and the Lincolnshire Regiment, after which, they were obliged to build a fire and cook a hot meal in their ‘billycans’. 

Just below the brow of the hill road, several 40 gallon drums filled with Phos- phorous were hidden in the banking, about 25 yards apart, the idea being, if the enemy came up the hill, the barrels would rolled down the hill and ignited by an explosive device. 

Another weapon designed to be used if we were invaded, was called a ‘Blaka- bombard’ (a Mortar) this was sited on Aisthorpe hill (now a track to the sewage disposal plant) in a 60 acre field. The weapon was quite capable of shooting a projectile 350 yards. 

After the war the remaining projectiles were disposed of - still in their card- board containers - down a deep Well and covered with soil. 

I guess, they must still be down there? --------- 

Next month – “There was a massive explosion, as a 4000 pound bomb blew in the school windows!”?About the Author - Arthur – Art to his friends - was born in Brattleby on the 8th of July 1933. As his story says, his childhood and teenage years were dominated by the Second World War. He joined the RAF as an eighteen year old to do his National Service. He left as a qualified RAF engine fitter in 1956. His hopes of continuing a career in the aircraft industry as a civilian were curtailed by the advent of the Suez war, the resulting shortage of fuel causing a recession in the industry. 

He completed a welding course at Lincoln Technical College and worked as a welding engineer for various local companies, including Den Wiles’ at Aisthorpe (now AJ engineering) 

In 1964 Art married Sandra and they bought a house in Albany Street, off Bur- ton Road. After working as a welding foreman at Ruston’s Boiler-Works for twelve years, he was made redundant in April 1972, when the company was sold. 

Due to job issues, Art and Sandra took the decision in September 1972 to emi- grate to New Zealand, settling in New Plymouth, a city on the west coast of the North Island, taking up a job as a welder with a firm making electrical trans- formers. He continued his career taking various welding industry courses, eventually becoming a ‘Certified Welding Inspector’. 

By now, they had two grown up sons, both working in Australia, one in Perth, the other in Melbourne. Art and Sandra eventually followed their second son to a place called Werribee, a suburb of Melbourne, where they’ve since lived for many years. 

In Art’s own words,?“Maybe this will be our final resting place, so remember me to Brattleby”. 

Sincere Thanks to Art for his enthralling stories. Without his memories, the account of the Brattleby war years would be lost forever.?

A View from Brattleby June 2018 by Mike Spencer (as published in the Village Venture June 2018)

The Hut Ingham

I’m sure the majority of readers will be aware of ‘Flix in the Stix’ the Rural Touring Cinema.

I have to admit, I’ve not been yet, but intend to do so for the screening of Victoria and Abdul at Ingham Village Hall. I think it’s important support is given to this valuable service. If not, it will no doubt be withdrawn.

Many younger readers (do we have any?)  may think this is a new idea, but not so. 

Older, long term residents will remember the mobile cinema of the 1950’s?

I wrote the following (abridged) story for the Lincolnshire Echo in November 2002 on this very subject.

Prior to being demolished in the late 1980’s, Ingham Village Hall – known locally as the ‘Hut’ – boasted the only ‘sprung’ dance floor in the county, not by design, more by decay!

I remember pausing to mop my face during a hectic jive to the, ‘Brian Poole and the Tremoloes’ famous hit, ‘Here Comes My Baby’, during a ‘Sixty’s Revival’ night one hot summers evening in the early 1980’s and being fascinated to watch the old wooden floor heave up and down to the beat of the music. If you happened to be a ‘non dancer’ it was a godsend, all you had to do was stand as near the middle of the room as possible, wave your arms about a bit and let the floor do the rest!

Watching someone attempting to carry a tray of drinks across the room to the foot stamping beat of the Dave Clarke Five song, ‘Glad All over’ was hilarious.

The Hut – a First World War wooden building - had dominated the village green since 1920, when it arrived on two trailers, towed by steam waggons. The Parish Records for 1920 show, one piano and one slightly damaged snooker table were also purchased for, £25 and £15 respectively.

My first recollections of the hut, were as a child in the 1950’s, when it was used as a class room extension to the school. I suspect few classrooms now, could boast of having a grand piano at one end and a full size snooker table at the other!

The room was heated by two ‘pot belly’ coke fed stoves, which would glow a deep red on a dark winter’s day, the boys taking it in turn to top them up from the coke store at the rear.

Just what ‘Elf’ and Safety’ and Ofsted would make of it today, I fear to think!

The highlight of the week for many area residents was the Thursday evening ‘picture night’.

Soon after school was finished, the hut was converted into a cinema, in so much as, a load of old, ex RAF, Second World War ‘slatted’ folding chairs were set out in neat rows.

Although sixty years have passed, I can still clearly recall just how uncomfortable those things were, two hours of posterior agony! They were the sort of chairs used to interrogate spies in those old ‘black and white’ war films. I’ll tell you what, if I’d been strapped into one of these for several hours, I’d have ‘coughed’ and told them anything they wanted to know!

Around six p.m. the projectionist and his blonde assistant would arrive, with a complete mobile cinema all crammed into the back of their Austin A50 shooting brake and by 7-30 pm

It was a ‘full house’.

Each week’s forthcoming film was advertised by a poster on the hut door. My friend Dougie had noticed the next film was to be yet another ‘western’. Now, like all children, we liked cowboys and Indians, but three weeks in a row…

It was then we decided the evening might benefit from some additional sound effects.

Dougie had a proper starting pistol which fired quite loud blank shells. We wrapped a dozen or so of these in individual parcels of silver foil - for delayed action - each being about the size of a walnut.

Placing them in our pockets, we wandered over to the hut to ensure a front seat, for the 7-30 pm start.

Films of that era were not on a continuous reel and during the performance, perhaps three changes were required. As soon as the first reel ran out after about 40 minutes or so, many of the young adults would take the opportunity to dash over the Village Green to the fish shop (where the shop is today) to buy a ‘fish and six’ (one fish and six pence worth of chips).

The trick was to be first in the queue, to be able to get back before the second reel started.

It was a cold night and the ‘coke stoves’ had been re-filled ready for the second half. Just before everyone returned to their seats and the blonde assistant turned off the lights,

Dougie and I placed our little surprises into crisp packets and wondered over to the two stoves, lifted the lids with the poker and dropped them in. Little notice was taken, as it was common practice for people to drop all manner of litter in them.

Now pitch dark, the MGM Lion roared, signalling the start of the second reel. The film turned out to be more exciting than we’d anticipated and after what seem an eternity, we nudged each other, wondering why nothing had happened. 

Just as the Indians surrounded the wagon train and it looked like ‘curtains’ for the cowboys,

All hell broke loose!

Ingham became the first village cinema with full stereo and ‘smelly vision’, as people cowered in their seats to the sound of gunfire appearing to come from all directions. The air was filled with the acrid smell of gunpowder and coke fumes, as clouds of dust could be seen drifting through the projector light beam above our heads.

Astonishingly, nothing was ever said about the escapade. As we left that night, I did hear one of the old blokes say,

“I reckon that there coke must have been a bit damp Arthur, next time we’ll have to…

Derek Franklin (Memorial Fund)

Following the Coffee Morning  of the  9th of December  the current total raised amounts to £1040.  We would like to thank all those who have donated so generously and kindly. These included Jo Mark and Patrons of the Black Horse, Ingham. 

As the sum raised is greater than the cost of a head stone, a ‘bench seat’ will be purchased and placed in Brattleby village in memory of Derek.

A Life?

Mike Spencer

When the Police were asked by Social Services to break into the bungalow of a 68 year old Brattleby man in October 2015, little did the officer realise, he'd stepped over his body laid in the gloom of the rubbish filled room. Although he'd not been seen for several days, no one was worried, as this was how he chose to live. He'd lived the life of a recluse since his mother died some years earlier and refused all help by neighbours, even the Vicar's plea was politely turned down. Like many recluses', he was a 'hoarder', his small bungalow 'stacked to the gunnel's' with all manner of things, including 2000 unopened Air fix kits and hundreds upon hundreds of CD's, DVD's and tapes.

Although he was my next door neighbour, I'd not set foot in his bungalow since his mother died. He knew my number and I told him to ring – day or night – if he needed assistance, but he never did. He would sometimes speak, but would never engage in conversation and couldn't wait to return to the house and close the door.

He'd lived in the village since his teen age years in the early 1960's, most residents wouldn't recognise him let alone have ever spoken to him. He had a small car, but hardly ever used it, preferring to go to town on the bus. One of my enduring memories of him was seeing him step off the bus one hot summers day, dressed in a pair of 'long' shorts, a shirt covered with huge six inch vivid yellow sun flowers and a pair of 'Jesus' sandals, long socks and a base ball cap, looking for all the world like an 'extra' from 'Hawaii Five O'!

Not the best choice of dress for a man hoping to blend into the background, or better still, be totally invisi- ble!

I picked him up from hospital several times following a session of Radiation (or Chemotherapy) treatment and this was the only time I had any sort of a meaningful conversation with him, simply because, in the confines of the car, he didn't have to face me or look me in the eye.

He said little about his illness, preferring to talk about his latest gadget or CD.

One morning, some weeks later, he announced - through a gap in the fence - he'd been given only a few months, but still he refused help. It was at this stage Social Services became involved, which was a bless- ing, as now, at least he appeared to be accepting he needed some form of assistance.

The day he was found, I was in Yorkshire where I received a call from my wife to say, the police had had to break in. He'd been laid in there for several days. The thought of him dying alone and possibly in pain and distress, still haunts me to this day. Why would he not accept help?

I know for certain, a couple of other village residents also did their best for him too, as far as he would per- mit.

I was contacted by West Lindsey who'd become involved - as he had no known relatives - and was asked to meet them at the property. We discovered he'd not slept in a bed for several years, but in an easy chair in the kitchen. I'll not go into the details of the state of the place, only to say, when the House Clearance peo- ple were engaged, the guy said it was the worst one he'd seen in twenty years.

The search for any form of Will continued for several days, but none was found. We did, however, find his mother Maud's ashes in an urn on the kitchen mantelpiece.

A week or so later, a few villagers – and two the representatives from West Lindsey - attended his funeral, after which, his ashes were taken to the Funeral Directors premises in Boultham Park Road, from where I retrieved them a week or so later and brought them back to his beloved Brattleby. 

.I was asked by the vicar if I would dig a hole suitable for mother and son, in the small area in St Cuthbert's church yard reserved for cremations. The following day, a short service of remembrance was conducted, attended by a few residents.

However, this was not as we thought, the end of the story.

Several weeks later I was contacted by a firm of 'Heir Hunters' from London and asked if I had any idea if he had any known relatives and could they call and interview me? The hour long session conducted in our kitchen seemed a little pointless, as I'd already told them on the phone, I knew of no living relation.

I was informed some weeks later, the company had found a distant - previously totally unknown - relation on his fathers side, who would more than likely inherit his entire estate of roughly £140,000.

Considering the amount they stood to inherit, one would have thought they would have been happy to pay the cost of a head stone. I was initially advised they would, but nothing ever came of it.

I do sometimes begin to lose faith in people, a few hundred pounds is a small price to pay out of a 'gift' of £140,000! I hope they can sleep at night?

Today, two years later, there's no evidence either Derrick, or his mother Maud ever existed, let alone lived in the village for over 50 years, other than the piece of wood I placed on the grave day after the funeral, with the word 'Derrick' written on it in black marker pen.

In Brattleby we like to think we take care of our own, so we're going to hold a Coffee Morning at “Manor Ley” School Lane on Saturday December 9th 10am – 1pm in an attempt to raise £400 for a Headstone for Derrick and Maud to replace the 'stick and marker pen.'
Make a note in your diary, more details next month.

Should any reader wish to make a donation, please contact the author.


Manor Ley, School Lane Brattleby LN1 2SQ 

Response(s) to the article (firstly published in the Village Venture November 2017)

A Life

by Chris Scott

I found the article written by Mike Spencer about Derrick’s life and death very moving. It’s a sad indictment of modern life that people like Derrick can live in a small community like Brattleby and go unrecognised. Having spent 40 years of a nursing career in mental health this story neither shocks nor surprises me as Derrick’s story is all too common I’m afraid. Recluses (frequently with underlying mental health issues) living and dying in isolation is a sad fact of life but at least some made an effort to reach out to him and one hopes that he knew at some level he could ask for help if he felt so inclined. 

My friend who lives on the east coast was so touched by Mikes story she has pledged her sponsorship money for “dry October” towards the headstone. I too with others will be there on the 9th December at the coffee morning doing our bit to raise the rest of the money needed to give Derrick and his mum the recognition they so deserve. 

I do feel very strongly that communities should look after their elderly and vulnerable and sometimes that involves being persistent and not always taking no for an answer. I appreciate we all live busy lives but who knows one day we too may find ourselves in Derricks position, lonely and alone.  

Thank you Mike for raising awareness and opening up your home for the fund raising event but most of all for caring enough to come up with the idea of getting a headstone which will forever mark the resting place of Derrick and his mum.


by Roy Thornhill 

I believe most of us think it is a good idea to commemorate both Derek and his mother with a memorial.

Ernest Derek Franklin may not have been easily understood, he was different, as most of us are in many ways. All I will say is that fate dealt Derek a very poor hand losing both his mother and his sister leaving him sadly to cope with his serious illness alone.

Imagine a son reunited with his loving mother and imagine what she, his mother, would like to see as a fitting tribute to her son.

I trust we all bear this in mind when we hear or read of any account of his life.

by Janet Rose

Dear Mike, I read your moving description of the very sad circumstances in which Derrick passed away and the subsequent events which followed. I am in complete agreement regarding a proper head stone for both him and his mother. Even if people who cared when he was alive were unable to help because of his reluctance to accept any,it is important to mark his life in Brattleby with the head stone in St Cuthberts. I hope the coffee morning will be a success and will try to attend but I will make a donation anyway.  Thank you for bringing this to our attention, it shows how important neighbourliness is in our villages,Kind regards,Janet.


Brattleby in 928 -1086

In 928 to be exact - to 1086, a man called Colswain – or Kolsveinn - was lord of the Manor of Brattleby and tenant in chief of Lincolnshire. He was one of only two Englishmen holding estates of Baronial dimensions at the time of the Doomsday Survey, with some 50 other Lincolnshire Manors under his control. So, with so many different places he could have lived, why did he choose Brattleby?
Colswain had a daughter called Muriel - born in 1105 at Brattleby – she eventually married Robert De La Haye and as far as can be ascertained, continued to live in Brattleby.
To save confusion for the reader, the story of the family moves on. Their daughter, Lady Nicholaa Del La Haye was born in 1169. Nicholaa proved to be one of the great women of her time, becoming Castellan of Lincoln castle, Sheriff of Lincolnshire and a valued friend of King John.
History says - “In May 1217 she doggedly led the defence of Lincoln Castle during the battle of Lincoln, she possessed extensive estates in Lincolnshire, centred on Brattleby.”
In the 13th century the barony of Brattleby eventually passed to Nicholaa’s granddaughter, Idonea de Camville (married name) again born in Brattleby – in 1209. 
Just where in the village this important family lived is anyone’s guess. I suspect the most likely place would be where the current Brattleby Hall now stands?
So at some point, our village must have been a very important place, the question remains unresolved as to why this would be.

The Great War 

2014 will be a significant year, it being 100 years since the start of the First World War. Many ‘older’ residents – myself included - will have parents or grandparants who were involved – in one form or another - in what became known as, ‘The Great War’.

One Brattleby resident, William Simons, who lived in a ‘two up and two down’ Brattleby cottage with his parents, 4 brothers and 3 sisters, wrote - with pencil on lined paper - the following letter from the trenches in France...

Dear Sisters,

Just a line hoping to find you quite well as it leaves me at present. You will think I have forgotten you but it is such a job to get paper where we are now. You will know I am not with the battalion and my proper address is B Company 1st Lincolns attached to 175 Tunnelling Company BEF France.

I have not got the parcel you sent I may do yet as it would go to the battalion and it might have got lost but I have got your other letters alright we are having a good time here and having some beautiful weather. I think the news is better and I don’t think it will be long before its all over. I wish I was back at the old job again now it would be a change. I like this job better than the other and get on with it well I must now conclude hoping to hear from you again soon. With best love to you all your loving brother William.

William wrote this letter on 14th of August 1918. He was killed 2 months later. Whether he eventually received his parcel or not, we’ll never know. 

William’s tragic death – like a number of other Brattleby residents during the war – is celebrated for ‘all time’ on the pillars of the Memorial Gates to St Cuthbert’s church on the main road.

His parents out lived him by 40 years, both dying within half an hour of each, on the 27th of November 1947 - in different hospitals. They were laid to rest in Brattleby Churchyard . Those haunting words by John Maxwell Evans,

“When you go home tell them of us and say, for their tomorrow we gave our today”

seem even more poignant considering William never did make it back to his beloved Brattleby spending almost 100 years buried somewhere in a field in France. 

As the village has a number of listed war casualties, it’s the intention of Brattleby Parish Council to commemorate the Centenary of the 1st World War during the current year. If any resident would like to be involved, please contact the author. 

For our readers ‘abroad’, there are photographs of the War Memorial below.

Mike Spencer