Re: Cadbury's Bourneville
I remember Kingsley Road well ... a lifelong friend of my grandmother lived there and we used to visit her for tea and cake at the weekends. Her name was Mrs Blanchard and before she retired she was owner/headmistress of Woodlands Park Private Preparatory School (that I attended from 1954 - 1960) in the trust village hall on Woodlands Park Road. Mrs Blanchard lived in the little crescent of pensioners' cottages just inside Kingsley Road (the first one on the right as you stand looking at the crescent). Her living room was tiny and almost completely filled by a baby grand piano that she refused to get rid of.
I remember watching the maypole dancing several times, so may have seen you dancing. I also remember walking round Rowheath duckpond on chilly Autumn days ... all done up in a winter coat, scarf and gloves ... feeding bread to the swans and Canada geese and kicking up clouds of fallen leaves on the path. I did all of my fishing with nets and jamjars at the large lake in open fields between Heath Road and Heath Road South (where Hole Farm used to be on Hole Lane) ... now reduced to a tiny pond a fraction its original size and marooned in the middle of a 1980s housing estate.
When we moved to Heath Road South in 1953 our first milkman used to come on a horse drawn cart and we had to trot up the driveway with our quart jug that he would fill with farm fresh unpasteurised milk using a ladle from large steel churns. Within less than a year he was replaced by a milkman on an electric powered float who would deliver the milk and orange juice in REAL glass bottles. I also remember door to door deliveries by the Corona pop man and the 'Beer at home means Davenports' chap that delivered wooden crates of bottled dark stout for my father ... also the weekly mobile butcher's shop van on Friday mornings, delivery boys on their ancient black bikes dropping off cardboard boxes full of telephone-ordered groceries from the general stores in Northfield, the ice cream lads on their trikes with huge wooden cool boxes on the front and the rag and bone man that would sharpen all your knives, scissors and garden shears with a foot-treddled grinding wheel. Oh, and who remembers the local 'beat bobby' police sergeant that would cycle past the house every day around 3pm (with his uniformed trousers held in by cycle clips) and knew everybody, including the kids, by name.