The Story of the Rufford Spud

Episode 8: the Holly Lane connection; from courting to family

Holly Lane – Building a Future

Mum and Dad built our house in 1955–56 on land from Thornton Farm; the family patch. Money was tight, so they built a semi-detached and sold the other half to Mr Griffith, Headmaster at Rufford School. Practical and proud. Mum and Dad seen courting with my Dad’s sister Annie and her husband Charles.

The were married in 1957.

Dad kept a strip of land between the house and Holly Farm as a smallholding; geese, pigs chickens, and a lush vegetable patch. New potatoes, peas, beans. Rows as straight as his back.

I arrived in ’62, Sandra in late 1963. By then, Dad had likely moved on from Woodcocks and was with Caunce of Rufford.

Holly lane

Stories from the Cab

By the early 2000s, Dad would hold court (as he probably had since the early 1950’s) in the Hesketh Arms every Sunday lunchtime with Bill Thompson. A “low flyer” (Famous Grouse), a pint of mixed, and a few old mates; Dave McGill, Norman Chadwick, and me. From going into the Hesketh Arms with school friends, Simon Barker and Glyn Lloyd in 1971, I have had a relationship with is pub; in much the same way as my Dad. That said I am not entirely sure when Dad first entered the Hesketh Arms.

Simon’s grandparents were the landlord and landlady at the Hesketh Arms and Simon lived there with his Mum and Dad, plus brothers Adam and Simon. Although a couple of years older than me, Glyn and Simon would remain friends; and share adventures. Simon’s brother Adam was the same age as me and we would very often pal up as the youngsters - exploring the barns, the sheds and the cellars of the Hesketh Arms. Simon to this day has an encyclopaedic knowledge of the village. Even having moved away, Simon would be in the village most weeks, working on old cars down Sluice Lane.

Sunday lunchtime was a significant event in the Hesketh; my earliest memory 1976 and half a mild with Dad and Uncle Bob. It seemed expensive but was it

But there were so many more; Tommy Almond, George Radcliffe, Bert Beddows, Jim Martland, Jimmy Johnson, Clerk Chadwick, Clerk Lingard, Derek Watkinson and my Grandad; Willian Norman Huntington

Over the Christmas period the crowd would grow.

For Dad being at the bar in The Hesketh on a Sunday lunchtimes was the norm.

Back to my Dad and Bill Thompson. They’d reminisce about driving in the ’50s - over Shap before the M6, stopping at the Jungle Café, ‘in crawler gear on the way up’ and ‘knock it out of gear on the way down’; navigating Glasgow’s tenements and thick accents, and dodgy overnights in East London, where the pub landlady hid cash under their bed and left her Alsatian outside the door.

Another story was getting stage door access to the London Palladium, courtesy of Bruce Forsyth

One trip? Dad’s lorry broke down, so he had to ride home in Bill’s cab. Trouble was, both had taken “unofficial” second men. Four men, one cab. Two under the sheets on top of the load. Police stopped them. Laughter gave them away. One of those second men and the person who recounted this story, was Dave Magill.

“From hauling spuds to hauling stories — Caunces seemed to rule the road.”

The Yard Becomes a Stage

By the mid-60s, every yard buzzed; whether it was the farm yard, the haulage yard or the mechanics yard. Girls in wellies brought tea and transistor radios. Dusty, Cilla, and Beatles on the air. Lads returning from the fields flirted back.

Factory girls. Morris dancers. Tough and charming.

The likes of Barbara Sephton who ran cricket teas at Rufford CC like a military op; those cricket teas would stay with me a lifetime. I remember in 1985, my wife Karen being asked to help with the teas - what a honour but maybe a little scary with Mrs Macleod, Mrs Gibbons and Mrs Sephton. The ladies were a huge part of the cricket club and in 1957 had staged a very memorable game in which they all played. The Club also had a thriving junior section, this was creating a cadre of rising stars: Alan Christopherson, Ian Caunce, Barry Davies, Simon Caunce; but more of that later.

“Boots in mud, banter in the yards, and a transistor radio set to Radio Caroline.”

Style, Sass, and the Post-War Daughters

Farm life was starting to meet flair.

Denim, home perms, headscarves, and attitude. These were the daughters of rationing - now running the yard and catching every eye.

They didn’t just look different. They changed the mood. Hoeing fields or working the factories of Burscough during the day and dancing to the beat of the 1960’s

“Farming met fashion in 1966 — Rufford’s girls didn’t just show up. They showed off.”

The village of Rufford was not new to music and dance. Infact it had a serious reputation with the original Empress Cafe, becoming the Tango leading the charge. The two pubs weren’t far behind and it wasn’t just locals, world renowned entertainers like Ken Dodd knew these places.

The Tango Café, Rufford – Dancehall Dreams and Petrol Pumps

Long before Oasis Close became a quiet cul-de-sac, the stretch of Merry Road in Rufford danced to a different rhythm. It was home to one of West Lancashire’s most colourful haunts: the Tango Café, also known as The Merry Road House or Empress Café. Built around 1920–22 by James Stock, it started life with a verandah, balustrades, and a reputation for good food and stronger glamour.

By the 1930s, it had evolved into a hub of local entertainment. A 1934 Ormskirk Advertiser article describes its packed Christmas and New Year dances with full orchestras, fairy lights, and revellers dancing till nearly 3am. Patrons were known to turn up in dinner jackets or work boots, depending on the night.

In the postwar years, ownership passed through several hands; including the Meldrums and later the Leadbetters of Liverpool, who ramped up the glamour. They renamed it the Tango Café, installed neon signage, sunk petrol tanks at the front, and turned the rear ballroom into a shimmering showpiece, complete with alcoves and fairy lights. It wasn’t just a café; it was a stage.

Dancing was held every night, especially on Saturdays, and the Tango was soon hosting cricket club dos, football team socials, and even late-night arrivals from the Garrick Theatre in Southport. Theatricals and stars came after their second show to drink, dance, and make mischief until morning.

In the 1950s and early ’60s, the Tango also acted as a transport café, servicing lorry drivers with tea, sandwiches, and petrol. Miss Betty Coulton famously ran the café-side of operations. The building stood tall; part ballroom, part garage, part village legend.

Later, the café was used by the South West African Shipping Company as offices during World War II. Post-war, the Forshaw Brothers revived it again; this time as a garage and mini-market known as the Oasis Café, which became a fixture for decades.

Sadly, the site was eventually sold, fell into disuse, and was demolished around 1985. Yet the stories linger. The Tango Café was never just a café. It was Rufford’s Riviera; where farmers danced with mill girls, lorry drivers drank with actors, and the music never seemed to stop.

“It was more than a building,” recalled one former visitor. “It was where Rufford came alive at night”

The late 1960’s and early 1970’s saw the dancing moving out of the village, with the local football team holding their fund raising events at Burscough Football Club. The Hesketh Arms and Fermor Arms were always the destination for a sing song and a good night out. However, the Fermor Arms was continuing to suffer from severe subsidence and by late 1974, the village had a new pub; the New Fermor Arms;but the ‘old Fermor’ had seen one of the greatest ever send offs in 1968.

October 1968 – A Farewell Toast at the Fermor Arms

It was the autumn of 1968 when the darts and dominoes teams at the Fermor Arms gathered for something more than their usual evening games. On the evening of October 7th, the snug bar filled not just with the clink of pint glasses, but with the warmth of gratitude. Mr. and Mrs. Townsend, beloved landlords of the pub, were being honoured with a presentation album to mark their retirement—a tribute from the local teams whose victories and stories had unfolded under the Townsends’ generous watch.

The photographs from that night speak volumes. You can see pride and affection etched into the faces of regulars who turned out, jackets pressed and ties neatly knotted, for a send-off befitting the couple who had kept the Fermor Arms ticking with laughter, warmth, and quiet authority. It was more than just a retirement; it was the end of an era.

The Fermor Arms wasn’t just a pub. As the black-and-white images remind us, it was a hive of local life; its low beams and well-stocked bar quietly bearing witness to friendships, rivalries, and romances forged in Rufford. The presentation evening was captured forever in a carefully compiled album, now passed on by Henry Townsend and preserved more lately by the inspirational work of Jeff Gordon.

These were years when pubs like the Fermor were the pulse of the village; when darts matches weren’t just a sport but a social ritual, when dominoes slapped on a well-worn table could carry the weight of local pride.

In the weeks that followed, more photos from the pub’s past surfaced; bottled memories of the regulars, the staff, the Friday night bustle, and even poems written by patrons. But 1968 holds a special place, a moment of heartfelt recognition and gratitude, when a community pressed pause to say thank you.

If you were one of those present, or if your dad or grandad played darts under the Townsends’ eye, maybe you’ll remember that night. And if not, you might still feel the echo of that farewell toast; because in villages like Rufford, memory doesn’t just live in photo albums. It lingers in the stories we pass on.

What came next was a new era of going out in the 1970’s and 1980’s - not Tetleys but Fettlers; although the Hesketh did persist with Greenall’s. The car park at the Hesketh Arms started to fill with new style cars from February 1970; that was the date that Ford introduced the Capri.

The Ulster Prince – White Gold of Rufford

The Ulster Prince was local royalty.

White-skinned, waxy, buttery soft. It came early; late May or early June. These were proper ‘earlier’ and if we were lucky there would be ‘second earlier’

Dad called it a “real potato.” Tom Caunce’s plots across from the school grew some of the best Rufford New Potatoes. But by the early ’70s, it was fading. Short dormancy. Delicate skin. Too posh for mass markets; but not Rufford.

Loads and loads of cow manure and a dry April and May would produce the very best new potatoes or at least that’s what my Dad told me.

“Ulster Prince: smooth, early, and quietly taking over the North West.”

Ulster Prince – A Historical Snapshot

• Bred by J. Clarke in Ballymoney, County Antrim.

• Early maturing, ideal for “new potato” sales.

• Short dormancy made it tasty but hard to store.

• Popular in Rufford from 1930s–60s.

• Faded out commercially by the late 1970s but local growers around Rufford and Holmeswood created names for themselves - Rufford New Potatoes

“You never forget your first dig of Ulster Prince. Especially when it came from Rufford soil.”

Crisp Factories and the Caunce Connection

A 1963 Ormskirk Advertiser article told the tale; West Lancs growers were selling direct to crisp factories. The old greengrocer model was slipping.

Dad, working for Caunce, hauled loads of fruit and vegetables to Workington Market; before collecting a return load from Whitehaven’s Marchon plant - dropped in on Uncle Jack in Harrington, then carried on to Bristol to visit Auntie Margaret and Uncle Ivor - with a chemical drum or two for Albright & Wilson in Avonmouth. Dad had a special way of staying connected.

“From potato sacks to Albright & Wilson — Caunce trucks were part of every family story.”

Crisps and the Expanding Market – 1963

A March 1963 article in The Ormskirk Advertiser spotlighted a growing opportunity for West Lancashire potato growers: the rising demand for crisps. With new varieties like Record, introduced just two years earlier, the region’s potato output was becoming ideal for crisp manufacturing. Local growers, previously reliant on bulk sales to greengrocers, were now supplying potatoes directly to crisp factories; cutting out the middleman and increasing profit margins.

The shift was driven by changing consumer habits and expanding crisp production lines, with some factories operating around the clock. The article noted that while the factory handled the frying and packing, the farmers’ main concern remained quality and yield. This marked a major step in the region’s agricultural transition—from traditional fresh sales to processed food supply chains.

Back Home on Holly Lane

By 1966, the black garage doors were firmly shut for the World Cup semi-final and final.

These family photos fill me with Pride and Joy; they are taken at Holly Lane on Saturday 30th July 1966

1966 World Cup Celebrations

A week later in Liverpool, Karen — my future wife — was born. Karen’s Mum tells the story that heavily pregnant and with a due date of around 27th July, her Mum was worried about the reliability of their car to get them to the hospital. That meant that on Saturday 30th July, Barry, Karen’s Dad was at the roadside tasked with mending the car. Barry relying on Val leaning out of an upstairs window relaying the score.

A week of national pride and celebration in 7 days; 3 matches, for England, all played at Wembley; in Rufford my Uncle Ivor and Auntie Margaret were staying with Mum and Dad. However, they were literally arriving by bus from Gloucestershire on the morning of the final. It must have been the black and white TV in the ‘living room’.

1966 World Cup – Quarter-finals

Saturday, 23 July 1966

1. England 1–0 Argentina
   

   • 📍 Wembley Stadium, London

   • ⚽ Goal: Geoff Hurst (78’)

2. West Germany 4–0 Uruguay
   

   • 📍 Hillsborough, Sheffield

   • ⚽ Goals: Helmut Haller (11’), Franz Beckenbauer (70’), Sigfried Held (75’), Uwe Seeler (77’)

3. Portugal 5–3 North Korea
   

   • 📍 Goodison Park, Liverpool

   • ⚽ North Korea led 3–0 after 25 mins.

   • ⚽ Eusébio scored 4 goals (27’, 43’ pen, 56’ pen, 59’), José Augusto (80’)

4. Soviet Union 2–1 Hungary
   

   • 📍 Roker Park, Sunderland

   • ⚽ USSR: Chislenko (4’), Porkuyan (9’)

   • ⚽ Hungary: Bene (53’)

Semi-finals

Tuesday, 26 July 1966

1. England 2–1 Portugal
   

   • 📍 Wembley Stadium, London

   • ⚽ England: Bobby Charlton (30’, 80’)

   • ⚽ Portugal: Eusébio (pen 82’)

2. West Germany 2–1 Soviet Union
   

   • 📍 Goodison Park, Liverpool

   • ⚽ West Germany: Haller (43’), Beckenbauer (67’)

   • ⚽ USSR: Porkuyan (88’)

Third-Place Playoff

Saturday, 30 July 1966

• Portugal 2–1 Soviet Union
  

  • 📍 Wembley Stadium, London

  • ⚽ Portugal: Eusébio (12’ pen), Torres (89’)

  • ⚽ USSR: Malofeyev (43’)

Final

Saturday, 30 July 1966

• England 4–2 West Germany (after extra time)
  

  • 📍 Wembley Stadium, London

  • ⚽ England: Geoff Hurst (18’, 101’, 120’), Martin Peters (78’)

  • ⚽ West Germany: Helmut Haller (12’), Wolfgang Weber (89’)

    “Wild celebrations followed in front of the black garage doors of Holly Lane. Quite amazing what you can do with chalk”

The party saw lots of different hats, a football and large bottles of alcohol; the picture of Auntie Margaret with a police helmet out side the black garage doors is wonderful - the sheer joy of winning the World Cup and sharing it with family.

Home was tea, potatoes, wet coats, and laughter. Sandra and I in our wellies, dodging the hosepipe, running across the back garden. Holly Lane had a few youngsters and we’d all play out.

Building go karts using old pram wheels and a plank of wood; with maybe some old clothes line to help you steer.

“The Ashcrofts dig in: a new house on Holly Lane, a new era underway.”

Just a hundred yards from where I grew up stood Holly Farm, run by Dad’s cousins Bob and John Ashcroft - always known to me as Uncle Bob and Uncle John. By 1972, they were already well-known locally not just for their potatoes, but for their innovative poultry operation. A January 1972 article in the Ormskirk Advertiser mentioned that Bob and John had set up a 650-bird battery house at Holly Farm, Rufford. They’d begun selling eggs from their yard and were experimenting with new farming methods, a sign of how adaptable and forward-thinking they were. It wasn’t just the spuds that brought customers to their yard.

Across the back fields you could see over to Winter Hill and you could also see the glint of faraway windscreens as they sped along the newly created M6. Closer there were the locks on the canal and the very muddy towpaths, created by the cows at Kirkham’s Farm on Church Road. Somehow connected to Bates Dairy, this farm saw Church Road closed as the milk cattle headed to the fields down by the canal. The girls heading to the train station to head off to Ormskirk Grammar School had to time their mornings with precision to avoid delays or worst still all those cow pats!

.

Yens Wood to be developed for Sand in 1963

For decades the children of Rufford had a wonderful area to explore and play, their very own back yard known as Yen’s Wood. My Dad, born in 1928 talked vividly about his adventures in Yen’s Wood; walking atop Rhoderdedrons and spring on young birch trees.

However in 1963 bad news

“In 1963, under the terms of the lease signed with the Hesketh family, sand and gravel extraction started on the land at Holmeswood.”

This refers to the start of sand and gravel operations in Holmeswood, which significantly altered the land around the former Martin Mere.

“By 1964 the area was beginning to lose much of its original character as machines roamed rooting up acres of trees, shrubs and bushes…”

This highlights the visible environmental transformation due to industrial extraction—deforestation and land reshaping for mineral harvesting.

Starting Rufford School - 1966

I started at Rufford School in 1966, a wide-eyed five-year-old from Holly Lane, walking through the gates with Adrian Grayson and my second cousin Cheryl Ashcroft at my side. The school had stood for generations, its sandstone plaque proudly declaring its founding in 1824, with a classroom added in 1880 by Sir T.G. Fermor Hesketh. It appears that originally his site was the Boys School with the Girls School situated opposite Ivy Cottage further along the Flash. By the time we arrived, new classrooms built in 1963 were still the talk of the village. They smelled of fresh gloss paint and had those big windows that let in light and let out secrets.

My grandmother, Annie Ashcroft, had taught there years earlier; a well-loved village figure whose classroom discipline was firm but fair. She’d also taught at Holmeswood School so it’s fair to assume she knew most of the local kids and their families. The Ormskirk Advertiser obituary from February 1959 tells the tale of her long association with Rufford and the Holmeswood district. She taught not just lessons but generations - including, quite possibly, the older siblings of those I now sat beside. Her influence lingered in the staffroom stories and the values the school held dear.

Inside, the school felt both old and new. Our head teacher was Mr Griffith, a quiet authority who kept things proper. Infact, Mr Griffith was my next door neighbour! He retired in 1969, replaced by the affable and forward-looking Mr Geoff Tittershill, who brought with him the promise of change and a softer edge.

The first teacher I remember was Mrs Stephenson - a gentle start to school life -followed by Mrs Topping, who ran a tighter ship and got us all taking spelling seriously. Lessons were simple but clear: blackboards, pencils, lined exercise books, and times tables sung by heart.

We weren’t alone. The year above included Terry Disley, Stephen Scott, Mick Richards, and David Samson - already seasoned in the ways of the dinner queue and playground pecking order. At the top end, where the big decisions were made (like who got the best skipping ropes), my cousin Lesley Perkins reigned supreme — one of “the big girls,” with proper opinions and perfectly tied ribbons. I seem to recall in her last year at Rufford School she was wearing a crombie coat.

Rufford School was always proud of its sports days, and in 1965, the Ormskirk Advertiser listed winners like Neil Caunce, Trevor Wilson, Colin MacLeod, Terry Robinson, and Linda Walker. The fields were filled with skipping, racing, obstacle courses, and good-natured chaos. Everyone got muddy; no one got left out.

By the early 1970s, the school was still evolving. In April 1971, the long-awaited school meals kitchen was completed on the old classroom site - another milestone. Until then, meals were wheeled in from elsewhere or prepared under conditions best described as “make-do.” The new kitchen meant hot meals served on-site, and a sense that the village school was keeping pace with modern times. Mrs Perkins (my Aunty Annie) and Mrs Morris in charge and setting the foundations for healthy eating at school, well before Jamie Oliver and a tradition lovingly taken on by Carole Chadwick for so many years.

Yet it never lost its character. The sound of the bell, the whiff of polish and gravy, the clang of milk crates - they were all part of the Rufford rhythm. It wasn’t just a school. It was a meeting ground, a proving ground, and a grounding.

Looking back, I didn’t realise just how much the school’s story mirrored the village itself: shaped by the past, proud of its present, and always edging -cautiously - toward the future.

Growing up in the mid 1960’s

At home it was rocking horses and trikes with hand made go karts, slides and goal posts.

We could walk across fields, along the canal and down at the cricket club.

By the late 1960’s my Saturdays were spent watching sport; primarily cricket and football watching our local teams.

Both the teams were highly competitive, nurturing village talent along with those from a little further apart. I was enormously proud of them and longed to be playing myself.

As a 4 year old I would marvel at our dog, Lassie who would very often talke me for a walk, Holly Lane and Mill Hey

Me and Lassie

Next up it was Harry, the white rabbit; followed by two Chinhilla rabbits called Chinchie and Bicks.

The Holly Lane gang was being expanded with my 2nd cousins Terry and Clifford Disley joining us in adventures. There was me and my sister, Cheryl, David and Paul Sampson and Stephen Walsh. Later we’d be joined in the lane by Ian, Robert and Andrew Watkinson.

Mum and Dad made sure my sister, Sandra, and I were engaged with the village. Getting dressed up in fancy dress for garden parties and riding on the back of a Caunces lorry for walking day.

As a cub there was bob a job; small errands but my speciality was to weed amongst the cobbles and paving stones. My patch Holly Lane and Mill Hey; never going past the gates to Southworths Haulage Yard.

Ocassionally I would stay over at Auntie Annie’s in Highsands Avenue. It was a thrill, I got to sit in Uncle Charles’ gleaming RAC van and was spoilt rotten by Suzanne, Laura and Lesley; my cousins. Auntie Annie made mashed potatoes differ to my Mum; she would add butter and cream; and rather than using the hand held masher she would use what looked like a sieve

Oh those Rufford mashed potatoes

Garden Parties and Village Best – 1962 to 1972

Between 1962 and 1972, Rufford knew how to throw a garden party. Not the posh, porcelain kind - though the teapots were fine and the cakes highly competitive - but full-blooded village events with tombolas, coconut shies, maypole dancing, and raffle prizes that included everything from a knitted tea cosy to a weekend at the New Inn.

The three great centres of summer celebration were The Hermitage, The Chase, and Rufford New Hall, which by then served as a hospital and convalescent home. Each place brought its own atmosphere, but they shared common threads: gazebos that flapped in the wind, trestle tables buckling under the weight of home baking, and the sound of brass bands or record players crooning from under striped awnings.

The Hermitage felt like stepping into a secret garden — tucked back from the road, shaded by tall trees, its lawns neatly clipped and its high walls creating prestige and mystery. Here, the great and the good mingled with the local and the lively. There were hat competitions and sponge cake rivalries, lucky dips and white-elephant stalls. And always, the WI held court: raffle books in hand, sharp eyes on the Victoria sponges.

The Chase had a more open, sunlit feel. Its front field became a makeshift fairground, with swingboats, coconut shies, and stalls selling toffee apples and homemade jam. Kids darted from stand to stand with pennies, clutching rock buns and raffle tickets, while fathers smoked pipes by the car park fence and mothers leaned in over the tombola.

Garden Parties and Dress Up

For me and Sandra it meant a fancy dress; very simple but winners. Sir Alex and Lady Rose; a nod to a famous yachtsman and his boat.

Then there was Rufford New Hall, by then no longer a country house but a hospital - still stately in its setting, its faded grandeur softened by flowerbeds and folding chairs. Garden parties here served dual purpose: they lifted the spirits of patients and staff while also raising funds for the hospital itself. Local girls served tea in aprons; boys were roped in to carry chairs or stack tables. And always, always, the smell of scones and wet grass hung in the air.

For children, these events meant freedom — unchaperoned hours spent chasing balloons, watching Punch and Judy, or trying to win jars of pear drops in the “guess the weight” stall. For adults, they were a rhythm of the social year. The calendar moved from Easter to Whitsun to the summer fête season, with dresses pressed, cakes baked, and gazebos unpacked from winter storage.

I think it was at one of those garden parties that I met Glyn Lloyd; initially not at Rufford School he would become one of my lifelong friends alongside Adrian Grayson and Terry Disley. The four of us very different in personalities but real mates.

Looking back, those garden parties were more than fun. They were the stitching in Rufford’s social fabric - a place where farming families met railway men, where the chapel and the church shared a pot of jam, and where a child might win a coconut, a cuddly toy, and a kiss on the cheek all in one afternoon.

Rufford on the Ball – 1967 to 1972

In Rufford, sport wasn’t a side note — it was a way of life. From 1967 to 1972, the rhythm of village life beat loudest on Saturday afternoons, with cricket on Cousins Lane and football on the park. These were the fields where generations gathered: dads, sons, cousins, neighbours, and the odd star name who turned up to coach the next lot of hopefuls.

The Rufford Cricket Club played its matches at Cousins Lane, a gently sloping pitch backed by hedges and the occasional tractor hum. The heart of the team in those years were the local men in their 30s and 40s, most of them known far beyond the boundary rope. My dad played alongside Norman and Gerald Davies, Jack Edwards, Peter Edmondson, Neville Roscoe, Jim Sephton, Jim Chadwick, Harry Caunce, Walter Gibbons, Charlie Caunce and Danny Goodyear - names that carried weight on and off the pitch.

These were proper village cricketers: men who worked hard, played fair, and knew how to settle a match with a slow inswinger or a well-timed nudge past square leg. Matches were social, yes - flasks, dogs, and deckchairs lined the ropes = but make no mistake: they played to win. Oh and did I mention those cricket teas.

And just behind them, a younger generation began to find their feet. Alan Christopherson, Ian Caunce, Ronnie Kenny, and Peter Mason were the next wave - padded up in borrowed gear, learning the hard way, slowly earning their place among the grown men. They watched, waited, scored, fetched, and batted down the order - until one day, they weren’t the juniors anymore.

Over at Rufford Park, football had its own roar. Rufford YPC (Young People’s Club) was more than a team - it was a community mission. The team were coached by Alan Ashcroft, once of England and the British Lions, who brought a mix of discipline, calm, and belief. He taught not just how to pass and move - but how to respect the game, and each other.

Then came the masterstroke: Derek Watkinson, never short of drive or charm, managed to secure the services of England and Everton captain Brian Labone as an occasional coach. Labone had played for England in the 1962 World Cup. Having Labone on the touchline in Rufford was like Maradona showing up at the school fête. He was calm, firm, and quietly brilliant with us boys - never flashy, always focused.

Rufford Football

In 1971, I was on a Holmeswood Coach with Dad and a few others headed for Wembley to watch Skelmersdale United in the FA Amateur Cup Final versus Dagenham. A long hot day but the local team lifted the trophy; winning 4 - 1 on the day.

Meanwhile back in Rufford, Derek had become our next door neighbour in Holly Lane at number 15 with his wife Jean. His mum and dad also lived in Holly Lane and number 9 - Thornton Cottages - next door to Dick and Alice Caunce.

Rufford YPC football team even went on tour to the Isle of Man, a crew of farm lads and schoolmates setting off on our first adventure over the sea. Jerseys tucked in, sandwiches packed by mums, nerves jangling. It wasn’t just about football - it was a rite of passage.

In those years, Rufford sport wasn’t measured by silverware, but by shared moments: the handshakes, the wet Sundays, the teas in the pavilion, the coach rides, the village pride. They weren’t just playing games - they were becoming Rufford men.

And I was itching to represent my village