Childhood Memories of Trumpington 12

Brian Goodliffe

This is the eighth part of a series of childhood memories of Trumpington in the 1940s and 1950s. For an introduction to the series, see Childhood Memories of Trumpington .

Sometimes I’d give the “agricultural adventure playground” a miss, and play in normal public access areas; especially if I was in the company of boys who’s fathers didn’t work for the Pembertons, as I wasn’t supposed to take them onto the estate. Just out of Trumpington, on the road to Grantchester, was the entrance to an area known as Byron’s Pool, named after Lord Byron who apparently frequented the area whilst at Cambridge. Probably hoping to find somewhere discrete to make his next sexual conquest from what I’ve read about him since. Once through the clapper gate you made your way through an area of rough woodland that was criss-crossed with footpaths; some major and well trod; others less so with the occasional hazard of stinging nettle or bramble. If you made your way to the river, then walked upstream on the adjacent path, your ears would guide you to the weir, where between the ages of eleven and thirteen, I used to indulge in probably the most foolhardy stunt of my entire life.

The weir was basically a submerged concrete dam, about ten inches in section at the top, which spanned most of the entire width of the river, just leaving on the far side a narrow channel with an adjustable sluice that could only be accessed via private land on the opposing bank. I believe it was originally built to create a mill-pool, to provide water power to nearby Grantchester Mill, sadly defunct since a fire in 1928.

The water poured rapidly over the top of the weir and dropped several feet to its new lower level. Myself, and a few other brave, or should that be foolish souls, would climb through the safety rails, and utilising them from the wrong side, lower ourselves onto the top of the weir. Standing with our backs to the flow, and hooking the heels of our wellingtons over the upstream edge of the concrete to avoid being swept away, we would slowly shuffle sideways across the weir, on our insteps, inches at a time, whilst trying desperately not to slip on the slimy algoid surface, and ignoring the splashes that made it inside our boots. The fact that I couldn’t swim a stroke wasn’t really relevant. Swimming in wellingtons is apparently almost impossible anyway. When you reached the far side there were some more safety railings you could hang on to whilst psyching yourself up for the return journey in the same dangerous manner. I’ve since been back once or twice as an adult, and looking at the weir, even in the gentlest flow of summer waters, I cannot believe my own stupidity. I suppose it was our version of “playing chicken”.

Continue with the final part of Brian Goodliffe’s childhood memories of Trumpington in the 1940s and 1950s.

The riverside footpath at Byron’s Pool, March 2008
The riverside footpath at Byron’s Pool, March 2008

The riverside footpath at Byron’s Pool, looking upstream towards the pool. Photo: Andrew Roberts, March 2008.

TThe current weir at Byron’s Pool, February 2008
TThe current weir at Byron’s Pool, February 2008

The current weir at Byron’s Pool, from the footpath to the south east. Photo: Andrew Roberts, February 2008.

The pool above the weir and line of the weir at Byron’s Pool, October 2007
The pool above the weir and line of the weir at Byron’s Pool, October 2007

The pool above the weir and line of the weir at Byron’s Pool. Photo: Andrew Roberts, October 2007.