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Grafton Maggs provided a wonderful assessment of Bonfire Night (Guy Fawkes Day).

Over the years, I have been asked, in succession, by my children, grandchildren and great grandchildren, a similar question, viz, “What on earth did you do to amuse yourself when you were young?” Read into that question what was really meant, viz, “What did you do with yourself before there was: Television, Pop Music, CDs, Videos, DVDs, Video Games, Mobile Phones, Computers etc?”

Well, surprisingly (I would mumble), the social calendar of a child, even in the impoverished 1930’s, was a very full and complex one which embraced such activities as: Scouts and Cubs, Junior Wesleyan Guild (Victoria Hall), Tivoli and Regent Cinemas, Street Games, Park Games (Underhill Park), Prodigious Reading of weekly ‘Tuppennies’ and the contents of our new Public Library, Swimming off the seawall and in Rotherslade Bay, Fishing etc. etc. Slotting into this complex pattern were those old favourites that spontaneously surfaced and sank with clockwork annual regularity. These were the fascinating activities of: Conkers, Iron Hoops, Whip and Top, Glass ‘Arlies’ etc.

One annual even, however, apart from Christmas, topped them all and that was Guy Fawkes Night!Historically, we knew little of the wretched Guy, carrying in our minds vague images derived from history books. All that mattered to us was that he had left us a legacy based on his failed attempt to atomise the House of Parliament and on the Fifth of November every year we could let off fireworks and burn an effigy on a bonfire. That was the sum total of our knowledge. Incidentally, my father Glyn Maggs, firmly maintained all his life that the only good man whoever got into Parliament was Guy Fawkes. I can now see the wisdom in his beliefs.

November the Fifth 1938 is a date with a special significance. The clouds of war, once again, were gathering over Europe, yet even so nobody dreamt that this Bonfire night would be the last for seven years, thus ending an unbroken sequence running for centuries. Within twelve months there would be a total ban on bonfires across the entire country for very obvious reasons. So, unknowingly, early in October 1938 we started preparing for the great day just as our forebears had done for centuries and just as the children of 2005 are preparing now.

The emphasis in the thirties, for financial reasons, was on the Bonfire and gangs of children would plague shopkeepers such as Mr Frizell the Grocer, Nobby Tucker the Stationer, Mr Varley the Chemist etc. for rubbish to burn. Sacks of combustibles would be transported to pre-selected back gardens where parents (wondering if they should have their heads examined) had agreed to accommodate the current year’s fire. Gradually these piles of material would be built up to maximum safety levels (and beyond).

Meanwhile, the really big fires, of Trafalgar proportions, were being constructed around the sweep of Swansea Bay. Wonderfully dominating sites had been traditionally established on such places as, the Mumbles Hill, Blackpill, Kilvey Hill and around as far as Nash Point. It was the Blackpill site that captivated our interest because as daily commuters to school on the Mumbles Train, we watched its daily development. A central pole of telegraphic dimension was first erected on open land (now occupied by the Lido) and relentlessly, layers of paper, cardboard, brushwood, rubber tyres, scrap wood, trees etc. were deposited until the top of the pole was reached. By the Fifth it was higher than the Mumbles Train and looked like a giant oasthouse.

On the Night, a superbly fashioned Guy would be placed on the top and at the appropriate time, a local dignitary would have the honour of igniting, to the joyful shouts of the many, worthy Blackpill folk present. This was a great and traditional village event resulting in a magnificent conflagration, seen for miles around and the centrepiece of the Blackpill festivity. What a shame that this very old ceremony is no longer held! The Swansea Corporation played its part too, just as it does today.

An excellent display was organised at St Helens Ground but was not enjoyed by the young bloods who wished to set off their own fireworks. After all, how was it possible to terrorise the girls, sitting in a grand stand with Mum and Dad? Besides the girls would miss it just as much. About this time, Standard’s and Brock’s fireworks appeared in most Mumbles shops: from Peregrine’s in Southend to Nobby Tucker’s in the Dunns via Sam Davies in John Street. There was little money available in the 30’s for non-essentials and children used their sweet money to buy... A ha’penny would buy a ‘Little Demon’ (vicious banger), Jackie Jumper, etc. A penny would buy a ‘Big Demon’ (that much louder than its little brother), a ‘Sky Rocket’, a ‘Roman Candle’ and to please whingeing sisters: pretty, pretty ‘Sparklers’, ‘Chrysanthemum Showers’ and ‘Pinwheels’. This last firework, although pretty as it spun and hissed, was destructive, especially if placed on a high-gloss painted door. One year, it severely strained good relations between my father and myself. Whilst Mumbles lads bought impecuniously from the village shops, the better heeled went to such establishments as Dan Morgan’s of Oxford Street, Swansea. This surely was the apotheosis of pyrotechnical élan! Here in both windows was a display worthy of the Crystal Palace. ‘Sky Rockets’ languished at £1.0s.0d a head, ‘Roman Candles’ at 10s each, Jackie Jumpers at a half-a-crown. The cost of one firework exceeded the entire budget of a Gloucester Place Bonfire Night!

Nowadays, the last consideration for Guy Fawkes Night is the cost, meaning that large fireworks are abundant and the bonfire is of far less importance. The duration of the evening becomes far more flexible, ‘Rockets’, ‘Air-Bomb Repeaters’ and the like, can now be set off at will, at 8.00 p.m. or 2.00 a.m. the following morning (which they usually are!).

After weeks of anticipation, the day dawned. School hours dragged endlessly but ended they did. The Mumbles contingent raced from school, through the old Swansea Market to catch the 4.30 train from Rutland Street Terminus to Oystermouth. It was already dark as we raced home and the distant bang, pop and crackle of fireworks could be heard. Guy Fawkes Night was underway!Tea was bolted and friends joined in the street. The Balsdons, the Rossers, the Hullins the Timothys, the Ways and a hundred others, assembled in the backyard of the Victoria Inn, my home. Brother Colin and inseparable pal Trevor Jones were putting the last touches to the unlit bonfire, so laboriously collected and assembled over the weeks. In 1938, father Glyn Maggs had decreed a positive limit to the size of the fire because, in the preceding year, the fire stoked up by Buster David and Jackie Timothy had got a little out of hand and blistered the front of the house and cracked two upstairs windows. As a result, my father suffered a confidence crisis in my ability to keep a tight rein on events, fearing that we might be rendered homeless, hence his restriction. Fireworks were discharged with the usual abandon shouts and screams. Hair was singed and hands scorched but no serious hurts. Chief collectors Ivor Jones and Trevor, Colin Maggs and Jackie Timothy were given the privilege of lighting the fire, simultaneously. The fire soon took hold and sparks began rising on the thermals through the smoke into the cold, sharp night air. Whoops of delight were heard all round and excited young faces were lit up in the glow. A few dozen potatoes were placed in the glowing embers at the periphery and after an hour or so, removed and wrapped gingerly in paper. The charred skin was removed and steaming hot potato eaten with relish, washed down with hot sweet cocoa from huge jugs brought in by anxious Mums (relieved to see their small ones still sound, in wind and limb). Guy Fawkes Night 1938 was coming to a close. The night air was hazy with sulphurous smoke and, still, in the distance could be heard the odd late hiss of a lone rocket ending in a sad pop. Even the organiser, Jackie Timothy raked in smouldering embers and threw them back on to the dying fire-resuscitating the flames for a few more minutes.But, it was all over. Cries of “Come on Bryn! Come on Elaine! Come on Alan! Come on Colin! School tomorrow!” It was past 9.30 and wearily the children made their way home. It was time for quiet to descend again across Mumbles. The last banger had been thrown, the last rocket launched. Time to give the hard working villagers the peace they deserved for a fair night’s rest. These were the days when consideration for neighbours was an accepted way of life.There would be no middle of the night explosions. I walked down Gloucester Place with life long friends, Jackie Timothy and Alan Rosser.

Unanimously, it was decided that it had been a great night! Only 52 weeks to the next one! In our wildest dreams, we never thought that that next one would not come and that this Bonfire Night was our last as young lads. Within a surprisingly short space of time, Flight Sergeants Alan Rosser and Jack Timothy would be flying over hostile territory in the rear gun turrets of Lancaster Bombers.

Grafton Mags has also written a lovely page about Christmas in Wales.

Written by Grafton Maggs

Created: 1:57 AM 10/31/20053
Last updated: 1:57 AM 10/31/2005