The old Guardian office is now an antique shop.
Whilst working in Knutsford I got into the habit of answering the telephone by saying: 'Knutsford Guardian'. That was until the vicar of Knutsford, who had a deep sonorous voice and a sense of humour, replied: “Tell me, dear boy, just what it is that you are guarding?'
After that, I always added my name, which is correct journalistic practice.
I thoroughly enjoyed my four years in this handsome and historic town of narrow streets, quaint shops and many pubs. Opposite the office was the Angel on one corner and the White Lion on the other. At the top of the street opposite was the Lord Eldon, further down King Street were the Cross Keys, Rose and Crown and the Royal George, and, up a ginnel, the Freemasons. Not all have survived the gentrification of the town that has happened over the last 55 years. The Guardian office is now an antique shop.
Among local celebrities I met was journalist and broadcaster Brian Redhead, who lived in a rather nice Georgian house on Gaskell Avenue – named after the author Mrs Gaskell – that was opposite the Heath, the open space where the May Day celebrations were held each year. I had heard rumours he might be turning thespian as he had been seen returning home from the television studios in Manchester still wearing make-up, so it was with trepidation I rang his bell one morning to ask for an interview for a story about the state of the Heath.
I was admitted, shown to his upstairs study and served tea and chocolate biscuits by his extremely attractive wife, so that my hands were full and notebook was redundant.
'Tell you what,' he said. 'It might be quicker if I type a statement for you.'
And he did.
Five or six succinct paragraphs below an intro I happily pinched as my own. A great journalist and a charming bloke.
I was shown round the Jodrell Bank Observatory (in nearby Goostrey) by Sir Bernard Lovell. This was the largest steerable radio telescope in the world at the time and Sir Bernard was definitely a Very Important Person, but another great gentleman who, rather than science, wanted to talk about cricket, for which he had a passion. He played for his local village team.
The third chap, who will always remain in my mind, was Knutsford MP Sir Walter Bromley Davenport. He was a larger than life character, who had been in the Grenadier Guards in the 1920s. At the outbreak of the Second World War, he raised and commanded the 5th Battalion of the Cheshire Regiment.
I have been a life-long socialist and my politics were defined even then, but I liked the man and I met him several times during the 1959 election campaign. He showed me round his family home of Capesthorne Hall, a stately home big enough to have its own chapel, and served me a beer. This was a one-to-one visit between the sitting MP and local reporter (aged 18 and a half). He won me over without pretension or condescension. He had genuine charisma and also a loud voice.
The stories about him were legend. On a crowded train at Crewe he walked up and down shouting 'All change'. When people moved, he chose a vacant seat.
He was a junior whip for the Conservative Party and kept fellow members in order. When he spied a chap making a surreptitious escape before a crucial late night vote in the House of Commons, he kicked him down a flight of stairs. Unfortunately, the man was not a Tory MP but the Belgian Ambassador.
They don't make MPs like that, any more.
After that, I always added my name, which is correct journalistic practice.
I thoroughly enjoyed my four years in this handsome and historic town of narrow streets, quaint shops and many pubs. Opposite the office was the Angel on one corner and the White Lion on the other. At the top of the street opposite was the Lord Eldon, further down King Street were the Cross Keys, Rose and Crown and the Royal George, and, up a ginnel, the Freemasons. Not all have survived the gentrification of the town that has happened over the last 55 years. The Guardian office is now an antique shop.
Among local celebrities I met was journalist and broadcaster Brian Redhead, who lived in a rather nice Georgian house on Gaskell Avenue – named after the author Mrs Gaskell – that was opposite the Heath, the open space where the May Day celebrations were held each year. I had heard rumours he might be turning thespian as he had been seen returning home from the television studios in Manchester still wearing make-up, so it was with trepidation I rang his bell one morning to ask for an interview for a story about the state of the Heath.
I was admitted, shown to his upstairs study and served tea and chocolate biscuits by his extremely attractive wife, so that my hands were full and notebook was redundant.
'Tell you what,' he said. 'It might be quicker if I type a statement for you.'
And he did.
Five or six succinct paragraphs below an intro I happily pinched as my own. A great journalist and a charming bloke.
I was shown round the Jodrell Bank Observatory (in nearby Goostrey) by Sir Bernard Lovell. This was the largest steerable radio telescope in the world at the time and Sir Bernard was definitely a Very Important Person, but another great gentleman who, rather than science, wanted to talk about cricket, for which he had a passion. He played for his local village team.
The third chap, who will always remain in my mind, was Knutsford MP Sir Walter Bromley Davenport. He was a larger than life character, who had been in the Grenadier Guards in the 1920s. At the outbreak of the Second World War, he raised and commanded the 5th Battalion of the Cheshire Regiment.
I have been a life-long socialist and my politics were defined even then, but I liked the man and I met him several times during the 1959 election campaign. He showed me round his family home of Capesthorne Hall, a stately home big enough to have its own chapel, and served me a beer. This was a one-to-one visit between the sitting MP and local reporter (aged 18 and a half). He won me over without pretension or condescension. He had genuine charisma and also a loud voice.
The stories about him were legend. On a crowded train at Crewe he walked up and down shouting 'All change'. When people moved, he chose a vacant seat.
He was a junior whip for the Conservative Party and kept fellow members in order. When he spied a chap making a surreptitious escape before a crucial late night vote in the House of Commons, he kicked him down a flight of stairs. Unfortunately, the man was not a Tory MP but the Belgian Ambassador.
They don't make MPs like that, any more.
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