River Memories by Local People

Photo of the River Stour by Adrian Newton

Members of our local community were asked to recall their own memories and stories of the rivers of Wimborne some of which were used in our production.

They shared their thoughts about a favourite Wimborne river place, or times spent fishing, swimming, bird watching, boating, picnicking, reflecting or just walking by the river. 

River Memories by Stephanie Robertson
When you grow up in a landscape with a river, the water seems to wend its way through your memories like lines curving over the contours of a map. The waterway becomes a seasonal barometer. And when that river is as prone to flooding as the Allen, you are continually aware of the water which ebbs and flows and swells and dips as the weather makes its sometimes sleepy, sometimes turbulent, journey through the calendar.

My childhood memories are filled with frames in which the river features- most noticeably at the cloying muddiness of winter and the heady height of summer. As a pupil at Allenbourn Middle School, the river was an ever-present force of nature.

Walking past the river this evening, thirty years later, I am not surprised to see the water bursting once again from the weak confines of its banks, like a wild animal escaping from its shackles. This sight takes me back to a time when as a young teenager during the late 1980s, I would dread the weekly bouts of mandatory cross country which would see us slogging our way round sleepy Poet’s Corner, if we had managed to traverse the underwater section along the river first.

In a way that only teenagers can perfect, we were incredulous and indignant that cross country wouldn’t be cancelled in such circumstances. We continued to run begrudgingly through freezing cold knee high water. ‘It’s character building,’ we were told. We were instructed to stay close to the fence in the hope that none of us would fall into the river – the murky threshold between land and water entirely indiscernible. The black reflective surface of the water concealed the path and it was left to our better judgement where to step. Most of us had the good sense to stay hard left. But on occasion, some ambitious young athlete would dare to overtake. At their peril, since they might be swept away in a torrent. The engorged river, when fit to bursting flows with an irrepressible energy. Twisting churns of muddy water would surge past us in the opposite direction, as if to mock us in its easy passage as it tore over the land.

As we completed the last and most terrible lap around the field, our bones chilled, our tempers flaring, it was not unusual that one of us would lose a trainer in the bog. And it was quite impossible to try to retrieve it from the oozing clutches of the muddy mire. We would come limping over the finish line, with sodden socks and freezing feet, dismayed at having to tell our parents that we had lost yet another expensive trainer, leaving its partner bereft of purpose.  When the flood would eventually recede, the playing fields would be lightly sprinkled with odd trainers pointing up out of the ground like the protruding bottoms of ducks dabbling greedily in aquatic weed.

In the summer, the river meant something else entirely. When my brother and I were young, the Allenbourn Middle School Summer Fayre was the single most exciting day in the school calendar.

The fields would be filled with stalls, games, families and laughter. At the centre of it was an aqua obstacle course which drew us to it like an inflatable cornucopia. It culminated in a gladiator style beam on which we would try to knock each other off, under a barrage of hosepipes. You might wish to affront that kid who had been bothering you all year so that you could legitimately, and for one moment only, whack him full force in the face.  It was such great fun.

Our mum, who was part of the PTFA, always volunteered to run the candy floss stall. Watching this incredible pillow of pink gather momentum and grow like a swirling vortex of fuchsia was fever pitch anticipation and excitement. The prospect of losing oneself in the resultant cloud of sugar was almost too much to bear.

At end of the day, which was always hot, the children would rush to bathe in the river, a fitting end to a balmy summer’s day.

And so, the river continues to flow its way through our lives, memories and imaginations. The herons, the ducks, the anglers, the bridges- much remains unchanged. And still, generation after generation of young eyes, drifting their distracted gaze away from their PE classes, and out of the windows when they should be focused on the board before them, always quietly watching the water, softly urging it to sail them away on its enchanting current…

Memories of Frederica Guest (nee Barrow)
My earliest memory of the River Stour was the river badly flooding.  We lived at the railway station house. Across the station yard was a substantial allotment. There were 4 all together but when the river flooded the water came right up to our allotment which was the furthest from the river. Much closer and it would be in the station yard.  All the allotments were later sold to Flight Refuelling who levelled it off and used it for a car park. Now it’s covered in houses.  As a teenager I often sat on the groins under the viaduct enjoying the peace and tranquillity that the river gave me.

Further along upriver was Mr. Newman’s boatyard and tea rooms.  At the time he rented out the boats so people could explore the river from a different perspective.

Another occasion when the Stour flooded, I went to the bottom of the road to see how far it had come up.  Mr. Newman rowed past, up Poole Road itself, shouting at me to go home as the river was still rising and it was getting dangerous. I must have been about 6 or 7 at the time.

We had our cousins staying over one summer and we came home from town and my cousin said to my gran how little water was in the Stour. She asked where we had been and my cousin said only up the town. She was a bit perplexed and said you can’t see the Stour in the town. My cousin said the river between what Frisby’s was then and the greengrocers.  My gran said it was not the Stour it was called the River Wym. She was always adamant about this and got very cross if we called it the River Allen.

The River carnivals were quite a spectacle to behold. My primary school made a float of the Wimborne Minster out of flowers. Very impressive. There was a Victorian funfair and Pearly Kings and Queens from London. A wonderful day. Happy days.

My only unsettling and indeed frightening memory is from many years later when I had my own family. To keep them occupied, I had the Idea to take them Minnowing.

Armed with a jam jar with string tied around the neck, bamboo cane with net, we set off with an air of excitement at what we might find.

We went to the River Allen behind Allenbourn School where there is a concrete jetty.

Settling ourselves down, our oldest son Paul to my left, our younger son Neil to my right and last but not least our daughter Theresa on his right. A few bugs to begin with then the minnows started to arrive.

As we were engrossed in what we were doing, a Border Collie (chocolate and white) came bounding along the path.  Not on a lead.  At that moment Theresa was bent over with her hands on her knees when this dog jumped up on her back and she tumbled into the water. Little realising the strength of the current she was being carried downstream.  My mind was working 19 times to the dozen.  Realizing that Paul was the only one of us vaguely able to swim, I said to him to jump in and grab hold of her. By now Theresa was sinking down for the 3^rd time. Paul never stopped to remove his shoes but went straight in and got her.

As we got her out the woman with the dog finally came up and said, “Did my dog do that?”,  “Yes”, I said, “pity it wasn’t on a lead”.

“Oh, it’s not my dog“ she said, “I’m only looking after it” All the more reason to keep it on a lead I would have thought!

Not wanting to delay getting the children home I rounded them up and took them home.

Needless to say, I never took them Minnowing again.

We are very proud of Paul in his selfless action. So proud were we of his actions that I applied to the Royal Humane Society for a commendation for him. This was granted.

The River Stour has always been a place of peace and solace to me and I feel blessed to be able to be near all three.

Rivers Stour, Allen and Wym (now called the Allen).

River Rescue by Paul J Guest
It’s only when one considers the Stour, Allen and Wym that it becomes apparent these three rivers weave through my life as much as they do the very town I call home.

The reason for writing is the incident of 20th September 1986.

In my memory it was still summer, I was 10, my brother 7 and my sister 2 and a half.
Mum (in a desperate mix of keeping the three of us kids entertained and educated) gathered us together for an expedition. This may have been prompted by homework, I don’t recall.
Across both fields of Redcotts and past Tice garage and showroom, we took a jam jar, some string and a length of bamboo gardening cane to fish for tadpoles. Or whatever else we could find.
There is a little concrete jetty along the bank, not far from the Allenbourn School long jump. (I presume it was for boats, now I come to think of it I never saw it used. Perhaps it was just a passing point for the narrow public path) and our plan was to lower the jar there and see what we found.
Mostly bugs, little in the way of tadpoles.

I was concentrating on not losing the jar to the current when I became aware of a dog walker coming along the path. I had issues with dogs at the time (having been enthusiastically pounced on by one that had knocked me flat).
My memory is of an Alsatian but memory is a leaf washed out to sea and I am reliably informed it was an enthusiastic brown and white Collie.

The dog drew nearer and my sister Theresa was suddenly in the water. I dropped in off the side of the jetty, hefted her up to hand to mum and then realised, as is often the case, just how deceptive the river water was.
Although it didn’t reach my waistband, the river bed on which I stood was further from the top of the jetty than I was able to lift myself.
Forced to trudge up river, against a current that had other ideas, I eventually found a gap in the rushes through which I could reach the path.

I was soaked to the skin but mum had mostly passed through the panic stage and corralled us to traipse home.
The foremost thing on my mind was that I had ruined my favourite shoes. (It was hard to find well fitting shoes as I had big feet and school shoes at the time didn’t much cater for broad fittings.)
I squelched, even over the fields. And I stank the drier I became.
I have no idea what happened to the jam jar.

Nothing too remarkable in the telling you might think and indeed that is my dim and distant memory of events.
I probably went home and read a Doctor Who book after my bath.

My memory is a little short of some key context.

None of the 4 of us could swim.
I still can’t, nearly 40 years later. (I can paddle enough to stay afloat and power about a little).

The dog had come over to see what we were all looking at and lent on my sister to get a better view. This had caused her fall into the water, she had bobbed up to the surface twice before I had scooped her up and her clothes were already waterlogged.

Mum and I were both members of the local Red Cross but I certainly wasn’t thinking about any of my training in the heat of the moment. And immediately afterwards I was mostly concerned about having a wet arse and ruined shoes.

I forgot about it with the swiftness of youth, time, that seemed glacial as it was lived, really a raging torrent hauling us all along.

So it was that in the January of 1987 I received a letter asking me to go to Police Headquarters at Winfrith the following month.

I only knew Winfrith as a power station and it seemed an odd place to put policemen (surely, if Dr Who was anything to go by, the military guard power stations).
Mum then revealed that she had put my name forward for a bravery award from The Royal Humane Society, the people who commend those who go beyond duty amongst our emergency services.

Which I found odd, as it wasn’t brave; it was just lifting Theresa out of some water.

But the folly of youth is that we can only see the river, not the banks nor the fish and certainly not the current. There is a context seen by others, an aerial view.

The award made the local paper and a photographer turned up to capture my gawky face and my sister’s charming smile.

All a lot of fuss over nothing. I sat in the ceremony watching policemen, firemen and paramedics receive certificates in fine uniforms for acts that should be news headlines.
Here was I in a plain suit that may as well have been fabricated from imposter syndrome and shiny shoes that just weren’t as good as the ones destroyed by the Allen.
Photos, handshake and it was all over.

Except, the Red Cross had read the article, and the subsequent photo of my receiving my certificate. Why hadn’t I told them, this was big news!
I was to receive another certificate from them, The Red Cross Youth Meritorious Service Badge which came with a medal.  I was told it was the first issue of the Medal in Dorset.

And that was another hall, only this time I had a uniform and a haircut.
They were the same shoes though. And my imposter syndrome was turned way up to 11.
I hadn’t used any of my training; I hadn’t checked airways or so much as rubbed in some lotion.

And yet time, like the rivers, keeps on flowing.

My 15 minutes of fame passed but neither I nor the rivers went away.
Both of us kept on moving, breaking our banks, running almost dry and passing through town with an illusion of purpose.

As time drew on I found walks along the rivers romantic and have taken those paths with partners and without.

Talked to the wildlife, dodged the bats at dusk diving past Allendale House and just sat and watched.

Because the rivers are part of me, a Wimborne lad in many senses.

Memory by Victoria Wynne
The time, one May Sunday evening in the early ‘seventies.  The place, Eye Bridge.  I am sitting on a blanket on the riverbank, alongside me with her eyes closed soaking up the evening sun is a very beautiful woman.  The red sun was slowly disappearing behind the trees and making her skin glow.  Sitting on that blanket, I looked around, the river Stour flows sedately past; as I listen I hear the ripples as it flows over the shallows, where later we will again remove our shoes and paddle back to our car parked on the far bank. Below that bank midges hover over the reeds, and I can almost hear the wing beats of a dragonfly looking for somewhere to lay its eggs.  As I watch, a fish with a flash of silver splashes back into the water where it has taken a midge that flew too close to the surface. I lay back enjoying the still warm evening air.  Far above, a bird spirals in the warm air rising from the land.  I close my eyes and listen.  In the distance to my right there is the low thump of a tractor engine as it cuts the hay, the lovely smell of freshly cut grass hangs in the air.  Then a sound that will always be for me Wimborne. The bells of the Minster ring out, calling the faithful to prayer, closely followed by the single bell of the Catholic Church and in the very distance, St John’s.  This is a personal memory, however if there was one piece of advice I would wish to pass on to the young people of Wimborne it would be this: just once in a while turn off your iPhones, take out your ear pieces and listen to the sounds and savour the smells around.  Who knows you may hear the beat of dragonfly wings.

Diana Moss (nee Anderson)
I attended St John’s Church. I remember Rev Garrard got his PSV licence so any coach outings just needed coach hire and no driver. Coaches were hired from Bere Regis coaches in Leigh Road (where Marks & Spencer garage is now). They only seemed to let Rev Garrard drive the elderly bus, but these times were so much fun. One evening outing of the youth group we stopped in Wareham on the way home for fish & chips, but the coach wouldn’t start again, so we all piled out to push it round the (empty) car park! Once the engine roared into life we all piled back on and sped back to the safety of Wimborne!

St. John’s Youth Group always had an outing to Swanage on Easter Monday. Rev. Garrard would drive us there in a hired coach from Bere Regis motors then drive back to Wimborne. We would spend the day walking over the cliffs near Old Harry Rocks then along the beach, making our way to Bournemouth. Once there we would go to a cinema showing one of the ‘Carry On’ films. Then after laughing ourselves silly we’d stagger out bandy legged from our walk and get the last bus back to Wimborne. Such happy days!

On summer Thursday evenings St John’s Youth Group would hire boats from Newman’s Boat Yard. Great fun was had by all. Sometimes we would see how far up the river we could row in the time available, but somehow somebody generally managed to run a boat aground. We always giggled too much to put much effort into rowing anyway!

Wimborne’s Stour by Gill Hawkins
You run through the fields
of my childhood years
when I raced beside you.

Your water weed tangled
concealed a thousand life forms.
I came armed with only jar and string,
but what a harvest they could bring.

Along your clear, stone-raked shallows,
I’d set my trap; hoping it would catch
more than glinting sunlight
or ripples sent from skimming stones.

For there amongst your reed layered
shadows an abundance of tadpoles
and skittering minnows.

Never explored it,
though saw otters on
video on the centre.

Now the centre’s gone.
How long the river?

I’ve Always Loved Rivers by Tony Horitz
During my childhood in Surrey, I remember my mum taking my brother Peter and I boating on the river Mole during the school holidays. There was something calming and reassuring, watching the river meandering along – a sharp contrast to our school-time which was fitful and regimented by two cane-wielding headteachers. Nothing stopped the river flowing. Years later, after I’d moved to Dorset, picnics on the Stour near Eye Bridge brought similar solace – this time from work. But we only discovered the joys of the little River Allen recently; walking towards High Hall from Wimborne last summer, on a beautifully warm, clear blue-skied day, we deviated by a creaking wooden bridge and scrambled through waist-high grasses down to the river bank. There, we dangled our feet in the shallow chalk stream, water spooling around our ankles, deliciously cool and refreshing. I spotted a gold-hooped dragon-fly, which I had just read about – they’re apparently quite rare. It was in a different league to the ubiquitous, much smaller, iridescent ones. While they flapped briefly before stopping for a rest by every reed – this gold-hooped whopper sped like a rocket, flying low above the centre of the stream, on a straight course towards…Walford Mill? Wimborne? Who knows. No resting up for him. To complete this delightful experience, after we’d gathered our belongings to go home, a large heron arose from the rushes upstream and soared above us, stopping for a moment, as if watching us, checking we were on our way.

Walking the River by Peter Ferrett
Ever since I was a boy the rivers Stour and Allen have woven through my life. Pools where my children swam, fishing spots where I dreamed away boyhood summer days and endless walking along the banks, finding solace and joy in equal measure.

The same paths that we walk today for leisure were once important routes for people travelling on foot. They provided a guiding hand but I wonder if the rivers also provided those people with same gifts that we gleam from them.

When reading some of the history of the Minster I began to think about the journeymen Stone Masons of the nineteenth century who were drawn to the extensive restoration work after a century of neglect, much like Hardy’s Jude. Imagining myself to be one such man and being a song writer, I wrote the song “River run Deep” which hopefully will be added to this website.

My Stone Mason needs a chance of work but he also needs the river to guide him there. As he follows its flow the river becomes his companion and its gifts of self knowledge are revealed to him.   I hope you enjoy it.

Boating on the River by Howard
A fond memory from my childhood is taking a boat along the river in the 1960’s. In those days one could hire a rowing boat for a small sum from a business based on the riverside on the corner of the B3073 (Oakley Hill) and Station Road. My father would take my mother, my brother and myself along the river on a Summer’s evening as far as the weir at Canford School or sometimes West towards the bridge over the B3078 road. Frequently those evenings were memorable for the sunsets, the silence (as there were few others on the river) and the chance to enjoy the view from a different perspective as we slowly paddled around.

Walking by the River by Anonymous
My wife was diagnosed with cancer a couple of years ago and, while I am please to record that she is currently cancer-free, one change has been that she now appreciates being out in nature even more than previously. Long walks are de rigeur nowadays, but accompanied by the desire to take in and observe the wonderful World around us, frequently stopping to look, listen or photograph what we see. The Stour is very much part of this and, having moved back to near her childhood home some years ago, this brings back fond memories.

At the Eastern end of the Wimborne stretch there used to be a dead tree with cormorants in it, while fields further west held dandelion clocks that the children loved, views across the river where swans would glide by and then the vista of Canford School. I once cycled across the bridge at Canford Magna … only to fall off rather unceremoniously at the far end, much to the amusement of my children (once I indicated I was not hurt). As one nears the Western side of Wimborne, riverside fields are full of flowers with butterflies and moths with dragonflies floating overhead during the Summer months … all too easy to take these things for granted but recent years have certainly emphasised to us that this wonderful area to which we are granted access is a place of pure joy for those who linger and look.

A Fleeting Romance by Anonymous
She was beautiful to my eyes as a lovestruck 18-year old and she was the first girl that I kissed. Her distinctive blonde hair was a shade of blonde that picked her out so easily in the crowd and we found chatting so easy. We shared many happy times together both before and after that first kiss but it was in the end a short and innocent, if memorable romance.

On a Summer’s day we cycled out along Magna Road to to Canford Magna and crossed the bridge by the school, where we put down our bikes and laid down together in the field. In those days it was frequented by cows and in places there were thistles but it was a peaceful spot, where we could just sit and talk and only the occasional passer by wandered along the path. There we had our final kiss (although we didn’t know it then) and soon after we drifted apart but that spot will always remind me of that Summer and pleasant times.

Just a Boy by Lynne Vipond
Just a boy
Not even 10
Oh, how he loved the river
Our sad group watch
His ashes were reunited
Our Lovely boy
Goodbye dear Paul

Beating The Bounds with Mayor Anthony Oliver by Chris Brown
All went well until we tried to row upstream on the Stour when it was in full flood! We encountered irate residents and fearful currents. It was a huge task and we abandoned ships to cross The Leaze to head for Deans Court as it looked a far safer option. The Militia and Mayor were in full regalia and costume so if we went in the water that would have been it!

Swimming Near The Willows by Gill Horitz
A long time ago, maybe thirty years, our favourite river spot for picnics was on the far bank of the River Stour, the other side of Eye Bridge.  From the bridge we’d look across the water meadows and imagine Vespasian’s army marching towards the river.  To think his regiment, hundreds of soldiers, passed that way en route for Badbury! Then we’d  turn right and walk along the far bank towards a small copse of silvery willows, leaves always rippling in the wind, flashing green to white; I wondered who had thought to plant them there, and why.   We climbed down to a small stony beach and laid out our rug.  We always felt a sense of being in our own world, hidden away.

After our picnic, we swam out to the far bank and felt the muddy silt of the riverbed soft and clingy, even slightly treacherous.  I realise I knew almost nothing about the river, about the kind of fish or other creatures living in that world.  We heard about poisons leaking into the river from farms and factories but somehow it didn’t seem possible.  Whether it was safe to swim we didn’t know but the lure of the river landscape enticed us to visit that spot many times over the years until one year a fence barred our way and we were never able to walk that way again.