Voices of theDon

A collection of poems, stories, images and thoughts on the River Don

Compiled and edited by Don Catchment Rivers Trust with introductions by Sally Hyslop.

Illustrated by Sophie Carter. Designed by Genie Creative.

1 Another memory is one which I am sure I share The elation experienced when a stickleback Foreword with many others of my generation and that is of suddenly appeared on the surface was something huge clouds of foam fl oating on the surface and that will stay with me for the rest of my life, because occasionally, being lifted into the air by the prevailing it was the beginning of a steady improvement, By Chris Firth MBE winds. These clouds of foam would often hit the sides which helped to demonstrate that tighter controls on of buses passing over the North Bridge obscuring sources of pollution were, at last, working. the view of passengers. I was later to learn that this Much has changed since then, I researched the was a result of the introduction of washing powders I was born within a stone’s throw of history of the river in 1998 and what I discovered in the late 1950s. These early products were non- the river Don, way back in 1944 and has infl uenced the measures which have been taken biodegradable and passed through Sewage Treatment to further the rivers improvement. Weirs, which throughout my childhood I witnessed the Plants untreated, the detergents being reactivated began to be built on the river as early as the 12th misery of the river. Despite its condition when the water passed over weirs. century, have been recognised as the cause of the the river held a fascination for me that At the age of 29 I took up employment in Fisheries disappearance of the Don’s once prolifi c salmon has stayed with me all my life. work with the North West Water Authority, later stocks and, as a result of this knowledge, the focus moving back to South in 1982 where I was of the Don Catchment Rivers Trust’s work has privileged to begin work on helping to restore the been on creating fi sh passes to enable fi sh to once I would wander up and down its banks looking for signs rivers of . The challenge facing my again move freely within the system. of life, often mistaking the gas bubbles bursting on colleagues and I cannot be overstated. The Don and the surface as signs of fi sh rising. I have a number of I feel immensely proud to have been given the Rother were regarded as two of the most polluted memories, which drift back on regular occasions, seeing opportunity to be actively involved in the restoration rivers in Europe and fi sh were absent from all but hundreds of dead frogs scattered along the banks is of this once magnifi cent river and to be part of the the very upmost tributaries. One of our duties was to one. I remained puzzled by this for years but eventually fi rst generation in almost a thousand years to see carry out fi sh population surveys using electrofi shing realised that they had died as a result of entering the the river improve rather than deteriorate. equipment, which we did on the Don and Rother for highly contaminated water in an attempt to breed. fi ve years before we caught a single fi sh. 2 3 Preface Acknowledgements

Like a fork in a river, this book is divided into two parts. The fi rst chapter of work is This book was created by Don Catchment Rivers The Shallows, a word used to describe those peaceful areas of the river where the waters Trust through the generosity and interest of the do not run deep. These shallow areas, where the river can be lightly crossed without people that submitted their work, thoughts, poems diffi culty, would have once been a rare place of relief and opportunity for weary travellers and stories. Thank you to all those that created this trying to make it to the other side. The Shallows chapter comprises the poems, art and book through their contributions. journal extracts that highlight the recovery of the river, the fi ght or return of species and Don Catchment Rivers Trust would like to thank the the refl ections and thoughts of those anglers, artists and people that dwell in the shallows. Heritage Lottery Fund for funding the publication of this book and supporting the Living Heritage of the River Don project. Three years working on the Living Heritage of the River Don project has been a rewarding and inspiring Later in history, the shallows fell from favour; unpassable by boat, they were a barrier to time for all those involved. The DCRT team hope that Britain’s ever-expanding trade in the days before the railways. The diffi culties of the shallows this book will act as a memento for the people that prompted the building of canals; new depths were carved out and the river manipulated into followed and supported the project, and continue to new, straightened forms. Boats loaded with goods could move freely and when the wind didn’t inspire interest and fascination in the River Don. fi ll their sails, they were dragged by horses along the towpath. The collection of work in The Depths is inspired by the darker side of the river; the exploitation of industry, the great fl oods, and the lives and grit of the people that have lived for many centuries alongside the Don.

4 5 11 Otter Cliff 27 Growing Up and Growing Old by the Don 47 Eastwood Towpath Canal Ghosts by Chris Jones by Liz Reeve by Chris Bilton 11 Figs 48 Extract from the Diary of David Burton by Chris Jones 30 Part 2: The Depths 49 A River with Attitude 12 How do you write about a city? by Charlotte Ansell 32 Night Walk by the River Don by Chris Jones by Pete Green 52 Soapwort 14 When Salmon Abounded by Carolyn Waudby 35 Lady’s Bridge by Howard Bayley Contents by Ros Ayres 53 Flood Photos 14 Salmon Pastures by Chris Bilton 36 Notes on the Ferrymen by Jack Windle by Lorna Warren Page 16 Dan of the Don 38 Wardsend and the River Don by Pete Green 2 Foreword by George Procter by Chris Firth MBE 18 Dan’s River Don Sculpture – 42 A Glimpse of Old Sheffi eld ‘What’s that all about?’ 4 Preface by Howard Bayley by Postcard Café 5 Acknowledgements 44 Soldiers from the Hill 20 Bricks and Rings by Malc Gibbons 6 Contents by Dan Bustamante 46 A Touch of Iron 22 The Don Grayling by Chris Bilton 8 Part 1: The Shallows by John Beal 10 Kingfi shers 24 Pollution Control of the Don by Chris Jones by John Housham

6 7 Water is often used as an analogy water, fi ne gravel and places supporting a whole complex web for the complexities of the human for their offspring to hide and of life in and around the river. mind. We say ‘still waters run survive. Fly fi shermen eagerly Some of the invertebrates are deep’ to describe people whose await the end of the breeding considered so sensitive that their true characters are hidden and season each summer; you can spot absence in the river can indicate describe the vain and arrogant them, wedged into waders, pacing recent pollution incidents. as ‘shallow’, those who study the river to catch the fi sh that Their presence in the Don, after only the surface of life, seeing a have returned to our recovering decades of historical misuse, is refl ection and no deeper. waters. a true indication of a growing improvement to water quality. It’s strange that the use of One of the shallow’s smallest the word shallows has been yet most spectacular sights are The following voices speak of transformed to depict the trivial the emerging riverfl ies. When these rich and glittering shallows. or empty, because they are some dredging a net through the upper They speak of the fi g seeds that of the most complex parts of our Don, the nymphs of riverfl ies germinated and grew into forests rivers - labyrinths of rock, water, can be caught. Pour them into of trees along the river bank, plant and animal. Turbulent a bucket to admire them. Some sparked rather than hindered ‘riffl e’ sections bubble over rocks swim in s-shaped motions, others by the burning heat of industry. and currents unfold, creating have plate-like gills along their They speak of striving to create, a mosaic of different habitats bodies that twitch rhythmically. block by block, a restored river along the riverbed; essential Other river creatures cling to the that people can use and be for the ecology of the river. In net too. There are the larvae of inspired by. They speak of clear, the headwaters of the Don the banded demoiselles with pointed bright waters where beloved shallows provide a vital habitat horn-like antennae, inquisitive British species such as kingfi sher, for salmon and trout who can only leeches and lopsided freshwater otter and salmon, have returned fi nd the conditions they need to shrimp. These species provide and have begun to thrive again. spawn upstream – oxygenated energy for the hungry fi sh,

8 9 Otter Cliff Kingfishers Beside glimpses of minks and watervoles I think of otters ghosting the shallows, At the end of the road, a river; or stowed in the tree roots of an ancient holt beyond locked garages, fence posts, where they tangle, twine like two soft knots. cans in the undergrowth, I come on sky-shelved water, Pairs swim downstream under balsam and knotweed, scattering sparrows, thrushes, are myth by the time they skim Brightside weir: pebble-eyed blackbirds, the spraint and mulched claw prints one’s left behind while downstream kingfi shers swerve have the delicacy and shine of gifts. and fl ash like two struck matches.

By Chris Jones With the carry of lorries and birds’ thistle-edged chatter, I hover on the border between two languages wondering if I can translate tree-shade into back street, Figs or honks from these roof-skimming geese to sirens. A city in spate. Squat, green bulbs, bitter

By Chris Jones as smoke, I offer you fi gs from Sheffi eld’s east end. They have exile’s toughened fl esh and skin; its deep-cut bloodline.

By Chris Jones

10 11 How do you write about a city? of June 2007 after all. After that elements all the way along the out how to fulfi l this new role. momentous week there were river - but it seemed particularly Walking up and down the river At the end of April 2004 I Don, Rivelin and Sheaf whilst celebrate the river during the organised efforts to clean up evident in . ‘Otter gave me the space to refl ect on gave up my full time job as a crossing over bridges or stumbling Off the Shelf Literature Festival. the river: people realised that if Cliff’ is a pun (or echo of) my responsibilities as a parent. Literature Development Offi cer on narrow (concreted) channels of The bid was successful. By the rubbish wasn’t cleared it would ‘’. I heard various Whenever I see or pass the Don at Leicestershire County Council. water in between roads and lines time the money arrived (in early just jam under the bridges and narratives about species ‘infl ux’ in these days I say ‘hello’ to it, an old I’d had enough of driving up and of traffi c. I came up with the idea 2005) my circumstances had bring more water onto the roads, the new, cleaner Don. One of the and helpful, supportive friend. down the M1 fi ve times a week, that to write about the city I would changed again: I had just become into factories and houses. hopes was that eventually otters and my writing had suffered write about its main watercourse, a father for the fi rst time. would return to live within the Kelham Island back in 2004/5 had with all those late nights, all the Don. I would follow its city’s limits. My ‘fi g’ tanka speaks By Chris Jones So that was me for the fi rst six or a pub or two and a climbing wall that commuting. I decided to go entry north of the city (through for itself. Who would have thought so months of 2005: looking after but that was about it: much of freelance for a while. I got some ) track its path down fi gs could grow by the Don in east my son, Joseph, running a Poetry the land was derelict or had some work organising a poetry festival toward the Wicker, then follow Sheffi eld? I’m not the fi rst writer Festival, and spending one day indistinguishable, vague factory in Nottinghamshire once a week it eastwards through industrial to pick up on this peculiarity: it’s a week walking along the Don, usage. Now it’s the epicentre of a but with more space and freedom estates, past steel works, and such a great symbol of the exotic, pen and pad in hand. If I was to new vision (version) of Sheffi eld. I began to think about developing out of Sheffi eld by Meadowhall. of difference and hardiness. push generalisations about the a writing project that I had been I would write poems about my The poems I’ve included here river as it was then I would say I’m particularly fond of these contemplating for some time. experiences of the outskirts and for this collection look both it was messier, more prone to poems because they capture a of the urban fringes of Sheffi eld northwards and eastwards. I How do you write about a city? being used as an open sewer, a moment in my life when I was as I walked along the banks of the distinctly remember writing Well, what connects a city, ties it dustbin. There’s a long tradition of moving away from a tricky and river. I applied for some funding ‘Kingfi shers’ (or fi nding the together? I didn’t know that much people chucking stuff in the river tiring work situation toward from the Arts Council in the hope material for it) under the shadows about Sheffi eld’s rivers when I (whether by chancers, individuals more creative freedom, new I could collect these poems into a of Sheffi eld Wednesday’s hulking arrived here in 1990. In time, or organised companies). I did opportunities. I had become booklet and put on some events to great big stands. I found collisions I began to catch glimpses of the my groundwork before the fl ood a dad as well, trying to work between ‘urban’ and ‘rural’ 12 13 When Salmon Photography by Jeff Allsebrook Abounded

Salmon Pastures

Glinting in bright winter sunlight, cobbles reappear, wet, through cracked tarmac. A Halal butcher, a strip joint and the Offi ce of the Diocese huddle against Workshops whose sounds and smells have fi lled the air Since obnailed boots scratched sparks along these lanes And pithead gears auled ancient istory up From underfoot to fuel forge fi res at Firth’s. Flexing furiously against the force Of weir water and centuries of works’ dirt, silver scales shimmer. Soon they will be A while back I saw this video of a salmon trying to make it at Salmon Pastures, proving that the past “ up Aldwarke Weir near Rotherham shortly before going for Presses into the present as sure as a run through Salmon Pastures and the little maze of streets Reproduction of a news article from The Sheffi eld The rich cannot enter heaven. Independent, Thursday 15th November 1934 in Attercliffe between Staniforth Road and the River Don. Submitted by Howard Bayley, By Jack Windle It got me thinking about cobbles, scales and the past Chair of the Friends of . and present of the area and I wrote a short poem about it. British Newspaper Archive, Image @Johnston press plc. ” Image created courtesy of The British Library Board.

14 15 Dan of the Don

Skitters the shallows is our purblind strainingng where the Sheaf interlopes, astride the meanders foror waterboatman-sculptor meaning, tracking an summoning splayed relic implicit timeline, stacks amid spate. positing vanishing points.nts.

Dan’s materials parody permanence, Dan of the Don knows wwellell approximate props from the the precarious weight lapsed pomp of of all we inherit, manufacture and shipment. expresses the lot in teeteringering stanzas of brick. The half-built and derelict Postcard timeshare Dan’s habitat, By Pete Green tributaries into the Café current moment. Dan’s fi nished product postcardcafe.wordpress.com

16 17 takes on new meaning, lives are Industries and employment, which The power of Dan’s art is in its Dan’s enriched through seeing the river once depended on the River Don, ability to build our relationships River Don in a new light. have receded. As a consequence with the river and with each the relationship people have with other. The positive relationship The sculptures are both art and Sculptures By Postcard Café the river has shifted, it’s presence between human and river is “What’s that all about…?” part of the river. In pausing to and signifi cance often overlooked celebrated in his sculptures. enjoy Dan’s work it is inevitable or forgotten. In dedicating his Their presence encourages us to that visitors will experience their time, skills and creativity, Dan consider the marvels of nature Like the River Don, Dan’s totem the River Don. His art is a gift to viewers to remain in the moment, surroundings in new ways. They has presented the people of and our responsibilities for like sculptures have many the city of Sheffi eld, to be enjoyed to ponder the presence of the may notice the complexity of sound Sheffi eld with an engaging way future generations. Dan’s art is voices. As works of art they by all who pass by. sculptures and the river itself. from the river, watch sunlight to take a fresh look at the river. a wonderful opportunity to listen speak a language which is open refl ecting and patterning or enjoy My fi rst experience of Dan’s Public art can be as much about As we contemplate Dan’s artwork and to learn from the many voices to interpretation. For Dan the the plants and fl owers along the sculptures was a chance encounter making connections with people it speaks to us of how it connects of the river. sculptures and his words are an banks. Sand martins nesting in in 2016. The sight fi lled me with as starting a conversation. The to and arises from the Don. From opportunity to open a dialogue the stonework could catch their wonderment and joy, their quiet sculptures in the River Don have the microcosm of a small stretch, with the people of Sheffi eld about eye and if they are lucky, the presence catching my attention, been a catalyst for both. On we are encouraged to consider the issues close to his heart - politics, fl ash of a kingfi sher. The curious naturally drawing me closer to stopping short when spotting these river as a whole - it’s past, present science, education, social injustice might start to recognise clues to the river. Spending time with unexpected creations, an exchange and future. and the natural world. Some might the industry that once thrived them, I started to appreciate Dan’s between strangers on the river see characters, faces, hands or alongside. Dan’s sculptures gently The river is in a constant state artwork - these strange forms built bank might begin “What’s that all mathematical references in Dan’s ask us to question not just his art of fl ux and every winter, as it’s in and from the river and yet no about…?”. People who may have sculptures; others might enjoy but the river and it’s relationship waters rise, Dan’s artworks are mention of a website, no hashtags, passed each other a dozen times his accompanying words. Built to the city. They invite us to washed away and returned back no self-promotion nor corporate without speaking are, almost by from the remnants of Sheffi eld’s change gear, slow down a little to the river bed. The temporary sponsorship. The only claim to the accident, chatting about art, the industrial heritage and other and maybe, if only for a short existence of his creations are a work was the signature ‘Dan’, a river, Sheffi eld’s industrial past or materials sourced from where they while, reconnect with nature, art reminder of the river’s natural tiny addition to the written pieces. how salmon may be returning to stand, Dan’s work also relates to and the city’s heritage. power and it’s ability to shape and The anonymity of the art allowing the Don. A routine walk to work the forgotten or hidden history of change the landscape. 18 19 Invigorated by this new found cannot end. We have the capacity Bricks ability, surprised and curious, I and the world has given us more returned the next day to build than enough resources; it is all in and another sculpture and then another, our minds and how we use it. Wars Rings again and again, always thinking, and inhumanity are not a natural that there was nothing more I could inevitability, they are just the build with these simple bricks and consequence of our blindness. By Dan Bustamante rings, but to my surprise every time This river; it’s a stream of liquid I built another sculpture I realised clouds, a time capsule, a teacher, an that I had learnt something new. artery of this world carrying fuel for It was a hot summer afternoon, So I kept going and learning, always life and a unique message for each Sheffi eld 2016, upset by images of discovering new possibilities. one willing to listen. war I walked the endless streets, As the days themselves piled up until I found myself coming down I built many sculptures, until one I wish there were a River Don for the steps of the white Smithfi eld day a realisation crossed my mind: each one of us because this river Bridge to calm my mind and refresh If I can build so many different gives me peace, it gives me hope, it my feet on the peaceful waters of sculptures with these simple bricks teaches me things. If we look at the the River Don. At fi rst sight the and rings, in a world that is so world with an open mind, curiosity river seemed empty but, among the infi nite in possibilities given by its and imagination, if we explore and refl ection of clouds, I saw bricks physical and chemical plasticity and use wisely all the potentials of the and rings as if screaming at me it’s biological variety, surely there human mind and the resources of “Pick me up!”. So, one upon another, is nothing that we cannot build, no nature wisely, surely we can make I proceeded to pile them up. As I problem that we cannot solve, no this world a much, much better fi nished my construction I noticed ecological disaster we cannot avoid. place to live. something unexpected; the pile If we use our imagination, if we of stones seemed to be alive, not look at the world with curious eyes looking at me but meditating. and with open minds, there is no bridge we cannot cross, no disease we cannot cure and no war that we Photography by Jeff Allsebrook 20 21 T he Don Grayling

By John Beal

Steal softly footfall trod artifi cial, enhanced banking, mud-streaked descent, with current be-sports – cadenza dappled gentle pool quietly cavorting simmering, river bend burbling. to fl ick the switch A fresh with fern, overhanging green, of synaptic current, river bestirs, boils and burns and once rising, remains arisen, under summer sun, lightness bedecked thunder clap, shudder, bowstring quiver, with jewels a dance, leaf, twig to frond. and quarrel, reel spins uncontrolled Flight of fl y, waiting mouth entices. allowing time for fi n and back to tire. Eye of fi sh and fi sherman both wary, So fl y in lip and eye afl ame, soft zephyr, breathing rarely, the sleek silk body fi ghts the strain. vigil taken beside majestic pool, And now the ratchet – clicks in place patience long, and whip-like action. and merry, the fi sh - away does race. The fl y descends, lands softly but captured still, the barb embedded, no ripples disturb meniscus, to fi ght and fl ee, naiad swims and curve of eye espies through green into shallow, driven water, the dabbling feather, spokes sail erupting out of glass sparkles, striding on mercurial surface and keen silver grayling attempts to fl ee, against stonefl y and caddis away down river passed alder lea. 22 23 Sadly this was a familiar picture across much of the Dearne and their associated wildlife. It was, however, industrial north at the time and the headlines of the an exciting time for many people in the National Pollution day were predictable: Rivers Authority and the water industry as a whole who all contributed to the recovery of the River Don. “ Dead River” Control of All of them will have their own story. the Don “ Call to jail bosses over By 1995, increased treatment at Sheffi eld’s main river pollution” sewage works at Blackburn Meadows breathed new “ Toxic swill that is the life into the Don, a picture that was repeated at many other locations across the whole catchment over the country’s dirtiest river” By John Housham, Retired Environment Manager next two decades. The return of salmon and other Then in 1989, after many cries for change, an migratory fi sh to the Don was no longer a pipe dream, independent regulator was formed called the as refl ected by the headlines at the time: National Rivers Authority. I was lucky enough to I started work in South Yorkshire as a “ MIRACLE – Joy for anglers as Pollution Control Offi cer in the early 1980s join it and we were charged with river quality control, fl ood risk management, fi sheries management they fi nd fi sh galore in the river and was shocked to learn that the main rivers and water resources control. The water industry was once the worst polluted in Europe” of the Don, Rother and Dearne were all but also privatised leading to the ability to raise capital “ Salmon coming back up the ladder” dead. I can still see and smell the air and to renew many inadequate sewerage and sewage In 1996 the National Rivers Authority was combined water pollution coming from several coking treatment systems. At the same time, coal mining and the associated coking and chemical refi neries were with Waste Regulation Authorities and Her Majesty’s plants. This was a result of decades of under slowly closing down in South Yorkshire and North Inspectorate of Pollution to form the Environment investment in sewerage and sewage treatment East Derbyshire. Agency. The rest is history as they say, with the coupled with a range of heavy industries Environment Agency pushing for further river I remember it being a desperate time for the struggling to reduce costs in a global market, improvements supported by national targets into the communities affected by these changes but it all 2000s and 2010s, with a growing focus on the physical at the expense of the environment. combined in the 1990s into a once in a lifetime river environment. renaissance for the rivers of the Don, Rother and 24 25 Fish passes have now been built on 19 weirs that I retired in 2011 from the Environment Agency after acted as physical barriers to the movement of 13 years as Area Environment Manager for South migratory fi sh between the tidal limit of the Don Yorkshire. It has been an unexpected joy to have been Growing Up in Doncaster and spawning grounds in Sheffi eld. a Director and Trustee of the Don Catchment Rivers The fi rst salmon smolt has been caught in the River Trust since 2013, securing £1.5 million to support the and Growing Old Dearne. They are on their way back after 200 years. return of salmon to the River Don. Maybe the fi nal icing on the cake. by the Don

By Liz Reeve, Secretary of the Don Gorge Community Group.

When I arrived in 1944, my the home of 17 youngsters, ranging fl oor. I remember living upstairs parents lived at Tower Cottage, in age from perhaps 8 to 18. With and walking on planks downstairs Lower Sprotborough, with my such an age range, there was – no thought of evacuation then. maternal grandfather. My never a lack of anyone to play with I also remember putting a frog mother’s family had arrived in and we ranged the surrounding outside on a shovel when the water Sprotbrough in 1924, but found land from morning till night, going went down. Any concerns about themselves at Lower Sprotborough for picnics and bike rides without fl ooding were usually dispelled by around 1938. Grandma Bostock a care in the world. We helped on my mother who always said the had advised my parents to the farm, caught frogs and mice, water had to be over the fi replace marry in November 1939 as war picked bluebells and blackberries, in the house next door before it was imminent and the future but we rarely went near the river. came into our house. She also told unknown. the story of coming home one day One of my earliest memories was to fi nd my granddad sitting in his My sister was born in 1940, but of the fl ood in 1948, following one chair reading the paper not having the hamlet of Lower Sprotborough, of the harshest winters in memory. realised that water was bubbling which consisted of six cottages and The water didn’t come in the door up through the fl oor. Photography by Jeff Allsebrook Boat Farm was, by the early 1950s though; it came up through the 26 27 In the 1980s, when Rotherport was fi lmed in our lane, the outside than a couple of inches. The June was in the offi ng, of my childhood home being used 2007 inundation, however, was lock was removed, the lock was as the riverside cottage to which something else. Boat Farm, by enlarged and the canal was piled ‘Jean’ moved in an effort to escape this time The Boat Inn, along with The canal, and the lake, which had a few steps on the top of the weir! and other unknown commodities along its bank. The iron bars on her violent husband. Ken Stott’s Nos. 2-5 were badly hit; we at No. arrived through mining subsidence Surprisingly, the water seemed passing through the lock on a the concrete fl ood wall, on which character was also fi lmed fi shing 4, with almost a metre of water just up the lane, were the waters quite gentle as it passed over the regular basis; one was still horse- we had learned to do acrobats, in the river. inside our recently renovated were removed to enable the wall to cottage, having to move out for most accessible to us, but we were edge. I also remember ice skating drawn too, but not for much I married in 1965 and moved away be raised and, much to my chagrin, nearly 18 months. always warned to stay away from on the lake one hard winter, but longer. from the River Don to Hexthorpe, both and I don’t remember any of the most we could do was slide on not replaced. The weir was also There were days, however, when though we returned regularly to Despite this, we don’t regret our us swimming there, though, on the edge. raised and the water level rose and you couldn’t see the water for visit my mother and eventually return to the riverside and now warm summer days, young men rose until it is now much deeper The canal was much shallower foam, which was stirred up even returned in 1999 to convert her work as volunteers in an effort to came from far and wide to dive than it ever was. then and I remember one day more as it came over the weir garage, previously No. 4 which maintain the beauty of what is into the canal from the bridge; being down the bank, right at the and billowed up into the air all I’m afraid I can’t remember the had been condemned for human now known as The Don Gorge and always a cause for excitement, but water’s edge, playing ducks and the way to Doncaster where it year, but one of the greatest habitation, into a tiny cottage The Flash Nature Reserve for the we knew that the river was fi lthy – drakes with fl at stones to see how would land on the bus windows excitements was when a canoe where we have now lived since benefi t of future generations. didn’t the lavatory men who came many jumps they might make and other traffi c passing over the slalom was fi lmed for television. 2002. weekly to empty the toilets wash Gates were strung across in before sinking. I also had my old North Bridge. The pollution was Since 1948, our lane had been the buckets in it at the very least! front of the weir for the canoes to bike painted silver one day by the eventually so great that no fi sh fl ooded several times, but Tower navigate and lots of people came Being children, we didn’t always workmen painting the bridge. could possibly survive in it and Cottage, actually comprising two to watch the competition. A second do as we were told, of course, and I only in the 1990s were steps taken cottages at the top of the lane, There was a lot of traffi c on the TV appearance came in 1997 when remember catching sticklebacks in to rectify the damage that had was lucky to escape its worst canal and river in those days ‘Stone, Paper, Scissors’, starring the lake and being dared to walk been done over so many years. effects and the cottages lower too, with barges fi lled with coal Ken Stott and Juliet Stevenson down usually suffered no more 28 29 There is something frightening about deep water. The depths of the river are mysterious and unknown; we are taught not to swim where we cannot see the bottom for there are things which lurk under the surface and dangerous currents that will sweep us away. In the depths of the Don are the remains of industry; cannon balls and clay pipes nestle alongside the unused weirs and broken mill stones. Children used to stand on high bridges and drop stones into the water, watching rainbows of oils appear in ripples from the depths; they would linger on the river’s fl oor, like a ghostly toyshop. The following voices depict the darker side of the River Don; the disasters that have befallen it, the industry that forcefully spilled into it, and the great fl oods of 1864 and 2007 that spilled out. They talk of the ferry crossings and the bridges built to navigate over the deep waters, the fi lled with unknown graves lining the river’s edge, and the dark heart of the Don that captures the imaginations of so many.

30 31 Saturday. The city’s out there dancing absence here attests the Don still fl ows circling one small section of some dirt track NighT and I’m suffused in alcoholic fug when nobody is there. Its spate persists, shot with potholes, Hillsborough’s lights sleeping in my clothes and dreaming some relentless, unabashed. Taking a cue, I glaring over from across the way, playing night walk by the River Don where rise again and shun the lane to hold on the tarry, sluggish surface of the Don walk by the Lane plays tributary to fast to the bank, backtracking, softstepping, to set a monochrome mosaic. The city Penistone Road, where hostelry ghosts taking two small falls to founder too, it seems, continues to exist alone River of the Farfi eld Inn drink on, nine years in soft ground, still clambering implausible when I dream I’m somewhere else. Don since the Don called an imperious last ledges that narrow near to nought, The only thing to do’s retrace my steps. orders, its waters rising as high as the bar aware that if this mud dispels all friction, Somewhere a security guard chuckles By Pete Green and here my feet make off northwest: balance elude us and my footing fail, I’ll as I cross his screen again. Back at the start, a lane fl anked dense with thickets, dream a fatal dash against a concrete edge, just before the dream fades, there I am the freakish Don below, a carriageway wake bewildered, wondering and unscathed. baffl ed by a dumped bathtub I’d not of bustling currents. I commute upriver, Further up our way broadens and emerges registered before, matteroffact the work of the dream awaiting and white onto some industrial estate: undisturbed, as elephants in rooms. I wake to fi nd points of light, white lines of engine noise I dodge a barrier watched by rows of my coat and boots bedaubed in river mud; reaching from the road beyond. A moment empty windows, which disclose only on my phone, each step recorded by comes when rumination’s apt, when to blankness, and an assumed panopticon of an app that tracks your way by GPS, and the offer down my soles to stroke the surface CCTV lenses up in the gods. A shopfi tter, bathtub photographed, stark as a full stop. seems the fi ttest course. I mull, send texts a tool parts supplier. I can’t tell whether (the Don could take me if it wanted to), they’re going concerns or gone; we take and I can’t vouch for unseen trees dereliction as read, scoping the city falling in the forest, but my dreamstate that never wakes up. In the end I’m

3232 33 Lady’s Bridge By Ros Ayres

Rhythm helps me remember, I watch your currents shifting, we are bound together, a shared history, etched in initials and dates. RL 1740, RP 1835, ISE 1769, EW 1861

My weight is balanced in arches, at my base shaped cutwaters ease your fl ow, my curved piers span feet, connecting this city from north to south the Wicker to Waingate.

In tune, I know your moods, your levels rise and fall, passing through, I feel your heartbeat.

Once narrow waisted, I’ve gained inches, seen castles fall, chapels forsaken, mills become ghosts, lives echo, shadows carried upstream.

You’ve battered me, crossing that breaking point, in extreme moments, reaching your height, in a fury, deafening, overfl owing, we collided. An uncontrollable force, unrelenting pressure, almost my destruction, I trembled my parapets breached I was overwhelmed.

My eaves are left scarred, ribs scuffed, I am cast of iron armour, born of coarse grit and I watch you pass. 34 35 Often on Friday evening, the Don would be an orange Notes on colour after the furnaces at Parkgate had been By Lorna Warren washed out. In spite of the fact that the river was never very clean, men and boys - I don’t recall any the Ferrymen females - would swim in it just below the weir. The ferry was particularly popular at Whitsuntide Last year, I heard a poet say that you and August Bank Holiday with people from could use the ferry at any time, the ferryman lived Mexborough, including a group from the Parish in the brick building at the top of the ramp and by church, coming over to the village. My grandfather, a implication that there was just one man. Not true! man in his 70s, would walk down, take a close look at those at the back of the queue at the top of the ramp I used the ferry at least twice a day from when we near the canal bridge then walk along the towpath to moved to Old Denaby in 1945 until the bridge was Denaby and by the road to us in what was then known built. The ferry ran from 6am to 10pm. One man did as Ferry Lane. As he drank his cup of tea, he would 6am to 2pm and the other one 2pm to 10pm. They had point out the people just passing our garden who a break between 10am to 10.15am and again between were those he had seen at the end of the queue. It had 6pm and 6.15pm. During those times, they would not taken so long for them to cross the Don. take anyone in either direction. No-one had lived in the brick building they used since WWI. It did not have There are at least three ladies in their late 70’s who electricity and I don’t think there was running water. have lived in Old Denaby all their lives as well as a In winter, a lot of local elderly men gathered there in man of the same age who returned to the village many front of a roaring coal fi re smoking their ppipes.pes. years ago. They would all have needed the ferry to get The ferrymen had a roll ofo to secondary school because at that time, we did not tickets and would, from have a bus service. The alternative was the long walk time to time, pull a lot into Denaby Main, which we had to do anyway when off and throw them into the Don was in fl ood. The ferry kept running as long as the river. possible until it really was too high to get on and off and then it stopped. They will all have memories of the Don. 36 37 Wardsend Cemetery of discussion and argument to Don could be the Styx and the from 2007 to 2009 while the new fi nally fi nd the site at Wardsend. bridge the ferry and the ferryman Wardsend bridge was being built. Reverend Livesey paid £2000 who had to be paid before anyone and the Further down the Don towards pounds of his own money to buy could cross into the underworld, River Don the city are the derelict buildings the land from a London gentleman Wardsend cemetery of course. of the Old Park Silver Mill, who owned a lot of land in the The fi rst two bridges would have dating from the 1760’s the mill area, Montague George Burgoyne. been built to a similar design was used in the manufacture of By George Proctor, Friends of Wardsend Cemetery. The agreement was that Burgoyne with outer walls of stone, possibly Sheffi eld plate items. It was put paid for the new cemetery road Ashlar, with an infi ll of building up by Joseph Hancock and was a needed, now named Livesey Street material and a couple of brick follow on from Thomas Boulsover’s after the reverend. Hidden behind a confectionary solemn respect and spirituality as Musgrave who described the support structures inside, then a invention of Sheffi eld plate. The factory and Hillsborough college well as geographic, the river has setting as “the most pleasant The way that Burgoyne was repaid roadway would have been put on mill is private property today the River Don fl ows by as it has been the fi nal crossing place for setting and vistas for a place of was unique. Toll bridges aren’t top along with the parapets. The having fi nished working in the done for centuries. It is also about thirty thousand citizens and burial”, thirteen hundred burials unusual but for a funeral to have third bridge (2009) was different, 1950’s. Also, now completely gone a barrier that preserves the soldiers from Sheffi eld and beyond. had already taken place before to pay to cross a bridge to get to built of reinforced concrete and is the Old Park Corn Mill from uniqueness of one of Sheffi eld’s Our closeness to Hillsborough this consecration. The story began the cemetery certainly was. In steel. A metal skeleton covered which Club Mill Road got its name, most fascinating historical sites, Barracks led to us having about in 1855 when Reverend John 1857 funeral organisers had to pay by concrete for the basic design this was opened in the 1790’s by Wardsend Cemetery. Laid down 400 military burials of soldiers, Livesey was faced with the closure the grand sum of 6d (equivalent with steel parapets and a modern a group of organisations clubbing in 1857 the cemetery is on a steep their wives and their children in of his churchyard due to being to around £6 today), some time roadway. There is another bridge together to lower the price of fl our; hillside surrounded by fl ora, fauna Wardsend. Thirteen victims of the full to capacity and the movement between then and the 1920’s this hidden away out of sight; the unfortunately it didn’t do very well and trees, all of which adds to its great Sheffi eld fl ood of 1864 are to close city centre churchyards had risen to one shilling. For those footbridge that was crossed by and the mill didn’t last very long characteristic and individualistic buried here. through the inception of new interested in Greek Mythology workers at the Neepsend power before going into private hands. identity. The relationship between burial acts, preferring them to be Consecrated in 1859 by the there is the comparison with station, closed in the 1980’s. This cemetery and river is one of on the outskirts. It took two years Archbishop of York, Thomas Charon and the River Styx. The bridge was used to cross the river 38 39 Photography by George Proctor

They share the same weir, the next one down from Wardsend bridge after the slitting wheel weir. The fl ows into the Don by the silver mill. With regards to nature in the cemetery there are rare wood ants along with Top: the original Wardsend Bridge. birds such as the robin, redpoll and Right: the collapsed bridge after the tawny owl. Butterfl ies like the lesser 2007 Sheffi eld Floods. tortoiseshell and skipper species and Below: the New Wardsend Bridge a host of different fungi can also be as it stands today. found. Small mammals shelter under Main photograph: Fishermen the cover of the yew, oak, holly, silver downstream of the bridge. birch and sycamore trees. However, our crowning glory, the jewel in our crown, is in the spring. A covering of delicate English bluebells, that on a breezy day can be seen with their delightful nodding heads creating a wonderful blue wave. Wardsend is social history and ecology all wrapped up in one bundle. At Wardsend are thirty thousand voices, every one having seen the passing fl ow of the Don.

40 41 AGlimpse Shofeffield old

By Howard Bayley, Friends of Wardsend Cemetery.

You could be forgiven for thinking The busy Penistone Road lies Since the early 1900’s there this photo was taken somewhere behind the wall on the far bank. have been calls to ‘Beautify the in the Peak District. In fact, it’s How many people driving to and Don’ in the areas above and the River Don from Club Mill from work would be aware of this below Wardsend. The growth of Road, just a few minutes’ walk scene just a few yards from the industry, and lack of respect for, from Wardsend Cemetery. busy dual carriageway? and connection with, the natural environment meant the opposite What you see here is a glimpse of Trout, kingfi shers, otters, heron, happened. Wouldn’t it be great old Sheffi eld. An old weir on the dippers, cormorants, bats and if this was the generation that city’s arterial River Don where all manner of other animals and turned that around? heritage and nature combine. insects have found a home on the Close to the historically important, rejuvenated River Don. The fact but sadly derelict, Old Park Silver that as a city we don’t appear to Mill and a river to which salmon recognise what a potential gem we will hopefully soon be returning. have on our doorsteps is very sad. Photograph by Howard Bayley 42 43 One Sunday afternoon in 2009, I visited “Wardsend Cemetery for the fi rst time. Soldiers from the Hill If you visit in the evening when the world is fast asleep I had never seen a place like it. The And a yellow moon is rising through the trees, tree roots had pushed their strong and You may hear the hiss of whispers and the clink of iron feet, muscular fi ngers through many of the My name is William Dixon, I’m a soldier of the Queen, And you’ll smell tobacco on the gentle breeze. scattered and ruined graves. Long They brought me here from India, long ago; Did you see the shadow that wanders down the hill ? strands of ivy hung in the dappled They laid me in the hillside in a place that’s always green, Is there someone singing “Goodbye, Dolly Gray”? shade. The names of the thousands Where I could see the city, down below. In our home of shale and gravel, at the foot of old Park Wood of residents displayed themselves But I was not alone, there are others just like me, Our world is in the night and yours -- the day. solemnly and proudly in their broken When evening comes and when the kids have gone, rows and receded slowly into the green This silent little army will gather round the stones I’ve noticed many changes in the city, down below, and mossy dark of a September dusk. And dream about our childhood in the sun. Where horses walked, now motor buses run. It was the name William Dixon that The steelworks have all disappeared, the air is crystal-clear, There are squaddies, there are sergeants, there are corporals and clerks, struck me. I wondered if he was one of I can see the slate roofs shining in the sun. There are many more who fell before their time. the many soldiers from Hillsborough But there’s no room for others deep inside this place, There are some with broken spirits, just a few with broken hearts, Barracks. Were any of his friends and With wives and families crowding round us still, On ivy-covered stones that bear no rhyme. family also interred in this place? What You won’t always notice us, but try not to forget, The rattling trains run through, and the earth, it settles down, happens here when darkness falls? Remember, we’re the Soldiers from the Hill. The murmur of the wind, the falling rain, Does a ghostly battalion watch over the river crossing? I have no answer The dog rose and the briar have become a living shroud, By Malc Gibbons We long for Sheffi eld sunlight, once again. to these questions, except to say that From the album “Blue-eyed Friday”, I experienced a strange feeling that available from Malc Gibbons Music. From world’s end to Wardsend, from Hillsborough to home I was being watched by some unseen We look down to the valley, and when the sun has gone presence, when I performed this song We’ll shoulder arms and go from a world you’ll never know by the War Memorial. It is for all those And guard the bridge across the River Don. residents, some forgotten and some remembered, that I wrote this. 44 ” 45 A Touch of Iron Eastwood I’ve walked the towpath along the Eastwood “stretch of the canal for well over 50 years. Rotherham remains; A green belt holds up the Parkgate Mall Towpath Canal My father and I walked the dog and used the shawled by greyness along canal with shoppers canned and ready to go, bike trails nearby. Years later I accompanied backwaters for problems pushed in and forgotten. fl itting moths from neon lights. Ghosts my 2 daughters, explored the slag hills that I climb the carbon sides of slagheap number three, long before I watched being formed from my now a memory too close for comfort Damp air curls in strands around the towpath We walk on the towpath bedroom window, buckets of red hot slag of fi fty birthdays ago. lapping between the lock gates and steels in the gruel of evening light; were poured down a hill that exploded into a along the elementary canal the dog fi nds a plug of tobacco sparkling confl agration that lit the night sky. Surrounded then by the thump, dabbed with a whiff of petrol. long, aromatic and pipe ready. We loved throwing small stones on the frozen thump forge in the night I read the Braille smell harbouring fl esh canal water and hearing that sinister ‘pinging’ buckets of clinker and clattering rails, Boxy brown buildings smudge the distance tones and see men; briers gripped sound it made or watching the shimmering orange explosions lighting the night with fumes from an effl uent society. with morgue white teeth clop the path heat ‘mirages’ on train tracks from the railway throwing up down the hill. I recognise the boy who follows his dog pass blasphemous after shift chit-chat. bridge and waving to the passing trains and under the bridge over the River Don. I ratchet up the pace of steps barges. Vermilion eyes razored the sky dressed in red, as tobacco smoke burns my eyes. Now my grandchildren are enjoying the smelting ore molten hot with a touch of iron Constellations of weed glints on the water. With a mortal urge to breathe I gasp delights of the canal. We make up stories about turning compass needles north. His dog sniffs the dead rat; away the smoke from burning lungs. the tracks we see in the mud as we walk the From this hill the terrain is inert for the quiet fanatic. two kids on bikes clatter the duckboards loose, We shoal from the path as high-winds towpath. Dog prints become a ‘Devil Hound’ I see the Bailey Bridge, the metallic yammer scares the dog and part the fumes and fresh night air returns. that stalks the canal in the dead of night, or as pretty as an army on manoeuvres she drops the dead rat, Again on the path and into the light the strange refl ections from the canal’s edge or the Parish Church painted in black halftones. I try not to look back. the dog and I walk quickly on. that are the ‘canal goblins’ taking a dip in the cool waters and warning walkers of the By Chris Bilton By Chris Bilton dangers held in its murky depth. ” 46 47 from his source, harnessing his power Extracts from the bank and then on to the other one. We looked inside and A river with although heavy set and slow, they were empty and looked to be used for carrying coal. a workhorse not a deer, They may have come adrift during one of the many times attitude a seam of coal, Journalof when the river was fl owing very high. Sometimes the not pretty thread, road bridge over the river at Aldwarke would be under On this crossing, where the Don fat with barges laden down, David Burton water by about 1 or 2 feet, the water fl owing very fast. greets the Rother and the canal, he carries us. The steel mesh panels on the bridge were released at where the people came the bottom and hinged at the top to allow debris washed to fi nd home and converged, His voice is gruff, down by the river to pass through the bridge. There was a confl uence that swirled It’s the roar of Miller’s fans When we were young lads in the late 1950’s we would only one place we could get safely to the edge of the river, and eddied and swarmed on match days, the drunks often go out on our bicycles, Graham Fisher, Terry that was at the downstream side of the bridge at the in tension or in peace, singing down Ship Hill Slack, Roger Brookes and me. We would cycle down to Aldwarke Hall side. in drought or in fl ood after closing time, Aldwarke Lock and dare each other to walk over the like last December clutching lampposts, hump back bridge on the ledge above the canal. We One day we crossed the lock at Aldwarke and got onto when the water came up arms like ropes round mooring pins, would follow the canal to Eastwood Lock and cycle on the “island”, the canal on one side and the river on the and stayed up and whirl pooled it’s the chants of the UAF on the days the steelwork’s slag heaps. They were like an original other. On the river side there was a small mooring with furious under the bridge when Britain First came to march. skateboard park. In some places we could feel the heat a small motor boat tied up. We all got into the boat and and peaked and roared, With a mucky laugh, still remaining in the slag. We could see the slag being just sat there bobbing up and down in the water, and not every meeting is straightforward. pooled with dark foreboding tipped from rail cars high up on the side of the slag then ran off before we got caught. strewn with beer cans, Tesco trolleys, heaps. We cycled over a wooden bridge over the river at We went close to the river’s edge to see the water and For a town to grow crisp packets and half eaten Greggs, Eastwood, the wooden planks rattled as we went across watch the barges go by. I remember hitching a lift on it needs three things, but he isn’t choked, or stagnant and we could see the water in between the gaps. I later a barge at a lock and getting off at Aldwarke lock. I a river, materials to exploit, immigrants. or broken or stalled, found out that it was a Bailey bridge, I was in Bailey remember having nightmares about going near to the The Don was here before fi res, he’s ponderous and cluttered House at Oakwood school. fast fl owing river and falling in the water. before crops, before huts, and thick and silted, One day we saw 2 barges stuck on top of the weir at before tracks became lanes knows the trick is to keep moving, Aldwarke. We managed to climb onto the one nearest the By David Burton became streets, became town. shrug; ask nowt from no one. They came, they took 48 49 A river with attitude, The Pakistanis weren’t the fi rst or last, and no one jumps, melas, carnivals and galas, even the carp wear boots, perhaps the least inclined to mix only bends like wrought iron we are skateparks, bandstands, hold their ground in the depths, with locals of stubborn heart, from pit to call centre Mecca bingo and Poundland, immovable as bouncers, defi nite vowels, wariness. if that’s what it takes, we are triers. they sneer at fi sherman’s hooks, They came for work not trouble, we’re bred tough. stay out of reach and bask a quiet pious people, While the Don sits magnanimous while youths use locks who bought their weary selves If you never tried to turn a keel playing chess beneath the trees, as dirty swimming pools to the school gates, the factories, through wind and tide, stroking his mangy beard and the towpath is littered the taxis, the takeaways, the town hall never heaved a lock gate shut of weed and debris, with the casings from nicked copper wire, and stayed. maybe you won’t know In companionable silence a suitcase left in the grass how foolish it is to mock with his brothers, spills out clothes The trouble with rivers is the water as weak, facing its fi nal act, An uneasy stream he wraps us, like a crime unannounced they need to be crossed, they say there are otters again now, holds us close, enfolds us. and the Don rolls his eyes to trouble bridges must hold from both sides we’re still waiting as after sundown the water broods beneath like a handshake or a rope for the salmon to come back. By Charlotte Ansell the husk of the Guest and Chrimes factory, neither person drops, destined to subside into the mud foundations cannot be the sort that fray, This town isn’t waiting or rise unbidden into luxury fl ats, or turn their faces away for your pity or your favours should anyone ever decide to invest. like the police and councillors a succession of shops shutting down Charlotte has lived most of her adult life on who didn’t value our girls, won’t faze us, we are fl oods houseboats; spending the last ten years with This town isn’t waiting straight talking only goes so far. threatening to overspill the locks, her family on a Sheffi eld keel moored on the for your pity or your favours we are gaps in terraces Sheffi eld and South Tinsley navigation. it survives with or without you In this run down pit closed like knocked out teeth, The history and wildlife of the River Don through these ages industry forgotten stomping ground, we are the Hastings clock and other local waterways have been a source and still the people come to fi nd home forged in disappointment keeping perfect time of rich inspiration in her writing. settle among neighbours and hauling your own self up, one hundred years on, they don’t understand. where you can turn the heat up we are trainers fl ung on telegraph wires, we are street bazaars, brass bands, 50 51 Soapwort

She has trusted it to me - this chemise still warm from the night, her tryst. It is as though she has lifted a layer. If I wash it, the Lord and her husband will not see. I have a root gentle for a job such as this, This poem was inspired by the will palm its oil over her trouble. folklore of Soapwort, which grows Images from the How the linen clings! So fi ne I can spy “ on the banks of the Don. It references 2007 fl oods in Rotherham the world through its weave. Sheffi eld’s medieval past – its castle, Desperate, it dies - heavy on the stone. dense streets, trades and activities, an Provided by Chris Bilton But the dirt will rise. The water will open area where the Don meets the Sheaf, its jaw, swallow it, which was known as the Shambles. close again like the grave. The river will remember how I dipped her, ” left her secret in its depths.

By Carolyn Waudby

52 53 This cannonball was discovered during construction on the Steel Bank fi sh pass in 2016. With the close proximity of it’s fascinating to wonder how it ended up in the river Don.

Steelbank fi sh pass under construction 54 55 Photograph by John Beal 56