The old pathway linking Bretforton Road with Brewer's Lane (formerly Lanket Lane ) was very familiar to me, living as I did on Bretforton Road. It was one of my routes to school, the one recommended to me by my parents, avoiding some of what little traffic that there was in the early 50s. It also took me to my grandparents’ house in South View Terrace, where I spent a lot of time.
A walk down The Green
Let's go back to the 1950s,
And we will survey the scene
In Badsey, as it was back then,
Down the path they call 'The Green '.
First, we pass a row of cottages,
These were called 'The Leys '.
Let us look at some of the people
Who lived there in those days ;
There is 'Granny ' Whiting,
On a chair outside her door.
I remember Sid and Mrs Smith,
The Leys is not there any more.
In the end one were the Enstones,
When Martin and Howard were small.
Their end wall facing Stewart's Yard,
Where we often played football.
There were Mike and Tony Merrett
With Ivor ( Bill) Stewart and me,
Shooting at a goal made of cabbage crates,
All as happy as could be.
Nobody minded us playing there,
As long as we kept out of the sheds.
But when the lorries came in or out,
We had to use our heads.
Lorries with sprout pickers in the back,
Returning from the snowy hills.
Glad to get home for a warm,
After the east wind's bitter chills.
"Hard work never killed anybody,”
Boss Harry Stewart often said.
One stooping picker bravely replied :
"It bent us funny shapes, instead !”
On the right a tatty little cottage,
Now long since swept away.
This served as Stewarts' office,
Where Phil Sparrow spent his day.
For a long stretch on the left,
Are large greenhouses in a row.
Right, a hedge and ditch guarding the orchard,
Where Green Leys would later go.
Now at the bottom of the slope,
A stream dives underground.
And if you look on the opposite bank,
A curiosity will be found.
This is a double-decker bus,
Converted into a dwelling.
Complete with its smoking chimney,
A sight I always found compelling.
Arthur and Dolly Plant lived in there,
I'm sure somebody once said,
Then Cecil and Iris Sturt from Wickhamford,
(Whose niece I was to wed).
Fairly close to that old bus,
If my memory serves me right,
A windmill stood there by the stream,
Making a lovely rustic sight.
We had a bonfire just down there,
On one fifth of November,
And wasn't Pru Stanley (Thould) in charge?
I can only half remember.
We pass the stream and then a sycamore tree*
(Which I'm pleased does still remain,
Resisting the changes all around it.)
Then merge with Old Post Office Lane.
And at the bottom end of it,
What was Jim Wheatley's house is seen.
We turn left into the narrow path,
And we are back into The Green.
That little white house on the right,
Built end-on to our track,
Is where George Addis and his family lived,
With small orchards front and back.
Daughter Rosalie was a tomboy,
Who played cowboys and climbed trees.
She had no girls there to play with,
With boys she held her own with ease.
The path is narrow all along,
Railings left enclosing open ground.
On the right is Wheatley's Orchard,
In which we were often found.
There was a stone wall topped with railings,
At the bottom a huge horse chestnut stood.
Next to it, the wall ended with a pillar,
As all good stone walls should.
Two railings were slightly bent apart,
To admit a smallish boy.
But we couldn't stay there very long,
Before we heard a shout of: 'OIY!!'
Back on the left, Savages' builder's yard,
The end of the carpenter's shop.
Behind were tiles and bricks and pipes,
After which the pointed rails would stop.
Then the end of South View Terrace,
The access road across the rear.
Finally the side of number one,
Mrs Rosie Sparrow was a dear.
Now we're emerging from The Green,
Which is so much changed today.
It's not such a pleasant walk these days,
Now, it's houses all the way.
* Now taken into someone's garden.
Brian Smith, January 2026.