Apparently my dad was born in Taylor Street, about two miles away and thinks one of the reasons they moved here was due to an incident which probably took place shortly before they moved.
He had been out playing a game of cowboys with his mates next to 'The Cut' as it was know (the nearby canal). He'd leant forward to wash his hands and, in his own words "taken a nose dive". Not being able to swim nearly cost him his life, but as luck would have it a chap on his way home from his shift at the local Brickworks had stopped to watch the boys (or perhaps he was riding past when he saw a small boy fall into the canal) and threw down his scarf for the boys to throw one end in for the boy in the water to catch hold of. My dad clearly remembers grabbing hold of the scarf and being pulled to safety having come up for breath for a second time. He also remembers that the man, knowing who he was, placed him on his handle bars and took him back to the Brickworks where his uncle Oliver worked. Uncle Oliver duly stripped him of his wet clothes and stood them and my dad in front of a furnace until everything was dry.
When I was little, I never understood why my dad would never come swimming in a swimming pool. He'd reluctantly come into the sea with us, but never in a pool. Now I understand why...
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