This website created by Valerie Martin, contains scenes from her home village of Findon, West Sussex, U.K.

EXCITING JOURNEY ON THE WAY TO THE GUN

Text first published in the West Sussex Gazette in May 1998

Text copyright Valerie Martin, 1998

The laborious provincial omnibus of the 1920s would be filled to overflowing when it departed from Worthing. Passengers would hurry along the sea front to where the bus waited, and they would jostle for their seats. They had to sit and wait for the pulsating of the engine to warn of its impending departure. It was always an exciting journey. There would be a rush of packages and empty milk-cans to be stowed on board, and late arrivals would hustle and bustle with flushed faces as they appeared along the road.

At the very last moment, and never premature, the bus driver would emerge from the office, fully conscious of his importance, puffing on his pipe. He was as reliable as the tide coming in and retreating. He would be unhurried and thoughtful, as if conserving his energy as he crossed the road to exchange a few words with the dawdlers. He then heaved and squeezed into his seat and the omnibus would spring to sudden life. They were off.

With little traffic on the highway, it was only a short while before they were clear of the houses. After crossing the bridge and leaving the railway track behind, the familiar Findon Downs would come into sight. Sometimes the omnibus was uncomfortably crowded and passengers were compelled to stand. There were carefree countrywomen with rosy cheeks clutching their wares and swaying in time to the motion of the vehicle. They had been on a spending spree to the drapery store sales, and would be returning to Findon laden with wicker baskets and packets tied with string.....

"Stocking up with provisions for the weeks ahead,"

they said as they exchanged animated gossip and chattered inanely about their purchases. The journey was never silent. The passengers would be jolted up and down over the ruts in the heavy coach as it lurched and swayed through the countryside. Hardly a soothing journey. Outside, the driver of the vehicle was perched on his seat and stared straight ahead, intently steering his course in the lumbering vehicle.

The little white painted Toll House, situated where the road narrowed at the bottom of Bost Hill, was a welcome sight. The tall overhanging trees meant they were approaching the village. The vehicle jerked and jogged passed the entrance to Findon Place and the church, and finally drew up at The Square in Findon.

If it happened to be raining, the stout-hearted drivers of these early motor buses were laid bare to the elements, devoid of even a windscreen on some occasions.

Stalwart passengers were supplied with individual tarpaulins to pull up over their legs to protect them from the rain. In a downpour they were obviously drenched and extremely cold by the time they halted at The Square. It was not uncommon for the disgruntled, and by this time grumpy, driver to alight. His chilly and damp passengers would disembark also, and accompany him to the welcoming warmth of the Gun Inn where they revived themselves with a tipple.

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This is Findon Village — www.findonvillage.com is a continually growing record created by Valerie Martin exclusively for documenting life in Findon.