Great British Railway Journeys (2010–…): Season 2, Episode 14 - Batley to Sheffield - full transcript
In 1840, one man
transformed travel in Britain.
His name was George Bradshaw,
and his railway guides inspired
the Victorians to take to the tracks.
Stop by stop,
he told them where to travel,
what to see and where to stay.
Now, 170 years later,
I'm making a series of journeys across
the length and breadth of the country
to see what of Bradshaw's Britain
remains.
In recent days, I've been using
some of the earliest railway lines
built in Britain or the world.
I'm continuing my journey around
Northern England
using a railway guidebook
published in the 1860s.
I've found it gives me such insights
into Britain's history and Britain today
that you can keep your Fodor's
and Michelins and Lonely Planet guide,
as long as you leave me my Bradshaw's.
It's full of tips
for the Victorian traveller,
from opening times
of banks and libraries,
to facts and figures
about local industries.
On this leg of the journey,
I'll be hearing how textile recycling
started in 19th-century Yorkshire...
When the rags came here, thousands
of tons from all over the world,
they were auctioned on a regular basis
here at the station.
...seeing how Victorians
made rhubarb grow in the dark...
Are there any secrets left
in your process?
I can't tell you unless we'll have to
bury you under the rhubarb roots.
...and uncovering railway treasures
with a descendant
of George Bradshaw himself.
Oh, my goodness.
That is so beautiful.
I started this trip
in Northeast England
and in my journey south, travelled
on lines laid down by railway pioneers.
I'm now in Yorkshire's industrial heart
and will cross into rural Leicestershire
to end my journey in Melton Mowbray.
On today's stretch I start in Batley
and will pass through Woodlesford on
my way to Sheffield, the city of steel.
I'm now on my way
to a place called Batley.
Not a town name
that springs to everybody's lips,
but in the 19th century,
it was responsible
for the invention of an industry
that I'd always regarded as much more
recent, more modern. Recycling.
Today Batley strikes me
as a quiet place.
But in Bradshaw's time,
things were very different.
My 19th-century guidebook
tells me that Batley
has "extensive woollen
and carpet manufacturers”.
It might also have mentioned
that those industries were based on
the concept of re-using waste material.
Malcolm Hague
has been researching the story.
- Hello.
- Are you Malcolm?
-1 am. Good to see you.
- Very good to see you indeed.
I understand Batley has some claim
to have invented recycling.
- What's that based on?
- That is it.
It's a system whereby a guy from Batley
called Benjamin Law
wanted to find a new means of earning
money, expand his work as a clothier.
The story goes that Benjamin Law
began to tear up rags and waste
from Yorkshire's extensive woollen
industry, attempting to make new cloth.
He mixed the torn-up woollen rags
with virgin wool
and then was able, after a number of
years of trying, to create fresh cloth.
What did he call it?
Eventually it became known as shoddy,
which sounds a very awful thing to do.
Shoddy cloth,
everybody thinks it's awful,
but in fact it comes from
an Arabic word, very similar sounding,
meaning re-use.
Recycled shoddy cloth
was such a success that, by the 1850s,
thousands of tons of rags were
arriving in Batley Station each week.
I suppose this must have been
quite a station in its day.
This was central
to Batley's prosperity.
The railway companies
didn't bother about passengers.
It was bringing the goods in.
In those days,
there were no less than seven platforms
and a huge area given over
to warehousing and auctions,
because when the rags came here,
thousands of tons
from all over the world,
they were auctioned on a regular basis
here at the station.
Did Batley make a fortune
on the back of this?
Some people did.
Some people made an awful lot of money.
But best of all
was that from this system,
lots and lots of manufacturers,
mills were created here,
which meant that, over the years,
thousands of people have had jobs
in this valley.
And creating things like woollen cloth,
uniform cloth in particular,
which is why this whole area
is known as the Heavy Woollen District.
What would Batley have looked like
in its heyday?
If we were standing here, what might
we have seen across the valley?
Something like, in the valley,
60 mill chimneys.
All of them...
That's if you could see them,
because they used to throw out
their dirt every hour on the hour.
Sometimes you couldn't see from
one side of the valley to the other.
Shoddy was a massive recycling industry
right into the 20th century.
But from the 1960s,
the growth of synthetic fabrics
forced it into decline.
Most of the mills have closed now,
but Batley has become an important
centre for a new kind of recycling.
I'm meeting Joanne lllingworth to see
how it works in the 21st century.
- What are you doing?
- (Joanne) We're textile recyclers.
We process second-hand clothing.
We sort it... We hand sort it
and then we export the final product.
Most of it goes abroad.
A lot of it goes to Eastern Europe,
but the main bulk of the clothing
goes to Africa
and some goes to Pakistan as well.
A small percentage
does stay in this country.
- Where do you get it from?
- The main source is charity shops.
They're off the rails,
what they can't sell.
- Is there a benefit to the environment?
- Of course.
Anybody that wants to throw
their old clothing away,
if they just throw it in the bin,
it's going to go to landfill.
Whereas if it comes here,
it's all processed and sorted
and all goes for reuse again.
What do you do with the stuff
that isn't fit for human wear?
That will be gone for shoddy.
There is a very small percentage
that will go to landfill.
Shoddy is still used
for recycling material?
It is. We sell to other companies
who will process it into shoddy.
They do still use that word, yes.
Although recycling has moved on,
seeing clothes being sorted by hand
makes me sense a connection
with work in Bradshaw's day.
What judgement are you making?
I know that's heavy,
so I know that goes straight into there.
So is that. I can judge straightaway.
Summery, so it goes there.
It'll go to the ladies'
on the belt there.
- OK. I guess that's acrylic again.
- I just feel. I go by feel alone.
- How long have you been doing this?
- About 25 years.
- Have you really?
- Yeah.
I wonder how many bits of clothing
you've sorted in that time.
(woman) I don't know.
- This is heavy enough for Pakistan.
- Yeah, Pakistan.
I'm getting the hang of this.
As I move on to catch my next train,
I'm impressed to think
that here in Yorkshire,
recycling is an industry
with 150 years of history.
When I've taken stuff
into a charity shop,
I've sometimes wondered
if I'd be embarrassed
if I bumped into someone locally
wearing my clothes.
But it never occurred to me that
they might end up in West Africa
or Pakistan,
having travelled via Yorkshire.
Does the word "shoddy"
mean anything to you?
- Shoddy? Yes.
- What does it mean?
Poor, poor workmanship. Old.
- Do you know what the origin is?
- No.
- Are you from Yorkshire?
- Yes.
Apparently it's to do with...
They used to take the old cloth and
they would rework it into a new cloth.
They'd mix it with wool and make
a new cloth. That was called shoddy.
Really? That's brilliant.
Do you think it's a Yorkshire thing
to do, to save on stuff and make do?
- Yes.
- Is that very Yorkshire?
- Knowing my dad.
- What does he do?
He's a typical Yorkshireman.
Short arms, long pockets.
I'm now travelling through what,
in Bradshaw's day,
was Yorkshire's West Riding.
My guidebook enthuses
about the area's industries,
describing "their manifest utility
in furnishing employment
for a great part of our population
and supplying the comforts
and conveniences of life."
At my next stop I want to find out
about a delicious foodstuff
grown here in the 19th century.
This is Woodlesford Station.
It dates back to 1840.
It was one of the original stations
on George Stephenson's
Derby-to-Leeds line.
But I'm not so interested
in the station.
I'm looking for what's in the fields
out there.
In Bradshaw's day, this whole area
was famous for a single crop: rhubarb.
In the 19th century, it was grown
in this region by around 200 farmers.
Janet Oldroyd's family has been
cultivating it for four generations.
Lovely to see you.
I've never seen so much rhubarb
in my life.
She's an expert on why it flourished
here in Victorian times.
I'm guessing there's
a connection with railways.
There is a great connection.
How else could the growers get their
produce to market very quickly?
It was collected
at all the local stations,
taken down, particularly
to old Covent Garden Market.
From mostly Covent Garden,
it was sent on into Europe as well.
We're talking about big quantities
of rhubarb travelling by train.
Huge amounts. Those trains
carried nothing else but rhubarb
and became nicknamed
the Rhubarb Express Trains.
The railways also brought cheap coal
to Yorkshire's farmers.
It enabled them to grow rhubarb
in special heated sheds,
a new process called forcing.
What is forcing?
(Janet)
It's making it grow in the dark
using its energy from the roots,
which is done in winter.
(Michael) So they were able
to produce rhubarb in winter indoors.
Yes, giving the nation
a vegetable that they ate as a fruit,
which was full of nutrients.
At one time,
Yorkshire's heated sheds
produced 90 percent
of the world's forced rhubarb.
Until the 1940s,
it was a staple in the British diet.
Then rising fuel costs
and changing tastes took their toll.
There was a major downturn in popularity
linked with...
during the Second World War.
This nation loved rhubarb
and they loved sugar.
They liked their rhubarb sweet.
With the rationing, they couldn't get
rhubarb to their taste.
So eating it very tart,
giving it to a child,
turned the next generation
away from rhubarb.
The growers were massively
overproducing, so many went bankrupt,
many got out of the industry
before they did.
Now there are just
11 producers left here.
Janet's farm
was one of the few to survive.
She grows forced rhubarb
in the original Victorian sheds.
We had a crop in here this winter.
The roots now have given
all the energy into production
and they're starting to die.
When the crop was growing in here,
describe what it looked like.
Well, pitch black.
Totally like a mine in here.
So what's happening is the root
is tricked into growth by heat.
It grows up looking for light,
which it can never find.
By candlelight, we harvest the crop,
because we don't want
to damage the process.
Recently, as consumers
have become interested
in traditional British produce, forced
rhubarb has again become fashionable.
Tell me what it tastes like.
It's less acidic
so it appears to be sweeter,
and it doesn't need as much sugar
as the outdoor-grown variety does.
So very, very popular when chefs today
want the tart balance that you would get
with savoury products particularly.
You're pretty proud of your product,
aren't you?
I'm very proud of my product
and Yorkshire's links to it.
It's part of the heritage, not just
of Yorkshire, but of this country.
Are there any secrets left
in your process?
There are a great deal of secrets
that I can't tell you
unless we'll have to bury you
under the rhubarb roots.
Basically, it isn't called
the secret world of the rhubarb triangle
for nothing.
It's time to make my escape
before I end up in the rhubarb sheds.
Now I'm headed
for my hotel for the night.
I'm lucky to stay in this
beautifully restored Georgian house.
The reason I picked it is an intriguing
reference in my "Bradshaw's Guide".
This gorgeous pile is, according to
Bradshaw's, Walton Hall near Wakefield.
It was the seat of Charles Waterton,
the great naturalist
and South American traveller.
Few people today
have heard of Charles Waterton,
but he was famous in Bradshaw's era,
and Charles Darwin
once came to visit him here.
Like Darwin, he travelled the world,
studying and collecting exotic animals
and writing books.
On this estate,
he created a safe haven for wildlife,
making him one of
the world's first environmentalists.
- Michael Portillo checking in, please.
- I'll just get you your room key.
It's a lovely hotel.
I gather Charles Waterton
was quite a character.
He was. This was the first nature
reserve in the world. He designed that.
He put the brick wall around
the whole area and started from there.
What sort of animals did he have?
He was a specialist in birds,
like ducks.
The whole hotel if you see,
there's baby geese out there.
- Fantastic.
- You're in room seven.
Up to the first floor.
It's just in front of you.
Do I get a view?
You do. It's the front of the island
and you also get lake views.
- Lovely! Thank you very much indeed.
- Enjoy your stay.
I've been looking forward to staying
here because Waterton,
apart from being a naturalist,
was also a great eccentric.
He liked to impersonate animals.
For instance, he would put on wings
and try to fly like a bird.
Or he'd pretend to be a dog and bark
and go under the dining-room table
and even bite the legs of his guests.
Those are two things that I think
I shouldn't attempt tonight.
Having woken to a beautiful day,
I have to tear myself away
from this delightful estate.
Though my journey continues south
to another place
that's highly commended in my guide.
Which city do you think
Bradshaw's is describing here?
"Its suburbs, spreading mile after mile
in every direction,
hill and dale and every accessible point
on the slopes between,
being occupied by houses
and villas in endless variety,
offer to the stranger
new objects of pleasure at each turn,
and to residents,
prospects of great extent and beauty."
Well, I'm sure you guessed it.
Sheffield. Now, that's never been
my view of Sheffield.
I remember the slopes being disfigured
by enormous blocks of flats.
But I'm willing to give Sheffield
another go
and look at it afresh
through Bradshaw's eyes.
My recollections are of a city
rebuilt after terrible bombing
during World War Two
and suffering from industrial decline.
Although I've passed through it
many times,
I've not had the chance to explore
since its face-changing regeneration
programme that started in 2001.
From the moment you step off the train,
there are signs of new life.
Sheffield has had a station since 1845.
This one dates from 1870.
It's recently been given
a complete makeover
and the blend of the old
and the new is very successful.
I absolutely love it.
And this sculpture reminds us,
as Bradshaw did,
that Sheffield is the city of steel.
The "Cutting Edge" sculpture,
as it's known,
is 90 metres long and weighs 60 tons.
It's one of many structures that,
in recent years,
have come to grace the city.
It seems 21st-century Sheffield
is once again becoming a beautiful city
as Bradshaw described.
Hello.
Nice to meet you.
Welcome to Sheffield.
- Thank you. You're from Sheffield?
-lam.
(Michael) I didn't know
about all these new buildings.
It's really changed in the area here.
You've still got the old town hall here.
You've got the new buildings
like the new hotel and the cafés.
It's come back up into the 21st century.
In Bradshaw's day,
Sheffield become famous for steel.
In the 1850s, Henry Bessemer
invented a cheaper and simpler process
for mass production
and established
one of his first factories in Sheffield.
As steel replaced iron in everything
from railways to buildings and bridges,
Sheffield's industry
went into overdrive.
Bessemer became a millionaire.
But alongside that heavy industry,
many smaller businesses added
to the prestige of Sheffield steel.
Bradshaw's mentions Sheffield's fame for
"knives, forks, razors,
swords, scissors,
printing type, optical instruments,
Britannia metal, Sheffield plate,
science and garden implements, files,
screws, other tools, stoves, fenders,
as well as engines,
railway springs and buffers."
And in those days, much of the work
was done by craftsmen
working in small groups.
I'm here to see what survives
of that tradition.
Specialist items like knives were
too intricate to be produced in bulk.
They were made by highly skilled
metal workers called little mesters,
meaning masters.
These men were often self-employed and
worked long hours to make ends meet.
Today, Trevor Ablett and Reg Cooper
are among the last of the little
mesters, still toiling in that way.
- Morning.
- Hello. Very nice to see you.
- How old were you when you started?
- Fourteen.
Fourteen. You, Trevor, I think
you're new to the business.
- Yeah, I was 15.
- You were 15!
He's ten years in front of me.
He's been in the trade 60-odd years
and I've been in 50-odd years.
- Well, you're both...
- 1957, I started.
You're both fantastic examples
of the health of your trade.
You look fantastic for your ages.
You, of course, are retired.
Tell me how many days you're working.
I work five days a week now.
I come in in the morning at seven
and I work till probably
about three or half past three.
Trevor, what's your routine?
Seven while seven in the week
and Saturday, seven while four.
Er, seven while six.
1 did cut it down to four, but I've got
that much work now, we're back to six.
Sundays I knock off at dinner time.
What would I do at home?
I'd watch telly and fall to sleep.
So I'm doing something I enjoy.
It takes Reg two to three days
to make one of the hunting knives
that are his speciality.
These are the things that you produce,
beautiful blades.
- You make that into that.
- (Reg) Yeah. You have to...
As you can see,
it's marked out there.
Then it has to be on a bend.
We take the shape out of there
and shape it up.
(Michael) Very pretty.
All this beautiful work
that you've done along here.
In the early 19th century,
demand for hunting knives boomed.
American settlers in particular went mad
for Bowie knives like these.
The best ones came from Sheffield.
Trevor, your speciality is...
- (Trevor) Pocket knives.
- Pocket knives.
(Trevor) That's rosewood.
(Michael)
These are very, very fine indeed.
These days, enthusiasts buy the knives
crafted by Trevor and Reg
and even their machine tools
are collector's items.
This is 1800 and something.
- What do you call that machine?
- Gold blocker.
You've never thought
of buying a new one?
No. Everybody wants this.
There's a friend of ours,
he's always after it.
But while it's working...
It's like us two.
If it works, let it carry on.
What it is, you put the letters
the wrong way round,
so that when you turn it that way...
What you do, you make sure
all the letters are in.
Isn't that beautiful? Why indeed
would you want a new machine?
You couldn't do it more beautifully.
Isn't that a beautiful piece of work?
Before I leave Sheffield,
I've set up a special meeting.
As I've travelled around Britain
using my Victorian guidebook,
I've become increasingly keen to learn
about George Bradshaw and his work.
To my delight, one of his direct
descendants has come to light.
Mary John will see me in the City Hall.
Do I have the honour of addressing
the great-great-granddaughter
- of George Bradshaw?
- Yes.
This is a very proud moment for me.
Very proud indeed.
George Bradshaw
started out mapping canals
before turning his attention
to the railways in the 1830s.
With each different train company
printing its own timetable,
planning a journey wasn't easy.
In 1840, Bradshaw brought
all that information together
in a single guidebook
called "The Railway Companion”,
transforming train travel.
(Mary) I found this letter, which is
an original letter from George.
- You can read it.
- It's fantastic.
(Mary) Postmark on the outside.
Don't know if you want to read it.
"Manchester, 27 Brown Street, 11..."
- (Mary) "Month seven."
- "Month seven, 1843."
It says, "Dear friend, I shall be glad
if thou wilt be on the lookout
for any new railway works
which may be making their appearance
about this time."
"I should very much like to know
if there is likely to be
a railway almanac for 1844."
"Perhaps thou wilt make
a little enquiry."
This is amazing because he...
l suppose he's seeing
whether there's any competition
to the books that he's producing.
Maybe. There was competition
when he first started out.
Then he wrote this really comprehensive
guide that people bought instead.
I think that's an amazing discovery.
Museums and archivists
will be so excited by this letter.
"Bradshaw's Railway Guides"
became so successful
that he published monthly updates,
and, later, an international version.
He's such a big influence.
At one time,
Bradshaw was just a household word.
I know. But you don't appreciate it.
If it's always there,
you don't appreciate it.
Bradshaw became a noun
meaning railway timetable
in the way that Biro means ballpoint
pen, Hoover means vacuum cleaner.
It was just one of those words.
"Go and get the Bradshaw."
This is actually the first edition,
we think,
of a map from... 1839.
1839, that is early.
But it unfolds. It's really big.
I don't know if you want to open it
and have a look.
"Tables of the gradients to Bradshaw's
map of the railways of Great Britain."
- This whole thing is a map?
- Yeah.
Oh, my goodness.
That is so beautiful.
And again, it's in perfect condition.
This rare early map by Bradshaw
reminds me how the major lines
grew stage by stage.
This is Brunel's Great Western Railway
running through here.
But goes as far as Exeter
and no further.
And here's the Southampton Railway.
And again, there's nothing,
nothing beyond Southampton.
This is treasure. This is gold.
Meeting Bradshaw's
great-great-granddaughter
with her cache of personal effects
has brought the man to life for me.
As I head back to the station,
I wonder whether the railway revolution
that he witnessed in a few years
has been matched by anything
in the many decades since.
On this journey,
I found out what "shoddy" means
and I've discovered
the beauties of modern Sheffield.
I've been thrilled to meet a real-life
descendant of George Bradshaw.
He understood that railways
would change society absolutely.
Yet those tracks, stations and trains
are recognisable today.
I wonder whether that will be true
of the technologies that are currently
revolutionising our lives.
On the next leg of my journey,
I'll be learning the secrets
of one of the Victorians'
favourite cheeses, stilton...
You turned that well.
I can't turn an omelette,
let alone a thing like that.
...finding out how the railways
transformed
a traditional British sport...
Special carriages were built to take
these hunters from the middle of London
right up to the shires
of Leicestershire.
...and attempting to mould
an authentic Melton Mowbray pork pie.
Oh, dear. Mine doesn't look like yours,
but never mind.
(butcher) Good job
it's a three-year apprenticeship.
transformed travel in Britain.
His name was George Bradshaw,
and his railway guides inspired
the Victorians to take to the tracks.
Stop by stop,
he told them where to travel,
what to see and where to stay.
Now, 170 years later,
I'm making a series of journeys across
the length and breadth of the country
to see what of Bradshaw's Britain
remains.
In recent days, I've been using
some of the earliest railway lines
built in Britain or the world.
I'm continuing my journey around
Northern England
using a railway guidebook
published in the 1860s.
I've found it gives me such insights
into Britain's history and Britain today
that you can keep your Fodor's
and Michelins and Lonely Planet guide,
as long as you leave me my Bradshaw's.
It's full of tips
for the Victorian traveller,
from opening times
of banks and libraries,
to facts and figures
about local industries.
On this leg of the journey,
I'll be hearing how textile recycling
started in 19th-century Yorkshire...
When the rags came here, thousands
of tons from all over the world,
they were auctioned on a regular basis
here at the station.
...seeing how Victorians
made rhubarb grow in the dark...
Are there any secrets left
in your process?
I can't tell you unless we'll have to
bury you under the rhubarb roots.
...and uncovering railway treasures
with a descendant
of George Bradshaw himself.
Oh, my goodness.
That is so beautiful.
I started this trip
in Northeast England
and in my journey south, travelled
on lines laid down by railway pioneers.
I'm now in Yorkshire's industrial heart
and will cross into rural Leicestershire
to end my journey in Melton Mowbray.
On today's stretch I start in Batley
and will pass through Woodlesford on
my way to Sheffield, the city of steel.
I'm now on my way
to a place called Batley.
Not a town name
that springs to everybody's lips,
but in the 19th century,
it was responsible
for the invention of an industry
that I'd always regarded as much more
recent, more modern. Recycling.
Today Batley strikes me
as a quiet place.
But in Bradshaw's time,
things were very different.
My 19th-century guidebook
tells me that Batley
has "extensive woollen
and carpet manufacturers”.
It might also have mentioned
that those industries were based on
the concept of re-using waste material.
Malcolm Hague
has been researching the story.
- Hello.
- Are you Malcolm?
-1 am. Good to see you.
- Very good to see you indeed.
I understand Batley has some claim
to have invented recycling.
- What's that based on?
- That is it.
It's a system whereby a guy from Batley
called Benjamin Law
wanted to find a new means of earning
money, expand his work as a clothier.
The story goes that Benjamin Law
began to tear up rags and waste
from Yorkshire's extensive woollen
industry, attempting to make new cloth.
He mixed the torn-up woollen rags
with virgin wool
and then was able, after a number of
years of trying, to create fresh cloth.
What did he call it?
Eventually it became known as shoddy,
which sounds a very awful thing to do.
Shoddy cloth,
everybody thinks it's awful,
but in fact it comes from
an Arabic word, very similar sounding,
meaning re-use.
Recycled shoddy cloth
was such a success that, by the 1850s,
thousands of tons of rags were
arriving in Batley Station each week.
I suppose this must have been
quite a station in its day.
This was central
to Batley's prosperity.
The railway companies
didn't bother about passengers.
It was bringing the goods in.
In those days,
there were no less than seven platforms
and a huge area given over
to warehousing and auctions,
because when the rags came here,
thousands of tons
from all over the world,
they were auctioned on a regular basis
here at the station.
Did Batley make a fortune
on the back of this?
Some people did.
Some people made an awful lot of money.
But best of all
was that from this system,
lots and lots of manufacturers,
mills were created here,
which meant that, over the years,
thousands of people have had jobs
in this valley.
And creating things like woollen cloth,
uniform cloth in particular,
which is why this whole area
is known as the Heavy Woollen District.
What would Batley have looked like
in its heyday?
If we were standing here, what might
we have seen across the valley?
Something like, in the valley,
60 mill chimneys.
All of them...
That's if you could see them,
because they used to throw out
their dirt every hour on the hour.
Sometimes you couldn't see from
one side of the valley to the other.
Shoddy was a massive recycling industry
right into the 20th century.
But from the 1960s,
the growth of synthetic fabrics
forced it into decline.
Most of the mills have closed now,
but Batley has become an important
centre for a new kind of recycling.
I'm meeting Joanne lllingworth to see
how it works in the 21st century.
- What are you doing?
- (Joanne) We're textile recyclers.
We process second-hand clothing.
We sort it... We hand sort it
and then we export the final product.
Most of it goes abroad.
A lot of it goes to Eastern Europe,
but the main bulk of the clothing
goes to Africa
and some goes to Pakistan as well.
A small percentage
does stay in this country.
- Where do you get it from?
- The main source is charity shops.
They're off the rails,
what they can't sell.
- Is there a benefit to the environment?
- Of course.
Anybody that wants to throw
their old clothing away,
if they just throw it in the bin,
it's going to go to landfill.
Whereas if it comes here,
it's all processed and sorted
and all goes for reuse again.
What do you do with the stuff
that isn't fit for human wear?
That will be gone for shoddy.
There is a very small percentage
that will go to landfill.
Shoddy is still used
for recycling material?
It is. We sell to other companies
who will process it into shoddy.
They do still use that word, yes.
Although recycling has moved on,
seeing clothes being sorted by hand
makes me sense a connection
with work in Bradshaw's day.
What judgement are you making?
I know that's heavy,
so I know that goes straight into there.
So is that. I can judge straightaway.
Summery, so it goes there.
It'll go to the ladies'
on the belt there.
- OK. I guess that's acrylic again.
- I just feel. I go by feel alone.
- How long have you been doing this?
- About 25 years.
- Have you really?
- Yeah.
I wonder how many bits of clothing
you've sorted in that time.
(woman) I don't know.
- This is heavy enough for Pakistan.
- Yeah, Pakistan.
I'm getting the hang of this.
As I move on to catch my next train,
I'm impressed to think
that here in Yorkshire,
recycling is an industry
with 150 years of history.
When I've taken stuff
into a charity shop,
I've sometimes wondered
if I'd be embarrassed
if I bumped into someone locally
wearing my clothes.
But it never occurred to me that
they might end up in West Africa
or Pakistan,
having travelled via Yorkshire.
Does the word "shoddy"
mean anything to you?
- Shoddy? Yes.
- What does it mean?
Poor, poor workmanship. Old.
- Do you know what the origin is?
- No.
- Are you from Yorkshire?
- Yes.
Apparently it's to do with...
They used to take the old cloth and
they would rework it into a new cloth.
They'd mix it with wool and make
a new cloth. That was called shoddy.
Really? That's brilliant.
Do you think it's a Yorkshire thing
to do, to save on stuff and make do?
- Yes.
- Is that very Yorkshire?
- Knowing my dad.
- What does he do?
He's a typical Yorkshireman.
Short arms, long pockets.
I'm now travelling through what,
in Bradshaw's day,
was Yorkshire's West Riding.
My guidebook enthuses
about the area's industries,
describing "their manifest utility
in furnishing employment
for a great part of our population
and supplying the comforts
and conveniences of life."
At my next stop I want to find out
about a delicious foodstuff
grown here in the 19th century.
This is Woodlesford Station.
It dates back to 1840.
It was one of the original stations
on George Stephenson's
Derby-to-Leeds line.
But I'm not so interested
in the station.
I'm looking for what's in the fields
out there.
In Bradshaw's day, this whole area
was famous for a single crop: rhubarb.
In the 19th century, it was grown
in this region by around 200 farmers.
Janet Oldroyd's family has been
cultivating it for four generations.
Lovely to see you.
I've never seen so much rhubarb
in my life.
She's an expert on why it flourished
here in Victorian times.
I'm guessing there's
a connection with railways.
There is a great connection.
How else could the growers get their
produce to market very quickly?
It was collected
at all the local stations,
taken down, particularly
to old Covent Garden Market.
From mostly Covent Garden,
it was sent on into Europe as well.
We're talking about big quantities
of rhubarb travelling by train.
Huge amounts. Those trains
carried nothing else but rhubarb
and became nicknamed
the Rhubarb Express Trains.
The railways also brought cheap coal
to Yorkshire's farmers.
It enabled them to grow rhubarb
in special heated sheds,
a new process called forcing.
What is forcing?
(Janet)
It's making it grow in the dark
using its energy from the roots,
which is done in winter.
(Michael) So they were able
to produce rhubarb in winter indoors.
Yes, giving the nation
a vegetable that they ate as a fruit,
which was full of nutrients.
At one time,
Yorkshire's heated sheds
produced 90 percent
of the world's forced rhubarb.
Until the 1940s,
it was a staple in the British diet.
Then rising fuel costs
and changing tastes took their toll.
There was a major downturn in popularity
linked with...
during the Second World War.
This nation loved rhubarb
and they loved sugar.
They liked their rhubarb sweet.
With the rationing, they couldn't get
rhubarb to their taste.
So eating it very tart,
giving it to a child,
turned the next generation
away from rhubarb.
The growers were massively
overproducing, so many went bankrupt,
many got out of the industry
before they did.
Now there are just
11 producers left here.
Janet's farm
was one of the few to survive.
She grows forced rhubarb
in the original Victorian sheds.
We had a crop in here this winter.
The roots now have given
all the energy into production
and they're starting to die.
When the crop was growing in here,
describe what it looked like.
Well, pitch black.
Totally like a mine in here.
So what's happening is the root
is tricked into growth by heat.
It grows up looking for light,
which it can never find.
By candlelight, we harvest the crop,
because we don't want
to damage the process.
Recently, as consumers
have become interested
in traditional British produce, forced
rhubarb has again become fashionable.
Tell me what it tastes like.
It's less acidic
so it appears to be sweeter,
and it doesn't need as much sugar
as the outdoor-grown variety does.
So very, very popular when chefs today
want the tart balance that you would get
with savoury products particularly.
You're pretty proud of your product,
aren't you?
I'm very proud of my product
and Yorkshire's links to it.
It's part of the heritage, not just
of Yorkshire, but of this country.
Are there any secrets left
in your process?
There are a great deal of secrets
that I can't tell you
unless we'll have to bury you
under the rhubarb roots.
Basically, it isn't called
the secret world of the rhubarb triangle
for nothing.
It's time to make my escape
before I end up in the rhubarb sheds.
Now I'm headed
for my hotel for the night.
I'm lucky to stay in this
beautifully restored Georgian house.
The reason I picked it is an intriguing
reference in my "Bradshaw's Guide".
This gorgeous pile is, according to
Bradshaw's, Walton Hall near Wakefield.
It was the seat of Charles Waterton,
the great naturalist
and South American traveller.
Few people today
have heard of Charles Waterton,
but he was famous in Bradshaw's era,
and Charles Darwin
once came to visit him here.
Like Darwin, he travelled the world,
studying and collecting exotic animals
and writing books.
On this estate,
he created a safe haven for wildlife,
making him one of
the world's first environmentalists.
- Michael Portillo checking in, please.
- I'll just get you your room key.
It's a lovely hotel.
I gather Charles Waterton
was quite a character.
He was. This was the first nature
reserve in the world. He designed that.
He put the brick wall around
the whole area and started from there.
What sort of animals did he have?
He was a specialist in birds,
like ducks.
The whole hotel if you see,
there's baby geese out there.
- Fantastic.
- You're in room seven.
Up to the first floor.
It's just in front of you.
Do I get a view?
You do. It's the front of the island
and you also get lake views.
- Lovely! Thank you very much indeed.
- Enjoy your stay.
I've been looking forward to staying
here because Waterton,
apart from being a naturalist,
was also a great eccentric.
He liked to impersonate animals.
For instance, he would put on wings
and try to fly like a bird.
Or he'd pretend to be a dog and bark
and go under the dining-room table
and even bite the legs of his guests.
Those are two things that I think
I shouldn't attempt tonight.
Having woken to a beautiful day,
I have to tear myself away
from this delightful estate.
Though my journey continues south
to another place
that's highly commended in my guide.
Which city do you think
Bradshaw's is describing here?
"Its suburbs, spreading mile after mile
in every direction,
hill and dale and every accessible point
on the slopes between,
being occupied by houses
and villas in endless variety,
offer to the stranger
new objects of pleasure at each turn,
and to residents,
prospects of great extent and beauty."
Well, I'm sure you guessed it.
Sheffield. Now, that's never been
my view of Sheffield.
I remember the slopes being disfigured
by enormous blocks of flats.
But I'm willing to give Sheffield
another go
and look at it afresh
through Bradshaw's eyes.
My recollections are of a city
rebuilt after terrible bombing
during World War Two
and suffering from industrial decline.
Although I've passed through it
many times,
I've not had the chance to explore
since its face-changing regeneration
programme that started in 2001.
From the moment you step off the train,
there are signs of new life.
Sheffield has had a station since 1845.
This one dates from 1870.
It's recently been given
a complete makeover
and the blend of the old
and the new is very successful.
I absolutely love it.
And this sculpture reminds us,
as Bradshaw did,
that Sheffield is the city of steel.
The "Cutting Edge" sculpture,
as it's known,
is 90 metres long and weighs 60 tons.
It's one of many structures that,
in recent years,
have come to grace the city.
It seems 21st-century Sheffield
is once again becoming a beautiful city
as Bradshaw described.
Hello.
Nice to meet you.
Welcome to Sheffield.
- Thank you. You're from Sheffield?
-lam.
(Michael) I didn't know
about all these new buildings.
It's really changed in the area here.
You've still got the old town hall here.
You've got the new buildings
like the new hotel and the cafés.
It's come back up into the 21st century.
In Bradshaw's day,
Sheffield become famous for steel.
In the 1850s, Henry Bessemer
invented a cheaper and simpler process
for mass production
and established
one of his first factories in Sheffield.
As steel replaced iron in everything
from railways to buildings and bridges,
Sheffield's industry
went into overdrive.
Bessemer became a millionaire.
But alongside that heavy industry,
many smaller businesses added
to the prestige of Sheffield steel.
Bradshaw's mentions Sheffield's fame for
"knives, forks, razors,
swords, scissors,
printing type, optical instruments,
Britannia metal, Sheffield plate,
science and garden implements, files,
screws, other tools, stoves, fenders,
as well as engines,
railway springs and buffers."
And in those days, much of the work
was done by craftsmen
working in small groups.
I'm here to see what survives
of that tradition.
Specialist items like knives were
too intricate to be produced in bulk.
They were made by highly skilled
metal workers called little mesters,
meaning masters.
These men were often self-employed and
worked long hours to make ends meet.
Today, Trevor Ablett and Reg Cooper
are among the last of the little
mesters, still toiling in that way.
- Morning.
- Hello. Very nice to see you.
- How old were you when you started?
- Fourteen.
Fourteen. You, Trevor, I think
you're new to the business.
- Yeah, I was 15.
- You were 15!
He's ten years in front of me.
He's been in the trade 60-odd years
and I've been in 50-odd years.
- Well, you're both...
- 1957, I started.
You're both fantastic examples
of the health of your trade.
You look fantastic for your ages.
You, of course, are retired.
Tell me how many days you're working.
I work five days a week now.
I come in in the morning at seven
and I work till probably
about three or half past three.
Trevor, what's your routine?
Seven while seven in the week
and Saturday, seven while four.
Er, seven while six.
1 did cut it down to four, but I've got
that much work now, we're back to six.
Sundays I knock off at dinner time.
What would I do at home?
I'd watch telly and fall to sleep.
So I'm doing something I enjoy.
It takes Reg two to three days
to make one of the hunting knives
that are his speciality.
These are the things that you produce,
beautiful blades.
- You make that into that.
- (Reg) Yeah. You have to...
As you can see,
it's marked out there.
Then it has to be on a bend.
We take the shape out of there
and shape it up.
(Michael) Very pretty.
All this beautiful work
that you've done along here.
In the early 19th century,
demand for hunting knives boomed.
American settlers in particular went mad
for Bowie knives like these.
The best ones came from Sheffield.
Trevor, your speciality is...
- (Trevor) Pocket knives.
- Pocket knives.
(Trevor) That's rosewood.
(Michael)
These are very, very fine indeed.
These days, enthusiasts buy the knives
crafted by Trevor and Reg
and even their machine tools
are collector's items.
This is 1800 and something.
- What do you call that machine?
- Gold blocker.
You've never thought
of buying a new one?
No. Everybody wants this.
There's a friend of ours,
he's always after it.
But while it's working...
It's like us two.
If it works, let it carry on.
What it is, you put the letters
the wrong way round,
so that when you turn it that way...
What you do, you make sure
all the letters are in.
Isn't that beautiful? Why indeed
would you want a new machine?
You couldn't do it more beautifully.
Isn't that a beautiful piece of work?
Before I leave Sheffield,
I've set up a special meeting.
As I've travelled around Britain
using my Victorian guidebook,
I've become increasingly keen to learn
about George Bradshaw and his work.
To my delight, one of his direct
descendants has come to light.
Mary John will see me in the City Hall.
Do I have the honour of addressing
the great-great-granddaughter
- of George Bradshaw?
- Yes.
This is a very proud moment for me.
Very proud indeed.
George Bradshaw
started out mapping canals
before turning his attention
to the railways in the 1830s.
With each different train company
printing its own timetable,
planning a journey wasn't easy.
In 1840, Bradshaw brought
all that information together
in a single guidebook
called "The Railway Companion”,
transforming train travel.
(Mary) I found this letter, which is
an original letter from George.
- You can read it.
- It's fantastic.
(Mary) Postmark on the outside.
Don't know if you want to read it.
"Manchester, 27 Brown Street, 11..."
- (Mary) "Month seven."
- "Month seven, 1843."
It says, "Dear friend, I shall be glad
if thou wilt be on the lookout
for any new railway works
which may be making their appearance
about this time."
"I should very much like to know
if there is likely to be
a railway almanac for 1844."
"Perhaps thou wilt make
a little enquiry."
This is amazing because he...
l suppose he's seeing
whether there's any competition
to the books that he's producing.
Maybe. There was competition
when he first started out.
Then he wrote this really comprehensive
guide that people bought instead.
I think that's an amazing discovery.
Museums and archivists
will be so excited by this letter.
"Bradshaw's Railway Guides"
became so successful
that he published monthly updates,
and, later, an international version.
He's such a big influence.
At one time,
Bradshaw was just a household word.
I know. But you don't appreciate it.
If it's always there,
you don't appreciate it.
Bradshaw became a noun
meaning railway timetable
in the way that Biro means ballpoint
pen, Hoover means vacuum cleaner.
It was just one of those words.
"Go and get the Bradshaw."
This is actually the first edition,
we think,
of a map from... 1839.
1839, that is early.
But it unfolds. It's really big.
I don't know if you want to open it
and have a look.
"Tables of the gradients to Bradshaw's
map of the railways of Great Britain."
- This whole thing is a map?
- Yeah.
Oh, my goodness.
That is so beautiful.
And again, it's in perfect condition.
This rare early map by Bradshaw
reminds me how the major lines
grew stage by stage.
This is Brunel's Great Western Railway
running through here.
But goes as far as Exeter
and no further.
And here's the Southampton Railway.
And again, there's nothing,
nothing beyond Southampton.
This is treasure. This is gold.
Meeting Bradshaw's
great-great-granddaughter
with her cache of personal effects
has brought the man to life for me.
As I head back to the station,
I wonder whether the railway revolution
that he witnessed in a few years
has been matched by anything
in the many decades since.
On this journey,
I found out what "shoddy" means
and I've discovered
the beauties of modern Sheffield.
I've been thrilled to meet a real-life
descendant of George Bradshaw.
He understood that railways
would change society absolutely.
Yet those tracks, stations and trains
are recognisable today.
I wonder whether that will be true
of the technologies that are currently
revolutionising our lives.
On the next leg of my journey,
I'll be learning the secrets
of one of the Victorians'
favourite cheeses, stilton...
You turned that well.
I can't turn an omelette,
let alone a thing like that.
...finding out how the railways
transformed
a traditional British sport...
Special carriages were built to take
these hunters from the middle of London
right up to the shires
of Leicestershire.
...and attempting to mould
an authentic Melton Mowbray pork pie.
Oh, dear. Mine doesn't look like yours,
but never mind.
(butcher) Good job
it's a three-year apprenticeship.