No Wonder He Chose This Setting –

Part of New Conisbrough seen from the castle

Denaby is by no means pretty. Rows upon rows of grime-covered terraced houses fan out in a semi arc from the main Doncaster Road. To the left, between the rows, abandoned slag heaps lurk like huge prehistoric monsters. Pit heads are outlined against the sky and in the foreground, the never ending stream of chugging, clanking coal trucks is a reminder of the life blood which keeps this area in existence.

Beyond the zig-zag of Cadeby Colliery, perched on the hillside like some seaside roller-coaster, rise the limestone scarps which once beautified the whole area.

The years which have so changed the landscape have seen a corresponding, if not as drastic, change in Denaby itself. Slum clearance has started nibbling its way from Denaby crossing up towards the town. New pubs, clubs, a youth centre have appeared. Towards the Conisbrough end blocks of flats have begun springing up.

The Old Denaby

Of course, a lot of old Denaby still remains — both body and spirit. Every street is a playground and traffic—apart from the odd ice-cream van—seems out of place. The roads are like huge backyards where housewives hang their washing, lads play football and toddlers pedal their tiny tricycles.

There is a feeling of warmth, of a close family community in the back streets. Women in cross-over aprons lean across a neighbour’s wall chatting good – humouredly; children are happily absorbed in inventing their own games; even the dogs seem friendly.

Here and there a tiny back yard has been painted bright red and yellow to add some colour to the grey surroundings.

But like many South Yorkshire mining towns, Denaby is a place of contrasts. Here you see windows draped with newspapers while next door, delicately looped lace curtains.

Behind the flowerless terraces, ‘semis’ and trees are discovered, and beyond them the grassy hillside. Young children are dotted about collecting firewood for Bonfire night.

On the lower slopes is a jumble of allotments, each displaying well-kept pigeon huts and enormous sprout plants and colourful, if rather drooping, dahlias, merge into the distant greenery of Old Denaby.

TICKHILL SQUARE

Below is Denaby United Football ground. The washing-lined streets recall the flags and banners of Coronation Day. There is the muffled sound of children’s shouts and laughter from the swings and slide in the park.

“I like Denaby,” said one middle-aged shopper. “Of course, we’re prejudiced. We’ve lived here all our lives. But there’s nothing much for kids. There’s only one picture house between here and Doncaster. It’s all bingo—every night in the week. There should be something for them.”

There seems to be nothing to distinguish the boundary between Denaby and Conis-hrough except a signpost at the side of the road. In fact anyone travelling along the main Doncaster Road would wonder why it is classed as a beauty spot.

It is only when you reach the white railings and turn and view the whole town that you become aware of its full beauties. Then you want to explore more.

Conisbrough always reminds me of Dylan Thomas’ “Under Milk Wood”—a sort of inland Whitby, with tiny twisting streets, quaint stone houses —only the salt tang is missing.

Magical

Approaching the town via the back lanes from Denaby is like embarking upon a magical mystery tour. Suddenly, from black terraced surroundings, you are plunged into a narrow country lane. High, limestone ivy-covered walls appear on either side. An isolated tree in the middle of the road intimates a previous hanging history—sheep stealers perhaps?

The old and the new are inter-married. Quaint stone cottages with red tiled roofs, tiny windows and wooden gable ends are neighbours to carefully planned bungalows in harmonising stone. One sign of progress can be seen where a watch tower of the Castle virtually occupies the front gardens of two new bungalows.

Old Conisbrough is like a wonderland of lacy leafed trees, flower buried cottages, crazy patterned stone walls in autumnal tints of urst, green, white and gold. It seems incongruous to find a blunt-nosed, double decker bus rushing its way through the narrow lanes.

Rising from its green mound is, of course, the castle —looking much like its suroundings — still picturesque, but with an ordered beauty—a little bit pseudo since renovation began.

“The stones are too regular,” said one woman. “It looks too symmetrical now.”

The castle is not the highest point in the town. The Church, with its delicate turreted eleventh century tower commands that position. As the withered rustling leaves drift gently to the earth, their life cycle complete, the Church remains serene—unblemished by changing seasons.

Shopping

Beyond the Church, past a miscellany of houses. Conisbrough’s modern shopping centre is revealed. The huge glass-fronted shops are again built in a beige-grey stone to merge with the surroundings.

The shopping centre is so compact that most people call it “the village.” Many want to leave it that way. But not all.

It’s an odd feeling walking down the road to Mexborough from the white railings. Terraced houses on either side of the road act like a telescope focussed on the distant Conisbrough Castle. A youngster with his knee protruding through a large hole in his jeans is playing with matches stuck in the undersole of his boot. Others are dragging branches along the pavement.

In a small rest garden at the foot of the castle hill, ancient and modern history join hands over the years. A pair of stocks are overshadowed by a monument bearing the inscription, “The Great War 1914-18. Lest we forget.”

The Oldest Part

A little farther down the road, a path leads the explorer into a small wood and follows a stream until it emerges by the Castle Inn. Not far down the lane you enter Burcroft, the oldest known section of Conisbrough. High stone walled buildings with red tiled roofs like farm outhouses are scattered haphazardly along the route. The cross-shaped beams which support the walls suggest they were built in an era when architectural skill was less technical but equally efficient.

Incongruity everywhere. From a leaf-trodden path by the riverside, cows and Cadeby pit can be seen together in one panoramic view. And while coal trucks speed their cargo to distant lands, the loch keeper still has to reach her home via a ferry boat fixed on an ancient pulley.

A Ford

“There used to be a Roman road through Conisbrough,” one person informed me. “It crossed where the ferry is now. There was a ford there until just before the war. You could walk across from here until just before the war. You could walk across from here to Sprotborough.

From Roman roads to modern ones. “There are more unmade roads in Conisbrough than anywhere I’ve visited,” said one woman. But all praise was given to public transport.

“There’s an excellent bus service here. It doesn’t matter where you want to go. And with the Doncaster-Sheffield road passing through the town, travel is easy anywhere.”

Up Clifton Hill

Climbing Clifton Hill, you inter a part of Conisbrough ,which is often forgotten. To the left is a newish, expressionless estate, to the right— quarry. A factory sporting a chimney suddenly makes you study that in 1949 there were 900 coal trucks a week leaving Conisbrough — now there are fewer than a hundred. Pools shimmering in the sunlight are spread over the floor of the quarry. A couple of lads standing on the shell of a lorry throw stones into one of them. The hollow splash can be heard.

Where else to take leave of this “Cyningesburg” — the King’s stronghold, but from the top of the keep itself?

The winding river with its island loch house, the distant loops of the viaduct, Cadeby Colliery, the ancient windmill which gave its name to the estate which surrounds it, the moor above Denaby and the village of Conisbrough itself—all can be seen from that vantage point. The sinking sun—its intensity softened by a slight smoke haze — creates long shadows through the trees on the undulating turf.

“ No wonder Sir Walter Scott chose the castle as his setting for “Ivanhoe!”