The Lost World of the Weald

Not much has really changed in Horsmonden. The Gun Hotel remains, albeit renamed as the Gun and Spit Roast. There is still a corner shop in the same location. The main difference is that the roads were wider and also covered in animal droppings.

The scene is probably staged, but it is still unusual to see humour in old photographs. I think they could be gravediggers as the stocks were (and still are) in the graveyard at Marden. Points of interest are the traditional hobnail boots worn by the men. They would definitely be outdoor workers as the skin is quite dark. The man on the right looks like his nose has been broken. I wonder what sort of life these men would have lived?

Often called the Garden of England, Kents landscape is actually more challenging and diverse than visitors might expect. A huge swathe of the county is accounted for by the rugged Weald, a word that means wilderness or forest. The Weald is divided into the central High Weald, the low Weald and the Greensand Hills, which are framed by the chalky North and South Downs.

Most dramatic is the High Weald which, for Kent, is largely the area that borders Sussex, taking in towns such as Tunbridge Wells, Cranbrook and Tenterden. Natural England, the governments advisor on the natural environment, notes that the High Weald was once an untamed, wooded area, with patches of wild grassland and heathland. By Domesday (1086), the High Weald remained the most densely wooded area of England and now boasts the highest proportion of ancient woodland in the country.

Much has changed since the Domesday Book was meticulously collated, with the wooded areas diluted by the resource-draining iron industry. And the landscape has changed yet again over the last few decades.

The fertile soil was ideal for the cultivation of hops, and the familiar oast houses became the architectural symbol of the county. The hop gardens have almost now completely disappeared, but fortunately a dedicated amateur photographer has preserved visual reminders of the days of hop picking

This image of the mill is lovely historical photograph of a very familiar sight in Cranbrook. The mill is now a tourist attraction, but this shows the days when it was a fully working mill. I love the photograph of Cranbrook High Street. It looks like a scene from the American Wild West.

Almost 30 years ago, Paul Harvey, decided to spend a week of his holiday allocation capturing the atmosphere of the High Wealden countryside. Since then he has assembled a wonderful collection of historic and contemporary portraits of life in the High Weald of Kent.

In the early 1980s, I took a week off work around hop-picking time, Paul recalls. It was lovely late summer weather, with wonderful misty mornings. I thought Id take some pictures of the hop picking on the High Weald and capture the atmosphere. I sensed that these scenes might not be around for much longer.

I knew that the Kent landscape was starting to change, so I immersed myself into the life of the hop gardens around the Goudhurst area, getting up early to capture the photogenic mist. As I was taking the photographs, people started coming up to me to find out what I was doing and have a chat. Many of them had been hop picking for years and had come from families that had been working here for generations.

People would often give me old photos, which fascinated me. Before long, I had quite a collection of old images and I started putting on exhibitions in oast houses or barns.

I took these photos in the early 1980s from the top of Horsmonden Church, but even though the images are fairly recent you still get the whiff of a byegone age. The landscape has wonderful patterns of shade and light, with a contrast between the mowed fields and the vertical hop poles. The winter shot shows off the criss-cross of the hop poles even more dramatically. I froze half to death waiting for the right shot. It is a scene you don’t see anymore.

The photographs all tell a story that can be pieced together by the clues in the images. They are priceless snapshots of history, recording a way of life that doesnt exist anymore.

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The Lost World of the Weald

The scene is probably staged, but it is still unusual to see humour in old photographs. I think they could be gravediggers as the stocks were (and still are) in the graveyard at Marden. Points of interest are the traditional hobnail boots worn by the men. They would definitely be outdoor workers as the skin is quite dark. The man on the right looks like his nose has been broken. I wonder what sort of life these men would have lived?

This image of the mill is lovely historical photograph of a very familiar sight in Cranbrook. The mill is now a tourist attraction, but this shows the days when it was a fully working mill. I love the photograph of Cranbrook High Street. It looks like a scene from the American Wild West.

I took these photos in the early 1980s from the top of Horsmonden Church, but even though the images are fairly recent you still get the whiff of a byegone age. The landscape has wonderful patterns of shade and light, with a contrast between the mowed fields and the vertical hop poles. The winter shot shows off the criss-cross of the hop poles even more dramatically. I froze half to death waiting for the right shot. It is a scene you don’t see anymore.

Taken in 1886, the group photograph shows Sibery Day and his wife (far right), his son Mercer (with the hops), the family and workers. In the photograph with the oast houses, the wagon at the front is loaded with pressed hops that are ready to be transported to market. The other wagon is laden with freshly picked hops that would be spread on the drying floor in the kilns.

It is hard to accurately assess the date of this photo of hop-pickers from London, as the clothes they are wearing were probably taken from the dustbins of the rich. They certainly weren’t clothes that were designed for rural work. I would guess that this is probably a family who came down to work in the 1920s. Londoners would descend on the hop gardens for a working holiday, much to the dread of the locals. In spite of the hard work, the Londoners loved their days and nights in Kent.

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