Loss and the River- some stories of Jackfield

 There is something quite special about Jackfield. The whole area hums with its history, it’s a tangible, accessible thing. As you walk past Lloyd’s Head, past the old tileworks and onto the Boat Inn, it’s hard not to consider the lives of those who came before us. Their footsteps match our own, we walk in tandem together, a journey through the centuries. What were their lives like? What were the defining factors of their world? What would they want us to know about them? The answers feel achievable here, as if they sit on the tip of your tongue. 

The village of Jackfield grew from the original river port and like so much of the area, it owes much of its existence to the birth of Industry. We are told that in the 1690s several large cauldrons were set up on the riverbank for the extraction of pitch, tar, and oil. These resources were indispensable and served the factories nearby. There were a number of trades active in the area, including pottery, brickmaking and coal mining. Jackfield’s most famous contribution is the Craven Dunnill Tile factory, which formed in 1872 and was to become one of Britain’s leading producers of ceramic tiles. 

Like much of the gorge, Jackfield was a hub of industry and with its active port, it was a far cry from the peaceful hamlet it is today. Certainly, it was described in the 18th and 19th century as having all of the characteristics of a seaport, being made up of cheap lodging houses, brothels, and numerous public houses.  As with much of the gorge, life would have been complex here, and the stories of such still litter the riverbank like the discarded shards of pottery and bone china. They are waiting to be uncovered.

This article is a narrative mudlark; we are picking up stories as we go. Together we will cross the river from Jackfield to Coalport and discuss a darker facet of the River Severn’s history. The River Severn is an important part of this landscape, it cuts through the area like a snake.  Countless generations have lived and worked and poached along its banks, including my own family. Though Sabrina has come to define the area, she is also ruthless, indiscriminate in her behaviour. As you stand upon the Coalport Memorial bridge and look upon her, you are able to glimpse a little of her power. This bridge used to terrify me as a child, to me it felt so fragile compared to the awesome current, I feared it would crumble underfoot, and I would be claimed by the murky depths. The Bridge has served as a means of crossing the River Severn since 1922. It serves as a memorial to the twenty-six servicemen who lost their lives in the First World War.  What a wound the area gained; it was such a loss for a community so small. The absence of those twenty-six men at the dinner tables, workplaces and daily life in the community would have left it bereft. I suppose loss is really the subject of this article, and for Jackfield and Coalport, the River Severn has often been the cause of such loss.

When I began the research for this article, I was struck by the number of lives claimed by the river. Strewn across the pages of the British Newspaper archive are stories of tragedy, of lives lost and bodies found, their experience bound by grief and black ink. It became hard to know who to write about. Should I speak of John Payne – a sawyer who’s ‘melancholy death’ in May 1857 was reported after his body was found partially in the River Severn. It is noted for some time John had ‘been poorly’ and was known to have fits. The inquest into his death was held at The Robin Hood inn, just across the river from Jackfield and the verdict was ‘found drowned’.  Jane Lloyd’s death was reported as ‘The River tragedy’ in March 1921. She was 39 and for some time had suffered from neurasthenia, according to her brother’s account. It was said that she had a good home, and had nothing to worry about, except her health. The newspaper recounts that a Mr Walter Reynolds, a Jackfield artist (Who probably worked for the Craven Dunhill or the China works) passed her on his way home, and she wished him a good night. The verdict into her death was noted as the rather antiquated ‘suicide by drowning whilst temporary insane’. I found the following report in the Birmingham Daily Post, dated Thursday 3rd of June 1869, it was so brief that I nearly missed it. it states that a ‘Little boy named Potts’ was playing at Lloyd’s Head when he ‘overbalanced himself’ and fell into the river. We are told nothing more, only that ‘the poor little fellow was carried away and drowned’. I cannot help but feel immensely sad for him and his family, what an awful thing for a child to experience. My grandfather found the body of a child in the river in his youth, an experience that must have quietly shaped him, for he spoke little of it even decades afterwards. There are sadly just too many accounts to mention, and if this article peaks your interest, I implore you to dig deeper. I want to begin by discussing perhaps the most famous loss in the river’s history, the Coalport ferry disaster of 1799.

Ferries were once a common feature of the river, especially from where the memorial bridge now stands. The Coalport ferry made its journey for hundreds of years. They were much like a barge and could carry up to 40 people. Abraham Darby I was said to have been amongst its passengers, on one of his many travels to the Quaker meeting house in Broseley. Perhaps the earliest recorded ferry in the area was known as ‘Adam’s ferry’ which operated during the Mid-Seventeenth century. ‘Ferry Road’ in Jackfield gets its name from the Tuckies ferry which connected the communities of Jackfield and Coalport for 120 years before the memorial bridge was build. Its important to note that these ferries were fundamentally important to the local community. They were the main source of transport between Craven Dunnill tileworks and the John Rose, & Co. China Works in Coalport, which would have employed so many in the area. William Reynolds saw their importance and he held half shares in the Jackfield/Coalport ferry. It was said that Reynolds had a special arrangement with the ferryman to take him across the river both day and night. A local legend states that one night, in a state of urgency Reynolds broke all of the windows of the ferryman’s cottage because he couldn’t rouse him. He did have them repaired the following morning.

By the 19th century the ferries were regulated and could only operate between sunrise and sunset and were forbidden to run on a Sunday. The men who operated such vessels would have spent their whole lives on the river. The last man to work the ferry used to sell tobacco to his passengers and also did hair cuts and shaves! 

The Coalport Ferry disaster took place on the night of 23rd of October 1799. It was a particularly dark and foggy night, which would prove to be catastrophic. Many of the 43 workers on shift at the John Rose, & Co. China Works in Coalport had finished a long shift of overtime, so one can imagine when the bell rang at 9 o’clock they were relieved. They walked along the canal to the ferry which would take them to their homes at Jackfield and Broseley. Interestingly John Rose & Co. China works was a relatively new venture, having grown from the two recently amalgamated China works at Caughley and Broseley. This had driven an extra demand for ferries, to ensure that there was enough transport for the entire workforce.

Their journey home started rather well, however halfway across the river, the ferry hit difficulty. It is suggested that the notoriously choppy currents caused this difficulty, especially as the river was in flood. It was also suggested that the ferry had hit some rocks. One account states that the ferryman was new to the job and drunk, which caused the accident to happen. A further theory states that the sheer number of people on the ferry caused the accident, though it is generally suggested that there is no conclusive answer as to why the ferry capsized, perhaps it was a culmination of all of these factors. The terrified workers were soon plunged into the freezing waters and were swallowed by the fog and darkness. 

The workforce had been made up of men, women, and children, several of them being under thirteen. They were exhausted from a day’s work, and many had never learnt to swim, which makes the situation even more tragic. Injured, petrified, and freezing many were swept away by the fierce current. Of the forty-three victims, only thirteen people escaped, the remaining twenty-eight people were lost to the river. Soon afterwards the tragedy was related in verse by Edward Dyas, who worked at the China works as an engraver. The verse discusses the tragedy and names many of the victims, which provides us with a rare insight into the human cost. They are as follows. 

Jane Burns, 

Sarah Burns, 

Ann Burns, 

Mary Burgess, 

Elizabeth Fletcher, 

Mary Fletcher,

Elizabeth Beard,

Elizabeth Ward,

Jane Boden, 

Sarah Bagnal, 

Sophia Bankey, 

Mary Miles,

Elizabeth Evans,

Catherine Lowe,

Jane Leigh, 

George Lynn, 

James Burnsworth,

George Sheal,

John Cheil, 

Robert Lowe,

William Beard,

John Jones, 

Benjamin Gosnal,

 Benjamin Wyld, 

Richard Mountford, 

John Leigh,

Joseph Poole. 

There is something so chilling about reading their names, it really emphasises the scale of human loss. It’s simply chilling to picture the sights and sounds of that night. Tragically, due to the darkness and fog it was impossible for the gathering crowds of friends, neighbours, and relatives to rescue the drowning or render any affective help. Thus, many of the bodies had to be recovered the following day, at a great distance from where the accident took place. Some remained in the water for up to a month, and unfortunately, a few people were never found. I cannot imagine the ache of knowing your loved one was lost, with no tangible place to mourn them. 

The John Rose & Co. China works responded supportively to the disaster. The Shropshire Gazetteer reported that John Rose, provided the coffins for the victims, supported survivors and ‘was frequently seen to shed tears’ in the aftermath of the event, which suggests he felt it as a personal loss. Many of the twenty-eight victims were to be buried at the site now known as ‘The Red Church’ which sits on the boundary between Broseley and Jackfield. Though there is no longer a church there, the site has a fascinating history and is well worth a visit. It must have been so difficult for the thirteen people who escaped that night, they must have been haunted by the event whenever they drew close to the riverbanks. The whole community would have been haunted by such a loss. There are so many reasons why this is a tragedy, and the fact that its cause has never been discerned adds to the profound nature of such a loss. 

I don’t really like thinking of the past in numbers, as it feels rather cold. So, take a moment to imagine 28 individuals- like you or me, full of the complexities and simplicities of human life stood before you. Perhaps they’re smiling at you, or have something they’d like you to know, perhaps they look familiar or are just getting on with day-to-day life, chatting as they follow the canal home.  Just try to picture them for a moment. Can you see them? - They’re humans. They breathe and think, and hope like us. I think it’s easier now to imagine the gravity of such a loss. It’s heart-breaking, isn’t it? The community would have been traumatised and bereft- just as they would be again 119 years later after the guns fell silent in Europe. 

Our next story takes us to the advent of the twentieth century. From the end of the 19th century there was some debate about the safety and future of the river. Indeed, a letter to the editor from ‘The Wellington Journal ‘in 1900 read-

‘To THE EDITOR. Sir, — Is it not a great pity that the people living on each side of the river do not take steps to supplant the dangerous and inconvenient ferries with wire-rope suspension footbridges? The sites are eminently suitable for such, and these bridges have the great advantages of being very cheap, and at the same time pleasing to the eye. Very many have been erected in this country and abroad.’

This is but one example of the discourse surrounding the ferry, which was beginning to be seen as not fit for purpose. Certainly, our next loss suggests that this might have been the case. 

Mr John Harrison was seventy-two in 1900. He’d worked on the ferry boat for over twenty years aiding the community in their daily crossings from the Tuckies to Coalport. He was a popular man and well liked among the community, and one can imagine a level of pride he felt in his work, especially managing with the physical demands of his work in his seventieth decade. 

However, it was on the 20th of January 1900 that John was to lose his life. The water had been particularly treacherous that month and had swollen well past their banks.  Despite this the ferries continued to run, and John continued his work. He’d worked all day, and on his journey back home that night, he had an accident. He slipped whilst lighting the lamp and fell backwards into the river, being swept away by the fierce current. Poor John didn’t stand a chance, he soon disappeared from sight. The accident was witnessed by Mr Henry Wild, who was a boatman and also a schoolteacher named Jane Ellen Blocksidge, who provided witness statements to the police.  Henry Wild recounted that after witnessing John’s accident he; ‘ran down the shore and saw deceased’s hands disappear. It was impossible to rescue him, there was no boat near, and he could not swim to him’ due to the water’s level. This must have been very distressing to witness. The next few days were spent searching the Severn and its banks, but John’s body was nowhere to be seen. After a while, the community was resigned to the fact that another victim would never be buried. 

Around 41 days later, John Harrison’s body was found. A man known as William Henry Rogers was walking one Saturday near the river at Bridgenorth when he noticed something in the river. So, he stripped naked (presumably not wanting to ruin his clothes in the murky waters of the Severn) and swam the 150 yards, to bring the body back to the riverbank. It wasn’t long before John was identified, though very badly decomposed. After spending 41 days in the water, the power of the current was visible on his remains. The verdict for his death was ‘accidentally drowned’ and its particularly sad to think of a man who’d spent his life on the river, losing his life to it. John’s death was felt deeply within the community, a community that had become so accustomed to mourning.

I want to finish this article by sharing a little of my families own loss to the river. Much of my mum’s side of the family belonged to the gorge, their lives were defined by its industry. Since I moved back to Shropshire, I have been working to connect with this heritage, by exploring their stories. It was through this desire to know more, that I uncovered Frederick Fidler, who preferred to be called Fred, my great uncle. I am still trying to discern much of his life, but what I know is that he was born on February 14th, 1905, to my great grandmother, Alice Fidler. Alice was around thirteen years old when he was born, and there is no other name listed on his birth certificate. The absence of information regarding his origins leads one to consider all possibilities. With the help of her family Alice raised Fred, and for much of his early life, he lived with her and his grandfather Harry Fidler. The family was a big one and they moved frequently around Madeley Wood and the Gorge.  It’s difficult to imagine the position she was in, and I greatly admire my great grandmother’s tenacity and strength. I am grateful she was given the space to be a mother, whilst still being allowed to grow herself. After Fred’s birth, Alice would become a paintress at the Coalport China works, marry a coal miner called Albert Beach in 1913, and be the mother of my grandfather, Laurence Beach. Much of what I know about Fred comes from the census material, for example in 1921, he was working at the Maw&co tileworks as a tilesorter and living in Coalford. Sadly, the last reference I have to his life comes from a newspaper account from July 1928 regarding his death.

‘IRONBRIDGE MAN DROWNED. Five days missing. Evidence at Coalport inquest’

Knowing that Fred was the subject of this newspaper report, the headline hit me like a train. Reading the article inspired such a tangible sadness, reaching out across the decades. The newspaper states that Fred was twenty-three at the time of his death and living at 39 Waterloo Street, Ironbridge with his family. We are told that he had formally worked as a packer at the tileworks, but for the last three years he had been ‘unable to follow his employment’ due to his uncontrolled epilepsy. Frederick Fidler had been missing for five days prior to his body being found, near Sweeney cliff, Coalport. On the day he had been reported missing he is described as having a ‘bad attack’ of his epilepsy which took around 40 minutes for him to come back from. At 7.30pm he left his home, after informing his family that he felt much better. He told them he simply desired a walk. His boots and clothes were found not long after by the riverside, hanging carefully on a fence, with Fred no where to be seen. One of the main witnesses interviewed in the account, is my Great Grandfather, Albert. Before I uncovered Fred’s story, I had a dream about Albert during a blackout caused by the Storm Darragh in December 2024. He stood in the darkness, holding a miners lamp and implored me to stay away from the river. I now understand why he said that; this dream happened some days before I found out the fate of Albert’s stepson Fred.

In the newspaper, Albert states his stepson had no trouble with his mental health and recounts the events leading up to his disappearance. He states that it was quite common for Fred to go and lie on the riverbank after an attack, perhaps the river provided him with a type of solace. For five days, Fred was lost to the river. For his family, those five days must have felt like an eternity. One can only speculate his motives for going down to the river that evening, perhaps it was a moment of desperation, and the act was intentional, or perhaps he had wanted some peace, and slipped, or fell into another seizure. We will never truly know. But what is known is just like the other lives lost to the current, he was profoundly missed. 

Thank you for taking the time to read these stories, for allowing space for these people to be remembered. Hopefully, we have reminded them of their importance. I have said it before, but I truly believe that our dead, whoever they may be are not gone. Not really. Their continued presence is in tandem with our own. If you ever find yourself in the Ironbridge gorge, spare another moment for them. I think that they’d like that.