BRIAN GREENING WRITES: BEFORE readers think that I am indulging in yet another of my well-known grumbles, let me point out I am on this occasion only making some observations and asking a question.

The question is, was shopping in Newport years ago a more pleasant experience than it is today?

I gave this some thought the other day after I had jumped into my car, went to my nearest supermarket, purchased a range of goods and was back home within the hour having met no person I knew and spoken to nobody.

Not even the lady on the till, you might ask? Well no, because although there must have been around a dozen tills, only three were manned, each with a queue, so I was forced to use one of those infernal self-scanning machines that completely ignored my presence, simply bleeping at me as my goods passed through.

It was as I unpacked my shopping at home that I gave thought to how many shops I would have visited when I was at school in the Fifties as I did the weekly shopping for my mother.

Fresh fish at MacFisheries or Mr King’s in Pyle Street, groceries in Lipton’s where eggs would be placed in a paper bag and cheese cut to size using a wire on a cutting board.

Biscuits would be displayed in tins and sold loose.

My father’s needs each week were a 2/6d postal order in Dore’s sub post office in Lower High Street, to send off with his football coupon to Littlewoods hoping to win the top prize of £75,000, his newspaper, the Daily Herald, in Hancock’s paper shop in Pyle Street, and each Friday a visit to one of the at least 12 butchers’ shops we had in the town to purchase some chitterlings, (pigs intestines) for his tea that he would eat smothered in mustard.

Today we have just one independent butcher, that of Downers in Lower St James’ Street and long may he remain.

For any prescriptions or health needs there were the chemists, such as Millidge or Pollard and Ramage, and in each shop was a manager who seemed to know each customer personally.

On entering, a chair would be offered to the ladies to rest their weary legs as the staff busied about and attended to their needs.

The managers, I recall, were Mr Dore in his sub post office and grocery shop, a Mr Ferris in Lipton’s and one of the ever jovial Wray family at their top of the town shop where I recall the smell of coffee beans being ground, bacon being sliced to suit and currants and raisins, all coming together to make a smell that should have been bottled.

If it was school clothes that I needed, I was taken by my mother to either Godwin’s or Whitcher’s where socks, trousers, shirts and one of the striped belts with a snake clasp were on the list each summer before restarting school.

I had no need to purchase milk as this was brought to our house daily by a man called Bill Brown, who had a two-wheeled cart pulled by his trusty horse, Bluebell.

He would carry his milk churn to the back door, and ladle it in half-pint measures into my mother’s jugs or basins.

Bread too was delivered by an employee of Mr Russell’s bakery shop that was at No.1 the High Street.

It would be brought to that same back door in a large wicker basket, where a choice of several loaves could be made.

Needless to say, it was un-cut as that luxury of a sliced loaf had not yet reached the IW.

Mr Neat would deliver paraffin, soap and cleaning items, the former being necessary at our house as electricity had at that time not been installed.

We should not forget the ‘tally-man’ who called from Dupont’s, bringing such things as towels, sheets etc that could be purchased by paying a small amount each week.

Today, people prefer to save time and purchase everything under one roof, but they miss out on that personal service of old.

How many customers of today can name or even identify the manager of their local supermarket?

Some may say it is not necessary, but a little personal service always went a long way.

“Times have changed and move on,” I can hear you say, but memories linger on.

Some shops you never forget and for me it was that of Padlock House that was a small ironmongers just above where the County Hall is today.

It had a large padlock hanging above the shop as an advertising sign and I am told its premises nearly ran through to Quay Street.

One final memory was of the toilets that were beneath the arches of the Guildhall where, if needs must, a penny was needed to open a toilet door.

As I have recalled often, there was too a blue and white enamel sign on the outside wall that stated plainly, “to prevent consumption, please do not spit”.

Happy days.

l Anyone with memories of years gone by or photographs of the Island in the past, please get in touch with James Woolven by e-mail on jamesw@iwcpmail.co.uk, phone on 259053 or post at IW County Press, 123 Pyle Street, Newport, PO30 1ST.