Bob Pegg
words ~ music ~ place
contact: catsback@gmail.com
This page is a bit of an indulgence, but I’ve always loved photographs. My Dad was a keen photographer, as was his
father, so I’ve inherited boxes of the things. Don’t forget that you can enlarge them all by clicking on them.
My Dad’s father, Wilfred Joseph Pegg, was
sometimes known as “our Wilf”, but mostly as “Dard”,
a nickname he acquired while still in his pram. A lace
designer by trade, he was an enthusiastic violinist
who played in local Gilbert and Sullivan productions,
May Festivals, whatever was on the go. He also sang
bass in a gospel quartet. I still have the fiddle that
he’s holding here, in his teens, not long before the
outbreak of World War I which he spent interned as a
conscientious objector.
Both sides of my Dad’s family were
keen on music and light opera. The
Midlands lace town, Long Eaton,
where they lived, and where I was
born, was awash with amateur
shows. On the right of this picture is
my great uncle Harold Pegg as
Time, in a 1938 production of The
Arcadians. The beard isn’t his, but
the family eyebrows definitely are.
My Mum and Dad when
they were courting in the
late 1930s. How old do you
reckon they are? These are
Mum’s own teeth, all of
which she had taken out for
her 18th birthday, so she
was probably seventeen,
and he would have been
twenty.
Here I am with my Dad’s grandfather Joseph
Pegg, early 1945. Joe was the classic Victorian
self-made businessman, starting his working life
as a twisthand - a machine worker - in a lace
factory, then joining up with a pal to first rent,
then buy, a single machine, gradually building up
to owning their own factory, Phoenix Mills. He
became a town councillor, and stalwart of the
Methodist Chapel. On a Monday morning he
would visit the factory floor to reprimand workers
who weren’t in Chapel the previous day.
Some of my most vivid early memories are of
holidays on the Lincolnshire coast. We used to
stay with Mr and Mrs Hodgson on their farm, a
few miles inland from Sutton-on-Sea. There
was no electricity, and the water was from the
pump. In the mornings I would ride with Mr
Hodgson on the cart driven by Dolly the pony to
deliver the milk. This photograph was probably
taken in Mablethorpe. The iconic donkey ride is
still available in some seaside places.
Mum’s parents, Violet Daft and Ernest Arthur
Dakin, lived in the village of Draycott, a few miles
east of Derby. I spent a lot of time with them
when I was young. I remember: the best chips
ever, made in a pan; walks through the fields,
over stiles and by the banks of the river to
Grandad’s allotment; harvest moons; and Uncle
Keith playing the New Orleans jazz, which he
loved so much, on the record player. The small
person is Clancy, my very first daughter.
I got the folk bug in the late 50s.
After Burl Ives and Harry
Belafonte, most influential, on
vinyl, was The Kingston Trio,
and, on the telly, Robin Hall and
Jimmy McGregor. I teamed up
with Richard Jones, a pal from
school, and every Sunday
evening we went to sing in the
Nottingham Folk Workshop in
the Co-op Educational Centre.
In 1966 I took a degree in English at Leeds
University, and began working in the Folk Life
Institute making field recordings of Yorkshire
Dales music. I soon got to know Jackie
Beresford of Buckden in Wharfedale. Jackie
was the heart of the village - taxi driver, barman
at the Buck Inn, and musician, playing for
dances in the hall as his father had once done.
Here he is with his son Peter. When we formed
the band Mr Fox in 1970, he was one of our
inspirations.
In 1969, when I left Leeds, I got a job
teaching English in Stevenage. Carole
Pegg and I were already well known on
the folk scene, and Bill Leader, iconic
recording engineer, offered to record us
for his Trailer label. This led to our forming
the band Mr Fox and being signed by
Transatlantic Records. If you want to find
out more about the life and times of the
band, Rob Young’s Electric Eden (Faber)
has a substantial chapter.
Mr Fox lasted less than
two years - wild times -
though we won quite a
few “best of” awards in
the music press. After
the split in ‘72 I teamed
up with Nick Strutt, a
great country picker and
good companion of the
road, for two albums.
Nick died in 2009.
While working at Lumb Bank I
recorded many tales of
millworkers, quarrymen, hill
farmers and rural eccentrics
from the area round Hebden
Bridge. One story told of a
boot that was struck by
lightning. The wearer lost part
of his foot as a result.
During the 1980s I worked with Julie Fullarton
as The Beasties, as Cleveland’s Writer in
Residence, and as national organiser of the
Legal and General Songsearch competition.
Perhaps most enjoyable of all was the annual
summer-long stint being music tutor for the
Highland Youth Theatre; what tremendous
fun, trundling along the (in those days) single-
track roads with a couple of vans full of
teenagers, barnstorming village halls from
Portree to Lochcarron (this picture), to Tain.
Another highlight of the
1980s was when Charivari
staged productions of The
Shipbuilder, a Gothic song
melodrama which first
came out as an album for
Transatlantic in 1974.
Here it is on the beach,
during the 1985 Whitby
Folk Week. 2000 people
saw it.
Not long after moving to the Highlands in
1989, I became employed by the Council
as a part-time arts worker. This gave
wonderful opportunities to try out new
ideas, which included “make your own
harp in a day” workshops, the three year
long Merry Dancers Storytelling project,
and the Junior Folk Orchestra, which was
open to any young player who could
manage a major scale on their
instrument. Mhairi Ross, shown here
around 1995, today has her own band.
One of the pleasures of
living in the Highlands has
been to meet and work with
some of the great Traveller
entertainers. This is Alec
Williamson, who learnt his
stories around the
campfire. Many of them are
ancient international tales,
which he tells in both
Gaelic and English.
in 1977 I was employed by the
Arvon Foundation in West
Yorkshire to make recordings of
the area’s spoken history. Lumb
Bank, where I was based,is the
building at the far right of this 19th
century photo. It belonged to Ted
Hughes, who lived there for a
while with Sylvia Plath.