ALAN WHALLEY'S WORLD

WALTER Dennett once laid claim to the 'biggest bathroom in the world.'

For the mild-mannered bachelor carried out his daily ablutions, summer and winter, from a secluded little sandy bay at the edge of the huge Carr Mill Dam.

After a day's graft at a local electricity base, labourer Walter slipped into his unswerving squeaky-clean ritual.

Armed with a small suitcase - containing swimming trunks, a bar of soap, bath towel and a copy of the Catholic Times - he'd ankle off in the direction of the tranquil dam.

But first, he'd stop off for a meal at Burkhill's Cafe, across the East Lancashire Road from that vast watery jewel (a creature of habit, sweet-toothed Walter always rounded this off with a vanilla slice).

Then he'd saunter off to his secret bush-sheltered bay.

A devout member of Lowe House Church, the teetotal, non-smoking Walter would sit a while, flipping through his newspaper while his tea digested.

Then he'd cautiously strip, step into his swim trunks and fold his clothing into the little case before concealing it in the bankside vegetation.

Out he'd wade to soap and rinse himself - before plunging off on his customary marathon swim around the dam.

These memories of Walter, who hailed from the old terraces of the St Helens town centre, have been revived by one of his old chums, Frank Edwards, former Labour councillor and retired gasworks foreman. Though much younger that Walter, he regarded the old-time character with affection and admiration.

Frank grins in recalling the one occasion when a passer-by happened upon Walter as he was folding his togs in readiness for his wash-down and plunge.

The shifty-looking character offered to keep watch over Walter's clothing while he was in the water. But just before stepping into the dam, Walter glanced round - and saw the "obliging suit watcher"digging into his pockets.

Despite being barefoot and stripped to his trunks, Walter chased and caught the would-be thief. "I wouldn't have liked to have been in his shoes," says Frank, of Lingmell Avenue, Clinkham Wood, "because Walter was an extremely powerful man, built up by his labouring job, exercise and competitive swimming."

Walter, dubbed the 'Water Rat' (a nickname he was, in fact, quite happy with) was familiar to several generations of Carr Mill visitors.

They marvelled at his unique, one-armed half-crawl style of swimming - a technique which saw him take the championship medal in at least one Mersey Mile challenge, one of the prestige swimming events of yesteryear (wonder where that medal is now?).

And Walter was a voluntary 'bay watch' helper.

"Walter and myself dragged out many a drowning kid in our time," says Frank, once Walter's dam-swimming companion and something of a water baby in his early schooldays.

One of four keen swimming brother, Frank (one of the last surviving founder members of Moss Bank Labour Club) could swim prodigious distances across the dam from the age of about 10.

He recalls when hordes of summer day-trippers used to throng the dam and the old Happy Valley alongside, for family picnics and a dip in the clear, cooling lake water.

"Many kids came from Liverpool and, being city dwellers, hadn't a clue how to swim properly," says Frank. "So, inevitably, one or two of them got out of their depth and into difficulties."

That's when he and Walter would spring to the rescue. Naturally, they couldn't always be at the right spot at the right time and summer Carr Mill bathing fatalities were quite frequent in the old days.

"I remember finding Walter in tears after a child had drowned," says Frank. "He explained that he was so upset because he hadn't been on hand to rescue the youngster. That's the kind of fine, caring fellow he was."

Frank remembers when he, too, took an incredible bathing risk - but on that occasion thousands of miles away, at Aden, whilst a serving soldier during the 1939-45 world war.

"There were about 5,000 of us who'd been aboard a troop ship for about three months and the heat was intense. Hundreds, myself included, leapt overboard for some relief."

But the swimmers were alarmed to find that they were sharing the water with a shoal of large swordfish.

"Luckily, there were so many of us that the amount of splashing drove them off and no-one was attacked or injured."

Back to closer shores, Frank can recall when the now long-gone Carr Mill boathouse bore the refreshing message, 'TEAS', painted on its roof. Apparently a nice cuppa could be purchased there at one time.

He also remembers the last dam-side dwelling, occupied by a fellow named Dean who kept a pet monkey. And he can look back on bygone winters when the dam froze over deeply enough for hot-chestnut carts to trundle onto the ice, serving hordes of skaters. "We kids used to mind their top coats for a copper or two."

Before Frank's time, the dam had been the scene of regular big-money skating challenges, featuring all-comers against a Billinge legend on racing blades known by the extraordinary nickname of Our Nell's Jack. (Anyone able to fill in a few details about him?)

But the character that Frank holds most dear is Walter, the old Water Rat himself, who died at an advanced age not many years ago. A modest fellow, he was so hardy that, in the colder months, he was even known to break through a skimming of dam ice to carry out his bath-time ritual.

SADLY, they don't make 'em like that any more...

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