Duckering & Co. Ltd.: A Legacy of Lincoln’s Industrial Heritage

 

Duckering & Co. Ltd. stands as a proud symbol of Lincoln’s industrial heritage, representing over a century of innovation, craftsmanship, and resilience. From humble beginnings to engineering breakthroughs, the company’s story is woven into the fabric of the city’s economic and cultural development.

Origins of a Lincoln Iron Foundry

The journey began in 1845, when Richard Duckering partnered with Edward Burton to establish Burton and Duckering, an iron and brass foundry specialising in agricultural implements and kitchen ranges. Despite a devastating fire in 1847 at Waterside South, Duckering rebuilt and expanded the business, showcasing products like plough castings, fencing, and brass machinery components by 1856.

Growth and Generational Leadership

Charles Duckering 1841-1916

After Richard’s death, his son Charles Duckering took the reins, renaming the company and relocating operations to Waterside North—a site now occupied by the YMCA and a car park. Under Charles’s leadership, the foundry flourished, diversifying its offerings and becoming a fixture in Lincoln’s industrial scene. He retired in 1912, passing the business to his grandson, also named Richard Duckering.

Expansion into Locomotive Engineering

In 1920, the company became Duckering & Co. Ltd., a limited liability company with ambitions for growth. A major milestone came in 1930, when it acquired locomotive engineering drawings from Clayton Wagons, marking a bold expansion beyond traditional ironfounding.

Innovation and Retail Presence

While iron founding remained central, Duckering & Co. embraced innovation with products like corn grinding machines. In 1907, the company opened a hardware showroom on Monks Road, bringing its craftsmanship directly to the public.

End of an Era, Legacy Lives On

The company closed in 1964, ending a remarkable chapter in Lincoln’s industrial story. Yet its legacy endures—drain grates, manhole covers, and lampposts bearing the Duckering name still dot the city, silent witnesses to a bygone era.

Why Duckering & Co. Ltd. Still Matters

Duckering & Co. Ltd. wasn’t just a business—it was a symbol of adaptation, craftsmanship, and community impact. Its contributions to Lincoln’s industrial development continue to inspire, reminding us of the power of resilience and innovation.

Page Woodcock’s Wind Pills: Victorian Cure-All or Marketing Masterstroke?

Exploring Lincoln’s link to one of Britain’s most flamboyantly advertised patent medicines

In the bustling world of 19th-century patent remedies, few products captured public imagination quite like Page Woodcock’s Wind Pills. Marketed as a cure for everything from indigestion to gout, these “purely vegetable” pills weren’t just a medicinal offering — they were a spectacle of Victorian advertising ingenuity.

 Who Was Page Woodcock?

Page Dewing Woodcock, a Methodist chemist originally from Norwich, later made Lincoln his home. Known for his flair for promotion, Woodcock wasn’t content with quiet pharmacy work. He became a master of the printed sermon — crafting long, impassioned advertisements that read more like moral tracts than marketing copy.

His ads, often filled with religious overtones and dramatic appeals to the suffering public, drew both admiration and satire. Publications like Punch poked fun at his style, but the attention only helped fuel the popularity of his pills.

What Did the Pills Claim to Cure?

Wind Pills were marketed as a remedy for:

• Indigestion
• Liver complaints
• Biliousness
• Flatulence
• Disturbed sleep
• Heartburn
• Even gout

The appeal lay in their “purely vegetable” composition — a comforting promise in an age wary of chemical concoctions. Testimonials poured in, praising their effectiveness, though modern analysis suggests their success owed more to marketing than medicine.

Advertising That Floated Above the Rest

Woodcock’s promotional genius extended beyond the written word. One of his most memorable advertisements featured two boys dropping boxes of Wind Pills from a hot air balloon to a crowd below — a vivid metaphor for their widespread appeal. The imagery was colourful, theatrical, and designed to stop readers in their tracks.

These ads weren’t just selling pills; they were selling hope, spectacle, and a sense of belonging to a movement of self-improvement and moral health.

 Medicine or Myth?

Like many patent medicines of the era, Wind Pills walked a fine line between genuine relief and exaggerated claims. While some users swore by them, there was little scientific evidence to support their efficacy. Still, they remained popular across the UK, stocked in chemists and trusted by thousands.

Their success speaks volumes about Victorian attitudes toward health, trust, and the power of persuasive storytelling.

Lincoln’s Place in the Story

Page Woodcock's chemist shop on Lincoln High Street, demolished in the 1960s for the building of the Boots the Chemist Store.

Though born in Norwich, Woodcock’s later life in Lincoln ties this curious chapter of medical history to the city’s broader narrative. His presence here adds another layer to Lincoln’s rich tapestry of innovation, eccentricity, and civic life.

Final Thoughts

Page Woodcock’s Wind Pills were more than a remedy — they were a cultural phenomenon. Blending religious fervour, theatrical advertising, and the promise of relief, they offer a fascinating glimpse into the world of Victorian medicine and marketing.

Whether you’re interested in the history of health, the evolution of advertising, or Lincoln’s lesser-known characters, Page Woodcock’s story is one worth retelling.

A Chapel Lost, A Life Forgotten: The Story of Isabella and St Andrew’s

 The fall of St Andrew’s and the quiet legacy of Gaunt Street’s anchorite

At the time of the Reformation, Lincoln was suffering from 200 years of neglect. The Black Death and the loss of the Staple in 1369 had triggered a long decline in population—from about 4,000 in the mid-14th century to just 2,000 a century later. Once-thriving parishes were emptying, and by 1540, many churches had no parishioners. Formerly populated areas of Lincoln were reverting to agriculture, their stone buildings crumbling into the soil.

The Reformation had not only disrupted religious life but also dismantled the social and economic fabric of towns like Lincoln. The dissolution of monasteries removed vital sources of charity, education, and employment, leaving communities adrift. In response to this upheaval, an application was made to Parliament to unite the city’s dwindling parishes. An Act was passed in 1538 "for the union of churches in the city of Lincoln," authorising four men—John Taylor, Bishop of Lincoln; William Hutchinson, Mayor; George Stamp; and John Fowler—to carry it into effect.

A copy of the deed of union, dated 4th September 1553, records that the number of parishes within the city bail and close of Lincoln was reduced from fifty-two to fifteen. The process was swift and pragmatic, driven by dwindling congregations and the financial value of salvaged materials.

One of the doomed churches was St Andrew’s, which stood on the north side of the street now known as Gaunt Street. The Sutton family, prominent residents of the large house known as "John of Gaunt’s Place," petitioned the City Corporation to spare the church. They proposed to annex St Andrew’s as their private chapel and maintain it at their own expense. But the timber, lead, glass, and stone were worth money—and sentiment rarely outweighed salvage.

St Andrew’s Church stood behind the wall in the centre of the picture. The graveyard remained there until West (of West's garage) was built on the site in the late 19th century.  Drawing by E J Willson

The Corporation was resolute. The church was pulled down in 1551, and its materials were repurposed to repair the remaining fifteen churches. Some fragments may still survive, embedded in the walls of buildings that stand today.

Next to the church lived an anchorite named Isabella. Anchorites voluntarily withdrew from the world, living in a cell attached to or within a church, devoted to prayer and contemplation. Their entrances were bricked up, sealing them inside for life. Isabella’s cell would have been sparse—perhaps a small window for communion, a crucifix, and a stone floor worn smooth by kneeling. At that time, Lincoln had three anchorites: Isabella at St Andrew’s, another beneath the Bishop’s Palace walls, and one at Trinity Church near the bottom of Greestone Stairs. What became of Isabella after the church’s demolition is not recorded, but her story lingers in the silence of that vanished sanctuary.

Lincoln’s fortunes would not revive for another 300 years, until the rise of industry brought new life to the city. Men like Ruston, Clayton, and Shuttleworth transformed Lincoln into a hub of engineering and manufacturing. Where anchorites once prayed in solitude, steam engines roared and ironworks rose—marking a dramatic shift from spiritual retreat to industrial ambition.

List of the 52 churches and chapels in Lincoln at the Reformation, the ones mark with an asterisk survived, though many were damaged or destroyed during the English Civil War:

West's building on St Andrew's Graveyard

To view an 1885 map of the area showing St Andrew's graveyard on the corner of Gaunt Street Click Here 

To view a map of Lincoln's lost medieval places of religious worship click here

Hubbards Hills: A Love Story Carved into Lincolnshire’s Landscape

In the heart of Louth lies a place that’s more than just a beauty spot — it’s a living memorial to love, generosity, and civic pride. Hubbards Hills, with its winding paths and tranquil waters, owes its existence to one man’s devotion to his wife and his adopted town.

It all began in 1875, when a young Swiss teacher, Auguste Alphonse Pahud, arrived in Louth to teach French and German at King Edward VI School. He fell in love with Annie Grant, the daughter of a prosperous Withern farmer. They married twelve years later and settled at The Limes on Westgate, living a life of travel and quiet companionship.

But tragedy struck in 1899 when Annie died suddenly in London. Auguste was heartbroken. He withdrew from public life and, in 1902, passed away after writing a will that would shape Louth’s future.  His £25,000 estate — a fortune at the time — was entrusted to seven local men with a mission: honour Annie’s memory and give back to the community. Their decisions were visionary:

• A stained-glass window was commissioned for the parish church
• The Limes became the foundation of the Girls’ Grammar School
• A fund was created to support the poor in Withern
• And most famously, Hubbards Hills was purchased and transformed into a public park

The land, bought from Mr J. Ward for just over £2,000, included the lake and watermill on Crowtree Lane. Extensive tree planting followed, and the valley was carefully shaped into the green haven we know today — a process beautifully documented in David Robinson’s book The History of Hubbards Hills.

The Day Louth Celebrated

On August 3, 1907, the town came alive. Flags fluttered, bells rang, and thousands gathered to celebrate the official handover of Hubbards Hills to the people of Louth. The Mayor called it “the proudest moment” of his career. Children sang, bands played, and the festivities stretched from morning until a firework finale lit up the sky with the words: “May Louth enjoy Hubbards Hills — Goodnight.”

It was a day etched into memory — not just for the spectacle, but for what it represented: a gift of nature, freely given, to be cherished by generations.

 Stewardship Through the Years

After local government changes in 1974, care of the Hills passed to East Lindsey District and Louth Town Council. Despite good intentions, funding was tight and ambitious plans never materialised. By 2009, it was clear that Hubbards Hills needed a new chapter.

That came in the form of a dedicated charity, launched in April 2009. With a mix of councillors and passionate locals — including Philip Day, Allan Dunning, Michael Beaumont, Michael Moncaster, and Linda Cahalin — the charity took on the task of preserving and improving the Hills. A maintenance plan was drawn up with expert help, and today the site is supported by council funds and external grants.

Because Hubbards Hills isn’t just a park. It’s a love letter to Lincolnshire, written in trees and water, and signed by a man who believed in beauty, memory, and community.