Threads of Time: A Day in the Life of a Lancashire Weaver
Ever wondered what life was like for a weaver in 18th-century Lancashire? Step into the shoes of Thomas Ainsworth as he navigates the booming textile industry, family life, and the looming spectre of technological change. It’s a day in the life that’ll leave you in stitches!
The clatter of the loom fills the small cottage as I work the treadles with my feet, my hands deftly guiding the shuttle back and forth. The rhythmic sounds have become as familiar to me as my own heartbeat after years at the loom. As the weak morning light filters through the windows, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air, I pause for a moment to flex my aching fingers. The year is 1760 and at 42 years old, the long hours of weaving have taken their toll on my body, but I’m grateful for the steady work.
I’m Thomas Ainsworth, born and raised here in the village of Blackburn, Lancashire. Like my father before me, I’ve been a handloom weaver since I was old enough to reach the treadles. In these parts, it seems everyone is involved in textile work in some way — spinning, weaving, or finishing cloth. The industry has been growing rapidly in recent years, with more and more folk taking up weaving to supplement their farming income.
As I resume my work on the bolt of fustian cloth, my mind wanders to how I came to be here. My wife Mary and I were fortunate to inherit this modest cottage from my parents five years ago when they passed. It’s small and drafty, but the long windows on the upper floor provide good light for weaving. We have two rooms downstairs — a main living area with a hearth for cooking and warmth, and a small bedroom we share with our three young children. The loft above houses my loom and serves as storage for yarn and finished cloth.
A cry from downstairs interrupts my reverie — little Thomas, not quite two years old, has awoken and is calling for his mother. I hear Mary’s soothing voice as she tends to him. She’ll have her hands full today with the children while also spinning wool to supplement our income. I’m thankful for her hard work and support.
As the morning progresses, I fall into the familiar rhythm of weaving. My current project is a bolt of fustian — a sturdy cotton and linen blend fabric popular for men’s clothing. The linen warp threads run vertically on the loom, while I weave the softer cotton weft horizontally with my shuttle. It’s a time-consuming process, but I take pride in producing a strong, quality cloth.
The cotton I’m using was imported from the American colonies and purchased from a local merchant. It arrived already cleaned and carded, ready for spinning. Mary and our eldest daughter Sarah, who’s 10, spent many evenings spinning it into fine, even thread. The linen warp was purchased pre-spun from a neighbouring farm that specialises in flax production.
Around midday, I hear a knock at the door downstairs. It’s likely Mr. Hargreaves, the cloth merchant I work for under the putting-out system. He supplies me with raw materials and collects the finished cloth, paying me a set rate per piece. I quickly finish the section I’m working on and make my way downstairs.
Sure enough, Mr. Hargreaves has come to collect last week’s completed bolt of cloth and bring more cotton for my next project. As Mary serves us both mugs of ale, we discuss business. He seems pleased with the quality of my work and informs me that demand for fustian is high in Manchester. This is welcome news, as it means steady work for the foreseeable future.
After Mr. Hargreaves departs, I join my family for a simple midday meal of bread, cheese, and vegetables from our small garden plot. As we eat, Mary tells me that young Thomas has been feverish. I make a mental note to gather some herbs later to brew a tonic for him. We can ill afford a doctor’s visit.
With a full belly, I return to my loom feeling reinvigorated. The afternoon passes in a blur of concentration, broken only by the occasional need to rethread the shuttle or adjust the tension on the warp threads. My back and shoulders ache from hunching over the loom, but I push on. Every yard of cloth means more income for my family.
As the light begins to fade, I hear the excited chatter of my older children returning home. Eight-year-old William has been helping tend sheep for a neighbouring farmer, earning a few pence for his labour. Sarah has been assisting Mary with household chores and caring for young Thomas. They burst into the loft, eager to show me a bird’s nest they found. I take a break to admire their discovery, marvelling at their youthful energy.
With darkness falling, I reluctantly set aside my work for the day. My eyes strain in the dim light, and I know continuing would likely lead to mistakes. I make my way downstairs, where Mary has prepared a hearty pottage of vegetables and barley. As we eat by candlelight, we discuss the day’s events and our hopes for the future.
Times are changing rapidly in Lancashire. There’s talk of new machines being invented to speed up spinning and weaving. Some view these innovations with excitement, while others fear they may threaten our livelihoods. For now, I’m grateful for the steady work that allows us to keep food on the table and a roof over our heads.
After supper, I help Mary put the children to bed before returning to the loft. By the flickering light of a candle, I spend an hour or two maintaining my loom — oiling moving parts, replacing worn cords, and ensuring everything is in good working order. A well-maintained loom is crucial for producing quality cloth efficiently.
As I prepare for bed, my thoughts turn to tomorrow. Another day of weaving awaits, much like today. It’s a hard life, but an honest one. I take pride in my craft and in providing for my family. As I drift off to sleep beside Mary, the rhythmic sounds of the loom still echo in my mind — a lullaby of sorts for a Lancashire weaver.
With the dawn will come new challenges and opportunities. There are whispers of great changes on the horizon for our trade. But for now, in this moment, I am content with my lot in life — a simple weaver, plying my trade as generations have before me, thread by thread, creating the fabric of our world.
Bob Lynn / 05-Sep-2024
