“At the end of Long Street, nearly opposite the Grammar School, stood the Workhouse, a grim looking building behind walls, with an immense wooden gateway as high as the walls. I never saw the main doors open, but at times a small door out into it opened to admit one of the residents, or perhaps a tramp. I suppose it was the refuge of the poor aged; but I never heard anyone speculating as to what life was like inside. They had gone to the workhouse’.”

From the journal of Pheobe Sheavyn