9 of 24 - Holman Apprentice 1972

After the holidays dad took me down to Camborne and dropped me off in Redbrook Road where I was to lodge to start my 4-year apprenticeship.

I joined the Holman Apprentice School in 1972. Holman Brothers was famous for its compressed air machinery, and drilling equipment used in mining and civil engineering across the globe. The firm had its own test mine, and even a rail link. The head of the apprentice school was Fred Oliver. Fred was a kind man who looked for the best in us all.

We received a blend of classroom instruction and hands-on experience in the workshops. We studied every aspect of mechanical engineering and machining, at first with plenty of pre-HASAWA safety procedures. But when HASAWA hit industry in 1974 it didn’t just change rules—it changed attitudes. It shifted responsibility from just the employer to a shared duty of care, and it became the backbone of apprentice training, especially in engineering firms like Holman’s. Safety wasn’t just a box to tick—it was a craft to master. Leonard Hart, the safety officer for Holmans, gave us instruction in how the new law would make us responsible for our own actions and how it could make horseplay in the factory a criminal matter.

It was all new to me and before I was allowed onto any of the machine tools I had to learn basic hand crafts. Consequently, I spent many frustrating and painful sessions on the analytical filing and chiselling devices

The analytical filing device was designed to instil technique, discipline and self-awareness into what on the face of it seemed to me, at least at first, to be pointlessly simple. Of course I could use a hand file, who couldn’t?

As I remember it this device consisted of a central hardened steel block over which a ground down file would be moved. Rollers were positioned on either side of the central block and acted as guides, detecting vertical deviation of the file. If your file stroke was anything other than perfectly horizontal, the rollers would sense it, and shaming lights would be illuminated. Again. And again. And again.

It was impossible to keep that file stroking horizontally. A person’s wrists, elbows and shoulders are not designed to move together in this robotic manner. It took hours of practice to get it right so that those bloody lights didn’t shine. Only when we had mastered the analytical filing device were we allowed to move on to real files to make a steel dovetail.

Of course, as I learnt, using a file wasn’t just about removing metal—it was about reading the surface, feeling the rhythm, and learning the geometry of control. This device turned filing into a feedback loop, where we learned to file by ear, eye, and instinct.

As far as feedback loops are concerned, where the filing device was frustrating, the “analytical chiselling device” was in a league of its own and relied on feedback consisting of bruising to the thumb knuckle. It was the kind of contraption that would be banned today by health and safety, but we learned the hard way.

The analytical chiselling device consisted of a Flat chisel welded into a steel block. The chisel was held immovably in a vice. We were instructed to keep our eye on the blade of the chisel whilst striking the head of the shaft soundly with a ball-peen hammer. Eye on the blade, hammer in hand: A test of focus over fear—you learn quickly where the tool ends and your knuckle begins.

Bruised thumb knuckle: The original biofeedback system. No flashing lights—just a swelling sense of shame and throbbing enlightenment. It’s not just a device—it’s a philosophy: that mastery comes through embodied error, and that real precision grows not from instruction, but from experience you feel in your bones. I can hear Mr Oates muttering, “You’ll only do it wrong a dozen more times.”

So, in the mid 1970’s, after we had spent time in the apprentice school, some of it standing for ages outside Glen Webb's delivery hatch having been sent to the stores for a “long weight”, we were dispatched around the factory to all the various departments. I really enjoyed the variety of experiences, from the R and D department to the brazing shop, the foundry to assembly, it was all brilliant. I met David Penhaligon in R and D.

The Test Mine Incident

I spent a couple of weeks at the Holman test mine, where rock drills were trialled against hard Cornish granite in real mining conditions. We were shown how to use air-legs, how to drill holes, and how to respect the stone. We were also asked to burn accumulated rubbish—offcuts, packaging, and the odd mystery item.

One day, I decided to test a theory. I placed a crimp-lid grease pail—lid fully secured—onto the bonfire. I didn’t tell anyone. It seemed interesting.

For a long time, nothing happened. The pail sat there, darkening slowly, like it was sulking. Then the sides began to bulge in a way that felt deeply unnerving. And finally, with a tremendous boom, the lid blew off and soared into the sky. It looked like a penny, the way it caught the light. I couldn’t believe how high it went.

Men ran out of the mine, convinced someone was playing with the dynamite stored nearby. I was given a severe telling-off and sent back to the workshops. Lesson learned: never underestimate sealed containers, bonfires, or the acoustics of granite country.

Drop forge

The most thrilling department for me was the drop forge. Steel heated to a glowing and malleable 1900°F, dropped expertly between the dies, then repeatedly thumped with tons of force from the hammer, making the ground shake beneath your feet. The heat, the noise, the flame, the thumping shudder, the frightening proximity of elemental forces, it was exhilarating.

They said in Holman’s that you could identify the drop-forge operatives by counting how many fingers they had. There were certainly some there with digits missing and looking back there did not appear to be much in the way of fail-safes. Everything relied on the muscular skill of the workers, and their split-second timing.