NORTHERN NEWS

Number 134                                                                            Feb 05

               

HON SEC’S JOTTINGS                                       by John Bedford

 

Non-CTC Riders. May I remind non-CTC riders that, because of the insurance implications, Head Office has stipulated that riders may only participate in CTC events for a maximum of about five weeks before coming members. During that five week period a disclaimer, available from Committee members, must be completed. For those joining there is now the option of an Introductory first-year Membership, with limited benefits, for only £16.

Road Rage. I understand that on one of our recent rides there was an incident where one of our riders was almost knocked off, and there was a lot of verbal abuse about cyclists not paying road tax etc etc. Whilst the leader tried to diffuse the situation it appears to me (and the leader) that this incident should have been reported to the Police. Unfortunately nobody took the car details etc.

If such an incident occurs in the future it might be politic for riders not involved in the “discussion” to write down the car number, make, time, location and some description of the motorist, in case it is decided to report the incident to the Police.

Cake-tins. Sheila Child has still some unclaimed cake tins from the Audax last year. If these are not claimed forthwith they will be dumped.

Cycle Jumble. Chris Jones and Tom Moore are once again looking after the Club’s stalls on March 5th. Any contributions of cycle parts and clothing etc will be very welcome. One man’s rubbish might be another man’s want. Please ensure there is a reasonable level of cleanliness before handing them over. This is one of our major fund raising events helping to keep the Club solvent, so please support it.

 

CLUBROOM EVENTS

 

22nd FEBRUARY.  PRE-JUMBLE CYCLE JUMBLE.

Bring along those odd bits and pieces to sell to your clubmates.

Donations for the Club Table at the Jumble on March 5th will be gratefully received.

22nd MARCH. SHORT SLIDESHOW.

 

AN UNUSUAL MISHAP                                      by Albert Atkins

 

In 1953 about 25 of us (the Zephyr Wheelers) were on a summer club run to Ludlow, most of us being on fixed wheel machines. The outward route took us down Mucklow Hill toward Halesowen, the usual sprint taking place with flailing legs in abundance.

 

Unfortunately for me my chain was slightly slack, allowing it to swing left and right when not under tension. This, coupled with the fact that my chainwheel was of the type where the crank lay almost flush with the face of the chainwheel, allowed the end of the crank to come up under the top row of the chain!

 

This sudden lock-up of the transmission resulted in the rear triangle being bent outwards to almost 90 degrees to the rest of the bike, trapping the rear wheel between the chainstays near the bottom bracket. The resulting skid was long enough to cause the rear tyre to blow out and come off the rim, followed by the collapse of the alloy rim. I was finally brought to a stop when the chainwheel dug into the road.

 

Fortunately the rest of my clubmates managed to avoid me. To the best of my knowledge (my memory isn’t what it was) this is the only time in my cycling career that I haven’t been able to limp home after effecting a ‘Heath Robinson’ repair.  

Moral – check your chain tension!

    

                   

NOSTALGIA                                                       by Brian Langdell

Northern News April – August 1950

 

Too many riders were turning up for the Social Section rides. A new scheme  was to be tried whereby as soon as the Captain had 12 or so riders he would appoint a deputy, give him the route, then depart leaving the deputy to guide the remainder, meeting up at lunch and tea. Does not sound very practicable to me to have to lead a typical 80 mile ride without prior notice; however routes then were probably more direct, not having to deviate to avoid traffic as we do now.

 

A weekend was planned to Stratford YH and theatre. An early group left Birmingham with the mission to get the theatre tickets, and the main group was to follow on seven hours later. On arrival at the YH they were told that the advance group could not get everyone a ticket. In the evening they all went down to the theatre and those without a seat were allowed to stand at the back through the complete performance of the Shakespere play. (That would stop you nodding off!) It was not much better in the self-cooker’s kitchen next morning; they were queuing four deep for a gas ring.

 

Previous editions of NN mentioned the possibility of coal mining in Bentley Woods. ‘Alley’ reported: “The ghastly mess that open cast mining is making of beauty in these woods.” Well the beauty is back now so they made a good job of restoration.

 

The Northern News at this time was not free, as it is now, but even so sales were averaging 110 per month, with free copies to the Southern Section, YHA, Birmingham Reference Library, and all members still in the Armed Forces.

 

A new regular feature was ‘Girl’s Corner’. Here is an extract from an article called ‘Every Woman’s Guide to the Countryside.’

HAMLET:  A place inhabited by one man who is capable of 

                    mending punctures, and knows his place.

VILLAGE:  Any hamlet with more than one such creature.

TOWN: Stocked with men dressed to look as presentable as

              possible in clothes chosen by women. Their purpose is to

              walk along pavements casting the admiring glances due to

              lady cyclists, and to mend their punctures.

              If the countryside were all town the hinderance of having

              men in cycling clubs could be dispensed with.

CITY:    A town with several brands and shades of lipstick.

METROPOLIS: Any place with nylons.

 

GOMMECOURT                                 by Brian & Margaret Moss

 

Flying to Paris with a couple of bikes often strikes our friends as being rather strange but after a rather hectic ride out of Charles de Gaulle airport one is soon in open countryside.

 

The September trip is going to be rather different. The SNCF sales lady says that bikes travel free on the RER train to Paris Gare du Nord station and they are welcome except during the "hours of affluence" (the rush hour). The turnstiles are less welcoming but before we can unload the luggage, fellow passengers have helped us lift the fully laden bikes over the turnstiles. Gare du Nord is more user friendly  and  large  ticket operated doors permit a dignified exit for cyclists. The English newspapers have given plenty of advice about touts who stand by the automatic ticket dispensers and generously offer to buy you a ticket with your credit card. When you receive your monthly bill you can discover what else they have bought with your details. And sure enough they are there. We'll patiently wait at the ticket window. Most French trains carry bikes but on the TGVs they are supposed to be dismantled and bagged but some routes can carry a few fully assembled machines.

 

The next TGV bound for Arras is full so we wait for the one afterwards. A hostess helps us to lift the bikes into the train. The train is comfortable but lacks the sensation of speed since it is on all new tracks and does not go through little stations or villages. Within 50 minutes we have covered the 178 miles to Arras which is approximately #+- kilometres per *$"@6: well as I was saying the TGVs are very fast. Shed loads of vitesse!

 

Arras was to be merely a point at which we would start the journey but son Hywel said that it was an attractive town and it proved to be so. However, the residents were celebrating the sixtieth anniversary of their liberation and there were fairs and bands everywhere. All the hotels, which we fancied, were booked up. The Holiday Inn had an excellent room and an indoor room for the bikes and a reasonable price was inclusive of breakfast. Indeed the room was so comfortable that I could not see Margaret rushing for her bike next day.

My memories of Arras are dim. In 1959 I was cycling back from Italy on a bike with a three-speed hub gear and was getting short of money. By the time I reached Arras I was cycling until the early hours, sleeping in the bottom of a haystack before rising around six and hitting the road again. Ah yes; the good old days! "Buy me 'une grande biere' Margaret" and I will bore you with every detail of hub gears, haystacks and hard times in Arras.

Come breakfast time, Margaret looks more dressed for shopping than cycling. Since there is no C&A in Arras I am happy to visit the fair ground. In a display of ancient children's toys I find a pair of stilts, on which I walk around the area to the amusement of the local children. At least four bands are playing in different parts of the city and we do our best to be part of the audience for each of them in turn.

 

The main destination of the journey is the Military Cemetery at   Gommecourt where mum's cousin is buried. Twenty two year old Lance Corporal Walter Alfred Cole of the Royal Fusiliers died on the first day of the Battle of the Somme, 1st of July 1916 along with 60,000 others. Mum does not remember him but remembers an Aunt Matilda who was his mother. Gommecourt is almost exactly half way between Arras and Albert but knowing that the hotels in Albert are not as good as where we are staying we decide on a day excursion. Other advantages include no packing and unpacking, no searching for hotels and less weight to push around all day.

 

The only non-sunny day of the holiday is the one we choose for our day in Gommecourt. As we head towards the Somme Valley on minor roads we are made welcome at all the little cafes where we call. Eventually we come to Fonquevilliers or "Funky Villas" as it was known to the British soldiers. Hunger has struck us rather suddenly. A local man tells us that there is no restaurant or shop in that village, the next village and so on and so on. His wife speaks English and offers to make us a meal but we decline but are touched by her generosity.

 

A mobile boulangerie calls at a house on the outskirts of the village and we wait to ambush the driver. A pain aux raisins, a pain aux chocolat and a bottle of mineral water make a lot of difference to our spirits. Gommecourt is a very small village. We look at the small church and wonder if Great Uncle Walter looked at the same church. Probably not as our book on the battle of Gommecourt shows it almost totally razed to the ground.

 

Leaving on the Puisieux road we see a small plantation of trees in the middle of a field. This must be the cemetery. As we turn up the Hebuterne road we find a couple of shells by the roadside. Seventy tonnes of live ammunition are taken off the Somme battlefields every year. When we first visited the area, some twenty years ago the figure was ninety tonnes. One third of the shells never exploded and some are still dangerous. Farmers stack suspect items by the roadside and they are collected weekly by the bomb disposal squad. When I cycled in the area one Springtime I noticed small sticks in the fields with polythene bags tied on them. This marks anything suspicious found during ploughing and it can be removed or blown up. I saw one blown up once and it was audible for a very long distance. One snag is that you cannot safely slip into the woods to pay a call without risk of treading on something dangerous.

 

It is often said that the noise on the first day of battle was audible in South London but it is 257 km. from Albert to London and wonder if it is an urban myth. Before I have leaned my bike on the cemetery wall Margaret has located Walter’s grave. He is lucky to have a named grave, most fall into the “Soldier of the Great War” category.

 

 The lettering is easy to read but it is difficult to photograph, so   immaculate is the gravestone. A few days later I am informed that the secret is to cover the stone with shaving foam. About eight years ago we took mum to see her other cousin, Second Lieutenant Daniel

 

Talbot Jackson’s grave near Armentieres. She reckoned we were almost certainly the first relatives to visit the grave. Last year I met Daniel's half brother and he says that he knows of no other relative who ever visited the grave and I think the same is true of Walter Cole, who was an only child and left no family that we know of.

 

 The more we read our book the more horrified we are. The bodies in Gommecourt were buried a good year after the battle. The dog tags worn by the soldiers were, apparently, biodegradable which is one of the reasons why many bodies could not be identified.

 

The cemetery register and visitor's book lie behind a bronze door and we notice that some of the other visitors to the cemetery are distant relatives of those buried there. Only a few years ago you could find the names of Great War widows among the visitors to war cemeteries. After telephoning mum with details of our visit  we head back towards Arras. Were it not for a very strong wind we could be enjoying the very scenic journey. With the bikes back in their little room we depart for the excellent  restaurant, which we discovered shortly after our arrival.

 

A day out to Vimy Ridge, the Canadian memorial is sufficient excuse to spend a fourth night in Arras. Here there are some well preserved trenches. Margaret takes advantage of a guided tour through the very long tunnel, which the Canadians used to bring

 

men to and from the trenches. My most enduring memory is how close the Canadian trenches were to the German trenches. Whilst cycling we will take no shortcuts as there is too much undetonated ammunition in the area. Besides I have not done too well on short cuts. The little farm track tends to become a tiny farm track and eventually just a field when I navigate.

 

We must now leave our hotel in Arras and we head south for Puisieux where we know the routes and the good places for a drink. Cyclists have a special place in the hearts of the French nation. Earlier in the year we were cycling in the Marne Valley when we came to a check point for a cycle race. "You are cyclists," said the steward. "So you must have something to eat." When we had tucked in he looked at us with a smile. "But since you are not in the competition, you can also have a drink." After a couple of glasses of champagne we were hardly fit to be back on the road let alone in the competition!

 

The population of the area around the Somme battlefields is not at all dense, many villages have a much lower population now than they did at the time of the first world war. People will always join in conversation and that includes teenagers who seem to be very polite and ever helpful.

 

Motorists are much more considerate to cyclists than is the case in England. On minor roads there are far fewer vehicles and they give a good safe clearance when they overtake cyclists. The Thiepval memorial to those who fell in the war but have no known grave is huge and is visible from so far away that we use it to maintain our bearing for much of the morning.

 

We are on the look out for anywhere good to stay for a few nights as I was not over impressed by the hotels when I last visited Albert six or seven years ago. Most tourists are either in motor cars or they stay in large towns and take one of the numerous organised tours of the battlefields. There is a good place to stay at Auchonvillers ("Ocean Villas" to the soldiers) but if it is full we shall be behind time. There is a highly renowned restaurant in Authuille.

 

Its reputation is well deserved and from the first snails to the last coffees takes two and a half hours. We are careful to have a couple of beers with the meal. The cheapest bottle of wine would have more than doubled the cost of the lunch.

 

Albert soon appears or more accurately the golden virgin and child on the top of the tower of the basilica of Notre Dame de Brebieres which is visible for miles around. The statue was hit during the Great War and dangled upside down from the tower until the tower itself was finally brought down.

 

Previously I stayed at the Hotel de la Basilique but found it a bit chintzy so we try the Hotel de la Paix, which has been recommended to us. It is also chintzy and has one of those toilets, which would suck out your innards if you flushed before standing up!  Any deficiencies are compensated by the high standard of cuisine. Despite having no C&A Albert is an interesting place to rest for a few days.

 

The ride to Albert was hard enough so we will have an away day on the train. Amiens is not too distant and we can visit the famous hortillonages which are market gardens built on islands in three hundred hectares of marshes beside the River Somme and accessible only by boat. After visiting the Amiens C&A we take my new "Angelo Litrico" shirt on an electric boat tour around the hortillonages. The commentary is in French but fellow passengers obligingly translate when we are obviously struggling to understand. Back in Albert we admire the railway station which was rebuilt after the war to its original design.

 

There is not much accommodation between Albert and Compiegne. We find a hotel in Roye but do not like the look of it although we cannot give a reason. After a good lunch we head on to Compiegne where we can now spend two nights. The hotel is excellent and the town has plenty to interest tourists.

 

  In Albert the tourist office will book us a minibus tour of parts of the battlefields of the Somme. The driver is English speaking (as are most people from  Lancashire) and is an absolute mine of information. Since there are only a handful of passengers on his mini bus, we are given our own choice of route so we make sure that he includes Ulster Tower and Lochnagar Crater at La Boiselle. The Musee de 1'Abri is housed in a tunnel, which predates the First World War and was used to hide from the Spanish. It was then brought back into use an air raid shelter in the Second World War. Now it is an underground museum of the First World War and is most realistic. At the end there is the inevitable shop where you can buy battlefield souvenirs. I'm pretty experienced at charming excess baggage through an airport check in but a couple of mortar shells plus bicycles could be considered ambitious. When you come upstairs at the exit of the museum you then have to find where you are and how to find your way back.

 

Our last day's ride is to Plailly, about a couple of hours ride from the airport where earlier in the year we discovered the Auberge du Petit Cheval d'Or. It is a family owned hotel, which we always prefer and dining is first class and reasonably priced wine is available. Unreasonably priced wine is also available so I point our choice out with a ballpoint pen rather than a less accurate finger!

 

fin

ANNUAL TRAVEL INSURANCE                     by John Bedford

FOR OVER-65s

 

This information was published in July 2004. I would welcome any feedback on these or any other insurers to keep members informed. Personally, we have used Flexicover for a number of years and had no problem when Beryl broke her wrist last year, or when I dislocated my collar-bone in Prague after coming off on some diesel.

 

American Express    0800 700707  www.americanexpress.co.uk

Eagle Star Travel     0800 555200   www.eaglestar.co.uk

Bradford & Bingley 0800 435642

Citibond Travel Ins. 0870 4446431 www.cityybond.co.uk

Final Touch Travel  0116 2720500

Travel Insurance Services 01277 314320  

                                                         www.yourtravelservice.co.uk

Flexicover Direct      0870 9909292 www.flexicover.com

Sainsbury’s Bank      0845 3003190 www.sainsburysbank.co.uk

Two seemingly obvious ones are Saga, but they only do single trip.

Age Concern are reported as being excessively expensive.

 

PASSIONATE ABOUT CYCLING                   by John Bedford

 

Having a clear-out recently I came across some cycling diaries that I had written between 1950 and 1955. This led me to think about the influence of the bike on my life

 

I have no recollection of a cycle in my very early years. When I was about 6 or 7 years old my parents moved from Bramcote (near Nottingham) to Stanton-on-the Wolds, on the main Nottingham to Melton Mowbray road. My father worked in a hardware store in Nottingham and traveled there every day by bus, as we did not possess a car. We moved into the country so that my parents could start what I would call a small-holding to help with the war effort. My father maintained his full-time job as well as being a volunteer night-time firewatcher in Nottingham. We had 2 acres of land almost adjacent to our bungalow, which came with a very large garden. There was a further 3 acres of land about a mile away. The only reasonable mode of transport to this field was by bike. My father had a black 3-speed Runwell (?) with the trigger control on the top tube. My mother had one of those single speed sit-up-and-beg bikes with the loop frame. One Christmas I had a second-hand bike that had been repainted a pillar-box red. Thus I was able to cycle up to the field or along a handy quiet lane nearby.

 

Opposite our bungalow there was a pond and I took up fishing. Eventually I wanted to go further afield, so I loaded the bike up with my garden-cane rod and line and made a number of visits to the Grantham Canal, about 5 miles away.

 

My sister and I grew up without any local pals to play with. We spent time helping with the planting of crops, feeding the goats, pigs, heifers, chickens and rabbits. I also learnt a lot about birds, butterflies and other creatures. My bedroom contained large bottles where I contrived to keep small fish (minnows?) I’d caught in the stream at the bottom of the garden. In many ways it was an ideal upbringing so close to nature, and with no shortage of food during those austere war years.

 

At some stage I found a local map and without telling my parents I borrowed my father’s bike which I could just about ride. I doubt I’d even a pump or repair outfit, or any money or identification. I don’t know the exact route I took, but I do remember that I cycled to Cropwell Bishop, so probably did about 20 miles.

 

Not everything went to plan for my parents, and we lost the 3 acre crop of peas two years running due to heavy rain. I think this created a financial problem and so they sold up and moved to Loughborough. This was in the October of my second year at Grammar School. Upon arriving at Loughborough there was no room for me at the Boy’s Grammar School, so I ended up at Loughborough College School which was classed as a ‘secondary technical school’. This was possibly one of the best things that happened to me as I was now able to do more technical subjects such a metalwork, electrical and technical drawing. Not only that, at the first Christmas after only half a term I was well up in the class listings. This led to my father promising that, if I came top of the class, he would buy me a new bike. What better incentive could any boy want?

 

Well, next term I achieved my goal, and my father dutifully took me to the local Curry’s (I don’t remember a ‘proper’ bike shop in Loughborough in those days). So at 13, on the 8th April 1950, I had a green Hercules 3-speed Sturmey Archer bike. It wasn’t long before I was renewing this and renewing that, and even taking the SA to pieces and re-assembling it in working order. I soon became a cycling fanatic and spent every free moment out on my bike.

 

I soon built up my mileages. On 1st July I did a four counties ride (Leics, Warwicks, Derbys, Staffs.) of 44 miles. A few days later I rode to Newark-on-Trent and did 76 miles. A lot of my more local riding was over Charnwood Forest, visiting such places as Woodhouse Eaves, Bradgate Park and Newtown Linford. At the end of July I rode to Birmingham via Coleshill -55miles- to stay with my Grandma in Moseley for a fortnights stay. In that time I visited Earlswood Lakes, Cannon Hill Park, and a trip of 55 miles to Kenilworth, Warwick and Leamington. I also had another ride to Earlswood Lakes plus going round the Outer Circle bus route on the same day, totalling 40 miles. I wouldn’t contemplate it now with all the traffic.

 

Through my previous school and Scouts I had made some good friends at West Bridgford. It wasn’t long before I was regularly cycling there to see them. This was 13 miles each way and my diary records the time regularly taken as about 37 minutes, an average speed of 21 mph. Many were the times I cycled home in the dark. Batteries were very expensive for a school boy and I would ride as much as possible without the front light on, only turning it on when a car came towards me. The other dodge I developed, when blinded by car head lights, was to ride towards the centre of the road. This soon made the motorists dip their lights. Mind you, there weren’t many cars around in those days to worry about.

 

From my diary it appears that by March 1951 I was ready to go hostelling. How I knew about youth hostels, or how I joined, I don’t know as I don’t recollect knowing anybody else who had ever hostelled. My first hostel was Broughton, near Kettering. This was the Old Rectory and the hostel was on the ground floor. I think I took everything, including the proverbial kitchen sink. I had pre-booked and ordered bread and milk, but the warden had failed to get any bread for me. I went back into Kettering, but by then most shops had closed. All I could buy were some ’Penguins’. What else I ate over the weekend I cannot recollect. Nevertheless, there is one incident I do recollect at the hostel, and that was a baby falling from a first floor window and surviving.

 

The following weekend I did my longest ride to date; 97 miles to Burton, Stone, Leigh, Uttoxeter, Derby and back to Loughborough – still only 14 and my new bike just less than one year old.

 

Five weeks later I went on my first hostelling tour. The first night was at Astwell Castle hostel near Daventry, 70 miles from Loughborough. Then a shorter day of 35 miles to Broughton again, and the last night at Whissendine hostel after covering 60 miles through Peterborough, Stamford and Oakham.

 

In mid-July I did my first century ride of 105 miles to Lincoln via Nottingham, Southwell and Newark. And so the mileages kept building up. As none of the lads in my class seemed at all venturesome I had to be a lone rider.