Winter Cycling in the fifties

I must have joined the CTC and YHA back in 1957/58. My first run was on a Sunday starting at 8.00 am for a trip to Eastbourne from Maidstone. A high mileage for a fist outing. It was summer and I had my swimming kit in the saddle bag. We met at the Corn Exchange where the Fire Engines used to dash from when called out. On a Sunday morning back then the town was empty and very few vehicles were on the move. I must say I miss those Sundays in town when I could go off and explore all kinds of new places on my junior New Hudson roadster. This was two bikes before this first CTC trip when I turned up on my six speed Dawes Clansman in bright yellow with tartan trim.

For a fifteen year old this was like a new world. There were about twenty of us and we were the only youngsters (a school friend had seen the CTC ad in the newsagents) but we were well looked after being placed midway along the line of paired cyclists. The leader and a rearguard cyclist would call out warnings of approaching cars, although the roads were very quiet for much of the morning. I soon discovered the joys of calling in at a CTC recommended cafe somewhere in the Weald and finding that older members would insist on paying for my coffee, toast and marmalade snack. It was later that I discovered the joys of the breakfast run. A Six a.m. start and a full breakfast (paid for in advance) at yet another recommended location. Similarly I discovered Marrow Jam and a whole range of other jams served with the then standard bread and butter tea, sometimes set up in an outbuilding of a country pub especially for us.

This was the early summer but winter runs are more memorable for colder reasons. The thought of a warm cafe and a Sunday roast lunch would keep us pushing on through the rain and sometimes snow. If the weather turned really nasty there was often a nearby station to get us home. I once gave up on a 9 hour ' tourist reliability trial' due to high winds and heavy rain. When I put my bike in the guards van I was pleased to find that I wasn't the only member that had given up with 30 miles to go. On another occasion high winds made the going hard when we were way out on the flat lands of the Isle of Grain in north Kent. My friend and I lost contact with the pack and only caught up when the route turned out of the strong westerly that was causing us such grief.

But it was the winter cold of Kent and Essex that really presented the big challenge. I always thought that everyone had cold easterly winds in winter but once I moved west I forgot this. Only to be rudely reminded when I occasionally returned in winter with the light clothing which had been perfectly O.K. in West Wales. For some reason we would all change to fixed wheel for winter. Whilst this meant you kept twirling away it also meant that your feet were out there spinning away in a centrifuge getting colder and colder. Soon all feeling would be lost and then the pain would kick in. Time for a walk and a hot drink and farewell to the toe clips for a while. Provided you could get your feet out before crashing to the ground!

Not all winter runs were like this. Our Christmas Party in 1958 was held at the YHA in Alfriston, not far from Eastbourne again. It was a happy warm affair and being brought up as a publican's son I had not really picked up on how 'ordinary people' enjoyed themselves at Christmas. Opening hours at that time of year always ran the risk of turning nasty, especially when a customer started drinking someone else's drink! I can't remember any alcohol being served at the YHA although there must have been some bottled Fremlin's Light Ale somewhere in a saddle bag. I was not aware of any trips to the pub either but I remember a load of silly party games and a lot of laughter. Although it was a cold start the run back on the Sunday was via some steep climbs through Ashdown Forest which kept us nice and warm.

Our trip out to Bradwell YHA was different kettle of fish altogether. I remember having to meet up at Rochester Bridge early on a Saturday afternoon. A fast run across to Tilbury soon had us loaded on the ferry heading for the land of my Dutch ancestors i.e., Essex. As the light faded we got colder and colder and there was nowhere open for a hot drink. By the time we got to Burnham on Crouch fears were growing that the hostel Warden might not welcome a late arrival of a party of 20, even though we had alll booked. Consequently, all the warm looking and inviting pubs had to be passed by. We made it just in time for a meal in the hostel kitchen and a cup of cocoa. The hostel was consisted of a group of huts which must have been an old military establishment. The blankets provided were not enough to keep me warm so I got dressed again and refitted myself into my sheet sleeping bag. In the morning there seemed to be more ice on the of the rusting Crittall windows than there was outside in the gloomy looking landscape. Breakfast was a good start, and our duties done, mine was washing up, we were soon heading back to the Tilbury Ferry and then up and over two lots of the North Downs and a very quick decent down Bluebell hill and home to my public house home right in the middle of Maidstone. Opening time in those days was 7.pm on a Sunday so Mum and Dad were still having their tea, which on a Sunday, would include crumpets, Marmite, celery and any other treats that had arrived in the box delivered on a Friday by The World Stores grocery shop just up the street from us. As we closed at 2pm there would always be time for a proper Sunday lunch. The only time when this was possible. How all day opening works for family landlords now I can't imagine. I must have had something for lunch somewhere but it was the cold and numb feet that I remember from that Essex dash.

Only once did I ride in a near blizzard and that was after a CTC meeting held at the Running Horse pub which is now hemmed in between the feeders to junction 6 of the M 20. It must have been about four inches deep when I started ( they didn't do metric snow in 1958) and although the snow was an obstruction I got back into town, albeit looking like a trainee yeti. There was no ice however and I cant ever remember going out on my bike when that was about. By the time the bad winters of 1962 and 1963 arrived my Kentish days had passed. Instead it was struggling with piles of snow and icy pavements on the way to the tube station. My cycling club days were also somewhere behind me in in my fond memories of growing up in a town, but having country lanes and orchards just a quick spin up the street. There was no such quick trip from any of my digs in London and it has made me a firm believer that if we lose sight of the relationship between town and country we will all lose out.

Dacier

Postcript: I have just had a look at the map for both the Eastboure trips and the Bradwell run and I would rather not think of what the traffic hazards would be like now. The reason I didn't do much cycling in snow was probably because in my part of Kent when heavy snow came there would be heavy drifting and loads of slush in town. I still have my old Dawes but it now shares its stable with an alloy Dawes all rounder bike which was definitely not made in Birmingham like the old timer by its side. They seem to get on OK though.

Black Hill and the Black Mountains from 60 Miles away: Visual Amenity as Inspiration

Following on from my blog of 11th August ( Windmills etc: Visual Amenity, What’s it for?) I must tell you of one of the highlights of our latest trip when our caravan came to rest in the Clent hills, in the Black Country: the place where the great wealth of our nation started to be generated from the 18th century onwards. From Coalbrookdale to climate change is such a small step but there is much still to be done to reverse this deadly drift, as G.K. Chesterton puts it, ‘before we go to paradise by way of Kensal Green’.

Having made the climb to Clent summit the views are magnificent, from city sprawl through to Housman’s ‘blue remembered hills’ of Shropshire, and of Worcestershire, Herefordshire and Gloucestershire. For us it was the view to the west which meant the most. Sixty miles away among the haze was our part of the world. At the top of this list was Hay Bluff, Black Hill and the line of the Cats Back with the Sugar Loaf insisting on being seen in the far distance. For such a comparatively easy walk this must be the most rewarding climb in the region.

Whilst taking in the contrasts of rural and industrial landscape I got talking to an elderly, sprightly gentleman who was a life member of the CTC. He had lived all his life in Sutton Coalfield and said he valued the contrasts of his region. Looking towards Hay Bluff, this veteran t recounted his cycle ride as a young man to Brecon with his fellow CTC members. The traditional meeting place was the Temple of Remembrance in the city centre, with an 8 am start on a Saturday morning. Instead of the route the crow might take from Clent, the cyclists route would be winding and lengthy. The first section was to Hereford and then out along the Brecon Road, crossing the river at Bridge Sollars and on to Hay-on-Wye from Madley via Hardwicke.

We both recalled the methods of cycling in large groups in the fifties and how the occasional vehicle was assisted in passing several dozen cyclists by making sure that there were ample gaps in the column for the overtaking car or lorry. A Tail Ender cyclist would warn of an over taker with the call, ‘Oil Up’, while a leading rider would call ‘Oil Down’ for one coming in the other direction.

Main road cycling in the fifties at weekends was rarely a problem, and my veteran friend told me that he was still riding on main roads up until the early seventies. By then the speed and volume of the traffic had reduced the pleasures of the open road while increasing the risk. I think cycling in some towns has now reached that point with added risk of being knocked down as a pedestrian by cyclists in pedestrian precincts!

Having passed through Hay-on-Wye, the Brecon YHA was reached just after 5pm. Returning by a different route on the Sunday ensured a varied, affordable and refreshing weekend for the cyclists of his generation. For the present generation of cyclists it is probably wiser to avoid busy roads as much as possible and support segregated cycle routes whenever possible.

This meeting so inspired Sian that she has decided that I should upgrade from my 1957 Dawes Clansman to something a bit lighter. I collect it, still a Dawes, from Master Craft Cycles of Hereford on Tuesday and we plan to make use of cycle routes beyond the reach of the car and lorry whenever possible. The car cycle rack has been retrieved from the shed ready for our next. Possibly the National Cycle Route along the Kennet and Avon Canal. See where a good view can end up.