Tour de Yorkshire revisited

(Written last year after Stage 2 of the inaugural Tour de Yorkshire under title of "Get off and milk it" Rolled out again ahead of plans to ride out to see the final stage of this years Event in Scarborough)

I made a bit of a statement back in 1982.

It was nothing earth shattering or controversial. I was not quoted in any authoritative publications nor did I put my words into any written document, like a contract.

The gist of the matter was that I had just taken delivery of my first proper racing bike, a beautiful bright red 531 frame hand built Langdale Lightweight and at the age of 19 was in peak physical fitness for fast and furious cycling. It did not seem out of hand under this combination of machine and boy/man to vow to myself and anyone else who happened to be in earshot that if I ever had to dismount said wonder machine and walk whilst tackling a hill then I would sell it (the bike not the hill).

The bike had just been purchased from the Mapperley, Nottingham shop run by the Green family with a more than generous bequest from my Grandfather and so there was very much of an emotional bond attached to it on which I was counting to help me push on the pedals that bit harder on a difficult climb.

From 1982 up until  today, May 1st 2015, I had failed in my self declared invincibility just the once and in mitigation I would state the following.

"I had left my house at 5am on a very wet saturday in order to ride 70 miles to see The Leeds Classic International Cycle Race at Ilkley, West Yorkshire. The rain and cold, surprising for June, affected my energy levels and I struggled at the 60 mile mark as I hit the rather undulating course of the Leeds Ring Road. I was behind schedule to see the large field of riders go up the intimidatingly steep Cow and Calf Rocks but was able to glimpse the flash of team jerseys on one of their crossings of the main arterial route as they made their way out of the city. This was some compensation for my efforts as by the time I reached the foot of the Ilkley mountainside the race had passed through.

My morale was rock-bottom and about half way up I unceremoniously gave up and put my foot down on the gritty tarmac. There was no chorus of booing from the retreating  spectators , no-one swooned and as far as I recall no fingers were wagged and tuts tutted"

On the balance of the evidence I might have been forgiven for this betrayal of the promise to myself, the memory of Grandad Dick and even a meta-physical alliance with the bicycle.

That was in 1993.

I feel that I have made up for this failure many times in the intervening years by persevering on any gradient presenting itself and tolerating the resulting pain in limbs and respiratory system.

Today, I have to report that I had a terrible lapse and in a short 2 hour period had to stop, climb off and push that same and now somewhat antique bicycle three times on some horrific hills.

I was riding in completely new territory accompanied by my son, incidentally the same age as I was in 1982, as we went to see Stage 1 of the inaugural Tour de Yorkshire.

The plan was to take our bikes on the car roof rack to just outside the finish ( not Finnish) host town of Scarborough and then make our way on two wheels inland with the beautiful Dalby Forest as the intended vantage point for the race.

I had reccied the route on Google Earth and it looked nicely rural with meadows, moorland, forest and glade. I was aware that the terrain would be hilly although viewed on screen in one dimension there was no validation of how hilly it actually was.

Immediately from leaving the car in a residential street the roads went upwards.

Without a warm up or easing in on flatter ground this was a rude awakening.

I managed to get up and over the summit and enjoyed a rapid sweep down into the estate village of Hackness, all dressed stone and tied cottages. The Broxa Road, towards Dalby Forest undulated a bit and the ups and downs just about cancelled each other out.

Then at Langdale End there was an almighty climb. I was wheezing a bit by then but congratulated myself on defeating gravity. Within a quarter of a mile and surely defying geography the road went up yet again and it was here that I had to climb off or rather stop myself from toppling over with loss of momentum.

I pushed the bike up the hill past the silent but scornful glances of a group of camped out cyclists. Not a nice feeling at all.

I did get going again and on a long swooping descent caught up with my son to whom the slope had not been as problematic.

We had reached a plateau at the entrance proper to The Great Yorkshire Forest and rode along quite swiftly for once.

Then the Dalby Hill loomed up around a hairpin. 16% as a gradient sounds harmless but in old currency that is about 1 in 6 which is quite severe.

At less than a quarter up I had to get off again and push. Two spectating cyclists remarked on the pedigree of my beloved bicycle and one of them offered to take it off my hands for a tenner. I laughed a bit but was deeply hurt. I may have in a reflex action patted the handlebars in a bid to reassure my bike that we would not be parting company any time soon.

Taking up our own roadside position at the King of The Mountains marker to see the race which would be arriving in about 60 minutes it was clear to see that my bicycle was, by far, the most senior amongst all of the hundreds strewn along the verge and in the tree line.

In an unprovoked approach by a camera toting bike fan I was further insulted with the jibe "You haven't ridden all the way here on that have you?".

I was a bit taken aback by this but dismissed it as enthusiastic banter sparked by, probably, low blood sugar levels and too many caffeine based drinks.

After the race had skipped and breezed up the same hill with no evident trouble I set off with my son to backtrack the route to arrive in Scarborough to see the finish, scheduled for some 2 hours later.

In the company of about fifty or sixty cyclists with the same intention it was a bit of a mad dash eastwards but seemed easier for all of that.

However, my third dismount was at the foot of the last incline. I was by then resigned to failure not helped by the disparaging and insulting remarks that had come my way earlier. A fat bloke passed my slow walking progress and this encouraged me to try to catch him up after remounting.

Anger and incredulity are a potent fuel for tired limbs and although I did not see him again on the road I had enough energy to chase down my son and get to Scarborough.

It had been a difficult day but I could not wait to just get out and ride the next day to see Stage 2 on Old Faithful , and not because it was completely level and flat.

Tour de Yorkshire

It got my vote as the best bus shelter on the route of the second running of the Tour of Yorkshire Cycle Race, if not in the whole wide world.

I should correct the title of the race.

It is the Tour de Yorkshire, not a colloquialism, but to acknowledge that the same organisers do something similar over three weeks across France. That century plus aged Grand Tour is invariably run in glorious July weather, 30 plus degrees temperature, reliable sunshine, still and calm conditions.

I was in the bus shelter because the Yorkshire weather was, well, just Yorkshire weather with four seasons in just the one day.

Our best intentions (me and my son) to catch sight of Stage One of the race was to ride westwards from home in Hull for 35 miles. That was to the location of the first Sprint Prize of the day. We expected the race to still be together at what would still be an early part of the total distance of 115 miles from Beverley to Settle. That would make for a no holds barred battle to the sprint line which with a world class field of riders would be something to savour.

Within the first few miles of setting off, and still within the city boundary, I realised that I had not taken into account the weather factor.

It was howling a gale, of epic proportions and yes, a westerly.

A certain level of fitness and a low crouching position over the handlebars can help to mitigate a strong wind. I lacked the first and in busy early friday morning commuter traffic I was reluctant to get too involved in the latter.

It was a case of making an executive decision.

Instead of turning left at the roundabout to head west, we went the opposite direction with our new destination to be the village of Etton which was just under 5 miles into the stage route but some 15 miles away to us.

The prospect of a relentless west to east headwind now became in reality an unsettling crosswind.

It was the lesser of two evils as far as cyclists are concerned. We had not made a defining decision for a pleasant days ride to see the race. This was evident from the horizontal plane of the rain and sleat as it hammered into our left ears where they protruded out of our cycling helmets.

The road were treacherously slippery so even a rare but very welcome downward slope had to be approached with caution. This meant about 10 miles per hour less than on a dry day, and adding the the wind factor meant a painfully slow forward progress.

We had left home at a time allowing for the intended distance and duration. Even after reviewing our options the prevailing wintry conditions could still make us late to see the race pass by.

There was no blue in the sky, now an all pervading gun metal grey. Our new course, more on a south to north axis was in fact a bit like navigating a yacht in full sail as we took  to zig-zagging back streets and side roads toward our new destination.

This gave a bit of relief from the side swiping wind as "well to do" suburban houses and bungalows acted as a wind break. Even better in providing shelter were the dense hedges on the headlands of the fields as we crossed the green belt towards the stage start and host town.

A few cyclists showed better early season fitness as they passed us on the undulating lanes which fringed Beverley. I do not want to compound the sexist allegations which caused Shane Sutton to resign from British Cycling this week but I was actually overtaken by a girl. I did catch her up but when the traffic lights changed to green she streaked ahead again.

There were some short, steep inclines between the villages of Walkington and Cherry Burton made more technically difficult, or as I call it knackering by the constant inclement weather.

The worst slope was however the man made ramp over the former railway bridge to Etton. It is a true hump- back bridge with the deep score marks from the impact of  exhaust systems  and sumps testifying to its popularity as an improvised launch pad for lads (oops, and lasses) with their cars.

The pub at Etton was capitalising on its position on the race route in that at eleven o'clock in the morning it was fully open for business. Steamed up windows and the buzz of conversation were obviously side effects of good patronage and I had to fight my way through to the impromptu coffee bar under  the arched opening to the evening-only restaurant.

I was chilled to the bone and could not easily extricate from my back jersey pocket the damp fiver to pay for two hot drinks and a couple of chocolate covered flapjacks (proceeds to the local church fund).

Not wanting to miss any of the build up to the race we made our way out of the lounge bar to the beer garden. This was now a busy bike park and more cyclists arrived bearing club jerseys from all points of the compass. Police motor bikes took the sharp left turn onto Main Street with a good blast of their raucous twin tone horns. This flurry of activity excited the large crowd of locals and visitors in the pub car park but that was nothing compared to the cheers as the forward convoy of race vehicles made the same manouevre. It was still one of the coldest days of the year and in late April!

At this time I had claimed sovereignty of the bus shelter.

It faced due south and so was perfectly protected from the wind and precipitation.

The bench on the back wall was some comfort to take the weight off my frost bitten limbs but I could not fully relax, not with the imminent arrival of the race. I took to a programme of arm waving and knee jerking to try to re-introduce a blood flow to depleted muscles and tendons and get warm.

Fortunately my erratic physical routine was out of direct view of the crowd.

It was a nice bus shelter, clean and tidy. Even the limited graffiti, synonymous with all bus shelters, was of a good calibre, in nice script and grammatically and anatomically correct.

The race, already fragmented by the harsh climatic conditions and, I later learned, an unfortunate mass crash on a slippery cattle grid, came and went within a matter of seconds.

It was thrilling.

We then had to wait for the road to re-opened to traffic.

I had by then worked out the logistics involved to jack up the bus shelter and transport it, all in the cover of darkness, to my own home so that I could, on a whim, recreate my own perfect environment in which to, at least, dream of being a good cyclist.

Life of Riley

There cannot be many foodstuffs which are as eagerly anticipated and satisfying as a bag of potato crisps.

This is a strong opinion that I maintain even now that I am well into my 5th decade. I should perhaps abstain from eating them as much as I do on health and dietary grounds but it is difficult to give up such a tasty and gratifying snack.(Personal Best- 5 packets in succession). I have stopped reading the nutritional information, depressing as it is, and indeed advocate an alternative form of labelling in the form of increasingly smiley faces to indicate the expected levels of pure happiness, well being and contentment.

It is true that a little bit of what you fancy does you good, well unless you are into Russian Roulette or equally and potentially drastic endeavours and activities. My dedication and loyalty as a consumer to the crisp manufacturing sector is in spite of the disappointment and horror that I experienced when younger in a supervised visit and tour around our local potato crisp factory.

As an indication of how long ago this was I can remember that a standard bag of ready salted was two new pence. The packets were, granted, smaller than those currently available. They were also purchased in quite brittle materials and not the high sheen, foil lined for freshness type that we are used to today. There was also quite a limited choice in flavours with the most exotic being confined to salt and vinegar and cheese and onion and not the bewildering range of more recent times.

Most larger towns seemed to have their own crisp manufacturers and with no one concern dominating to the extent of the Mega Corporation that is Walkers and their subsidiaries. The factory I visited was run by Rileys in Scunthorpe. It was a non descript industrial shed on a large commercial estate. As soon as you stepped off the bus there was the unmistakable odour of hot cooking oil. This soon became overwhelming and for many weeks after the smell persisted in my hair and clothing even after many baths, showers and laundry cycles.

The production line was short and noisy. A large covered delivery bay was strewn with soil encrusted potatoes which were tipped from vehicles and unrestrained from rolling about and becoming detached from the main large mound. Stray spuds were rounded up by welly boot and skillfully kicked up onto the pile. A further damp, musty and organic smell seemed to be in competition with the dominant odour. From the unceremonious pile of spuds a group of workers shovelled them up jnto what resembled a large washing machine where they were bumped, ground and swilled to remove the caked on debris of field and farm.

The process also abraded the coarse outer skins to leave the bright white flesh exposed to the elements. The process was accelerated at this stage when any delay would lead to the discolouring of the now raw material.

The next stage was fearful to behold . A mass of whirling and razor sharp blades swiftly and efficiently lacerated the pale nuggets of lumpy potato into thin slivers.A few were manually finished by a team of ladies whom you would do your best to avoid on a dark evening, if they were taking their blades home with them after their shift. This was the money making part with a single spud, of negligible individual value, being made into many hundreds of value added slices to eventually be sold by weight at a significant mark-up and profit margin.

Into the bubbling cauldron of antique, dull and cloudy oil went the sliced discs with an automated quick searing cooking process before being lifted out in true fat fryer style to drain and dry.

The flavouring was perhaps the most disappointing and unremarkable thing to experience. The cooked crisps were segregated into three smaller production lines and more workers with more shovels simply threw on the dry salt and the brightly coloured powdered chemicals that simulated the experience of the required natural taste very effectively.

The manner in which the crisps were handled throughout the process readily explained the regular discovery of various foreign bodies and debris at the bottom of the packet at that last moment when it would be up-ended in order to extricate the last possible fragments from the tight inside corners.

However, by then it was too late to prevent the bits and pieces of non-potato based entities from entering the digestive system.

Number 4

On and after the 26th April 1986 the nuclear monitoring equipment in Sweden began to show a spike in radiation levels.

It was of enough concern to the Swedish authorities to order the shutting down of one of their own power plants for an investigation. This proved not to be the source.

It was three days later that the State Controlled Media in the Soviet Union gave brief mention of a fire at the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Complex ,Reactor number 4.

This was followed by other small announcements in print, on radio and television in a matter of fact way alluding to an accident.

The Soviet propaganda machine was in full swing defending the exceptional safety record of the home grown Nuclear Industry compared with "many accidents abroad".

Nuclear Power was regarded as being clean and low risk. No one seemed alarmed or perturbed even though the incident had been violent and had resulted in 31 deaths in the immediate aftermath.

The residents of that part of Ukraine were given no cause for any concern to their everyday activities and certainly not to their health or futures.

Gradually a realisation dawned amongst the authorities that the fire and explosion at Reactor 4 was a major threat to life. The emissions released to the soil and into the atmosphere were many hundreds of times greater than the fallout from the Hiroshima and Nagasaki atomic bombs. The compounds of Cesium 137, Plutonium, Iodine 131 and Strontium 90 were a potent cocktail which analysts now believe has contributed to up to 1 million related deaths from cancer on a global scale, and counting.

There were, from the initial radiation cloud as it passed over neighbouring Belarus, a cluster of child deaths from thyroid cancer.

The fire at the reactor continued to rage well into May.

Upon imposing a 10km critical zone the Soviet military began a ruthless programme of evacuations. Over a 36 hour period 40,000 residents of the nearest town, Pripyat were told to leave without pets and non-essential belongings. By the end of that week a further 30,000 were forced to abandon their homes.

To encourage co-operation and avert panic or unrest there were promises made of a return within 3 days. Most of the population never saw their homes again.

President Gorbachev felt compelled to address the nation and by way of reassuring neighbouring countries all through northern and western Europe that effective measures had been implemented although a clean up operation to mitigate the damage was still under way in the July.

Thousands of military personnel and civilian volunteers embarked on a huge operation. Contaminated soil was dug up and dumped under concrete. Helicopters sprayed water to suppress airborne dust. Soldiers washed down dust covered pavements , roads and buildings. Dogs and cats were shot on sight.

In the 30km zone more forcible evacuations were made and evacuees saw their homes demolished and the rubble buried. Many peasant farmers had to abandon livestock and crops and were then housed in the austere apartment blocks which typified many Soviet settlements of the era. Former residents were often caught in the exclusion zone in subversive actions to tend to what remained standing of their vegetable plots or to fish as they had always been used to.

The radioactive cloud spread with the wind during 1986 with contamination as far apart as the United States and India recorded.

Spread of contamination from April 1986 ***

The 30km zone remains in place to this day although the radioactive elements will take up to 200,000 years to decay to safe levels.

Abandoned cities, towns and villages have become overgrown and there has been a long running discussion about designating the area as a National Park. Some concessions have been made for tourists to visit the zone even though there is ongoing scientific monitoring of the environment. This is ironic as many animals and plants have suffered from the radiation with low life expectancy and mutations as side effects.

Reactor 4 was encased in a concrete sarcophagus in the years following the accident but even this is now in need of replacement and the world's largest moveable structure, a huge dome is being constructed to be put in position to give up to a century of protection from the all pervading radiation.

The lobbyists for nuclear power still find it difficult to secure support for this form of energy generation because of the Chernobyl disaster.

The implications for ongoing generations may not yet be fully appreciated.

(***source; upload of original graphic by Alex Svensson of Gothenburg)

Out of Kilter

I had to send back the sporran, small ceremonial dagger, tailored jacket and the other trappings.

I kept the kilt which I had bought outright rather than hired for my wedding.

On every anniversary now the 27th, after celebrating with my wonderful wife, I partake in the private ritual of trying to fit into my kilt.

Some years, when I have started to exercise early after the seasonal excesses, I have no trouble at all in adorning myself in the extensive wrap of the tartan cloth. Most years I have to settle for holding everything in for a few seconds and imagine being able to secure the buckles.

In this challenge I am perpetuating the true meaning of tartan.

Of course it is not the same struggle as that endured by William Wallace, Rob Roy and the multitude of Highland heroes but in my own pathetic way I am upholding part of the Scottish identity.

I do have Scots Ancestry and my decision to be wed in a kilt was part homage to my paternal grandmother from Wick (very top north east of Scotland) and partly because, as a male and confident in my own sexuality, I felt it necessary to wear a skirt in public.

For tartan and in particular the kilt there is quite an interesting history and heritage.

The true Highlanders, tough and wiry from having to eke out a living in the harsh environment of their home territory, are more likely to have worn as their everyday attire a rough plaid cloth which was nothing more than an all encompassing wrap held at the waist by a belt. It would have to be durable and capable of being worn in all terrains and with infrequent washing other than in the torrential downpours which typify the all year round Highland climate.

 (Not Me in picture)

Uprisings and rebellions against the English saw tartan synonymous with the sedition of noble savages, terrifying marauding hordes, border raiders and all out war. After the rout of Bonnie Prince Charlie the wearing of tartan was seen as abhorrent and was banned for a generation.

It was not until the Royal Visit in 1822 of King George IV to Scotland that tartan began to make a comeback.

The King insisted on wearing what was perceived as being the mythical outfit for a Highlander although his hosts must have been aghast at what was regarded as nothing more than a fancy dress costume.It was a clumsy attempt at bonding Hanoverian and Stuart dynasties.

The Scottish novelist, Sir Walter Scott, encouraged those attending the events of the King to dress in tartan not as followers of fashion but to represent a unified image of the nation, in effect as the national costume.

The twenty day Royal visit caught the imagination of Victorian Society already enamoured by an idealised romantic notion of the Highland culture through literature and art of the era. Ordinary folk were elevated to a super-race capable of great endurance, untainted by the social conventions of the time,

By this route tartan began to be rehabilitated.

Entrepreneurs and opportunists exploited the new markets and books on historic tartan weaves for specific clans were widely published although this was not the case in reality.

Tracing your clan links became an obsession for the English and also amongst those who had emigrated to the New World and wanted to retain some of their ancestry. Tartan was seen to enshrine the Scottish qualities and national characteristics of boldness, heroism and honour.

On my wedding day and on every celebration of that momentous occasion I like to think that I am following that tradition in my own way.

Perky

How many coffee's, made by others, do you have on average on a daily basis?

What did you drink before coffee became so easily available on the High Street?

It is difficult now to think back to a time when there was any other dominant beverage to be had almost at will.

Of course there are those drinks which are an integral part of a nation's identity and will always remain so but coffee has become the drink of the world and in a relatively short period of time.

My own introduction to the ground bean was through the rather frightening operation, on a weekend only, of the family percolator.

Ground coffee was an expensive luxury in the 1970's having not yet reached the supermarket shelves in any volume or choice. It was quite a performance to assemble the inner workings of the percolator and carefully measure and place in the grounds before replacing the perforated cover and the stainless steel lid with the see through bubble on the top.

After plugging it in we would wait excitedly for the first indications of activity. Within a few minutes the process of circulating the boiling infused water filled the kitchen with loud noises from asthmatic wheezing to a gradually reducing burping sound to signify that the brew was just about ready.

To a young palate the coffee was horrible. It was bitter, stewed and thick and this was even after a good diluting with milk and a lot of sugar.

It appears that  the image of coffee in the 70's decade. was thus joyless, bland,flavourless and better quickly drunk or poured into the nearest sink, available plant pot or receptacle.

There were a few importers and merchants who championed coffee, not the mundane type but real coffee.

This involved them travelling globally to source the best quality beans be they from South America or Africa. They would then be imported and ground on the premises before being branded and distributed. This involved capital investment and physical effort but only represented half of the activity required to bring coffee to the mass market.

The general public, as potential consumers, still had to be convinced that a more expensive coffee was worth the price differential by which it could be purchased in a can from the corner shop or growing chains of supermarkets.

This was the situation when in the late 1970's three 28 year olds from Seattle, USA decided to become coffee bean grinders and sellers.

This original founding team of Starbucks had shown an interest in the coffee business after finding that to get a decent brew they had to travel some distances from their home city. As part of their due diligence the trio sought the expertise of perhaps, at that time, the most influential coffee impresario, Alfred Peet who had made a fortune in San Francisco.

It was the generosity of Peet that saw the Starbucks start-up being allowed to copy his already proven shop layout back in Seattle and share existing suppliers.

Surprisingly the first Starbucks was not a coffee shop but just a place to buy ground coffee for home use.

The business was slow to develop but those visiting the shop were seduced by the aroma of freshly ground coffee and given small tasters of the different bean brews.

The ethos of the business was to educate the public in the idea of good coffee.

The science is interesting. A coffee blend has 1200 compounds compared to, for example 250 in red wine and 350 in white wine. The brewing process is complex bringing together the anti-oxidants and natural chemicals and in each mouthful the taste bud sensations are different.

Starbucks did eventually open up their first coffee shop in 1982/83 but not before the ground work had been done to make coffee a part of everyone's daily routine. (Other coffee shop chains are of course available)

I have, now as an adult, my own percolator and continue the family custom of firing it up on a weekend, I am still petrified by the whole process and I must admit that the coffee resulting is just not as nice as from a cafetiere or from my on local coffee shop.

Seventh Day

An overheard comment the other day caused me to pause and considers its implications.

The speaker, a complete stranger, was sat with friends in a local coffee shop within earshot. He was complaining a bit about the demands of modern life and lifestyles . I initially had little sympathy for him as he was really enjoying having a captive audience to whom he could name drop and generally brag about his exploits, gentlemanly or implied not.

I would put him in the thirty to forty age group, one that I used to belong to myself nearly two decades ago.

He did not give me the impression that he had dependants, either a wife or children. I felt sorrow and envy in equal proportions for my groundless assumption. After all, he could be simply the best of husbands and fathers, I was not to know otherwise nor had I any particular interest to find out.

The matter of interest to me was in his rather laboured question to his friends about whether any of them could at all remember the time when sunday was just the most depressing, dull and mind crushingly boring day of the whole week.

In my experience I can appreciate his point of view and especially as the way he phrased it sounded more like a heartfelt lament than a complaint borne of frustration and restlessness.

The sundays of my younger, formative years in the 1960's and 1970's were still firmly rooted in the Sabbath.

In our family there were specific obligations and duties on a sunday.

It would start with getting ready to attend the local church service. My mother and two sisters made up half of the choir and as my father was a Bank manager in the town he had to attend as part of his social standing. That more or less meant that me and my two brothers had to attend because we were too young to be left in the house unsupervised by an adult.

After the service we would be commandered to help serve refreshments in the Parish Hall before the half mile walk back home. Father would have to go to a local club where he was treasurer and a stock take of the beer, wines and spirits always seemed to be necessary.

Mother would, as always, be very well organised having prepped all of the meat and vegetables single handedly the day before or in the early hours so that we could expect a wonderful traditional roast dinner, to be enjoyed as soon as father returned from his Treasurer duties.

After lunch we just helped clear up and wash up, accompanied by radio broadcasts of The Clitheroe Kid or The Navy Lark, before sitting down quietly to read or do our homework.

The day certainly dragged and the afternoon was the worst time. That three to four hours before teatime seemed like an eternity.

There was nothing to do beyond the four boundaries of the house. Sunday Trading Hours were strictly enforced. Television, grainy black and white, was predictably uninteresting. If I tell you that Songs of Praise and getting you school satchel ready for the next day were the highlights of a Sunday then you will get some idea of the tedium we felt.

The age range of children in our family was fairly wide. The excruciatingly slow passage of time was the same for all of us whether babes in arms or teenagers.

Looking back, now, I can fully appreciate the sentiment that the coffee drinker was trying to convey.

Sundays are not now distinguishable from any other day of the week.

There is no real structure around the old disciplines of worship, fellowship in the community, dedicated quality family time, rest and relaxation and indeed we feel compelled to pack our sundays with as many activities as possible.

There are certainly plenty of things to do at any time and in any place, whether paid for or available for no charge.

There may be, deep down in our consciences, a pang of guilt in ignoring the call to prayer of a peal of church bells but then again if you get a good early start on a sunday you can achieve so much more, especially if there is a risk of traffic congestion if everyone has the same idea for an activity, event of destination.

Even if a sunday starts with a well deserved lazy lie-in there may soon be an urge to get up and do something.

Shops, leisure and recreation all beckon for attention and there is no shortage of venues to satisfy the irresistible urge to be active.

I am feeling exhausted just at the thought of the pressures exerted on our bodies and time on a sunday.

I left the Coffee Shop Prophet to his enthralled entourage with a firm intention to try to claim back a good old Sunday at the earliest opportunity.

I have failed today, it has been very busy.

Oh well, there is always next week.

Vampire in the garden

I have, in the course of my work, made an informal study of what people have established or keep in their back gardens.

If it is indeed true that an Englishmans' Home is his castle, then the front garden would be the moat and outer defences and the back garden would be an inner sanctum for peaceful contemplation and tranquility.

Continuing on the theme of sovereignty within your own boundaries I was amazed to find, in a back garden in a nearby town, the fuselage of a De Haviland Vampire jet.

The name may not be widely recognised but the design with its distinctive twin boom would be remembered from childhood trips to air shows, the once popular "I Spy" spotting books and grainy black and white celebratory TV programmes on British achievements with early forms of jet propulsion.

The prototypes of the Vampire were actually commissioned in the early years of the second world war but were slow to progress because of other priority projects in conventional fighter and bomber aircraft by De Haviland and the sister project of the Meteor jet. It was eventually brought into service in 1946 and over 3000 aircraft were built.

As with most national treasures and once great things the plane in question found its way onto E-Bay.

The house owner with the aircraft in his garden was most proud of his acquisition, having been a plane spotter in his youth and on the basis of rarity and novelty value now. His excitement over knowing where, possibly,  to get hold of the twin fuselage and tail was unrestrained. What next ? The engine and armaments?

The fuselage was surprisingly intact  and quite well preserved indicating a cosseted indoor life and not one under a pile of scrap, out in a field or amongst barn accommodated farm animals. The distinctive roundel in red, white and blue was discernible along with the RAF practice of giving everything a label, carefully painted via a stencil as though an aide memoir to 'The idiots guide to how to fly'.

Under the smoked glass bubble canopy of the cockpit was the ejector seat, hopefully disconnected from a propulsive charge to prevent nasty surprises to the casual occupier, and the full array of instruments and controls.

I could imagine my host sneaking out under cover of darkness to assume the role of pilot with accompanying noises and a lot of saliva spray on the head-up display.

The logistics of delivering the partial plane to the back garden had involved a disproportionate cost to the actual E Bay bid price.

The conditions of sale in stating - "buyer to collect and transport at own expense"- may have looked innocent enough and not unduly worrying as an "add on" cost but when researched to the extent of hiring a low loader with crane, building a crate around the remains of the crate and then creating a major traffic incident in the predictably busy  Bank Holiday weekend I am not surprised that every house in the UK does not have the same ornamental item.

The house,to become the new location for the Vampire Jet was detached, on a normal residential street, and had about a metre clearance each side, too narrow for the fuselage to be negotiated. The siting therefore required the services of another crane to lift it over the roof and lower it carefully into the back garden.

In the absence of two thirds of the landing gear, only a tail mounted wheel existed in the absence of the otherwise wing mounted stabiliser wheels, a cradle had to be fashioned out of scaffolding trestles on a firm paver base to support the bulbous body.

The resting place had to be as perfectly permanent as possible because of the prohibitive costs involved in any subsequent change of mind.

I was not sure what the neighbours thought about it. The Council had not thought it necessary to take any Enforcement Action. Perhaps static and grounded aircraft in back gardens are a grey area in Planning and Environmental Health.

I did stand and marvel at this wonderful Boys Toy. I doubted if I could persuade my wife to let me have one.

The owner did admit to me that his impulsive purchase had caused some friction in his relationship with his partner but this he had skillfully mitigated by allowing her to use the cockpit as an impromptu hot house in which she could cultivate her own collection of household herbs , exotic (for East Yorkshire) chilli peppers and courgettes for which she was well known in gardening circles.

The Breakfast Club

Have you ever made a decision to buy a product purely on the strength of an advertisement campaign?

The answer may not be entirely clear as most publicity can be creeping and subversive.

I have often found myself whistling, humming or singing a tune before the realisation that it comes from a thirty second advertisement seen on tv or heard on the radio. That can be a bit embarrassing if the melody comes from the soundtrack selling a female sanitary product, a laxative or something else from the medical field.

Some adverts can be completely off-putting in terms of thinking about a purchase.

One current UK campaign is to depict old ladies, lovely as they are, knitting a cereal, the good old standard on the breakfast tables of New Zealanders, Canadians and the British known to all as Shreddies.

They are very familiar having been around for around 70 years.

Everyone can describe Shreddies in its rather unique multi layered grid type fabrication of wholegrain wheat in a regular square shape.

To last for multiple decades suggests a good trusted product and a loyal customer base but in 2008 the the global Kraft Foods commissioned their usual advertising company to reintroduce Shreddies as a leading brand in the very competitive breakfast cereal sector.

The brief for Ogilvy Mather was to work on a campaign but keeping very much to the forefront of their minds that Shreddies customers liked them just the way they were and had always been.

The saying, "if it ain't broke, don't fix it" seems so apt in this scenario.

How is it possible to add value to a product without changing its intrinsic character which is its strongest and most unique selling point?

The answer was pure genius.

The iconic square Shreddie was simply rotated by forty five degrees to transform the square to a triangular profile and calling the "new" product a "Diamond Shreddie".

In the usual market research and focus group sessions amongst members of the public there seemed to be some initial confusion but when faced with a diamond orientated shape rather than a regular square there were definite claims of  a better taste, a crunchier texture and more flavour.

Remember  that all of this was done without changing Shreddies in design, formulation, size or in any other way.

In other market studies this added value perception proved strong, for example the more expensive a wine, the more it was appreciated even though the quality did not at all justify the price tag.

For Kraft Foods the upscaling to actual production of "All New Diamond Shreddies" saw an immediate 18% upsurge in sales and this was sustained for months afterwards.

Conservative factions in Canada resented the perceived death of the square Shreddie and so Kraft Foods cleverly brought out packaging under the Combo theme with a packaged mixture, 50/50 of both original and new versions.

The marketing did not stop there. The debate raged on and Ogilvy and Mather capitalised on this by creating a supposed video message from a fictional President of Shreddies in which he answers a letter from a consumer disgruntled over how much was paid to the person who produced the thing.

The technique used, visual targeting, proved its worth for Shreddies and who knows we may , as shoppers, have fallen prey to its application in many other aspects of our everyday consumer requirements.

The Ghost of Oil Drum Lane

A rare treat in the built environment of Kingston upon Hull, UK, today. Tucked away through a vehicular archway under and between Victorian terraced houses is this wonderful old workshop, coach house and courtyard.

It is in a bit of a sorry state in spite of having been re-roofed recently which has helped to keep out the worst excesses of our weather. The resident bats like it that way, dry but draughty. The external walls are cracked and settled, woodwork flaking and glazing missing but not beyond sympathetic salvage and on-going economic use.

The style is of an artisan type that will have graced many city streets and townscapes in the halcyon days of master builders, skilled trades and crafts with the proprietor living in the frontage house and his tools, horse and cart living safely on the premises behind. There are still signs of relatively recent use with stored salvaged slates, paint pots and a hard hat. The 1892 Bulmers Directory of Hull Trades shows the address as being occupied for the purposes of a Milk Dealer for which the premises would have been ideally suited.

The ground floor in the two storey building is open plan save for the wide open tread staircase and timber shelves and racks.I climbed the stairs hesitantly as they looked well peppered with woodworm.

The old boards were in places rotted through and collapsed so I stayed at the top of the stairs rather than risk injury. The far corner retained a brick built hearth of industrial size although with serious subsidence of its supporting plinth.

        On the back wall still hang joiners' woodworking tools but heavily corroded and tarnished.

These surviving features are remarkable in terms of heritage but even more so given their perishable nature are the faded but still legible printed posters of Factory Act Regulations which adorn the walls.

These bear dates of the legislation for workplaces from as early as 1901 including "Machinery Regulations",

 "Workmen's Compensation Acts 1906 and 1923", "Hours of Work (apart from overtime), Holidays for Women and Young Persons (Factories Act 1937) and an "Exemption from annual limewashing of ceilings and walls" under the Factory and Workshop Acts 1901 to 1920.

One of the earliest pasted up sheets appears to be in exceptional condition largely due to a diligent Employer or Foreman nailing over it a display poster from the Regulations applying to working practices in 1974.

So what is the fate of this amazing example of urban trade and commerce?

There is planning already passed for conversion to a residential unit which, with some irony, will accommodate as many under its roof as it must have employed at any one time during its most productive years.

             Perhaps I will be one of the last to see the building in it's original layout and condition .

                                                     I consider it a privilege.

1961 The Dark Age of Childhood

I was born in 1963. Thank goodness.

According to the children's book of "Helping at Home" brought out in 1961 any child capable of standing up, of reasonable mobility, co-ordination and upper body strength was destined for domestic servitude at the beck and call of their Mummy and Daddy. I have seen and carefully studied the book after having come across it stashed away as though intentionally hidden from subsequent generations out of shame and fear of retribution. By my calculation those children most exposed to the inhumanities described in great detail and accurate English grammar will now be in the age range of 59 to 63. If you know of any survivors of his period please approach them and give them a warm hug and some words of genuine encouragement and support for they are a forgotten and downtrodden generation.

You will recognise them easily in the street. Smartly dressed, well groomed and with impeccable manners and politeness. Look deep into their eyes however and there will an empty void where, otherwise, the fond memories of a proper childhood would twinkle through.

The 1961 servitude apparently began very early in the day. The little boy and girl are already washed and dressed in shorts, cardigan, shirt and elasticated tie and a bight yellow knee length dress with white bobby socks respectively. Their Mummy is in a classic little black number and pearls, immaculately made up even though it is dark outside. " We are helping to lay the table" is the footnote for this scene. It does not state or imply that a hearty and nourishing breakfast was had. A turn of the page shows the children now in the kitchen, well at least it looks like a kitchen comprising an enamel sink unit, single cupboard and a freestanding dresser in the alcove. "We are helping to wash up". Tidy hands that do dishes look red raw.

Upstairs  next on the list. "We help Mummy to make the bed", an antiquated and unnecessarily labour intensive arrangement of multiple layers of sheets and a thick eiderdown, lumpy with poor distribution of feathers. I now appreciate how liberating the arrival of the continental quilt must have been some years later.

Physical graft is a major theme of the book. "We help Mummy to dust" and "polish" follow on rapidly with no intervals for orange squash. It is then back to the kitchen "We help Mummy to do some cooking". Presumably this marks the entrance of Daddy who has been very noiceable by his absence so far with expectations of his cooked start to the day. It is now evidently dawn and daylight has arrived. "We help Mummy to hang out the washing". Tasks are very much arranged on a sex and gender hierarchy in this typical household.

I have some sympathy for the Mummy at this stage. Even more so as the two children then "help to feed the animals". These appear to be simple domesticated rabbits but as a source of fresh meat or husbandry training exercise is not specific. Ancillary chores include helping  "to sweep the floor". Perhaps Daddy has actually been at work, killing and skinning the rabbits prior to hanging them up to cure.

Into the garden for more hard work. "We help to pick some flowers" and in the interests of sustainability "We help to plant some bulbs". By now the childrens clothes, hands and faces are dirty and sweat streaked but in true propaganda style their demeanour is bright, sparkling and smiley happy. Inside however they are crying.

Surprisingly there is a full public display of the modern day slavery as Mummy, still a Chanel model, takes the children to the town. Daddy comes along in a gaberdine mac, hat, chequed golfing trousers and a bad fashion choice of brown brogues. The images in the book do not show any more of this scene.

Back at home there is a flurry of jobs. "We help to clean the shoes", ".......carry the logs", ".....pick the apples" and "dig potatoes". This illustrates the culture instilled after many years of post war austerity measures. The look on the faces of the boy and girl is one of uniform determination to harvest a good crop and avoid punishment or perhaps being sold to another Mummy and Daddy gangmaster.

Daddy is a stickler for social status and the children next "help to clean the car". He anticipates the comments and admiration from his peers in the office car park for his gleaming saloon car.

At this point in the book there are strong hints that the children are split up on a task basis. The little girl disappears for her indoctrination in the skill sets of womenfolk whilst the boy bonds with his Daddy as he "helps to mend the fence", a sizeable enclosure around the residential compound, "...paint the gate", "....rake the leaves" and  ".......tidy the shed". The reward for the young lad is a bonfire but he stands downwind of the smoke and his eyes become red and watery.

The final page in the book of "Helping at Home" is an attempt at normality. The boy and girl sit on a bus in a change of clothes as they head off for school. It has already been a very, very long day.

As the morning sunlight streams into the top deck front seats their worldweary faces appear to be calm and serene. They are in fact in a deep, exhausted sleep and in their dreams they are at play and happy as all children should rightly be.

Just Plain Bunkers

A MEMBER of East Yorkshire's guerrilla army during the Second World War is urging others to reveal their secrets before it is too late.

Soldiers in East Yorkshire's Auxiliary Units were given orders to kill German soldiers and even assassinate senior community figures to protect Britain's infrastructure if the country was ever invaded.

However, they were made to sign the Official Secret Acts, forbidding them to talk, even to their closest relatives.

Now, researchers have discovered a network of underground bunkers used by the units including secret hideaways close to the villages of Rise, Middleton On The Wolds and Cottingham.The guerrilla fighters are being urged not to take their secrets to their graves.

Hornsea farmer Claude Varley, now 88, was a member of the Bewholme Area Unit and was trained to kill with his bare hands.

"We're all in our 80s and 90s now – if we die without saying anything, the secret dies with us. People should be taught about this and made aware of what happened. When I signed the Official Secrets Act, there was sweat coming off my forehead – they were holding a gun to me, making me swear I wouldn't say anything.I think that is why some people have never spoken – event though the Act only lasted 50 years. But it is important they do speak, so people know what we were required to do"

The Auxiliary Units hid out in underground bunkers and were prepared to sneak out and silently kill Germans.

If they were caught, they were prepared to kill themselves and had a list of people to shoot dead when an invasion was announced.School teachers, police officers, game keepers and the home guard commanders were on their hit list to prevent the senior community figures revealing any vital information to help the Germans.

Mr Varley said: "Should the Germans have invaded, we had a list of ten people we had to kill straight away so they wouldn't go blabbing. I will have known most of these people as neighbours and friends which will have made things personal but if it had come down to it, I would have done it.It would have been important to my country."

The wide beaches and low cliffs of the East Coast posed a serious risk of Axis invasion throughout the Second World War and bunkers were built all over the East Yorkshire countryside to conceal members of the Auxiliary Unit.

The plan was that once the Germans invaded, the soldiers, who had fled to their secret hiding places in fields and woods, would crawl out of the bunkers to massacre the enemy, one by one, if necessary. This type of guerilla warfare was not unknown in modern warfare but would, in 1940's England be unthinkable amongst the civilian and rather parochial local populations.

Three confirmed units based in Walkington some 20 miles inland on the Wolds, Bewholme about 3 miles from the coast and Aldbrough just to the south of Hornsea have been traced.

But it is thought there were 34 units and bunkers in East Yorkshire in total.
Claude Varley was one of 3,500 men trained at Coleshill House, near Highworth, Wiltshire, in guerrilla warfare including assassination, unarmed combat, demolition and sabotage.

Mr Varley, who still lives in Hornsea, said: "I was from a farming family, so I was a good worker, used to the outdoors and I knew the lay of the land.I wasn't someone who fussed and I knew that if I had to kill a man, I could have done it and gone home fine.People said what we did was dangerous work, but I always just had the attitude of 'get stuck in and stop moaning'."

He remembers his training at Coleshill and the instructions they received from senior command.

"I was given a rifle and a revolver and a tommy gun, but I hated the tommy – it was rubbish.We were also trained in unarmed combat so that meant we were trained to kill, there were no two ways about it. High powered rifles could kill at a six-mile range. We were given all the best weapons and guns. I knew in my head how I would attack – I planned to go round the side and get them in the back."

An estimated 214 men from East Yorkshire worked in the Auxiliary Units, with ages ranging from 16 to 54. Claude Varley was 18 when he was recruited into his unit.

He said: "I wasn't scared or frightened. I am not a panicky person. I think even at that age, I didn't have a fear.

"The most important thing to me was to protect my country. I wouldn't have been captured, they wouldn't have got me. But if they did, I was prepared to shoot myself. They didn't expect we'd last long anyway – we were only given two weeks' worth of rations.

Despite the soldiers remaining at home instead of fighting overseas, and the bunkers being relatively close to villages, little was known of the work of the Auxiliary Units.

"I couldn't tell my parents, even though I was in the Bewholme Unit with two of my brothers.I think my father knew something, but he never said anything. You didn't, because you knew talking was dangerous in the war.If we had been invaded, we were told to leave our homes without saying goodbye and go to the bunker.It would have been hard for my mother to have three sons disappear overnight, but we just had to do it."

As the old soldiers pass away many of the concealed hiding places will simply be lost to memory.

(Source Article from Hull Daily Mail- 2012)

Beverley Hills; Down and Out

Some buildings just surprise you.

From the outside this particular two storey red brick property was nothing really special.

In fact it was a bit boring.

The frontage was directly onto the pavement of the narrow back lane just off the Market Place in one of the most popular and picturesque of East Yorkshire towns. I will have walked past it hundred of times over the last thirty years of living and working in and around the place but never really had cause to take notice.

It occupied a corner plot with the return, south elevation onto an even narrower lane bearing the quaint name of a Public House that stood on the opposite corner.

I wandered up and down taking account of the construction and condition, as part of a commission for a longstanding client who was considering its purchase.

The external fabric in imperial sized facings dated from the early 1900's although the red brick will undoubtedly have been a bit of gentrification onto an earlier Georgian or late Victorian building. The adjoining property was clearly around 200 years old given the style and materials as were many of the buildings in the streetscape.

Under the patched up slate roof were rows of four windows per each of the two storeys although the inner pair, up and down, were actually part of a former cafe, a longstanding arrangement common to single ownership.

There were no doors in the frontage giving a rather blank facade. No wonder it was easy to just pass by.

The south side was a continuation of the same style and format with the exception of a plank--type door equidistant to the regularly spaced windows. I was beginning to appreciate the scale and footprint of the building and a short gable end, abutted by a modern mews town house development attracted my interest. It had been largely rebuilt but I could make out the shape and from an elevated walkway serving a first floor flat in the development I had a good view over the rear roof and walls.

The building was a true rectangle, long and narrow and at the base of the wall I could make out, as I had anticipated, a few preserved courses of hand made Georgian bricks.

I was now intrigued as to what was within those four walls.

Amongst the town centre surroundings it did not fit in with the usual shops, offices and other commercial uses and yet it was not really out of place.

My first glimpse of the interior added to the confusion. The plank door was onto a restricted corridor that crossed the building to another matching entrance on a south to north axis. The centre point of the corridor was bisected east to west with another walkway.

In such a narrow building these features dominated and meant that any rooms off would be small and cramped, almost like monastic cells.

One area did have a through aspect and with a basic sink, storage cupboards and the central heating boiler served as a communal kitchen and lounge. It was austere and unwelcoming.

The rest of the ground floor was in small compartments, just about adequate to take a single bed, bedside cabinet and a free standing wardrobe. On the cold, darker north side was a wash room with two urinals, two wc cubicles and a couple of wall mounted basins, all well past their best, heavily stained and firred up.

Two staircases led to a duplicated layout at first floor level.

After about twenty minutes I could feel my throat constricting. I had not really noticed that just about every surface had a thick yellowish coating of tarry nicotine.

The function of the building was now becoming clear.

It was a good old fashioned Lodging House.

Every town, whether large or small and certainly regional cities will have had a proliferation of this type of use about 100 years ago. The working classes could not afford nor would entertain a stay in a hotel or bed and breakfast establishment if coming to the town or a city for casual employment or even a hard earned recreational trip.

This particular example was in its heyday located close to hostelries, the railway station, coaching stands and adjacent to the historic Corn Exchange, trade and livestock markets. Just outside of the town was a popular horse racing venue which drew huge crowds at the regular meetings.

For a few shillings it will have been possible to secure a bed for the night and the prospect of a meal, either chargeable or on a self catering basis. The building will have worked well and no doubt turned a tidy profit and well into the modern era.

I was seeing the premises at very much of a low point in its lifecycle.

The odours and sticky residues reflected the last occupants, single males as a low budget, last resort residence. It was a sort of safety net for the dispossessed, depressed and down and outs in society and as such was a valuable social asset.

However, enforcement of Local Authority  standards , beneficial overall ,could not be financed through the level of affordable rents or a poorly motivated and resourced current owner.

The doors of the Lodging House had closed a couple of years ago. It was the end of an era.

Two wheel etiquette

One of the greatest experiences in cycling is riding out in a big club group.

This is rarely seen nowadays being an inevitable consequence of working and family commitments which prevents even the keen and like minded bike enthusiasts from getting together and just enjoying each others company out on the road.

Most clubs have a regular midweek and weekend ride appealing to, in this area, those who call themselves "The Geriatrics" and the younger ones, respectively, with ambitions to progress to competing in races, either mass start or against the clock.

I joined an active cycling club way back in my student days in Nottingham and being away from home I was soon adopted by its members and appreciated their friendship and hospitality which often included hot food, hand me down clothes and use of a washing machine.

Much roadcraft and tactical sense was learned in the club peleton on the sunday endurance ride either the hard way by being left exhausted and grazed or by listening intently to the oldies who were hard cases when it came bike riding and knew every trick in the book.

There was a defined hierarchy and social order in the ranks of paired riders, some 12 or more rows deep as we made our way from the Market Square in Nottingham out to all points of the compass. It was quite a climb out from the city going north and west heading for Mansfield or The Peak District and slightly less to Grantham in the east. South to Loughborough started off fast and flat but with a few gradients and drags later on.

If we met another large club group, which in a strong cycling area was quite common, there would be a good deal of banter in the process of overtaking or general abuse if crossing on a particular route. Everyone knew each other anyway from years of mutual enjoyment of the sport and all things cycling.

The emphasis on the ride was training but the sweetener was always a stopover at a popular greasy spoon cafe for a huge steaming cup of tea or hot chocolate and a hub-cap sized plate of something in tomato sauce, baked beans typically or spaghetti hoops if feeling euphoric.

After the break the pace usually hotted up and the peleton would ebb, flow and fracture as those feeling fittest raced for any small excuse of a landmark such as the sign on the approach to a town or village or the crest of a hill. Gradually, back in the city boundary people would go their own way and the number would dwindle down to lone riders.

It was a hard few hours but amongst most of the enjoyable I have ever experienced on two wheels.

The week could not pass quick enough until the next run.

I recently came across some guidance on how to ride in a peleton in the web pages of a club from British Columbia, Canada - the Sidney Velo.

These include the following;

Avoid hard braking – brake as lightly as possible to not crash the riders behind. Remember – you are responsible for the safety of the riders behind you.

Avoid sudden movements – move slowly when going left or right or slowing down.

Always signal your intention to turn, move sideways, slow down, or stop with hand signals and verbally. Never assume that the rider beside you knows that we always turn here. Signal early enough to give those following time to react.

Do not overlap wheels in a paceline – unless you enjoy group road rash and rage!

Do not even think about using aero bars – they are for fast solo riding only.

Stand to climb at the top of a pedal stroke to keep your bike from slowing suddenly and crashing the riders behind. Saying “standing” doesn’t hurt.

Warn the riders behind of obstacles such as glass, gravel, debris, potholes, parked cars, pedestrians, and oil slicks with hand signals or verbally. Be aware that at high speeds the lead rider may not always be able to point out obstacles in time for you to avoid them.

Warn other riders or pedestrians when you are overtaking them. Call out “on your left” or “on your right”. Ride at moderate speed on trails when other trail users are present.

Warn other riders of vehicle traffic. “Car up”, “car back”, “car left” and “car right” are the usual warnings.

Stay to the right of the roadway in a single or double file, depending on the width of the road and the amount of traffic. Blocking the road is a sure-fire recipe for motorist road rage.

Do not sprint through on-coming traffic at stop signs, left turns, and roundabouts. It makes us look like irresponsible clowns and leaves the rest of the group struggling to catch up. Stop and start together as a group.

Yield at stop signs, stop at red lights, and wait for your turn at 4-way stop intersections (A Canadian crossroads).

Left turn protocol – lead rider signals intention to turn – last rider moves left into the turning lane when it is safe – then the group moves into the turning lane. Lead rider makes the left turn when the gap in the traffic is sufficient for the whole group to cross.

Keep track of the riders behind you – if someone has a flat or mechanical, stop the group and render assistance. If you have a flat or mechanical, let the riders ahead know. If someone has been dropped due to the speed of the group, slow the group, drop back to pull the rider back up to the group, or divide into faster and slower groups. No one should be left alone on a group ride.

Ease up at the tops of hills and after sprints to allow dropped riders to rejoin the group.

Don’t sit in the group for kilometres, enjoying the draft created by the riders on the front, and then attack. If you have that much energy, go to the front and tow the group for a few kilometres.

Take a steady pull when you get to the front of the group, maintaining the same speed while the rider coming off the front recovers. If you are strong, accelerate slowly to raise the speed of the group.

Look back occasionally and ease up if you are dropping the group – unless you would really rather ride alone.

When you want to come off the front, signal the rider behind and pull to the left and slide back so that only one rider (you) is in the traffic lane.

Wet weather group riding requires a rear fender (UK-mudgard)with a rigid flap extending almost to the ground to avoid spraying riders behind with water and mud. Stand about 1.5 to 2 metres behind your bike; if you can see any part of the rear tire, the fender/flap is not adequate.

Ensure that no riders are in the firing line when you spit or blow your nose – out is better than down. Move away from other riders and account for the wind!

Do not listen to the radio or music while riding in the group, as it may prevent you from hearing warnings from other riders or traffic or be a distraction. Besides, you wouldn’t want to miss any jokes from the comedians in the peleton!

Be courteous when there are disagreements with other riders or road users – anger only makes things worse.

Acknowledge courteous behaviour by motorists with a wave – we need all the friends we can get.

Sticky Volkswagen

According to official Government guidance there is a critical time in any car journey taken by parents and children when everything kicks off and what could be a nice day out deteriorates into a big rumpus. A Survey of motorists has suggested that at precisely two hours and thirty seven minutes any children become agitated and begin to ask that question that crosses successive generations "are we nearly there yet?".

Within fourteen minutes of this sign of boredom chances are that arguments start to break out.

I am disappointed and a little bit disillusioned when I see a car full of children but none of them are actually looking out to see or apparently show an interest in where they are on their journey.

It is a case of heads down with hand held video game or slightly raised up but only at the TV screen set in the rear of the front head restraints.

Granted, when I was a nipper the most sophisticated piece of in car entertainment was an I-Spy book, Travel Mastermind, suppressing being sick or squabbling with my brothers and sisters whilst we sat stuck to the black vinyl seats of the family VW by the back of our bare legs and becoming increasingly hot , frazzled and irritable.

Otherwise, to wile away the miles of a long trip such as to our annual summer holiday in Scotland, Northumberland or Norfolk it was a case of watching the world go by out of the window if you had baggsied a seat to take advantage of it.

In the days before compulsory seat belts for back seat passengers it was easier to stand up behind the driver or front passenger and view from there.

I developed a great interests in the sights on the open road and this persists even today.

There were the landmarks that signalled our imminent arrival at a regular holiday venue.

Crossing the iconic Tyne Bridge in Newcastle meant that in just over an hour the distant turrets and towers of Bamburgh Castle would be in view and in a few more minutes after that we would be running through the loose, hot sand of the dunes onto the vast, wave lapped beach that seemed to stretch to the very edge of the known world, at least that in the perception of a 10 year old.

We would collectively count down the miles to the border with Scotland, always greatly anticipated but never failing to disappoint being marked only by a large blue and white thistle sign rather than a crossing into a strange, mist swirling, mountainous wonderland of lochs, glens and warlike kilt clad pipers.

It appears that Scotland is more of a frame of mind to a 10 year old than a momentous and deeply felt experience, at least for us children of half Scottish origin. My Father, an authentic Scot but born in Croydon was always a bit dewey eyed and emotional when safely reunited with his Kinsfolk for those two weeks of the year, give or take long distance travelling time.

I could be a bit of a nuisance in that I would always announce the obvious landmark or feature even though evidently visible and appreciated by all the occupants of the family car. I recall getting a slap on the leg by my parents, deservedly so in hindsight for my persistent chanting of "it's a dam", "it's a dam", "it's a dam" after seeing a dam somewhere in the Scottish Highlands. It had been signposted for miles but I could not contain my excitement at the thought of seeing it. Not that I really knew what a dam was for. On my return some 30 or so years later I could just not see what all the fuss was about. My own children saw it as a grassy bank holding back an expanse of cold and faintly rusty coloured water. That was all.

I did become quite an expert on geographical phenomena and even more so after really taking to my senior school lessons in that subject. On the journeys to or through the more interesting parts of the British Isles I could easily identify a burial mound as opposed to just a grassy knoll, an ox bow lake rather than a pond, a scree slope from just a pile of loose rocks, granite precipices from chalky downs, a dry valley from a wet one and so on.

The majority of my fond memories have one thing in common. They were all part of the build up to a great family holiday. Conversely, when the fortnight was over and that was almost in the blink of an eye or so it seemed, there were those landmarks that signalled, as Mother always said, that we would soon be "back to normal", ie home life, school and all that went with those sorts of things.

These included flat, boring landscapes only broken by the looming presence of the power station cooling towers or the pit head winding gear near Doncaster. Then there was the reddening skyline above the huge British Steel Works at Scunthorpe as we came to within 10 miles of our home town and soon, on the farther horizon the white painted post windmill at Wrawby.

The drive up the slightly elevated and winding estate road to our house was depressing for those of us still awake even after melting into the plastic of the uncooled car interior.

We children then dopily went to check that our bedrooms had not been ransacked or pillaged by unknown imagined persons. We had no thoughts whatsoever to offer our exhausted parents any help in unloading the car of the detritus of two weeks under canvas or in a small caravan with five kids.

Now that I am a father myself I can appreciate that the anticipation and excitement of travel as felt by children is simply reversed in the grown ups.

Whilst the journey to and arrival at a holiday venue is undoubtedly exciting it does not mean a rest from the chores and responsibilities for adults.

Indeed it invariably means that it is the same work but made harder and more challenging in a different and unfamiliar environment.

The coming into view of the Doncaster wastelands and the intrusive industrial processes that made that part of the country the powerhouse that it was in the 1970's must have been a welcome sight and with it the promise of a slightly easier existence for our parents.

They hid their hopes of a brief respite and return to normality from us at the time and it is only really now that I am able to appreciate that particularly skilful trait of practical and effective parenting. Margaret and Donald, my heroes.

Crime Scene Investigation 1853 style

The year 1853 was by all accounts pretty quiet.

There were the usual cases of global pandemics, catastrophic explosions of fireworks and random munitions amongst civilian populations, the Crimean War started, potato chips were first served and Vincent Van Gogh was born.

In the case of a Mrs Duffill, the wife of an innkeeper from Beverley, just up the road from Hull, Yorkshire, UK it was a momentous year.

It was a tuesday, in either early spring or mid autumn that Mrs Duffill went on the York and North Midland Railway over the short eight or so mile distance to the regional city and Port of Hull.

The reason for her trip was not entirely clear, whether business or pleasure.

For the return home it was a matter of her catching the 6.30pm locomotive to Beverley on the line that ran up to the east coast resort of Bridlington and many small rural hamlets in between. A Publicans' wife would not be wealthy in that era and so a second class carriage sufficed.

It was rumoured, after the event in question, that on her return she had been in possession of a large sum of money, perhaps a withdrawal from one of the Banks for whatever reason. Others thought that she had arranged to meet an acquaintance or even a lover within the guise of the trip.

Although only early in the week there were a number of persons with Mrs Duffill on the bench seats of the lower class carriage.

It appears that a fellow passenger was a relative, an uncle. Most travellers alighted at Cottingham, a genteel village roughly equidistant to Hull and Beverley along the line. Those leaving the platform included the uncle with only Mrs Duffill and a lone male left for the onward journey. She was seen to have pleaded with her uncle to chaperone her displaying some concern for the social decorum of the period but he seemed otherwise engaged.

The man, whom was apparently known to the lady, was a William Holliday, described in vocation as a dealer in cows and who also resided in Beverley.

A few onlookers, later interviewed about the events that transpired that day claimed that Mrs Duffill and Mr Holliday had met prior to the train and there seemed to be a bit of history between them.

They were indeed now the only two occupants of the carriage.

It was already dark and only a short distance out of Cottingham with the train moving slowly a Railway Porter saw and heard a distraught female exclaiming "Thief, thief" out of the window. The next moment a hand was seen to appear on the door handle and despite a verbal warning from the Porter to keep to their seats as the train accelerated  the door flew fully open and a female form fell out onto the trackside.

The impact rendered Mrs Duffill unconscious and in a state of wounding to the head and general cuts and bruises she was taken to the nearest infirmary.

At Beverley Station a man was seen jumping off the slowing train and to run off making his escape into the night.

The unfortunate Mrs Duffill did not recover and died of her injuries a few days later.

No monies were found amongst her possessions which was at variance with claims that she was earlier carrying a considerable sum.

There were sufficient witnesses on that evening to place William Holliday in the carriage as the only other passenger and he was shortly apprehended and brought before the East Riding Magistrates at their next Session. He was remanded in custody pending an inquest to consider the findings of a post mortem examination.

The general consensus of the gossips and hearsayers in Beverley was that Mrs Duffill had jumped out of the carriage, rather than having been pushed, to escape a molestation at the hands of Holliday. It is a matter of speculation, thanks to the gift of hindsight, that the pair were actually on intimate terms and may have been for some time.

The violence acted out that evening may have been a lovers tiff, a possible blackmailing or just a playful scuffle that went horribly wrong.

The fate of William Holliday in Court and other records is not known. There may have been doubt in attaining a murder conviction although manslaughter, would be a more likely conviction.

As for Mrs Duffill, 1853 was a pretty bad year.

(Factual Source, The Tablet Newspaper 1853)

Smarty Pants

Whatever did I do and how on earth did I manage before I got a smart phone?

I am not a technophobe but it is just that I like to just stick with a piece of technology and give it a chance to mesh in.

That has tended to be my philosophy in life.

In each of my five decades on the planet I have championed a specific piece of equipment often suffering the jibes and ridicule of others who may have felt more in tune with contemporary trends, fashions and fads.

One particular item played a prominent part in my formative years. Indeed it survived albeit in a gradually diminishing form for a couple of decades therefore proving that longevity and consistency is always preferable to trying to compete on a oneupmanship basis with whatever is the flavour of that particular year, month, day or up to the hour in today's fast moving and ever changing "must have" culture.

To put that particular item into context I need to set the scene a bit first.

Up to the age of 10 one of my favourite toys was a Meccano Construction set. Many will have similarly fond memories of this British made product but I would be fairly certain that only a few will have had the all plastic version. It may have been a consideration by my parents that plastic was less harmful than the classic forged metal version and I would be less likely to become impaled on a chunky blue plastic bolt or to swallow and choke on a large black plastic car wheel. I accept that there were some limitations to what could be assembled but I did have countless hours of imaginative play as long as it involved what closely resembled a pirate ship or a milk float.

I became more sophisticated and demanding in my teenage years. Although it was not mine I did more or less claim ownership of the family cassette recorder. it was a case of placing it as close as possible to the speaker on the radio or gramophone if wanting to make a recording of the music charts or one of those, in retrospect, terrible Music for Pleasure vinyl records of top pop songs but not, I emphasise, by the original artists. That Sony tape recorder went everywhere with me because I felt it was cool. It was pretty heavy and bulky and may have contributed to my upper body strength which was freakish for my age. I had to retrieve it out of the local river more than once with my angling keep net and, without my parents knowing, ran the hair dryer over it for half an hour to evaporate the greenish tinted water.

By my early twenties the Filofax was the bees-knees for the young, aspiring executive. Mine was in the style of the brand leader but purchased from WH Smith. It could still take the authentic and useful pages if you could fight for a place in front of the display stand in all good local newsagents. It was an affirmation of the power of paper in life and business and yet within a matter of years the Filofax would be virtually obsolete when up against even the earliest and crude computerised personal organisers. Progress, eh?

Thirty Something's tend to be the most influential in any society having reached a degree of maturity and responsibility. It is a time of balance in lifestyle and ambitions, home ownership, children, dogs and for the first time a practical car rather than a sporty one. Disposable income can be stretched and previous budgetary allocation to gadgets and leisure is seconded to nappies, buggies and educational toys.It was a sparse decade for gadgetry but most fulfilling in all other ways.

My forties were a time when I wanted for nought and found time to laugh at those obsessed in their pursuit for the next best thing. In fact I went a bit retro and just enjoyed the output of my digital radio. Habits die hard and I had to retrieve it a couple of times from the soapy grave of the kitchen sink after accidentally dislodging it from the window cill. I have not lost the dexterity and skill of using the hair dryer for an impromptu revival.

So, to the present day. My first smart phone, android operating system, e mail, internet, apps, global positioning and so much more that I have yet to stumble upon whilst trying to find the telephone answer call button. I am in awe of the technology and a computing power infinitessimally greater than that taking the early Apollo Missions to orbit the moon.

I have yet to become accustomed to the immediacy of communication as I have always valued the luxury of time to think and reflect before reacting or giving a response to a request for information or opinion. I am told that I have the latest model of phone/databank/clock/calculator/etc but it may be ridiculously out of date and a joke if shown in use in public by the end of this week.

So, to return to the longest serving of all of my possessions. It was neither mechanical, technical or relying on a power source, upgrade or patronage by the famous and influential.

When new it was a large off-square piece of soft cloth, the sort used, I am led to believe, to line the old style nappies. As a small child it was my cuddly blanket and a source of great comfort and reassurance. Always to hand or attached to me it was a constant companion. I suffered at the hands of bullies for it but I did not care. The cuddly eventually wore away to little more than a piece of patchwork and went out in a blaze of glory as an oily rag for my bicycle when I was at college in my early 20's.

There may be a moral message somewhere along the lines of "do not place too much faith in inanimate powered objects because they will eventually let you down"

A cuddly, however, is a reliable friend for life and even in its last throes makes for a useful cleaning cloth.