A Girl's Bike

‘Another Hercules Artisan’

East Cowes, Isle of Wight

1957

It was not so much the getting to where you wanted to be on the Island as the ability to return from where you had first started from. So began and ended my first around the Island cycle ride.

A week or so before this travesty of events took place Sherf in his inimitable manner suggested that we, our small gang of York Avenue mates, should circumvent the Island on our bicycles. ‘We could have a great laugh it will be fantastic,’ Sherf was so excited and was in mid spiel when Mike Brinton interrupted, ‘Carisbrook Castle might be good...’

‘Bugger off Mike, bloody Carisbrook, it’s nowhere near far enough, it’s only about seven miles,’ snapped Sherf.

‘Only seven miles,’ withered Hicks, rolling his eyes to the heavens.

‘Christ! You’re a windy sod Hicks,’ clipped Sherf returning his homily once again to us. ‘I reckon around the Island would be a doddle, the Needles, Freshwater or the Alum Bay area should take us about two hours, then straight down the Military Road from Freshwater down to St Catherine’s Point, ‘another hour and a half…’

‘Cycle around the sodding Island’ said Robert questionably, pushing his hands through his hair. ‘Do you have any idea just how far that is?’

‘Course I do’ said Sherf smiling now like a Cheshire Cat, ‘it’s only about 60 miles.’ Throughout the early evening his suggestions met with one objection after another until I piped up with my very valid interruption.

‘Sorry old mate but I’m out, can’t go my bike is buggered, as you know I’ve bent the forks when I crashed it last week.’

‘I know that Gussy, don’t you worry I’ve got a spare bike all lined up for you,’… Sherf’s spare bike. I could hardly contain my excitement, he was prepared to lend me his spare bike. Knowing his predilection for the very best in cycles I just knew he would have something stylish and racy in mind.

‘What sort of bike is the spare then?’ I enquired eagerly.

‘It’s my sisters old Hercules Artisan, same as yours only it’s a girls bike, the Sturmey Archer gear change on the handlebar is buggered but apart from that it’s all right…

‘A bloody girls bike!’ I exploded in full voice long before he could finish extolling the virtues of his sister June’s bicycle.’

All my friends knew of my despair at riding my Hercules Artisan for the last two years, even though I had changed the handlebars and removed the mudguards it remained a heavy big black clod hopper of a bike. The safety of my bike was made worse due to an accident whereby I had bent the front forks excessively, so much so that I feared they may crack and collapse completely if ridden regularly. However, at that moment my friends took great delight in Sherf’s choice of replacement for my trip around the Island and continued throughout that early summer evening to tease me unmercifully. Que sera, sera.

As usual with Sherf the idea of cycling around the Island became a reality long before the end of the same evening and we all agreed to make the necessary arrangements and make ready for the following Saturday. An early morning start time of 7.00 a.m. was decided upon and we were all to bring at least a £1 for spends and emergencies and enough food and water to sustain us over the journey. Sherf and Robert had calculated that it would take us, allowing for food breaks, approx ten hours enabling our return safely to East Cowes to be no later than 6pm. The route we finally agreed to take for our circumvention had been planned by Sherf’s father Jock who had taken the trouble to study his motoring atlas and revising the approximate mileage. It had been decided the journey would be advantaged by travelling west to east, whether this was due to the sun or not was of no matter, as it turned out the day was grey and overcast, but nonetheless that was the direction we followed.

The early morning river mist chilled the air as I joined the small gathering of boys on bikes, my trusty iron steed gifted to me for the day by June Sherfield. Chilly excited chatter combined with the sulphurous smell of egg sandwiches as they were being hurriedly packed into saddlebags together with juices, water and Plastic Pac a Macs. Dressed for the occasion we were an array of khaki shorts old school shirts with frayed sleeves rolled up in defiant determination, black plimsoles and dirty tennis shoes completed the sartorial elegance of our merry band. Not one of the other parents had come out to join to our gathering to wish us bon voyage the only exception being Jock Sherfield, Sherf’s father who was still waving his RAC road atlas in the air and busy giving us last minute advice on routes and all things directional and re-enforcing our collective need to stay aware of the Highway Code, a publication not one of us had heard of.

The next minute we were pedalling as fast as we could down York Avenue. Skipper Elliot had rolled off a ream of penny tickets for our chain ferry crossing and as we stood waiting the for the ferry to cross from west to east I was tempted to open one of two boxed Lyons individual apple pies that were lying inside my saddlebag my mother had packed for me together with the mandatory egg sandwiches, two apples and jam doughnuts. I am still ashamed to admit that as the heavy black ramp of the chain ferry touched the west, and to the astonishment and great amusement of my companions, I was just finishing my second sugared jam doughnut having already demolished both pies. I brushed my sticky fingers down my shirt as we followed in noisy convoy down Medina Road heading for the High Street and eventually out onto the Esplanade, passing the starting cannons of The Royal Yacht Squadron, ever onwards toward Gurnard.

This unaccustomed exertion was exacerbated by the fact that the tide was out and what air there was polluted by the combination of drying out seaweed and something else even more nauseous leaking from the ancient sewage outlet which spilled its evil smelling detritus not much further than the exposed rocks. Now, safely past Egypt Esplanade, interestingly the Isle of Wight’s most northerly point, we had reached Gurnard in a fantastic time. Here we decided to take the coastal path which was Off Piste insofar as it consisted of grass and beach path rather than a constructed road surface. Whilst the coastal pathway was reasonable it certainly was not as easy to keep up a steady pace once we had started to go cross country. The field and grassed surface was very uneven and there were long stretches of sand and dune that made it necessary to carry or push your bike. We pressed on until we reached Thorness, it had taken a much longer time so we decided that we would leave the coastal path and pick up the old Whitehouse Road in Shalfleet and hopefully that would lead us down to the main Forest Road which in turn would take us directly to Yarmouth and by so doing we should have easily made up our lost time.

The noise of a front tyre puncture is hardly discernible, however the cyclist is well aware and as I watched my front wheel wag uncontrollably front and left I called out to the boys in front that I needed help as I brought my bike to a halt. With my head held to one side whilst I prodded the offending tyre with an investigatory finger I was joined by the rest of the boys. Hicks was the first to arrive and peering over his handlebars he yelled to the others as they returned one by one, ‘oh hell Gus has got a puncture, I hope one of us has got a puncture repair kit?’ ‘None of you buggers were listening to my dad this morning,’ shouted Sherf as he began listing the basic requirements we needed before undertaking this trip. ‘Have we all got puncture outfits? Have we all got a working pump? Have we all got some plasters and a bandage…?’ ‘Bugger off Sherf,’ objected Mike, ‘I hardly had any room in my saddle bag for very much to start with let alone all that stuff your dad was going on about, I would have needed a bloody caravan.!’ Meanwhile Sherf was taking a ring spanner and removing my front wheel and had begun to lever off the tyre enabling him to carefully pull out the inner tube. He unclipped my bicycle pump from the frame of my bike screwed the cable to the valve and began pumping vigorously, it took only moments to establish where the puncture was as a loud flappy hiss identified the tear in the inner tube wall. ‘It’s going to take at least two of these patches Gussy to mend that, it’s a big tear!’ He began searching through his small bag of tools as the rest of us peered at the gaping hole in the flaccid pink inner tube.

Ten minutes or so later he had finished and with some help from Robert and Hicks the puncture had been repaired and my front wheel tyre had been inflated and with no sign of further air loss we were on our way once more. Some of the boys had taken advantage of the short break to snack on biscuits and sandwiches, I was unable to get to my saddle bag as my bike was turned upside down whilst it was being repaired, which possibly was a good thing as I might well have finished off my two remaining egg sandwiches which would have only left me with a Wagon Wheel and two buttered cream crackers.

Although the day had started overcast it was becoming brighter and warmer and as the last of summer traced it’s fingers through my hair we cycled in convoy along the Yarmouth Road that took us directly and easily down into Yarmouth. We were soon crossing the bridge over the River Yar, all of us looking forward to the fast decent of Halletts Shute when disaster struck my ladies bike and me once more.

The front wheel of my bike began to wobble uncontrollably and my immediate instinct was to jam on the brakes which had the effect of throwing me both forward and sideways onto the banked grassy verge luckily narrowly missing a swathe of gorse bushes. The crashing metallic sound of sliding bicycle together with the sight of flying egg sandwiches, buttered cream crackers and Wagon Wheels filled the air as last but certainly not least I landed heavily amid this carnage. After what seemed an eternity boys faces began appearing looking down at me, at first enquiring as to my state of health and wellbeing and then one by one informing me that my bike had suffered yet another puncture.

Mike and Hicks were busy trying to straighten my handlebars while Sherf and Robert were attending once more to the punctured front tyre. Two magpies had flown down from one of the hawthorn trees that bordered the adjoining fields and were at that moment behind a gorse bush and began fighting over one of the egg sandwiches. ‘I think this inner tube is buggered Gussy, I’ll try my best to patch it up, it’s another big tear…’ Robert interrupted Sherf as he stood hands on hips looking down despairingly at the limp pink tongue of the inner tube hanging from the side of the front wheel tyre. ‘I think the whole tube is perished, it’s just like paper, it’s falling to bits, if we get this thing patched up enough to hold air it will be a bloody miracle’.

Whilst the debacle on the permanence or otherwise of the innertube was taking place between the boys I stood gazing at the remnants of my sandwiches being fought over by two Magpies, whilst my elbows and knees were reminding me of just how hard I must have hit the road when I had fallen from my bike. ‘You’re bleeding old mate’ said Sherf pointing to my knee, ‘I’ve got some plasters in my bag Gussy, the tyre seems to be staying up well enough though.’ After searching into the bottom of his saddlebags he passed me a tin of plasters, ‘see Gussy we did need the buggers after all, you just never know.’ ‘We’ll leave it for a few more minutes for the glue to harden properly,’ said Robert squeezing the offending tyre between his finger and thumb. ‘Yeah it shouldn’t be too long’ said Sherf and ‘then we will need to be ready to go, we’re behind time again.’

After ten minutes or so it was decided that as the tyre had stayed up sufficiently long enough, all of us taking turns to place our ears close to the tyre and declaring unanimously that we were unable to discern a hiss or feel it softening in any way, we agreed it was safe enough to continue our journey. The more I thought about my lost sandwiches and buttered crackers the hungrier I became and it was a relief to have the alternative pain of my bruised and battered legs and elbows. My plastered wounds were stinging and burning like fire as we pedalled quickly through the tiny village of Colwell picking up Church Hill on our way down to Totland Bay. When we reached the crossroads that took us down to Alum Bay we stopped for a quick breather and agreed that we would stop and take the opportunity for a welcomed food and drink stop and a quick exploration of Alum Bay itself together with its world famous multi coloured sand cliffs. As the sea blew cooling light zephyr’s of sea air into our faces we stood, amused to listen to an argument between Hicks and Mike emanating from a fact enthused Mike that when his grandfather was a boy, he had swum completely around the Needles, stopping at the furthest most point the lighthouse, to share a beer with the lighthouse keeper himself before setting off to swim ashore. ‘Bugger off!’ shouted Hicks ‘I’ve met your old grandad he’s not big enough to pick up a bottle of beer never mind being able to swim round the Needles, you don’t half come out with bull shit!’ ‘Not him,’ agreed Mike I’m talking about my other grandad, my mum’s dad. They say when he was a youngster he was a champion swimmer, Mike continued, they say he once swam from Ryde Pier over to Gilkicker Point.’ ‘Where?’ barked Hicks, in obvious disbelief. ‘Gilkicker Point’ repeated Mike ‘ it’s not far from Pompey!’ ‘Oh bugger off! Mike, like I said it’s all bull shit, nobody could swim over Spithead, from Ryde Pier, against those currents.’ At that, Hicks closed his mouth, much to our relief, over a pork pie and began opening a bag of crisps.

Listening and watching my companions happy in their loud mass mastication, apples and crisps crunching, the ever-present smell of egg sandwiches, alas not mine. The gurgle down gulps of lemonade, lips smacking as orange juice and ginger beer were being savoured and swallowed, the maddening self-loathing and regret at my own greed having eaten and drank almost all my day’s provisions before the day’s adventure had hardly begun. My dark self-piteous gloom was broken through by Mike offering me a swig of his mother’s homemade lemonade together with a cheese and tomato roll, then an offer of a corned beef sandwich and pickled onion from Hicks and finally a piece of fruit cake from Robert.

As I thanked them for their generosity I pondered on the likelihood of my own generosity and ability to share as easily had the shoe been on the other foot.

We had laid our bikes down upon the grassy cliff top close to the winding path that the led down through the layers of coloured sands, of which the cliff consisted, before it reached the stoney beach. We sat for nearly an hour gazing across to The Needles, the view is amazing, three jagged chalk white rocks climbing almost 100 feet out from the Solent and at it’s most westerly point. As a matter of interest, the most westerly point of the Isle of Wight is a lighthouse painted liken to a barbers pole in red and white bands. ‘They do say’… announced Hicks, our gang’s most well-read and cleverest boy, ‘that there used to be four rocks out there once upon a time, the one that’s missing was a big, tall thin bugger and because it looked a bit like a needle, before it collapsed in the sea in some big storm a couple of hundred years ago, all the rocks here were known as The Needles and now the name has stuck. The real name of the missing rock’, Hicks continued, ‘was Lot’s Wife’ and at this point Hicks looked to the heavens and shrugged, ‘I think she was somebody famous in the Bible.’ ‘Anyway, it was just there’… Hicks was quite excited and animated, so determined to show us all exactly where the missing rock once was stood and pointing his finger towards the obvious gap between the line of jutting rocks, ‘can you see …it’s there, there, just there.’

Sherf and Robert were otherwise occupied talking in loud whispers, they were stood beside the heap of cycles laid on the grass both shaking their heads in incredulous dismay. ‘What’s up’ shouted Mike. ‘Sorry to say but Gussy’s bike has got yet another puncture,’ shouted back Sherf ‘and this time it can’t be mended.’ ‘Why?’ We all chorused as one. Still shaking his head, Robert was the first to speak. ‘It’s the tyre’s air valve, you know where you pump it up, well it has come away from the inner tube and because the whole inner tube is bloody perished it just can’t be fixed.’ The realisation of Roberts words were echoing in my head, for one moment I was sure that I must be dreaming and imagining everything and in a blink of an eye I would suddenly wake up. Here I was in Alum Bay, at least twenty miles from home, staring out across to the wonderous and majestic view of the world-famous Needles, these were places I had only heard of, unbelievably although I had been born and bred an Islander I had never seen them. Overners that visited the Island for a week or so during the summer saw and visited much more of the Isle of Wight than I ever had, the back of the Island might as well have been the Mediterranean.

Sherf, Robert and I were in frantic debate concerning the calamitous series of punctures that had befallen the oh so unlucky accursed ‘Girls Bike’ and the likelihood that the sodding thing was going to have to be pushed back home to East Cowes. Whilst we had been talking about the dilemma concerning the now infamous ‘Girls Bike’ we had failed to notice that both Hicks and Mike were cycling off towards the beach. They had decided to cycle down the precarious winding sandy cliff path on their bikes in search of some glass containers from the souvenir shop on the beach in which they could gather up small quantities of the many shades of coloured sands. Hicks who had presented himself as the aficionado of all things West Wight had informed Mike that there were at least twenty-one different shades of sand within the cliff face to be found. ‘Some of the colours of sand are rarer than others,’ Hicks had told him, ‘I happen to know and on good authority’ Hicks continued, as he tapped his nose in an above-board fashion, ‘that people will pay good money to get all twenty-one colours in one of those light house, or Isle of Wight shaped glass containers.’ That was incentive enough for Mike as he crabbed sideways one way and then another ever closer towards the beach.

When the two boys returned finally, red faced and breathless after their steep climb back from the beach and not surprisingly emptyhanded as there had been no glass containers to purchase so instead they decided to spend what little money they had between them on ice cream, sweets and twenty Player Weights cigarettes. ‘You two have been bloody ages, where did you get to?’ said Sherf in one breath. ‘Just down on the beach, we went down to climb up into the cliff for some of the coloured sand,’ wheezed Mike still gasping from the exertion of the hill climb, ‘I bet you didn’t know that some of the rarer colours fetch good money if you can find them.’ ‘Bullshit!’ shouted Robert who began laughing loudly, pointing an accusing finger at Hicks, ‘you sure you haven’t been telling those fairy tales again.’

For the next few hours whilst smoking one of Hick’s cigarettes, we spent our time, not so much on the problem of a dead bike, but more on the merits of air pistols and air rifles and the ability and skills required to make powerful catapults even more powerful. As the day drew on, black Corn Flies began swarming and flying into the humid mid-afternoon’s warm air from the interior of the island. The darkening sky took on a ghostly luminosity as the first flash and crash of thunder shook the very ground on which we sat and the first heavy splat of a raindrop as it bounced off the sun-baked ground. The deluge of rain and hail had lasted for no more than ten minutes but it was enough time to flood, thoroughly soaking everything and everybody that was closeby. Stormwater was gushing and roaring in torrents down every ravine in the cliff face. The closeby sea and Needles were no longer able to be seen from our position on the cliff tops, and we all watched in awe as the storm drifted westward, smoking out over the Needles in thin grey curtains slowly dipping down into the sea.

Sat as we were on the grassy verges of the open cliff top’s viewing area, we had no shelter from the torrential rain and hail whatsoever and little time to scramble through our saddle bags to retrieve our trusty rolled up plastic Pac a Macs which at the peak of the cloudburst would have afforded us little protection. To say the least, we all without exception were soaked to the skin, and to make matters worse there was a distinct cooling chill carried by the lingering squall. The late summer storm had left us little choice but to think of nothing other than making realistic plans of how returning home, pushing a wounded girls bike, could be made possible. Following a noisy discussion related to all things homeward bound it was unanimously agreed that Sherf and Robert were likely to be the quickest and should make the journey home as soon as possible to ensure that a rescue of sorts could be planned, probably via Sherf’s dad Jock Sherfield who could hopefully arrange transportation to pick up we, the suffering weary stragglers.

Mike and Hicks had bravely volunteered to accompany me taking turns to walk and ride together whilst I was left pushing my trusty iron steed homeward, my task made the more tedious due to the constant rattle and wobble of the front wheel caused by the flat tyre of my forlorn and broken ‘Girls Bike.’ By the time we had been taking turns pushing and riding our bicycles and in order to keep our spirits up we had sung loudly and at one point tried to thumb a lift from a passing open truck, but to no avail. It had been two hours or so since Robert and Sherf had set off on their ride home to East Cowes, we estimated they should have reached home by now and were hopefully organising some help because we were exhausted and although we had dried off considerably by walking we were nonetheless still quite damp from the drenching we had all endured earlier. We had calculated that the total mileage from Alum Bay home to East Cowes was at least twenty miles and we were all devastated to learn that we were only a couple of miles past Yarmouth which left another fourteen miles or so ahead of us. Before setting off we had agreed that we, the walkers and pushers, would return homewards by keeping to the main road routes heading toward Newport in order that the task of discovering us, should a rescue happen, would be made easier. After another hour or so had passed we were struggling from exhaustion and hunger but at least we were well past Shalfleet, and not before time, the evening’s cloudy sky had begun turning rose pink and gold, slipping across the horizon in streaks behind the thin blue edge of the mainland. All vestiges of food and drink had long gone and sadly we had all enjoyed the last of Hick’s cigarettes more than a couple of miles further back and now that we were quickly losing the daylight we took the sensible precaution to walk in single file. We endeavoured to keep each other interested and focussed on the task in hand by talking and arguing the pros and cons of a wide breadth of subjects, one of the more memorable being ‘Why do girl’s bikes have no cross bars?’ as I recall there was quite a lengthy discussion but there had been no sensible or polite conclusion. Then followed the pros and cons of the latest pop music scene, as I remember that discussion grew into a loud and lively even musical debate as Hicks demonstrated to us his Elvis Presley impersonations while Mike, not be left out, shook his blonde locks liken to that of Tommy Steele as he sang, he had never felt more like singing the blues.

Sherf and Robert meanwhile had maintained an excellent pace, despite the large areas of flood water on the roads which had been caused by the earlier cloud burst which had affected the whole Island it seems. At times when the road was clear they had raced each other competing to be the first to reach the chain ferry as they had elected to cycle home via the direct route to West Cowes. On their way to the ferry they too had seen the sun dipping down behind the stormy clouds over Calshot Spit as they had passed in the shadow of the silver leviathan of the cocooned Princess Flying Boat, grounded for ever as she stood tied down upon the Solent Works slipway on Medina Road. The crossing on the chain ferry to East Cowes was chilly as the wind whipping off the Medina was raw as it blew cold against their still damp clothes. Both boys stood astride over their bicycles as they leaned forward over their handlebars, edging slowly ever forward as close as they could possibly be to the closed prow gate to ensure they would be first off as the gates opened and the ramp started to descend, ready for the race from the ferry uphill to Sherf’s house Shalimar on York Avenue.

As they sprinted, heads down, bodies arched, legs flying racing madly one against the other as though it was The Tour De France itself, they pushed on even harder uphill until they suddenly became aware of loud whoops and shouts as they drew closer to Sherf’s house. Slowing for a moment, they could not believe what they saw, they were unable to speak to one another due to this final burst of exertion climbing the avenue. Through the fading light they saw a small crowd consisting of my mum together with all the other parents and siblings, all shouting at the same time, their arms outstretched in joy as they huddled together outside of Mr and Mrs Sherfield’s bungalow.

Following Sherf and Robert’s breathless explanations to the concerned parents Sherf and Mike’s dad immediately elected to pick up and rescue we stragglers and bring us safely back home as soon as possible. So with no more ado Mr Sherfield drove his small Hillman Minx followed by Mr Brinton in his old Morris van, the plan being that once we had been found the bikes would be dismantled and together with Mike and Hicks they would come home in the van, my girls bike and me would travel back in Mr Sherfield’s car. It was in the chilling edge of late summer darkness when they found us, all that I can remember seeing after our first recognition that we had been found, was a confusion of flashing headlights, torches and beams. This was immediately followed by loud instructions from both the fathers as they set to with spanners to ensure they we were able to remove the front wheels of our bikes. The rescue could not have been timelier as the coldness was beginning to seep into the marrow of our bones. I remember the joyous comfort and smell of horse blanket as it was draped over my shoulders. Through our chattering teeth the heavenly pleasure of flasks of hot sweet tea and beef paste sandwiches that had been kindly made by Mrs Hicks and Mrs Sherfield helped to fight off the urge to shiver and shake.

It would be several days later before the cramping aches in everyone’s legs had begun to diminish, not forgetting of course my own grazed knees and elbows which were healing but still bruised and sore.

High in a tree camp, built in a sycamore tree, past the Bommy Building through the thickets in the field that edged Warnes Farm the gang of five, lit by candles, met again. The excited shrill of boys all needing to be first to tell and retell the tale that dwelt upon the rescue by Mr Sherfield and Mr Brinton, quickly followed by the endless versions of the adventure of the ‘Round Island’ cycle trip we had all undertaken, the fact that we had only got as far as Alum Bay and The Needles did not make it any less adventurous or exciting. We all told differing stories of how we had survived the biggest storm ever to hit the Isle of Wight since the old King died, and how three of us were left to face the walk of a lifetime, my particular walk of course being a walk of shame, as I had been the reason we were all in that situation. We all enjoyed hearing the details again and again of how the rescue had been put into action as Sherf and Robert took it in turns to retell and embellish the story of the gang of five’s Round the Island Cycle Trip.

Little did I know that was to be my last summer on the Isle of Wight for quite some time, or that it would be the last time I would be sat enjoying the smoke and candlelight of a tree camp. Nor had I any idea whatsoever that it was the last time I would ever see my friends again as boys, and although I had thought no more about the nightmare of the recent bicycle trip, it would be the last time I would ride a Girls Bike.

Epilogue

It was only a few months later, after autumn had shimmered gold and red into drear November and Christmas was drawing ever closer and as the chill of winter had begun, that my father sadly learned the meaning of the word ‘Redundancy’.

Undeniably one of the biggest employers on the Island, Saunders and Rowe, were suffering from the decisions taken by the board concerning curbing the building and development of flying boats and other light aircraft together with what was soon to become the company’s white elephant that of the Princess Flying Boat Airliner. Recently Saunders and Rowe had been investing and developing in the Skeeters soon to become the SARO Helicopters project whilst at East Cowes, the Saunders and Rowe main board chose instead to develop and demonstrate the first working hovercraft.

Saunders and Rowe were deeply sorry to have to shed their skilled workers in such a shocking manner, however they did endeavour to find as many of the those who had been made redundant alternative employment. My father had been offered new employment with the national company ICI, which was a mammoth chemical complex situated on the outskirts of Middlesbrough in the north east of England, and as different from the Isle Of Wight as Chalk is to Cheese.

It was only a few weeks after Easter that I watched the Isle of Wight fade slowly into the sea and sky as I hung over the rail upon the deck of the old paddle steamer ‘Ryde’ which was taking my mother father and myself from Ryde Pier Head to Portsmouth and from there we were to go on by train to Waterloo. The London Underground was indeed an eyeopener to three Caulkheads like ourselves. Nonetheless after pushing our way through crowds of fellow passengers suitcases and escalators we were finally at King’s Cross railway station ready for the longest trip I had ever undertaken, a trip of three and a half hours to Middlesbrough. As it turned out it was probably a blessing that it was dark when we all arrived, as I was soon to learn and experience for myself Middlesbrough is at its best an acquired taste.

Tomorrow they say never comes, but mine did and it was a very special day, a new day, a new life was about to unfold and begin anew and a thousand opportunities awaited.