Getting Away

Getting Away

One of my pleasures in life is to "pop out" for a few hours, or perhaps a day, touring round, seeing the sights, and meeting the people. Usually in our local area, and usually less than 50 miles from home.

I'm not much of a "Christopher Columbus", I like to explore, but have no wish to travel to distant lands. I'm more than happy where I am, I have my life arranged as I want it, which provides contentment, and if you have that there isn't much else you lack.

This wasn't always the case, and I often longed for my annual holiday and the chance to experience life elsewhere. In those days, I remember the suspense building up to the next which holiday, buying "needed" items for a week or two prior to departure, and ecstatic, almost boiling over excitement when departure day dawned.

At the end of such holidays (the first week passing leisurely, the second, seemingly gone in a flash!), I felt sadness, almost depression. The thought of returning to "normality" left me in the "dumps". I remember returning to Tilbury docks once, on the ferry from Sweden, seeing the dockworkers marshalling the ship through the locks, and teeming rain pouring down from a grey sky, and thinking:

"God! What on earth am I doing here, swapping Sweden for this place?".

I used to visit Sweden a lot, I have relatives there, it is, and will always be a favourite destination of mine whenever I decide to travel abroad.

There seemed no comparison then, Sweden being a huge, sparsely populated scenic country of Lake and Forest, with an impressive network of empty high quality roads, a free and easy lifestyle, and a high standard of living. Back here, it was much as ever, too many people with little space, highly industrialised, and everybody seemingly racing to catch up, whilst not always being sure what you are chasing.

I was young then, green, inexperienced, and what reasoning I had wasn't always well considered. It lacked reality, my vivid imagination painted dreams, occasionally of such quality that they perhaps eclipsed reality. The heavy industrialisation of the past has faded over the years, there were forests of cranes at Tilbury docks, and dirty smoking chimneys along the route. All gone, along with all the work that went with them.

These days, I have come to see things generally for what they are. There is usually (perhaps always) a great depth to reality, although I feel it is not always appreciated. We tell the time by staring at the clock face, and although all are aware that there is a mechanism driving the hands, few, I think, appreciate what it is, or how it works.

For some odd reason (or is it that odd?), Nowadays, I always appreciate the mechanism as well as the clock face. I seem to understand what's going on behind, why things interact as they do, the thought behind the design.

I guess what I refer to is experience. You can't teach it, but we all gain it as life passes. Many times lately I find myself wishing that those pulling the levers of power had more experience on which to base their judgement, but I guess they're busy gaining it as they go!

I wonder sometimes if having a greater sense of reality reduces one's imagination? I still have my imagination, and it remains vivid, but is it is as lively as it once was, I wonder? Could it be that getting older and the daily loss of brain cells associated with age has blunted imagination, or perhaps that dosing with reality is an antidote to it?

Unfortunately, I don't have a young me to compare against this old, worn out one, if I did, I might know the answer. Certainly, I don't seem to get the same excitement from things that I once did.

Anyway, having all this vast experience gained over the best part of 60 years (I don't believe it either! No one is that old, and especially not me!), I've come to realise that Great Britain (well, the Olympics have just finished, and the title has been foremost most days recently!) Isn't such a bad place to live at all.

To me, it takes a lot of beating, more beating than other countries have a hope of persuading me otherwise. These days, the thought of going away on holiday almost makes a shudder run down my back at the thought. All those arrangements, working to schedules, allowed extra time (which is then wasted, in the main), What is the point? Where is the fun?

I may well be odd, thinking like that, probably am, but you know what? I don't care.

But now, I'll wind up this blog by returning to my opening line about one of my pleasures being to pop out for a few hours to see what's going on, experience life, meet people etc.

From time to time, I find myself travelling through a village called Rolvenden which is a village that existed in Saxon times, (sometime before the year dot I think). It's a picturesque village sitting on a hill. At the bottom of the hill is Rolvenden station, the main station on the Kent and East Sussex Railway, which stretches from Tenterden in the East, to Bodiam in the West along a river valley.

I'm sure the Rolvenden has many claims to fame, but for me it's sausages.

For many years, approaching it from the South West, I'd pass farmland with signs in the hedge proclaiming; "Free Range Sausages". I was always tempted, and in fact stopped a couple of times to buy some, but free range sausages are shy creatures, and it was rare for them to be caught. I think that the usual method was to lure them into pots, much as you would crabs. I believe they used mashed potato with a bit of gravy as bait!

Seriously though, every time I saw the sign I imagined strings of sausages coiled in the sun, or slithering under the hedgerows, in the manner of snakes. It always brought a wry smile to minutes, and a chuckle!

These days, Rolvenden is home to "Hoad's Corkers" which are proper Kentish sausages in every sense of the word. In my estimation they are never less than equal to any other sausages, and more equal than most. Since I'm invariably dieting, Hoad's Corkers are rarely on my menu nowadays, and I look forward to the rare times when they are.

It All Started with a Quiz Night Conversation

A couple of weeks ago I was in the pub (I ought to say "in a pub", because there is more than one in my life, not that I drink much, more that I go out, socialise, and often have something to eat. Anyway, "the Pub" in question is a regular haunt of mine, on a Sunday evening, and as I say, there I was, with the subject under discussion being quiz night.

A few of the previous week’s questions were bandied about, and one referring to dates in the 60s, got me thinking.

Having lived through nearly 6 decades, I remember a thing or two over that time, and the 60s was a notable era, perhaps the most influential decade of them all? (if you can classify decades that is!). It was a bridge between the past and the future, what followed, where we are now, is to some extent built on a 60’s chassis.

I have long held the opinion, perhaps always held it, that when it comes to the 1960s timeline, if you don't know the actual year something happened, then 1967 is an excellent choice if being right matters, such as on quiz nights.

It is a year that stands out from all the rest of my experience. Such a lot happened, or resulted from actions taken in 1967. It was definitely an historical "turning point".

In 1967 I was 13, becoming 14 right on the tail end, in December (oddly, my birthday has always been in December, but I can't really claim any records!). I was at secondary school, and on January 4^th my school had organised a day trip to London during the Christmas holiday.

As with all school trips (certainly in those days, and I assume these) there was some learning involved, as an excuse for allowing some pleasure. We went to an exhibition, as I remember it, something a bit arty, historical, (and forgettable too, it seems!). Then, (having done our learning bit) we went to Coliseum Cinerama and watched "Grand Prix" on the huge three-part, wide, curved screen. A film bejewelled with stars, including James Garner, and with a cameo role for Graham Hill to add authenticity.

It was a realistic motor racing film in its day, full of action, and tragedy. In those days, cars and equipment (although the pinnacle of excellence then) were very crude by modern standards, and nowhere near as safe or predictable as they are today. Schoolboys like me went in awe of the mechanical achievements of the day which we read about in magazines like "Look and Learn".

Towards the end of the film, one of the heroes, an ageing French driver becoming increasingly disillusioned with the sport, and having the greater understanding of life that experience brings, is contemplating getting out of the sport, when he is killed in a spectacular accident after striking debris, his car crashes through the barrier wall at the top of banking and explodes in flames.

To us boys the crash was a shock, and I guess a lesson. As we left the Cinerama, some were chattering about it, some were quiet and pondering. I can't remember now, what I was doing, but as we emerged into the street and the cold, dark January night (it had been light when we went in) there was a newspaper seller outside, and the headline on his board was: "Campbell Killed".

That's how I know what the date was. Donald Campbell had been killed in a spectacular crash on Coniston water whilst trying to break his own World Water Speed Record. I guess he felt the need to push it that bit further, partly to "maintain momentum" in keeping the speed bandwagon going, along with his career, and perhaps more importantly, in those days it was all about achievement, and Britain was still very much a major player.

In many spheres we were world leading, we still had a massive manufacturing industry, that had made spears and was now making ploughshares and we could still make everything we needed. We were inventive and pioneering.

That said, we were increasingly making mistakes, the sort of mistakes that come from arrogance and not paying attention, although we didn't realise it at the time.  We were slower to adopt new methods, in Europe they often had to, because the old had been swept away.

When I was at school, we were shown films of long-established industries in various parts of the country, which we studied, and which then became part of  CSE and O-level geography exams a few years later, (these days, those same films are probably used in history lessons!).

If you want to know all about 1967, you can Google it, but for now, here is a taster:

Harold Wilson was Prime Minister, and he opened negotiations the Britain to join the EEC in January, which had the support of some of the member states, but which was crushed in November by a DeGaulle Veto (I sometimes wonder if DeGaulle was on my side!). I never thought much of Wilson, but as a schoolboy what did I know, or care? Certainly, he was shrewd and cunning, but he couldn't get round DeGaulle!

In Parliament, 1967 was also played its part with change, the breathalyser was introduced (in October, just in time for Christmas!) by Barbara Castle, the Transport Minister who didn’t drive, and the Abortion Act was passed, after much debate.

The supertanker "Torrey Canyon" ran aground on rocks between Lands End, and the Scilly Isles. It began to break up after a few days, and leak its cargo of crude oil into the sea, so it was bombed by the RAF, and (I believe) the Royal Navy. At any rate, they did their best to smash it up and burn it. In those days, airborne pollution wasn't a consideration I guess!

Barclays opened Britain's first cashpoint, so 1967 marks the start of "the hole in the wall".

Radio One went on air for the first time, and its opening DJ was Tony Blackburn, who's been with us ever since, with his distinctive voice, and who is still almost as young today as he was then. (possibly he was born old?!!)

The QE2 was launched, a beautiful ship, and one designed with the increasing air travel in mind, as she was designed to be dual-purpose, Atlantic crossing for 6 months, and cruising for the remainder of each year (they backed a winner with cruising didn't they!). When built, the QE2 was powered by steam turbines, which give a very smooth ride, especially on a calm sea (as you’ll know, if you've ever been lucky enough to travel on a turbine ship).

They don't build ships with steam turbines these days, too much machinery, too much maintenance, and boilers take up too much useful space. Halfway through her career, the QE2 was converted to diesel power, modern, instant, compact, easy to manage, and all the other advantages. However, they vibrate, and when engines are out of sync, make one's coffee go from smooth to rough and back again whilst you watch it, as the mathematics of varied frequencies meet and part on a cycle.

Also, when you go to bed and put your head on your bunk pillow, you hear the deep rumble of all the Pistons firing in succession. I find it reassuring and sleep well, but I'm sure it keeps some others awake. You tend to notice, and wake, if all the engines shut down suddenly at night (it’s happened once to me, and was never really explained – or noticed by a large percentage of passengers).

I digress, 1967 had so much going on, I'm sure a book could be written about it, maybe someone has? (And would they be as boring as this lengthy scribbling, I wonder?!!).

For me, it was the year in which I had three holidays away, a personal record, and one that I have never matched since. I guess it annoyed the people who ran the local newsagents, who had to cover my paper round for me, but hey, it gave them experience of the worst round in the shop (very large, and spread out, with some big customers on it, which meant an enormous paper bag). I guess it must have impressed them, because they put my weekly wages up half a crown! ( a small fortune in those days, an 8^th of a pound, enough for at least two fish & chip suppers, or a small Airfix model kit –a hobby of mine then).

At Whitsun, I went with the family for a week on the Norfolk Broads for the first time (I went again the next year, but never since, despite intending to), which was a wonderful holiday. Then, in July I went to Sweden with my Swedish grandmother, and one of my brothers, that too was wonderful, and the first holiday apart from the family. Finally, when I returned from Sweden the family had booked a cottage in Dittisham, Devon for week. Again, this was a marvellous time, and we hired a beach boat for the week from Roy Andrews, the ferry man. We were able to potter about on the Dart to the buzz of the British Seagull outboard pushing it along, what fun! We went up to Totnes by river in it, and a few times down to Dartmouth.

I didn't believe three holidays in one year was possible before that, and now, years later, I know it isn't!

That's about it for now, except to mention that later on in the year, actually on November 6th (during half term) dad took us to the "Schoolboys and Schoolgirls" exhibition in (I believe) Olympia.

How do I know the date? Well, as previously, it's marked, but this time by a disaster, the Hither Green train crash. It had happened the night before, when a broken rail end caused a Hastings to London train to derail and crash onto its side (I guess at speed).

As normal, we had driven up to London, and were using the South Circular Road which passes under Hither Green Bridge. That wasn't the reason we went that way, we had completely forgotten (or not known about) the crash. We were stuck in traffic close to the bridge, where the carriages were on their side, and with a pair of steam cranes alongside ready them to lift them up. Dad told us not to look, but how can you not?

Anyway, they lifted the carriage immediately in front of us as we remained jammed in traffic.  The entire carriage side had been ripped off as it travelled on its side down the track. You could see the whole inside of the carriage, and what wasn’t fixed had fallen to the missing side. I won’t describe what I saw, but it was an horrific sight, one you don’t forget.

In those days re-opening the line (or road) took priority and I daresay the line was operational by next morning, not (as now) a crime scene for days or weeks of careful forensic investigation.

As you can see, that daytrip was very memorable, although not in the way dad planned it, but the unusual didn't end at Hither Green. A few miles further on we were waiting at traffic lights, when there was a long skid and a car struck us from behind, knocking us forwards. I remember the boot flying up behind us, because the back of the car had been stoved in, and taken the latch mechanism with it.

You can do wonders with a length of string, and we tied the boot down. Luckily, the rear lights (in the wings of a Zodiac) had escaped damage, and the car was drivable.

Eventually we arrived at Olympia and parked in a street full of cars, but when we returned to the car afterwards, it wasn't there! Neither were all the other cars that had been parked nose to tail down both sides of the street, they'd all being towed away! So we got a ride in a London cab to “Mund Street Car Pound” (if I remember right) as a bonus, and dad got to pay an unexpected parking fine, all of which probably made his day!

I enjoyed the exhibition, and came away with John Ryan's autograph (he of Captain Pugwash fame), he even drew me a Captain Pugwash. I wish I'd got it now.