Friday night! The wind howled round the house-end where "Three Wings" and I were making final decisions for the three-and a-half days holiday, due to commence on Saturday at noon. It was not holiday weather, that point was quite evident. Further, it was not very promising for the wild open regions of the North Country, where our eager eyes had for a long time rested. Yet, we eventually decided to cast aside all alluring thought of easy repose at a place, Damson Dene, and make a start as early as possible on Saturday noon for Teesdale and the North.
Saturday noon; most decidedly unpromising, with a steady, persistent north east wind blowing, and apparently still enough rain to last indefinitely. However, 1-20 p.m. saw the two of us, oilskins head to toe (more or less), leave the dismal home-town by tandem for the great open North. We had the idea in mind of reaching a small inn about sixteen miles north of Sedbergh for tea, but as we slowly rode up and up towards the summit of Coldweather hill, the Rothay valley, with it’s small inn seemed very distant and nigh unattainable.
However, prospects may brighten; sixteen miles had been covered when the clouds rolled by, and the clear blue of the heavens lay revealed. Divesting ourselves of our black outer attire, we chortled as we strapped cape and leggings upon the machine, although we little dreamed that we should not require them again during our meanderings.
On through Settle and Clapham, disdaining the side turning into Austwick, and a comfortable fire. Ingleton, and yet on familiar roads; we finally hove in sight of old Sedbergh, with its church well-nigh hidden by giant yew trees. We had no timepiece with us, so we were eagerly awaiting the verdict as to our progress; 4-45 p.m. it was, and all was well. We had three-quarters of an hour to reach the Cross Keys for tea. Although riding to no fixed schedule, we had decided that we must reach our inn at Cautley by 5-30 p.m., in order to allow us ample time for the second stage of the journey.
At 5-30 we were dining in the low-roofed inn and gazing through a huge window at the view that caused the district to gain renown. Imagine a great, basin-like amphitheatre whose sides rise very steeply to a great height, and in the distance a silver-grey streak of glistening water cascading and tumbling from the very skyline down to browny green earth — Cautley Spout — a veritable lord of waterfalls.
Tea over and a short time for a pipe, then away again for a long, steady climb through the Rothay valley towards Kirkbv Stephen. The road here follows very closely the swirling river as it makes frantic ever-hurrying surges seawards. An exhilarating descent through the town of Kirkby Stephen and on through Brough, past its castle, which we had explored previously, to commence the hardest portion of the day’s ride, the ascent to the summit of Grains-o’-Beck, and on to Teesdale. Stout hearts and steady climbing, broken occasionally by resort to the human hoof, and we finally reached the summit. The glory of achievement was ours as we gazed down towards the still distant Teesdale with yet sufficient daylight left for us wherein to find the farmhouse in which we hoped to satisfy our hunger and find repose for the night. Swooping down to Middleton-in-Teesdale, through the square, where a fair was creating it’s usual unmelodious uproar and smoke, and to Newbiggin.
Thus, for the first time in eighteen months we were once again on Durham soil. A very welcome and familiar sign of black and gold indicated oun shelter, that was if the gods were with us; they were, indeed, and we experienced that pleasurable satisfaction of hearing, "Yes? Come in. Welcome !" It is only the tourist, who, after a full day’s jaunting, mo matter how or where he spend his time, who can fully appreciate the common invite.
A wash, brief diversion on the wireless, supper, and we were ready for it, then a discussion with our host upon the life of the collier in the Durham coalfield. An intelligent, well-read and entertaining man, and he gave us some very interesting details regarding the coal situation in the Durham area. And so to bed, as Pepys would have put it, where we could hear a flooded beck hurrying, scurrying on its way to meet the infant Tees.
Sunday morning; a perfect morning, clear as a crystal bell. The valley looked almost toylike, with its farmhouses scattered about the hillsides, all white as snow, a very noticeable feature of Teesdale being the pristine whiteness of the dwellings, which are always kept so trim and neat. Breakfast, farewells paid and stage number two had commenced. A slow, leisurely start being our motto, we soon left the main highway to cross by way of a rough road over Three Pikes, nearly 1,600 feet high, into Weardale. A hectic descent, and we were in the main street of St. John’s Chapel, left turn and a long winding road that gave entry to East Allandale and the valley of the South Tyne. On through Wearhead, just missing the highest village in England and Allan Town could be seen far below, whilst far away northwards could be seen our land of promise.
At Allan Town we had to seek our way out, and no wonder, when one has the choice of about fourteen diverse routes. Over the shoulder of a well-wooded slope, and the glory of West Allandale lay before us. Forests of pines, firs and larches, indescribably beautiful to gaze upon, with the South Tyne river, like a silvern worm, billowing in and out in its search for the sea. Continuing, we finally crossed the river several miles above Hexham, which place we had explored on a previous occasion, and to Humsaugh, close by the Roman Wall for dinner at 1-30. The giants refreshed, we were up and away, en route for Rothbury in alluring Coquettdale. On through rich pastoral country, fields cut for the harvest, past stately homes and limpid loughs (the only loughs outside Ireland) until we reached the heights above Rothbury. Visualise the sweeping moorlands of heather and bracken, a perfect combination of colouring with the rays of the sun emphasising the sublime glory of it all as would a master painter. Below, a small colony of old, mellow-hued, red buildings called Rothbury, hemmed in by hillsides hidden by forests of dark green, whilst the Coquett trickled lazily upon its journey; a paradise indeed!
On, still on, through woods of pine and over hills of heather, we pursued our course, whilst the giant hills of this north country, the Cheviots, became more and more distinct as the evening passed steadily by. Thus, it was about 7-15 when we entered Alnswick (called Annick) to gaze in rapture and considerable awe at the mighty castle which causes the great north road to deviate from its straight course to Berwick-on-Tweed. It was a wonderful pile that so enraptured us, that so invited our closer scrutiny, whose score of sentinels carved in stone beckoned us to enter and live again the incidents of this centre of strife in the north. But no, this was not yet for us; the north still claimed us; the sea was calling incessantly, as though Bamburgh was to disappear ere morning, despite its having withstood the turmoil of civic strife and the vagaries of the weather for centuries. On still, we entered the small sea-edge townlet, called, aptly. enough, Sea Horses, where, after manovuvring round we secured accommodation.
Considerably refreshed by a delightful supper, we strolled down to the small jetty, where we could hear the sea pounding away at the land that is called England. There, revealed occasionally by the gleaming revolving beam from the lighthouse built upon Lidisfarne Island, it was not difficult to visualise the heroic adventures of that immortalised Grace Darling. Maybe the Vikings of old used to dread the very islands whose eye gleamed so steadily now, symbolical of the roots of Christianity planted here long ago by Paulinus. There, on that northern neck of England, two wanderers found ample reward for their labours. Back to our bedroom, with its furnishings assuming grotesque shapes as the powerful beacon light continued its monotonous vigil. A gaze northwards towards Bamburgh, the lodestar of the tour, a perfect vision was ours, silhouette magnificent and then to well-earned rest.
Taking early leave of Sea Houses the following morning, we were soon surveying the massive structure of Bamburg Castle at close quarters. Built upon a high chiff ledge, exposed to the full fury of the northern elements, it stands a magnificent monument, to the dauntless, indomitable tenacity of purpose of our fore-fathers. Away again, through the pretty village of Bamburgh, close by the castle, and westwards towards Woller, the Cheviots and Jedburgh. It was excellent agricultural country through which we passed, and we saw many flocks of the famous Cheviot sheep being driven down the hillsides to the dipping ponds. There in the region between Woller and Jedburgh, we sensed an atmosphere of peacefulness and tranquility, rural England in very truth. On through this pleasant Arcady we leisurely journeyed, across the border into Scotland, and to Jedburgh for reireshment.
We had now arrived at the point where once agam we must turn the wheels towards home, so after a brief inspection of the Abbey, we followed the road alongside the river Jed, en rouve to Newcastleton and Brampton. After travelling for several miles through richly timbered country, we gradually climbed higher and higher, until we reached the crest of the curiously-named Note-o’-the-Gate Pass, that forms the only connection with Liddlesdale. Habitations here were few and far between, and we could without ditficulty recreate the difficulties and privations of the tattered remnant of Bonny Prince Charlie’s army as they endeavoured to return to their own country after his disastrous rout. A survey from the summit showed only miles and miles of heathery moorland, unbroken by roads except for our own brown ribbon twisting and turning until it lost itself in the distance.
Downwards we sped, at a somewhat hectic pace considering the rough, broken surface of the road, and back again into pastoral country. On through Newcastleton, an uninteresting featureless place, over the steep shoulder of a moorland plateau, and we were back in England after the briefest of jaunts into Scotia. Despite the absence of any "official" time, we were now painfully aware of it being tea-time, but we had to ignore the symptoms of hunger as we journeyed through the wilderness of byways and third-rate roads to Brampton, where we delivered ourselves to a certain hostess, well and truly hungry after our wanderings in the border reglons.
It was 8-30 p.m. when we left to continue our day’s journeying to Melmerby, in the long, slanting rays of the setting sun, but now refreshed, we were veritable giants, and the miles simply slipped by as we followed the road through Castle Carrock, and Croglin to Renwick. Travelling in the white beam of our headlamps, we conjectured upon the possibility of failing to secure accommodation at the house of our desire, but arrival at Melmerby, and a light in the house (albelt upstairs), once again we asked the question that is so beloved of the wanderer, and good fortune was ours.
It was another brilliant morning that awaited our pleasure as we rode away from the little temperance hotel that had harboured us overnight, and proceeded upon our journey to the south and home. Hugging the edge of the mighty hills which here form the backbone of England we slipped the villages of Ousley and Skirwith to Long Marton, where a sign pointing to Dufton brought memories back to us of an earlier jaunt from awe-inspiring High Cup Nick to Teesaale. On to Appleby, with 1ts many historical associations, and then once again we began to climb gradually but surely until we reached the crest of Dillicar. Away again, faster and faster, until the little church tower of Orton hove in sight. Now we lingered at the Lune bridge, just below Tebay, before making the ascent of the road that leads heavenwards to Grayrigg and Kendal.
We were now back in our normal "hunting ground," but we needs must sample a recent addition to the list of Black and Gold appointments in our area, so that meal time found us washing in a small temperance hotel, with the great limestone end of Farleton Fell stretching almost into the garden.
Satisfied and contented, we later continued our journey over familiar yet ever pleasant roads, noting the distinctions and differences of our own particular district as against others we had seen, until our wheelings brought us to our local Arcady, Downham. Evening found us rounding the end of our noble Pendle, contented, and still further convinced — if such could be — that cycle touring is the master key to a fuller realisation of the glorious heritage of England.
Nonstop.
Although it was the morning after our fancy dress dance, about forty cyclists found their way to our meeting place at Higherford. Whether it was because Old King Sol tempted them or not I do not know but they were ready to journey to Brow Gill Cave away up in beautiful Ribblesdale.
Hardly had we begun our journey when one of my tyres punctured, but alas, something went wrong, and instead of my comrades "doing the stuff" as they usually do, and repairing it for me, they promptly reviled me and my bike, and started giving impossible advice on how to mend a puncture. However, we were soon on our way again and speeding down Coldweather, thrrough Gisburn and on our way to Settle. The air was fresh and clear as crystal, and soon we were picking out the distant hills, Ingleboro, Bowland Knotts and many others we knew so well, their snow covered summits standing out like pearls on a carpet of green. A keen face wind made our journey a little harder than usual, but amidst such scenery and pleasant companions we soon arrived at Settle. Here we had our usual rest, whilst some of our members imbibed in "soft" drinks.
Horton being our destination for lunch, we did not tarry long as the hungry worm was already biting, so leaving Settle by way of Constitution Hill we sped through Langcliffe and Stainforth, being treated to a magnificent view of snow capped. Peny-y-ghent on our right as we neared Horton. Soon the Golden Lion at Horton was crowded out with us as we appeased our appetites.
After lunch we left Horton, and instead of following the main road we turned right at the New Inn, and we followed the back road (the old pack horse road to Hawes), and so up the dale through New Houses, where the road became more hilly and much rougher. Of course, you can trust a cyclist to find all the mud etc. By the time we reached Higher Birkwith Farm the road almost petered out altogether. Here we took to a grass track through fields to Brow Gill and the cave.
Cave hunting and "potting" are pastimes which seem to fascinate all cyclists and Brow Gill is one of the safest caves in a district which is literally a warren of them. About twenty of us, equipped with electric and acetylene lamps entered. For about thirty yards we were dodging the water, crossing and re-crossing the stream which comes out of the cave; then a shout from the leader of "mind your heads,” and the roof became so low that we had to creep on our hands and knees for another twenty yards or so, then we found ourselves in the main cavern. The main cavern is just like a huge fissure in the rocks roofed in. In width it varies from about thirty feet to about eighteen inches - (how "Squire" managed to get through still remains a mystery) — and the height is about sixty or seventy feet. We continued up the cave, sometimes walking easily, sometimes just squeezing through, eventually coming to the end. Here is a beautiful underground waterfall, the water falling from a height of thirty-five to forty feet. With the light of our lamps making each drop sparkle as it fell, and with a background of rock whose shade varied from black to a kind of fawn, it made a sight well worth our effort. Returning to our machines we followed the track further on and eventually crossed the Ribble, here only a few feet wide, and presently came to the Ribblehead Road just above Selside. With a slight back wind and some fast men in front, our journey back to Settle and Long Preston, where we had tea, was soon accomplished.
Tea over, we rested awhile, passing the time talking of our various activities. Home was calling though, and soon we were speeding towards it beneath a silvery moon and through frosty air, content that we had spent another profitable day awheel.
JIMNUT.
The Nelson section of the Cyclists’ Touring Club held their one hundred miles trial on Sunday. The event is organised anmually purely as a reliability ride, and not as a race, the riders competing only against time, and not against one another; no special prize or official recognition is given to the fastest rider.
This year, ladies had the option of covering the one hundred miles in either eight or nine hours; gents. in either seven or eight hours; and tandem couples in either six or seven hours, not including compulsory stops amounting to one hour for meals. There were 44 entries, as follows :— Two double gent’s tandems in the six hours class ; three double gent’s tandems, one lady-back tandem and fifteen gent’s singles in the seven hours class; nine gent’s and one lad in the eight hours eclass; and seven ladies in the nine hours class. Having got these details off my chest, I will tell you of the actual ride.
The organiser had apparently ordered suitable weather, for the morning was cool and not yet marred by too much wind as we rolled up to the starting place at the bottom of Blacko village. We received our route cards, and almost wore all the gold off the timekeeper’s watch by our continual demand for the 'official' time. As is usual in these events, we told one another how ill we felt, and romanced about the late hours we had been keeping, and various other excuses for possible failure. Naturally, of course, just as the timekeeper gave the word to go at 9-30, I remembered that my tyres needed pumping up, and by the time this operation was concluded, I was left at the post and one minute behind. Mounting hurriedly, I galloped into Barrowford, where the infant population encouraged me on with "Buck up! Tha'rt gerrin left:!” However, I began to overtake the other riders on the hills to Fence, and by the time Whalley was reached, I had gained six minutes on my scheduled time. The riders were now strung out, and there was no one in sight either in front or behind as I sprinted on towards Preston, but shortly before reaching Mellor Brook I was overtaken by a lady-back tandem and "Lezly" who had started three minutes late owing to his bed not being of the ejector type. We rode on together into the headwind, and reached the first check at Halfpenny Bridge (22.1 miles), at 10-46, sixteen minutes in advance of schedule, but still behind the first bunches of riders. We rode up, perhaps I ought to say tottered up the hill into Preston, and turned on to Moor Park Road and scampered on to Brock. Some of our members, who were engaged in the exhilarating pastime of watching the riders come past, bawled out the musual encouragement, "Be sharp, you’re getting left!” This in spite of the dfact that we were now twenty minutes in advance of schedule; however, we did not trouble to get off and mop up the floor with them; for one reason there were too many of them. The wind was now sweeping unhindered across the Fylde plain, and it had a distingtly deterring effect upon our progress, but we lessened its effect a good deal by riding in single file and taking turns at leading and sheltering. We reached Cabus at 11-35, having covered the 36.5 miles at a little over 17 miles an hour.
We had lunch at the Oakfield Cafe a distinctly hurried lunch, since if we stayed over our allotted half-hour we were losing our riding time. Everyone looked very hot as they arrived, and soap and water was in great demand; our runs seeretary was heard to observe that he had sweated so much that his washing water tasted salty ; personally, however, I preferred to dry myself with a towel.
My bosom friend Derailleur, who was checking at the lunch place, bid me an ironically tender farewell and promised to send me a wreath, as he checked us out at 12-5. "Lezly” who had dined on a massive and mysterious home-made ' confaction, which he termed a dynamite bun, was evidently feeling considerable benefit therefrom; after putting in his top gear of 106 ins., he raced up towards Lancaster at about 20 miles per hour, whilst I toddled on painfully behind. He slowed up a little to "speak a few words of encouragement," as he put it, to the driver of a Ribble express bus, which we overtook and then we zalloped on again. By the time we had reached Lancaster my one aim in life was to discover the ingredients of these dynamite buns; we had covered the ten miles from Cabus in exactly half-an-hour — poor old Sarky! We were now 35 minutes in advance of schiedule, so when we overtook another bunch of riders, we slowed down a little to cool off; but it was too good to last; a tandem came along and we all chased after it; the pace got hotter and hotter and faster and faster until eventually the tandem and "Lezly" sailed on ahead at a gentle 25 mph. and left us far behind. We were so "whacked" after this effort that we dropped down to schedule speed, and when one of the riders dropped his cape from out of his saddle-bag at the bottom of a hill, the way that the others scrambled off their machines to pick it up was a revelation 1n altruisim — unless one reconsidered 1t as an excuse for walking up the hill.
We reached Ingleton at 1-41, and from there we had a very helpful tail-wind that olew us merrily over Newby Common. The sun came out from behind the clouds and beamed down upon us, but we did not appreciate it, we were too warm; it only made us wish that we could lie in the grass and watch the cloud shadows that were passing lazily over Ingleborough, instead of galloping over the road like a crowd of speed fanatics. Buckhaw Brow was surmounted on foot, but we went down the other side so swiftly that I was afraid of my bicycle dashing on and leaving me suspended in mid-air. We rode into Settle (73.2 miles) at 2:21 p.m., this being 46 minutes before schedule, and after parking our bicycles, we went in Handby’s cafe for tea.
We did not waste any time at Settle, but started off immediately our half-hour interval had expired. We still had a helping wind and we made the most of it as We sped along Ribblesdale to Long Preston. Hellifield and Gargrave were passed in fine style, and soon we were calling out our numbers to checkers at Skipton. We were so busily engaged in avoiding the traffic in the town that we forgot to note the time. However, a voice from the rear informed us that if we could only go a little faster we could gain a full hour on our schedule and thus complete the course in six hours instead of seven. This, of course, would not make any difference of time on our certificates, but at least we should have the personal satisfaction of knowing that we could do it. Unfortunately, we had turned into the wind again, and consequently our speed suffered, but we set our jaws in the traditional determined manner and pushed so hard that I expected our bicycle chains to stretch like elastic. Unfortunately, one of our bunch of five had to stop to pump up his tyre, and two more decided to walk up the hill at Thornton leaving "Airingle" and I to slog on alone. I don’t think I have ever put so much energy into cycling before, but anyway it was worth it, for we achieved our object and checked in at the finishing point at Colne at exactly 4-30, and making our average speed for the 100 miles 16.6 miles per hour. Four tandems and three gent’s on singles were even faster still; one of the tandems covered the course in five hours, seven minutes. They must have had something even better than "Lezly’s" dynamite buns! The first lady to finish covered the course in seven hours five and a half minutes. Eventually, with the exception of one rider, who had to retire owing to meechanical trouble, all the 44 entrants succeeded in covering the course within the stipulated times, whilst 20 of these finished with an hour to spare. The successiul riders were :— Six hours (tandems only) : G. Reader and. A. Reader; J. Simpson and A. Bowdin, Seven hours (tan- dems) : T. Cooper and H. Wood; H. Cleyz and G. A. Hudson ; J. Jackson and Misg E. Sugden; T. Phillips and H. Haslam. Singles : S. Leach, L. Hartley, C, Cryer, H. Blezard, H. Haslam, jnr., J. Wilson; J. Berry, H. Horner, €. E. Davidson, M. Cliffe, R. Harrison, C. Fletcher, K. Brown, L. Dixon. Eight hours: R. Cooke, A. Burton, J. Wood, F. Edmondson, .J. Summersgill, Miss J. Entwistle, A. Fisher, C. Caddy, T. Nuttall. Nine hours : Mrs. W. Smith, Miss H. Summons, Mrs. W. Scott, Misses M. Aughton, E. Cooper, L. Parker and M. Gill. Certificates will be awarded to all the above riders.
SARKIKUS.
(Photo of the tandem team of George (front) and Arthur Reader kindly provided by Robert Reader)
Over a lifetime of cycling, David and Dorothy Wilkinson amassed a huge number of photos. Their daughter, Margaret, has been (and still is) going through their archives, and has selected a few of particular interest, which she has kindly provided below.
With expressions attuned to the outlook which surrounded us, we sallied forth into the blustery morning, with a leaden sky overhead, and the wind whistling merrily in our ears. But soon our do-or-die determination dwindled to an inclination to potter. and thus we continued on our way. to Skipton. Here a cattle market was in progress, so we quickly slipped through the town; and taking the road up on to the moors soon found ourselves in solitude once more. From up above the pale rays of the sun filtered through to us, and as we sped downward through Rylstone with its roadside lake, an on through Cracoe the wind sang past our faces and acted as a welcome cooling draught. At Threshfield a halt was called and a conference ensued, but the wants of the inner man could not long be neglected, and so we hurried onward, and beneath the frowning Kilnsey Crag we made hearty inroads to our store of "man-fuel." We spent a leisurely half-hour and then once. more we took to our mounts.
After a steady climb we had a glimpse of the pretty village of Hawkswick, nestling at the foot of the towering hillside, before we swept down into the old world village of Arnclifie. Here we left our cycles for a while and strolled through the precincts of the village church, which, in spite of recent renovations still retains its old world solemnity and peacefulness.
The road from Arncliffe led us by the side of the stream on to Halton Gill. On one side towered the hillside with its summit wreathed in swirling mist, whilst on the other side in the distance, rose the other side of the valley. up which meandered the route we had to take. Halton Gill, a bunch of farmsteads and a post office, appeared to be the last outpost of civilisation, for as far as the eye could see the barren sides of the valley stretched, seeming to melt at one end imto black clouds and a clammy swirling mist, whilst the floor of the valley lay bathed in sunshine. As we chmbed up the hillside, sending sheep scurrying from our path, Nature indeed seemed to favour us, for on either side of us black storm clouds lowered, whilst in our rear the mist rolled on in pursuit, Before us, as we reached the top, stretched a wonderful panorama. In the heavens, before us, dark clouds hroke away and the sun’s rays broke through and poured down in long golden shafts on to the earth below, making it look like a chess board of green and brown, through which the stream cut like a silver band. Soon, however, we were forced to hurry on for the mist had rolled up on our heels, obliterating everything behind us, and so reluctantly we mounted and commenced the wild scurry which forms the descent into Stainforth, and so on to Settle, once more rudely plunged into the midst of civilisation.
Under the welcome sign of the “Wheel and Wings" we partook of tea, after which we turned our faces homeward, our way being lightened by the club lasses who, like us, had been revelling in the joys of the open air and a day awheel.
- YOUNG UN
Last week-end all roads led to Bolton-by-Bowland: that pretty Yorkshire village was the centre of the universe for cyclists, cycle campers and hikers of the northern counties. The North Lancashire District Association of the C.T.C. was staging its popular annual “meet" and camping rally, for several years one of the chief attractions for northern cyclists.
Three of us, cycle campers usually, decided to cast convention and cycles aside, and become hiker-campers for once, by way of a change. It wasn’t far to Bolton-by Bowland we argued, also it would enable us to renew acquaintance with scenes long forgotten or neglected whilst seeking pastures farther afield.
Leaving Fence Gate, we turned un by the old church and followed the field paths to Sabden Fold. We had not traversed many fields before it was necessary to remove our jackets for comfort; it was a May day without a doubt. Warm, gentle breezes, and glaring sunlight, with an occasional wisp of cloud in a background of deep blue. A cuckoo called, a peewit performed aerial acrobatics, and a lark from its lofty viewpoint poured music earthward in a long continued trill. Turning into Cock Clough, we attained Spence Moor, and followed the lip of the moor above Ogden Clough. "Nearly equal to the Lake District," said one. "Not quite as rugged or majestic," remarked another critically. Striking across the moor, we reached Brast Clough, and descended the slopes of old Pendle to its foot-hills, and so on to Downham. Leaving this delightful village, we continued along the primrose-strewn banks of Swanside Beck to Sawley, and by wandering lanes reached Bolton-by-Bowland.
Already the village had an animated appearance. Cycle campers from far and near were passing through to the camping ground. Shops (both of them) were experiencing an unprecedented boom. Lads and lasses in shorts monopolised everything. Proceeding to the camp, we erected our tents, and then settled down to a well-earned tea and rest.
In the evening a concert was to be held in the village school. To this we went with about 200 others. The hall was packed to its utmost limit, and many had to be turned away; they missed a treat. A splendid concert was given by Miss S. Taylor, soprano; Miss ¥. Greenwood, contralto; Mr, W. Taylor, baritone (of the Savoy Opera Singers), along with Mr. A. E. Benson, tenor; Miss-E. Illingworth, violinist, and Miss A. Dixon, accompanist. Who will forget 'The Rivals', 'Before and After Marriage', or ‘My Sarah—Oo-ooh!? My Henery—Qo-o0h' put across so inimitably by the various artistes. Not that all were comedy numbers; such favourites as “Selections from Maid of the Mountains,” “Night in Venice,” and the violin solos were received with great applause. A concluding item, "Love’s Old Sweet Song,” beautifully rendered by the party, brought to a close a very pleasant evening.
Returning to the camp after the concert, we found most of the inhabitants at supper or preparing for a night’s rest. Many of the tents were illuminated,. and when seen from a distance were a very pleasing picture one dear to the heart of every camper.
Sunday morning dawned: the day of events! The weather was dull and cloudy, with occasional drizzle. Trom a tent away down stream, a feminine voice squeaked "My Hener —Oo-ooh! My Sarah Oo-ooh!" replied an up-river rovsterer. Shades of last night’s concert! A merry life is a camper’s, full of humour. Between breakfast and lunch the time passed pleasantly in viewing the mushroom village.
Over 130 tents accommodating some 200 persons were there. A party had gathered across the river, and under the leadership of an amateur conductor, were rendering vocal numbers in woodland surroundings, more charming than the artificial atmosphere of the stage. Meanwhile, visitors began pouring in, viewing with wonder and admiration what constituted perhaps the largest gathering of campers ever held in the North of England. Things hecame lively when the Press photographers and the Universal Talking News’ representatives began operations.
It was in the afternoon that things reached a climax. People began to find interest not in the camp, but in the village, and Bolton-by-Bewland began to assume the apearance of a human bee-hive.
Cyclists continually rolled into the village from every approach and gathered on the green to await events. At 2 o’clock Mr. Atkinson. the Chairman, rose and welcomed a crowd roughly estimated at 600. In introducing the speakers, he appealed to cyclists to preserve the beauties of the countryside.
Mr. C. A. Cheetham, C.C. for West Yorkshire, that old veteran full of boyish laughter and youthful vitality, chided the North Lancs. D.A. on holding its "meet" im Yorkshire, but gave them all a heartywelcome to his home county.
Mr. C. H. Crompton, C.T.C., Councillor for Lancashire, stressed the importance of organization, and urged all unattached cyclists to join some organised body such as the C.T.C., to protect their interests.
Mr. Elias, President of the Liverpool District Association, thanked the organisers for giving him his first opportunity of addressing local cyclists did not seem to fully appreciate the beauties of the surrounding district, and that if they lived in a district such as Liverpool, where they had no rural countrvside, would appreciate such beauties a great deal more.
"Kuklus", that witty and versatile lecturer, kept the crowd amused with his sallies at the motorist. "Far from the cyclist being crowded off the road,” he said, *their numbers were increasing every week." He read a letter from a Southampton man who said that he had been compelled by his wife, her mother and their nicce to drive motor cars, so he hated them. (He meant motor cars).
Mr. P. Brazendale, Secretary of the Liverpool D.A. gave a wonderfully uplifting speech. He also stressed the importance of preserving the beauties of the countryside, but added that there was one kind of flower that all cyclists should pluck, by the roots if necessary; he referred to the healthy lasses of the C.T.C. Marry a cyclist, was his advice, and the interests which both have in common will add materially to the joys of life.
Mr. G. A. Hudson, of Nelson, Secretary of the North Lancs. D.A., moved, and Miss M. Aughton, ¢f Nelson, seconded a vote of thanks to the speakers. And so it ended.
We returned to the camp feeling proud of our organisation. These speakers made us feel to be superior; mwore enlightened than those poor creatures ignorant of our pastime. We were rich in experience, happiness and were indded fotunate.
Shouldering our rucksacks, now bulging with the dismantled camping eguipment, we left the camping ground. By way of Foodin, we made our way homewards and dropped into the Haven at Rimington, for tea. Old Pendle had donned his night-cap when we emerged, and a steady drizzle cooled our heated brows. A dozen or so cyclists flashed by. Greetings and humorous sallies clashed in the humid atmosphere, for we recognised them as fellow clubmates returning from the “meet.” I wish I had my bike,” remarked one of my companions as the ecyclists drifted effortlessly down the long hill to Barley.
Thus another Bolton-by-Bowland "meet" had passed into history. This the latest was a success beyond our wildest dreams. It was eloquent of the vivacity of cycling and camping in the mnorth. Will next year’s great event surpass it? Without a doubt, it will. Do not our own leaders of the pastime say so - nay, assert it, that cycling must grow! We who have attended thislatest "meet" look forward with added zest to the next. See that you, attached or unattached cyclists, campers or hikers, are there too.
(Photo kindly provided by Robert Reeder, Campers at the Bolton-By-Bowland meet, although it is uncertain if this is from the same year).
Bolton-By-Bowland,
Sunday...
Bolton:by-Bowland was to-day invaded by 600 cyclists from all parts of Lancashire and Yorkshire.
Bicycles and tandems were stacked in hundreds against the ancient buildings while their owners swarmed round the stone cross and the village green, rambled the country lanes, and inspected a camp of gaily-coloured tents in which 200 cyclists spent the night after pedaling from towns as far removed as Darlington.
These campers, 50 of them girls, had brought their own food and cooked it in the open.
Hikers Defined
This afiernoon the cyclists assembled on the village green. and listened to an hour's speech-making, chiefly devoted to the aims of the Cyclists’ Touring Cluly, the North Lancashire association of which has promoted the rally. They were joined by 50 ramblers, who were amused when one speaker defined hikers as ‘people who can’'t ride bicycles.'
So far from cyclists being driven off the road by motor-cars, the reverse might occur, another speaker asserted,
He read a letter from a Southampton man who said that he had been compelled by his wife, her mother and their niece to drive motor-cars, so he hated them. (He meant motor-cars.)
Pity the Motorists
“Always be sorry for motorists,” the speaker added “They may be enduring misery at the command of their womenfolk.™
Pleas were made for the preservation of the countryside and I saw one cyclist peel an apple and carefully put the peel into his pocket,
The village constable told me the eyclists were Bolton-by-Bowland’s most orderly visitors.
“Marry a cyclist” was the advice of a Liverpool veteran. A Yorkshire member had evidently done so as he turned off with his wife riding tandem with a baby in a sidecar attached to the machine.
- C.T.C. Notes - May 2 1931
- A Bride in Plus Fours - 23 May 1931
- C.T.C. Notes - May 29, 1931
- C.T.C. Notes - On Business and Pleasure Bent - Jan 1931
- C.T.C. Notes - Jan 1931
- A Knight of the Open Road
- C.T.C. Notes. Dec 5 193?
- C.T.C. Notes - Trails and Trials
- C.T.C Notes - A Ramble round Bleasdale, c1930
- C.T.C. Notes - In Subterranean Yorkshire c.1930