“Variety is the spice of life,” so the saying goes, and if this be the case many members of the Nelson section of the Cyclists’ Touring Club are suffering from a surfeit of good things. This i1s due to our participation in the first camping rally of the North-West lLancashire D.A., held last week-end at Brock, a small village situated on the Lancaster road, about eight miles from Preston. The good things provided for our entertainment included a lantern lecture, field sports, the opportunity of meeting old friends and making new ones, and finally for those who awakened soon enough the chance of viewing a thirty miles tandem race, though this latter event was not provided by the C.T.C.

Being one whose occupation mnecessitates working on Saturday afternoon, it 1s necessary for me to make special arrangements for camping, so my partner takes the tent and all heavy items of equipment, while I follow on, travelling light. This system I find very satisfactory.

Leaving work, I proceeded towards my destination via Higham and Whalley, alternately putting on my cape and taking it off as the showers of rain necessitated, until, tired of the weather’s vagaries, I told the weather clerk to do his worst, and put 1t away for good. Fortunately, he took pity on me, and the sun came out.

At Whalley I turned along the Preston road, but, finding so much traffic bound for the illuminations, I forsook this road at the first opportunity and proceeded by winding lanes to Ribchester and lLongridge. Here, feeling anxious for the safety of my fellow members, I took the Broughton road, which goes close by Whittingham Asylum, but, fortunately, they had taken another route, and are still at liberty.

Reaching Broughton, I again found myself amongst the "petrol fiends,” and they vied with each other in chasing me to my destination. Dismounting from my machine, I was greeted by an old friend, "Rota,” of the “Northern Daily Telegraph,” who was busy making notes on the assorted types of tents, cycles, ete., which were pouring in.

On investigation, I found my partner just putting the finishing touches to the tent, so I congratulated myself on the time taken for the journey.

After replenishing the inner man, the assembled campers proceeded to the lecture hall, where "Wanderer,” of Leeds, gave an illustrated account of a camping tour "Through France to Andorra,” the little Republic situated in the Pyrenees between France and Spain. The lecturer kept his audience interested in describing the many beautiful scenes seen on the tour, and the difficalty he had in making known his wants in very bad French to the farmers and catering establishments on the way.

The lecture over, the audience dispersed to their tents, some to sleep (?) and others to keep them awake by engaging in community singing vound a huge camp fire.

The following morning, being awakened by the occupants of the next tent, who were riding in the tandem race, I washed in the brook — a process which made some of the onlookers’ teeth chatter. A good breakfagt soon induced a little warmth after my dip in the icy water.

Then, finding that the race was just starting, I strolled through the fields on to the roadway, and cheered the competitors impartially as they hurried by. After seeing their return, and finding that the winning couple had done the distance in just over one hour and a quarter, I made my way back to camp, along with other spectators, for the sports. These consisted of one hundred yards running, threading the needle, boot and shoe race, tug of war, and high jumping. The last two events proved to be the most interesting of the lot. Mr. Hudson, of Nelson, who is a Councillor of the club, then made a short speech, congratulating the organisers of the events, and distributed the prizes to the winners.

The assembled campers afterwards proceeded to make tea, pull down their tents, and departed according to the distance be traversed to their respective home. My partner and myself had tea, then packed up and made our way homeward by Inglewhite, Longridge and Whalley, thus ending another week-end which will remain in our memories for a long time to come.

“MARQUEE"


Published: 22 May 2021

September holidays, the problem of the moment. How does one obtain an enjoyable holiday when the exchequer is low? Does one stay at home and re-hash the memories of one’s mid-summer holiday? Certainly not. Let me tell you how thirty-three members of the Nelson Section of the Cyclists’ Touring Club managed it. They loaded their bicycles with tents, pots, pans and other camping requisites, and after a rather tedious journey through the pouring rain eventually arrived at Ambleside, the chosen headquarters. Fortunately, the rain cleared in time to allow us to pitch our tents without any discomfort on the edge of Lake Windermere.

Sunday found' us indulging in various recreations. During the morning some boated on the lake, one or two swam in it, and the rest idled about enjoying the beautiful surroundings.

In the afternoon one party had a leisurely run to Tarn Hows and Tilberthwaite Ghyll, a delightful bit of Lakeland between Ambleside and Coniston. From the how, or hill, overlooking High Low Tarn there are fine views over the mountain lakelet, with its winding, wooded shores to the fells beyond Ambleside. This tarn and part of the surrounding country was within recent years presented to the National Trust. Another party. climbed Lougrigg, and rock-embossed fell at the head of Windermere, and then went forward to Grasmere, returning along the shores of Rydal Water and through the beautiful wooded Rydal Vale.

Monday morning found the camp in a general state of unrest, for it was murmured that Scafell Pike was to be conquered that day. A start was made by riding via Skelwith Bridge and Elterwater, into Great Langdale, one of the finest valleys in Lakeland. One cannot fail to be impressed by the grandeur of the mountain outline visible daring the latter part of this ride, and especially when Langdale itself is entered. The well-known Peaks of Langdale stand at the head of the valley, whilst more to the west, is the graceful peak of Bowfell and the rugged contour of Crinkle Crags.

At Middlefell Farm, near Dungeon Ghyll, we abandoned our cycles and commenced our tramp. The first two miles of Mickledon Strath were soon covered, and then we tackled Rossett Ghyll, the notoriously rough valley below. This accomplished, we felt that we had earned something, so an al fresco lunch was partaken of. Then we strode on past the deep-set Angle Tarn to Esk House, where we obtained a fine view of Great Gable and the crags of Great End. Here we turned left on to Scafell Pike. We were soon. enveloped in clouds, but after a rough walk across the huge boulders which constitute the higher reaches of the mountain, we scrambled up the narrow ridge - the last ascent to the summit of England. From the summit an occasional break in the clouds gave us glimpses of the valleys below, and then, as quickly as it had come, the mist disappeared, and the whole district, from the Scottish hills beyond the Solway Firth to the hills on the farther side of Morecambe Bay and the intermediate peaks of the Cumbrian mountain, came into view. The majority returned by the same route as they had come, but a few of the more adventurous spirits continued over Bowfell and down by Hell Ghyll — a wild ravine, with ‘waterfalls and cascades roaring and splashing over the rocks — to join the rest of the party at Middlefell Farm for tea. There is always a fair amount of table-talk after an ordinary event, but this one beat them all, for everyone had some amusing or exciting incident to recall.

After tea there came a peaceful ride down Langdale in a typical Lakeland evening, the gold outlines of the Langdale Pikes showing majestically against the yellow hue of the western sky. Then the camp fire was lit, and there followed the usual recounting of experiences before everyone turned in for the night.

Tuesday proved to be practically uneventful. A steady drizzle upset any ambitious plans that were made.

When the last day of the holiday came, nearly all packed their outfits and returned home, knowing that they had spent their holiday both wisely and cheaply. Those more fortunate members who had secured a longer period stayed to enjoy the incomparable beauties of this jewel of England.

J.H.G




Published: 14 May 2020

How good it feels to be on the road again after sizzling for four days in the tropical atmosphere of the factory Thus though I was, accompanied by my clubmates I sped swiftly along to Skipton. How good it felt to breathe deeply the bracing air of the countryside and feel the cool breeze gently caressing our cheeks and hands as we coasted swiftly down the hills, revelling in the prospect of a week-end’s freedom with congenial companions in the Dales.

Who, amongst cyclists, would not be a camper if he only knew and understood the many pleasures of this carefree life. What matter 1f it is a trifle harder uphill, it’s miles an hour faster down. My mood continued, and I thought of our friends the non-campers, returning home to the murky, soot-laden atmosphere of the town, on Saturday, only to bump and crash over the rough sets, to join the run on the morrow. Poor chaps! They don’t know the joy of sleeping out under the stars, the majesty of the hills as the mists descend to form a nightcap over their summits, or waken to see the country glistening under the rays of the rising sun. “What know they of a country who keep on passing through.” I misquote, but—

We stayed a few minutes in Skipton chatting with old friends, and then we were away. Cracoe and Threshfield dropped behind and we slid down into glorious Wharfedale. Leaving the main road at Kilnsey we went round by way of Coniston to Kettlewell. A narrow and torturous road this, but it is the quickest way for a cyclist travelling up the Dale. One is rewarded with splendid views of the Dale dominated by the forbidding mass of Kilnsey Crag. Passing through Kettlewell the trend of talk naturally turned to Captain Kettle who was named after this village, and to his rival Thomas Higgins, of Starbottom. two miles farther up the valley.

Buckden called us for tea and we found several of our members already there. Tea over we attacked Cray, riding steadily. It is a long climb, and soon we were glad to walk. Not satisfied, we then stormed the Stake Pass, or perhaps it would be more correct to say the Stake Pass stormed us. It was glorious weather down in the valley, but on the hills the mist and clouds hung. thick and heavy. We had anticipated this all the way up Wharfedale. A so-called road sometimes grass track, occasionally like a riverbed, led us gradually upwards into the clouds. The thick mist hung like dew on our hair and eyelashes, while our outer garments were soon saturated. However, we reached the top at last and shot down the long freewheel at the other side. We ran out of the mist, back into it, out again, and then came Semmerwater, the lake on whose shores we were to spend the night and part of the morrow. We had scarcely pitched our tents ere the rain commenced, blotting out the landscape. Someone proposed supper, a suggestion which met with unanimous approval. After a hard day’s ride, one of the pleasures of camping is to sit and listen to the chatter and songs of the campers while supper is cooking. ‘

Listen! A voice is singing, "Then all the steins for Auld Lang Syne."

Then, “Give me the milk please.”

"Oh corks!”

No! Don’t wash yourself in it.

Singer again, "Shout till the rafters ring’

Steaming cocoa and pancakes for supper more singing and then to bed. As I lay there I thought of the legend of Semmerwater; of his vengeance turned the valley into a lake and drowned them all. I don’t know whether this accounts for it or not, but Semmerwater is well known for its pike.

Morning brought a more cheerful prospect and the water was so warm that nearly all went swimming before breakfast. Afterwards some explored the country round the lake, others attempted to sketch it while the rest offered constructive criticism.

Soon after dinner camp was struck, and we came slowly back over the Stake, through mist so thick that one could scarcely see ten yards. Back to sunshine and Kilnsey for tea, then by easy stages home.

Published: 06 May 2020

"Dring-g-g-g!!" Curse you, alarm clock. Shurrup ' “Dring-g g-g!” Oh, all right, I'm getting up. What, 6 am.? Heavens, what an unearthly hour to rise. Well, well, it’s for a good cause. These, and other ejaculations, occurred prior to my departure for Higherford last Sunday to join the Silverdale run. But even rising at such an hour failed to get me to the meeting place at the appointed time. As it happened, however, there were only a few assembled, about four, I think. Magnificently. I gave any of them permission to pump up my tyres, but to my intense disgust, they declined with jeers; result, I did it myself. Slowly our little band grew, until at eight o'clock it was a party of nine that tackled Blacko hill. I don’t know whether it was the result of being up so early, or merely youthful high spirits, but “Wilmay,” much to our alarm, careered joyously all over the road in an endeavour to work off some of his exuberance. But of “Wilmay" more will be heard later. Strongly we swung on, slipping into Settle at 9-30, Here, to our amazement, was a wondrous scene, and after many conjectures in which campers figured largely, we arrived at the conclusion that it was a fair. Yes, that was it, a “fair!” And, lest I should incur the wrath of one of my fellow members, I dare not reveal the name of the youth who was finally located sitting on the "‘obby ‘orses.” waiting for them to start.

When we left Settle we were fifteen strong, six late-comers having joined us. Steadily the miles were put behind, Clapham came and went, Ingleton was dropped; Kirkby Lonsdale, and then — disaster. “Womanater,” the chump, amid a loud hissing sound, nonchalantly informed us that he thought he had a puncture. looking at his already flat tyre we did not doubt the truth of his statement, but glumly dismounted. Telling the rest to continue, four of us remained with the unfortunate "Womanater.” And now, I will tell the correct procedure for repairing punctures, or shall we say "Womanater's" method. First of all, take off coat, the shirt sleeves up brisk]y, remove lamp from bike, placing the latter upside down. Produce tools and necessary equipment and finally sit down while some fathead does the job. It all worked according to rule, the fathead in this case being “Bookoss.” On inspection of the inner tube, it was found to be badly gashed, a spare one was put in. When at last all was in order the hour was late, and we found that we should have to put in some good riding to arrive at Arnside in reasonable time. As we had only a vague idea how to get there, we left it to "Wilmay" to guide us, and by gum, he did! He said it was a short cut; it was. The road (bah !}, path we took, rose about 1,000 feet (or so it seemed), and when we arrived at Arnside, we told “Wilmay” in no uncertain terms, where to go, and what to do with his map.

The others were already consuming the enormous quantities of food and nothing loth, we followed their example Having completed this most important interlude, we wandered down to the promenade, where our camera friends proceeded to waste perfectly good film upon us. Arnside is very nice place, but it is robbed of much of its charm by the unsightly viaduct which spans the bay. It was so pleasant, and the water looked so tempting that a few voted for swimming. The more restless spirits elected to carry on to Silverdale via Arnside Knott, which we proceeded to do. Amid open moorland the road took us, the rising gradient causing us to walk. At the summit a halt was made to admire the view while the presence of large quantities of blackberry bushes bearing ripe fruit, spurred our more thrifty members into blackberrying. It was only when someone pointed out that too many raw blackberries had been known to poison people, that they seemed less eager to pick them. Satisfied, both with the view and the blackberries, we carried on through cool, refreshing woods, the trees interlacing overhead and shutting out the hot sun. Shortly, we struck the road again, and were soon at Silverdale. We were not inclined to halt there, but passed on, the run becoming now a matter purely and simply of reeling the miles off as quickly as possible. On traffic-laden roads, reeking with petrol, amid the booming of exhausts and the shrieking of electric horns; it was hideous. Bolton le-Sands was just behind us, then came ugly Carnforth, My impression of Carnforth is one of railway sidings, and what looked like huge condensers and gas works. Lancaster at last!

Here we slaked our thirst with cooling drinks, preparatory to grinding down to Brock. The pace settled down to a steady twelves, with "Wilmay" one of the leaders. It soon became evident that “Wilmay" was not as fresh as he was earlier in the day, and before long he began to regret his morning capers. He cried "Enough" just before Garstang, and retired into a sheltered position in the rear. Someone moved up, and we ground on to Brock, where, with heartfel thanks we had a wash and tea.

From Brock we came through Inglewhite and all thought “now we can take it easy." But could we? We could not. I don’t know how it happened, but the pace freshened up to about fifteens. It became a case of having to hang on to the other fellow’s back wheel, or push the wind oneself. So we chose the lesser of the two evils and all clung together. The climax came when "Squire and Co" were sighted in front. To eighteens the pace rose, and we overtook them between Longridge and Ribchester. Angry murmurings were now heard from the rear. Stop it! Slow up! But they were heeded not. It was only at Ribchester, when "Squire and Co" turned right for Oake’s Bar, and we, left for Billington, that the pace became more leisured. Slowly we wended our way, dropping into Whalley at 8 o’clock. After a brief halt we resumed our homeward journey, each member vowing that never again, would he take part in a club "blind,” but knowing deep down in his heart that he will enter with zest into the next one.

- RAYMIT.

Published: 28 April 2020

Sunday! With tousled heads and bleary eyes, the various members of the Nelson Section of the C.T.C. jumped, slid or crawled from between the sheets, and with noses pressed to windows, surveyed glistening roofs and lowering clouds. Suppressing groans, they gulped down breakfasts, packed food, and at times ranging between eight and ten o’clock, launched forth on their trusty steeds in the direction of Malham. As the official route was via Whalley, it is possible that a few actually reached that becobbled village; but many, knowing of shorter and smoother ways, utilized that knowledge and travelled direct.

The advance guard, arriving before 11-30, decided to pay their respects to the camping section, and accordingly pushed on to Gordale, finding those children of nature — the campers — very much in occupation. Some weird game was in progress, since a hard ball was hurled with great force at an inoffensive youth, the victim defending himself with a block of wood. This, the visitors were informed, was cricket as played in camp. At this stage the camp’s orchestral performer wearied of the game, and diving into a nearby tent, emerged tuning his uke-banjo. This operation successfully completed, the band struck up and hesitatingly tip-toed its way through the tulips. Songs, ancient and modern, followed with bewildering rapidity, whereupon the non-campers fled back to Malham to find the "Airedale" in the possession of the Nelson and Blackburn sections of the C.T.C.

Interval of one hour for lunch. The weather, so depressing earlier in the day, had cleared, and gave promise of a glorious afternoon.

Let it here be said that the objective of the day’s run was a cricket match between the two sections, conceived by their respective committees 1n a moment of madness.

Lunch over, to the satisfaction of all concerned, the company rose in a body and repaired to the camping ground for the match. The campers were discovered in the midst of their midday repast, the odour of burnt bacon mingling appetisingly with the stench of paraffin and other smells so dear to the heart of the camping fraternity. One young lady, anxiously brooding over a strange substance not unlike leather, proudly informed a sceptical audience that the object was a mushroom. Arrangements are well in hand should a funeral be necessary.

But let us to business. The rival captains were busily engaged sorting out the wheat from the chaff — pardon the simile - when the Blackburn skipper discovered to his astonishment that his list contained twelve names, and not knowing which man to drop, pleaded with tears in his eyes, for permission to play the lot. Granted ! Tastily, “Bookoss.” the Nelson leader, tacked another name to the tail, and amid a tense hush tossed his last ha’penny. Tails, called Blackburn, but heads it proving to be, “Bookoss” held a consultation with his stalwarts and decided to bat.

Here the Nelson shares rose rapidly, for the appointed scorer was found to hail from Burnley, and a win seemed assured. But wait! As he seated himself at the foot of a tree, Blackburn supporters draped their figures on either side and prepared to see that no regrettable errors passed unnoticed.

Nelson stocks slumped heavily. The game commenced at 2-30, and the spectators subsided on spread-out capes and ground sheets, the, umpires gave “middles” in the approved manner. Silence reigned. Two maiden overs gave no promise of thrills to come, but ten minutes later the game stood at no runs for two wickets. The female element of the Nelson supporters paled beneath their powder, whilst male fingers twitched spasmodically. More maiden overs, then a snick produced a run. Sensation! The scorer, hastily roused from the state of. lethargy into which he had fallen, produced his pen and proceeded to justify his selection. Shortly afterwards the score stood at one run for four wickets, and by this time the ladies were sobbing openly. The whole side were out within the hour for a paltry eighteen, and with heads lowered in shame, the potential losers took the field. A hectic thirty minutes, and the heads were again erect, for Blackburn had been skittled out for a grossly inadequate ten runs.

Nelson’s second attempt realised fifty-seven runs for the loss of three wickets, at which total the captain declared. The “Blackburnites,” it may be mentioned, were unstinting in their fielding, and the open-handed manner in which they dropped an unbelievable number of catches drove the rival supporters into a frenzy of applause, and produced from their own partisans a succession of groans, heartbreaking in their intensity. Faced with a deficiency of sixty-five, they prepared to sell their lives dearly, but with the total at thirty-one, number twelve pushed a ball into the safe hands of second slip. The match was won and lost. Blackburn enthusiasts were later observed stifling sobs as they stumbled down to Malham, to drown their sorrows in tea.

The camping section celebrated the victory in the usual manner, consuming enormous quantities of paraffin flavoured bread and charred eggs, washing down the unsavoury mixture with gallons — so it seemed — of some only fluid, possibly prepared as tea.

It is proposed to purchase a large tin of raspberries, the same to be handed to the losing team to console them in their hour of darkness.

- Wilmay

Published: 27 April 2020

I rolled up to Fence on Sunday last as the bells of the Parish Church were chiming the hour of nine. Hercules, who has a passion for punctuality, informed me that I was ten seconds late, but I had not time to argue the matter for some unkind flint had penetrated the armour-plating of my rear tyre and the air contained therein was apparently anxious to return to its native element. The task of repairing the puncture took some twenty minutes to complete, and as my fellow-members had departed for Whalley some five minutes previously, I hurriedly packed away my tools and chased after them, but I did not catch them before reaching Whalley.

After a short halt we resumed our journey towards the Trough of Bowland, through Mitton and Bashall Eaves, and soon we arrived at Whitewell, where we paused awhile to stretch our legs and give our long-suffering bicycles a much needed rest. Our runs’ secretary apparently began to need his lunch for soon he dragged us to our bicycles again, and we moved on into the Bowland Hills. Soon we were walking up the steep hill to the county boundary and then, mounting once more, we sped down the other side of the Trough to the picturesque cottage that adjoins the road and the stream and there we had our lunch.

We lunched under the trees by the side of the stream, surrounded by flies, wild birds and hens. Our friend Raymon, who was contentedly browsing upon his "oats," very foolishly left his lunch lying on his cape which was spread out on the ground whilst he went in quest of more tea. Now one of those hens was evidently an opportunist, for no sooner was Raymon’s back turned than it calmly stalked up and began to dispose of his lunch with every evidence of enjoyment. The hen, however, did not enjoy it half so much as we did, for it could not appreciate the expression on Raymond’s face when he found out what was going on.

A few of us went for a stroll after lunch, but the majority of the members, intent upon a game of cricket, set out for Tarnbrook in the hope of finding there a suitable pitch. This party proceeded to Tarnbrook by way of the road, but there was also a shorter way in the shape of a footpath that climbed over Greenside Hill, and this was the way that Womanaiter, Esperanto and myself decided to take. The map informed us that the footpath branched off from the road at Marshaw, so to Marshaw we went and enquired the way of a local farmer. After expressing his astonishment at anyone wanting to take a bicycle over the hills when he could have gone the easier way, he gave us the necessary directions and we left the road behind and began our upward journey. The footpath soon dwindled away to nothing and we found ourselves roaming upon rough pasture land with never a path in sight. We reached the "top" at last, and found that there was still another top farther on; but we are quite used to this trick of Nature, so it did not worry or annoy us. Womanaiter decided that the grass was rideable, but after he had twice fallen off his bicycle with more. violence than elegance he gave up the attempt in disgust. As we mounted higher, the sea came into view; Esperanto and I stopped and. gazed at it longingly (for our shirts were moist with sweat), and thought of the bathing costumes in our saddle-bags. But though the sea looked temptingly near, a glance at the map showed the distance to be fully ten miles. The view was very clear, Blackpool Tower and Fleetwood being easily visible, and even the Lakeland hills were discernible in the distance.

Soon afterwards we reached the top of the hill — the real top this time — and Tarnbrook village nestled in the valley spread out at our feet. We dumped our bicycles and collapsed on the grass, and for some time all was peaceful. Then we discovered that Tarnbrook Fell, which was situated across the valley, was possessed of an echo. Naturally, this delighted our childish minds. and many and weird were the noises that floated across that peaceful valley. The echo was the queerest I have ever heard. A penetrating call would repeat six or seven times, and the last echo was the loudest! The explanation of this freak of Nature is, however, beyond my senile intelligence. We eventually got tired of straining our lungs and, gathering our bicycles, we slid down the steep hillside to Tarnbrook. We passed through the village without a stop, the only signs of life being several small children who stared at us as if we were apparitions, and two cats and about a dozen hens that were feeding peacefully together out of one bowl. We discovered our cricket enthusiasts parked by the roadside indulging in the usual two parts argument, one part cricket. Were they ready for moving on? They were not, so we ambled on and left them to their game. We proceeded through Abbeystead with its picturesque reservoir, and then by way of a wretched road (but which gave us some excellent views) to Brock Mill for our tea.

We sauntered home via Chipping, Higher Hodder and Whalley, and as we climbed towards Sabden we paused awhile to enjoy the beauty of the cloud effects and the glory of the setting sun. A short sharp climb up Black Hill, a swift run down Greenhead Lane and we were home in Burnley once more. A very enjoyable run my brothers, and one which you could enjoy too, if you did but own a bicycle.

- SARKIKUS

Published: 09 April 2020