Sunday last found the members of the North Lancashire District Association of the Cyclists’ Touring Clab gathered in Ellis' tea rooms at Gisburn for the purpese holding their annual general meeting and much more important, of course—their annual dinner and concert.
I will not bore the long-suffering readers of this column with a lengthy account of the meeting, but will briefly mention the officials elected for the coming year. President : The Bishop of Burnley; Vice-Presidents : Messrs. J. Atkinson, T. Hargreaves, W. TLord, and J. Smith ; hon. secretary : Mr. G. A. Hudson (7, Pine Street, Nelson) ; hon. treasurer : Mr. W. Lord ; hon. auditor Mr. H. Leaver; hon. Press secretary : Mr W. R. Mitchell. The committee comprises four delegates from each section, viz. : Mrs Hudson, Messrs. H. Blezard, H. Bowdin, and J. Nuttall (Nelson section), and Messrs: W. Waddington, R. Livesey, W. Briggs and H. Holding (Blackburn section). The meeting closed at 4-30.
The annual dinner began at 5-15, and over 70 members sat down to an excellent repast under the chairmanship of Mr. J. Atkinsons The District Association dinner, as supplied by Miss Ellis, is always eagerly anticipated by our appreciative members. To hear them talk about the dinner, any listener would be led to suppose that our members fasted for several weeks in preparation for the event. After looking at their plump faces the listener would doubtlessly refuse to believe these exaggerated declarations but had he been at Gisburn on Sunday and seen, how easily our members disposed of four-course dinner he could have been pardonably excused for believing that there was some truth in their statements, But it has aaways been one of the advantages of cycling that it creates a healthy appetite particularly in winter. To all who suffer from any inability to dispose of food. I have no hesitation whatever in recommending thebicycle as a cure for their complaint.
The dinner eventually came to a satisfactory conclusion and the tables wene cleared away. Then came the concert. Our chairman, who is a personal friend of Mr. "Willie" Taylor, had been fortunate enough to secure for our entertainment the services of four members of the Savoy Opera Singer, namely : Miss F. Greenwood (contralto); Mr. T. Hartley (tenor); Mr. W. A. Taylor (baritone), and Mr. H. Skirrow (pianist), who, together with Miss Illingworth (violinist) of Colne, rendered an excellent programme. Their programme was verv varied and comprised of vocal solos, duets and trios (operatic, sentimental and humorous), violin solos and humorous sketches. Several of the items brought the house down; one of them, "The Rivals." a humorous duet by Messrs. Taylor and Hartley, had an unrehearsed culmination added to it. The singers, with ecstatic gestures, were pleading with a maiden seated near the door ‘to be their’s,' when the door slowly opened and the head of one of our members emerged from behind the door-jamb and popped into the room. This unexpected denouement, together with the bewildered expression that appeared on the face of the member at apparently being almost frantically implored by two gentlemen "to be their's." caused a general collapse amongst the audience. Another item "The Leader of the Town Brass Band" by Miss Greenwood with the help of Messrs. Taylor and Hartley (who were the band in question) raised such vociferous applause that the band (sic) was compelled to give a special item, "Sonny Boy,” which brought mock tears to the eyes of the performers and real tears (of laughter) to the eyes of the audience. Our campers, who have a so-called band composed of an unconventional mixture of musical instruments, were loud in their praise of this item, and they have, I believe, decided to make Messrs. Taylor and Hartley honorary members of their band. The humorous sketches were very well acted and kept the audience rocking with merriment, and the songs and violin solos which were admirably accompanied by Mr. Skirrow, received loud applause. The concert came to an end all too soon, at 8-30, Mr. G. Hudson moving a vote of thanks to the artistes, to which Mr. Taylor suitablyresponded.
The journey home over Coldweather hill was a damp and misty one, but no grumbling was heard about the weather; we were too busy laughing about the concert to trouble about a trifle like the weather.
It was not a very inviting kind of a morning; a thick fog obliterated everything except near objects, and a slippery road added to the risk of a skid. A fireside and a book were the appropriate means for ending the morning at least; but not for me. A leader is always supposed to present himself on a run, however adverse conditions may be. Nevertheless, I felt sorely tempted to answer other calls more alluring than riding through a wet blanket of fog on a frost-bound road. However, like many other depressing mornings, it proved to be only prelude to a glorious afternoon.
Leaving Langroyd, with its sombre aspect, we left the fog behind and rode into a veritable fairyland. Here hedgerows and trees were thickly coated with hoar frost, glittering white in the sunshine. Craven surely never looked more beautiful than on that morning. A blue sky above and a white road beneath us made my fireside thoughts turn to pity for those who had not faced the ordeal of riding through the fog bound town.
After a short stay in Skipton, we were on our way once more, past Rylstone, Cracoe and Threshfield, into Wharfedale. Here, dazzling white, Great Whernside and Buckden Pike lent an Alpine touch to the scene. With hunger gnawing at our insides, and a strong breeze hindering us, we passed through the pleasant dale villages of Kettlewell and Starbottom to Buckden. Here in a cosy farmhouse we had lunch.
Lunch over, we rambled up to the neighbouring Cray Gill, the object of our run. in the vicinity of Buckden, almost every stream flowing dewn to the valley from the hill tops, cascades over a series of limestone out-crops, making ravines of no mean grandeur. Cray Gill is the most popular of these. For two or three miles 1t descends, now through narrow gorges, now over rocky ledges, with ferns, creepers and bushes forming natural hanging gardens.
Returning to the village for our bicycles, we mounted and rode down the dale. Just as dusk was falling, we arrived at Hetton, where, in a cosy cottage, we ate, laughed and chatted as the tea hour passed.
A cold white world greeted us as we left the warm atmosphere of the cottage. The moon’s cold light dimmed all but the most brilliant stars. So light was it, that details in the Rylstone and Cracoe fells were easily seen. Often walking to warm ourselves, we eventually arrived at Thornton, where, during a pause, we were joined by members of the short run who had been to Druid’s Altar. We rode back to town together, where, after the clear dry atmosphere of the country, it presented a damp, drab aspect very littie better than the morning.
Death of Nelson's veteran cyclist - Mr Amos Sugden
Most familiar figures in Nelson, and a man of whom the town was distinctly proud, Mr. "Amos Sugden, died at his residence, 25 Newport Street, on Friday, at the age of 80. He was the idol of a cycling fraternity representing a wide ared, and by compléting the 67th year of his career awheel, he achieved a notable record. A gentleman of squirely bearing, Mr. Sugden carried his weight of years with a grace that could but be classified as youthful, and up to the middle of last year, when he met with an accident at Ambleside, he enjoyed robust health. The accident, however, had very unfortunate consequences, for although he recently spent a.few weeks in Dorset, he never fully regained his strength, and his end came gradually but surely.
The high esteem in which he was held by his fellow cyelists was manifest on Tuesday afternoon when his remains were laid to rest at Nelson Cemetery.
The cortege was met by members of the C.T.C. and N.C.U., among the latter being Mr. Tom Hughes, a Wigan collier, who had cycled to Nelson direct from his work in the pit, and who had to hurry back for the night shift. The Bishop of Burnley (Dr. Henn) himself a keen cyclist and president of the local branch of the Cyclists’ Touring Club, also attended the ceremony, which was performed by the Rev. G: W. Bromiley.
The chief mourners were :— Mr. and Mrs. Wm. Sugden, Mr. J. Sugdeh, Mr. A. Sugden, Mr. and Mrs. Yates: first coach; Mr. John Sugden, Miss Annie and Ethel Sugden, Mr. Hartley and Mrs. Heywood, Mr. E. Whitehead: second coach; the Misses Broughton, Mr. and Mrs. Fred Sugden, Mr. Darius Windle and Mr. Birtwell: third coach; Mr. Mike and Mr. Albert Shackleton, Mr. Greenwood and Mr. Laurie Palmer, Mr. John Jackson, Mr. Tom MecDougall, the Rev. Mr. Bromiley: fourth coach.
Floral tributes were received from: The Family, Sister and Brother-in-Law and Nephew and Nieces, Daughter Helena and Grandson and Granddaughter, C.T.C. (Nelson = Section), Nelson Wheelers C.C., Neighbours and Friends, Mr. T. Whitehead, Mr. and Mrs. J. Greenwood and Bob, Emmie, Mrs. Pope and Family; Neighbouring Children.
The funeral arrangements were carried out by Messrs. Y. Helliwell and Sons, Ltd.
A Pioneer of the Cycling Movement
Mr. Sugden was one of the foundation members of the Nelson Section of the C.T.C. which he served as chairman from the time of its inception in 1920 until 1928, when he was made honorary vice-president.
It goes without, saying that a career of sixty-seven years awheel would be rich in incident. Mr. Sugden’s Tretentive memory, supplemented by keen powers of observation, had stored up an abundant harvest of choice material.
He was no mere "mile-eater," and had no use for companions whose chief object was passing so many mile-stones in a given time. He saw and heard all the way along, and was not averse to dismounting for the purpose of watching the ways of the merest insect.
Mr. Sugden was also something of a psychologist, and considered that of all things people were the most interesting, and incidentally the queerest. He had met all manner of people in the space of his travels, and his position to judge was beyond question. An anecdotal fund is another factor which made his company desirable to people of all ages, and his bump of humour continued to develop with his years.
Cycled to Wembley
Mr. Sugden had cycled to London more times than can be counted on both hands. He celebrated his 75th birthday by cycling to Wembley, and even at that age did not elect to take the course direct. He decided to spend a week-end in the Lake District, and his starting point for Wembley was Ambleside.
In his younger days he cycled from Barnoldswick to London on one of those antedelavian steeds known as the "penny-farthing.” The whole of his worldly wealth was 1n his pocket — six-pence! He had, however, a good supply of sad cakes, and as Mr. Sugden himself put it; water was in plenty.
Land's End to John-O-Groats
This wonderful veteran had cycled from Land’s End to John o’ Groat’s, this journey being made during a period of industrial depression in the early part of the present century, and: the following year he cycled from Nelson to Bristol without putting up for sleep on the way. Three years ago he cycled to the French and Belgian battlefields, visiting the grave of the son he lost in the war. Not only was Mr. Sugden a cyclist himself, but three of his succeeding generations are also devotees of the pedal, thus creating the unusual fact of three generations awheel.
An Appreciation of Amos Sugden
We have just laid to rest Amos Sugden; for once the wheels have gone round and he has had no will for the journey or its end.
Amos was a great traveller. For him to travel was better than to arrive. Every minute spent in the out-of-doors was enjoyed, and he took the weather offered at the moment, and made the best of it.
Whenever he wandered - and the British Isles held few places he had mnot visited - frequent stops had to be made so that the fresh beauties discovered in old and familiar scenes might be absorbed and incense offered to them from one of Amos’s strange and wonderful pipes.
These delays galled some of his more youthful companions. To him they were among the chief delights of his travel, for his progress was of the unhasting type which gets there in the end. Frequently, during the winter, he visited Manchester to hear the Brand Lane concerts, and enjoyed the varied fare offered. Grand opera, oratorios, any combination of musical instruments or organ music alike offered to him equal opportunity to be glad and rejoice.
In literature he had sure friends — Walter Scott, George Borrow, Carlyle, Charles Dickens, and Shakespeare were all known and read. A recent holiday in Dorest had sent him afresh to the works of Hardy, and he had been at pains to unveil the thin disguise of the place names by much use of his map.
Exhibitions afforded him uceasing pleasure. Everything from the smallest mechanical invention to the interior of a modern air-liner would be inspected, for he took a boy’s delight in seeing how it worked.
No appreciation, however short, would be complete 1f it failed to mention Lakeland, for it held prior claim in his affections to any place in the British Isles, He had conquered most of its hills and passes, but the dearest place it held was a lowly eminence with an unsurpassable view — Orrest Head at Windermere. There, morning and night, he would climb, and take in the picture: limned by the Divine Artist. There at evening we have sat with him, seeing Windermere lying before us a wrinkled sea of gold; then, as the sun sank slowly beyond Bow Fell, its last rays lighting the hills up into sudden glory, so that they seemed on fire; the light failed, and evening came on.
So, at evening Amos silently went from us: He was a great friend, kindly, gracious, understanding. His conversation would enhance any company and disgrace none. Troubles he had had, but they left him sweet. He drank deep from the wells of life, and its waters were not bitter.
For him, as for us...
"...We are such stuff
As dreams are made on; and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep."
After having made two vain attempts to deter us on Sunday morning, the weather clerk retired in disgust and we started on our ride to Skipton. At the capital of Craven we were joined by a few, more of our clubmates, and we rode again in the direction of Upper Wharfedale. The sun shone brilliantly giving the last remaining autumn tints a renewed blaze of colour made more glorious by Saturday’s rain. The surrounding hills vose ridge upon ridge until they reached their climax in Cracoe Fell, then descended again till they dipped down to the River Wharfe. Going easily through Cracoe we went down the hill and past the“Sauce Bottle Row,” with a rush, and then after a slight climb we dropped into Wharfedale. After much discussion we crossed the river at Coniston, then leaving Kilnsey's famous crag away to our left, we went merrily down into Kettlewell, dreaming the dream of all hungry cyclists. We pictured in our imagination, riding into the village, standing our machines against the neavest wall, then walking into "our inn" to find the best chairs waiting for us before a blazing fire and a smiling landlord waiting with a tray full of cups of steaming tea. However, something had gone wrong; there were already about sixty bicycles in the square, and, as we guessed, their owners had occupied all the easy chairs round the fire. We were made as comfortable as possible upstairs, and felt quite satisfied.
After dinner we started to go over the amoor or fell to Hawkswick; it sounded simple and quite easy. Directly we left Kettlewell we cut off the road and took a track which would eventually lead us to the top of the moor. This limestone track, boulder-strewn and with several water splashes, rose very steeply for about three quartevs of a mile. Here the party straggled out, some were very eager to reach the top, while others took it easily. Once on the top the leading party promptly took the wrong way and were Just returning when the others came up. Which was the right way? There was only one track and that one obviously not ours, so we decided to go straight across the moors and hope to find one. Then things began to get really rough; it became, almost impossible to wheel our machines, so we had perforce to carry them. On we went; "Excelsior" became our motto; along the side of a wall, through a water-logged gateway, over another wall, sometimes wheeling our "bikes,” sometimes carrving them. until we looked over into Littondale, and saw the viver far below us. The moor began to slope very stecply, and we again shouldered our machines. Throueh a gateway; then we found ourselves in a wood and the fun began. The trees clutched at our machines like giant fingers and good footholds were few and far between. We got through at last, and came to a road. Here, while we waited for the last party and the girls to come down, someone asked "Why do we come over places like that when there is a perfectly good road round?” No one had a ready answer, but all agreed that it was worth while. Riding down to Kilnsey for tea, I pondered over the question, and the answer seemed to say with Ceesar, "I came, I saw. I conquered”; once again I had achieved what I set out to do, and the world seemed a very good place to live in.
The ride to Chipping is always interesting, as most of the way is along pleasant byways. Especially is it so after Mitton has been passed, when the range of the Bowland Fells, from Whitendale - to Parlick is continually before the eye, and the long mass of Longridge Fell, a constant companion on the left.
It was more so than usual last Sunday when the bright November sunshine — bright for November at least — gladdened the countryside with its radiance and attracted a large gathering of members from the Nelson and Blackburn sections of the C.T.C. to lunch at Chipping before taking part in the event of the afternoon.
After lunch and a lively musical interlude the real fun began. The competitors in the ~vent were timed off at intervals and were instructed to follow a red trail. Naturally, at the first road junction I took the wrong way, but soon righted myself. The trail followed a rough surfaced lane, deep set between two hedges, and then took to the more open country at the foot of Parlick Pike.
If I had not previously travelled this lane I would not have been able to describe it, as the only things I noticed were ruts and potholes. Somehow the rider who started half-a-minute later than I, caught me, and we began to form a kind of affection for each other; neither could leave the other however hard he tried. In this fashion we tore along, passing what seemed to our blurred visions dozens of competitors. Leaving the rough lanes neighbouring Parlick we entered the comparatively smooth road to Bleasdale, still affectionately hugging each other’s wheels. But the easy going was but short lived, and once again we crashed into a rough track winding over Beacon Fell. I have a faint recollection that there were beautiful expansive views of the low lying Fylde district bordering the sea, to be had from here, but the major portion of my senses were occupied in remaining upright. Some day I hope to visit this fell and see if my glimpses were correct. By the time I had reached a good road my partner was lost to sight. Later I found him, and he explained that he had not seen any "spoor" for a while; neither had I when I tried to remember, so off we went to find it. We soon gave it up as useless and decided to potter back to Brock, the tea-place. It was all right saying where we should go, but where were we? Somewhere north of Inglewhite, lost in a labrynth of byways was all we knew. However, we took the direction towards the coast and eventually came to the highway leading from Preston to Lancaster, a little north of Brock. We had hoped to be cheered in, or rather cheered up, at Brock, but we found only one competitor there, he had missed the trail earlier than we.
When all were gathered round the tea tables later, we learnt that we had fortunately missed the muddiest, roughest and toughest part of the course, which finished at Broughton. Nelson provided the winners of the ladies and gent’s prizes; Miss Sharples, the former, and Mr. Nutter the latter, with a Blackburn member a close second.
The runs list of thé Nelson section of the €.T.C. was perused last Sunday morning with great interest by a large number of cyelists with the result that about 30 riders met at Fence Church at 9-30.
We left Fence and proceeded by way of Whalley and Chipping to the abode of one known to cyelists and ramblers as "Toffy” Jack, and there we had lunch. Having satisfied our ravenous appetites we abandoned our bicycles and became ramblers. It was a glorious afternoon, one of those which October borrows from May, indeed, if it were not for the approach of winter; early autumn would be almost as alluring as spring. We went through the gate opposite our lunching place and footed it along the cart track that led us by way of several farmsteads, rustic bridges, and to the ivy-covered church of Bleasdale. The trees everywhere were tinted with burnished gold, a gold which would tax the efforts of any artist to reproduce. We rambled on until we came to a point where we were over-looking Bleasdale; here we branched to our right and the climbing began. It is usual when climbing to divest onself of all articles of clothing which are not necessary for warmth; to-day was no exception, pullovers and coats, both good friends of the past, rested over our arms. After about half an-hour’s strenuous work over peat, bracken and heather, we reached our goal — the summit of Fair Snape Fell — conscious of the joy of achievement and a glorious view. For a short while we sat on the cairn to recover our breath and exchanged gentle ironies on the manner of each other’s ascent, and then started across the ridge to the neighbouring Parlick Pike. The view from the ridge was very fine; the coastline from Morecambe Bay to the Ribble estuary was clearly visible (the member who said that he could see someone lighting a cigarette on the top of Blackpool Tower - was slaughtered and buried on the spot). At the foot of Parlick Pike nestled tree surrounded Chipping, and Jeffry Hill, Pendle Hill, Ingleborough and Whernside dominated the landward horizon, whilst Clitheroe Castle could be plainly discerned in the wooded vale of the Ribble. We paused awhile to admire this view, and then having trampled victoriously on the cairn at the top of Parlick Pike, began the descent. The descent was swifter, but far more hazardous than the ascent; some ran down, some tried to - but finished up by rolling, whilst the majority stumbled down at walking pace. The last mile and a half proved to be very interesting; we jumped rivers and skirted ponds on the way back to “Toffy” Jack’s, where we again became cycligts. . A few of the younger bloods made short work of the remaining miles to Chipping where tea was ordered, and the rest of us arrived as the sun was sinking midst a blaze of splendour, in the west.
After tea, lamps were: lit, and we traversed the innumerable byways that lead to Whalley, to meet again old friends and club-mates, for where, outside. the cycling fraternity, will you find such a spirit of comradeship? But time passes quickly and at 8-30 we departed for home under a star-lit sky with that joyous feeling which comes from a day’s healthy exercise in the open air.
We met at Higherford and loitered to Horton-in-Ribblesdale for lunch (being but the “short" run of the Nelson section, we were allowed to loiter). At 2 o'clock we erupted from the Golden Lion Hotel, full of lunch and eagerness to tackle the objective of our run — Brow Gill Cave.
We left Horton via the track that branches off the road at the Crown Hotel — and what a track it is! It begins in a fairly decent manner, but it soon sheds all pretence of responsibility and leaves the poor cyclist to flounder along over intermittent patches of muddy grass and river-bed. It was at a particalarly wretched stretch of river-bed that my bicycle went on strike. Skidding violently on some loose gravel my bicycle careered across the road (sic) and deposited me - fairly gently, I admit — into the grass at the hedgeside. I got up and regarded my bicycle sorrowfully. "To think that I have treated you with tender care and loving respect, and then you go and let me down like this,” I said, addressing my hitherto tried and trusted friend. The bicycle hung its head, but replied that if I would persist in bringing it along these wretched roads what else could I expect from a steed whose limbs were now nearly five vears old! I apologised for not giving its venerable age more considration, and, amicable relations restored once more, we chased after the others who had left us to our argument. Soon after we reached Brow Gill and left our bicycles on a natural limestone bridge under which the shy and elusive oil flows.
Lamps were removed from machines and we walked up the foliage covered limestone banks of the gill until we reached the mouth of the cave from which the stream emerges from the subterranean depths of the Yorkshire hills. The recent rains had swollen the stream to a small river, and we looked doubtfully at the peaty water and wondered whether it would be possible to traverse the passage without getting drowned. We decided to risk it, lamps were lighted, wills were made, our favourite flowers were named, tender farewells were exchanged with those who preferred to remain outside and so we began our underground adventure. We made a very inauspicious start; the self of rock along which we crawled was pitted with water - worn holes, all of which were, of course, full of water. A howl from ¢lose behind informed us that "Georjud" had knelt in one of these pools, much to the detriment of his plus-fours. I chuckled to myself and rvecommended "Georjud" to wear shorts, but just. then I knelt upon a knife-edge of limestone and my lamentations were added to the general din which consisted of grunts, mock groans, hymn tunes (cheerful souls), muttered imprecations and chortles of laughter as someone else came to grief. To add to our troubles the roof suddenly descended to within eighteen inches the floor. Fortunately the floor was dry at this point, and we crawled under this obstacle on our stomachs without much damage. This proved to be the worst part for, after passing it, the roof opened up to some fifty feet high and we moved along a trifle more quickly. We came to a barrier of massive boulders which had, in the remote past, fallen from the roof. A cautious whisper from our evidently nervous runs secretary recommended us not to speak above a whisper in case more rocks fell. The advice was received with jeers so loud that his fears were for ever set at rest. Several of us were without lamps (dynamos not being suitable for cave hunting), and to stand perched on the boulders in the inky darkness whilst. the lights were divected to the rear to help the others over the obstructions, was a distinctly eerie experience. “Young Bill" and I, who were the advance guard, Sang and whistled doleful hymns just to enliven the proceedings a bit, but I am afraid that our members do not appreciate good singing for the “Shurrups,” "Can its" and “Put a sock in it" that greeted our vocal efforts could hardly be called applause.
We surmounted the boulder barrior and moved along the ever narrowing passage to the accompaniment of the dull rumble of falling water, a rumble that slowly increased to a deafening roar as we neared the waterfall. The walls made a last desperate attempt to stop us from reaching the waterfall by narrowing to less than a foot apart, but after a few pants, grunts and exclamations, regretting the eating of too much lunch, we stood and gazed on the water that emerged from far above our heads and thundered into a foaming pool at the foot of the boulders on which we stood. The sight was certainly an awe-inspiring one; the lamps made rainbows in the spray that welled up and floated clamily round our persons; the very boulders. trembled with the mighty impact of the falling water. It was well worth discomfort to see such a scene.
The return journey was accomplished far more quickly than the inward one. We scrambled over the boulders and did not worry over much when we happened to be brought to a halt under a shower bath from the diminutive stalactites that hung from the roof. A hail from those in front: "Hooray! daylight!" I turned a corner and the mouth of the cave — which incidentally acted as a frame for the picture of the pretty, tree-hung stream beyond — came into view. We stood on the bank of the stream and grinned at one another. Wet plus-fours, muddy shoes and stockings, occasional patches of mud on our coats, did not improve our personal appearance. We ambled back to our bicycles, enjoying the while the sunlight and cloud shadows on Ingleborough, Penyghent and Whernside, and watched the trains flash down and toil up the hilly Settle to Carlisle railway that stretched along the other side of Ribblesdale. When we reached our bicycles we made an extensive toilet and succeeded in restoring ourselves to our more or less state of respectability. I offered to make “Georjud" a present of the fragments of rock and stalactites that I combed from my hair, but he refused them with thanks, saying that he had quite enough mementos in the shape of sundry bumps, cuts and scratches. Our toilet completed, we began our return journey towards Settle. After crossing a very fair imitation of a bog we arrived at Ling Gill Farm and thence on to the road near Ribblehead. We scampered down Ribblesdale as fast as possible, and arrived at Settle at 5-30. Hanby’s Cafe was, as one member said, f.t.b. (full to brasting), so we continued to Long Preston, and there we had our overdue tea.
We regretfully hoisted ourselves from easy chairs at 7-30 and, leaving the warm fire with glances of longing, began our homeward journey. Dynamos hummed their merry tune and banter passed to and fro as we sped home under the twinkling stars. Gisburn, with its crowd of ’buses, was quickly passed, and we arrived home about 10 o’clock.