When I was very small Dad used to dig out a heap of sand for me every spring. He did not have to dig very deeply before coming to lovely clean sand and it kept me happy for hours. When I was too old for playing in sand, I had a swing. The framework was made from old railway sleepers and the seat was secured with stout chains, (no prizes for guessing who got the chains for us). It was a grand swing and lasted for years1 but the most exciting thing I ever had was my first bike! I think it would be in 1931, I may not be absolutely accurate in the dates because those years of childhood all seemed to merge into one happy time. It was the second time I went to Manchester for my summer holiday. The bicycle had been Doreen’s, and had lain in the shed in their yard for some time but it was brought out and given to me.
We had to come home on the train with the bike in the luggage van, and I was beside myself with excitement. It was in fairly good condition, and Dad set to work straight away, painting it and putting new brake blocks on, and a new dress guard’. Holes were punched halfway round the back mudguard on each side, and through these, fine cord was threaded to a point in the centre of the back wheel. This had been necessary in the days when ladies first rode bicycles in long dresses in order to stop them catching in the wheel, manufacturers continued to put a dress guard on ladies bikes long after they served any useful purpose, in fact I think you could still find them on some models right up to the war years. When Dad decided that the bike was safe, well oiled, and the seat the right height, we took it along the Horseshoe Level for me to learn to ride it. Mum came too, as she was going to have a go, and in fact she did try once, before we came home, and promptly fell off. She would not try again and thereafter was very scornful of bikes, and always maintained that Dad pushed her off, instead of showing her how to do it! Of course I was soon at home on it and every night wanted to go for a ride as soon as Dad had had his tea. He never once said he was too tired or tried to put me off until another night. He always had infinite patience, I remember sitting on his knee when I was about four, being taught to tell the time with the aid of an old pocket watch.
I could name all the roses in a pack of fifty cigarette cards before I could read, just through sitting on his knee with him telling me the name of each rose. It was a ‘party piece’ I always had to do for visitors, and I clearly recall doing it. Eventually I was trusted to take the bike out on my own, and occasionally allowed to go to school on it. Mum suffered agonies every time, and was never convinced that a bike was anything but a highly dangerous possession. On Sunday mornings Dad and I used to go for a ride, summer and winter, unless the weather made it quite impossible. I’rn sure he enjoyed those rides as much as I did. They continued for many years until well into my teens. I must hastily say that I had a new bike when I was fifteen. Five guineas paid at half a crown a week. It was a Raleigh sports model, and of course the very latest design. No dress guard on that because it was a sports model. It was possible to get a Herculese a bit cheaper but Dad said Raleigh were the best and worth the extra money. He did say that the very best bicycles of all were Sunbeams, but they were the Rolls Royce of bicycles and very expensive even then. On the Sunday morning rides we explored the whole area within a range of twelve or fifteen miles. Sometimes we went through Barthomley to Crewe and back through Sandbach, or to Congleton, Holmes Chapel, and back through Smallwood. When we went to Congleton I always wanted to look round Havannah, this was called the deserted village, and was on the way to Congleton. Many years previously there had been a small mill and a number of houses for the workers built at Havannah. When the mill closed down the houses were abandoned, and over the years the whole place had become derelict, with trees growing through the floors in some cases. It was very spooky.
Dad knew all the names of trees and birds and wild flowers, and there were many more than there are now, and always bluebells in May in all the shady places. Primroses only grew in one place though, that was at Hassall Green, on either side of the railway line. It was called the Primrose Bank and if Good Friday was at the latest time of the year, a crowd of us used to go on that day to gather the first ones. The railway men used to burn the banks on either side of the track before summer started, this was because sparks from the trains would have ignited the long grass and this controlled burning ensured that there was not much to burn when the sparks fell. Sometimes they had started the burning early in the year, and that meant no primroses that season, but they flourished the next year in spite of this drastic treatment.