You Could Not Make It Up - Part 285

 Tales may have reached th UK's distant shores of new rules from Brussels concerning olive oil (Popeye's turn next month). The latest edict is that olive oil may no longer be served in restaurants etc in open bottles or dishes thus banning a centuries old tradition of dipping things into it nor drizzling over your salad, pizza etc.

 What you may wonder is going on? It's the elf and safetree freaks at it again as they believe that the entire population of the EU is about to be poisoned.

 Not only olive oil, oh no. Bread is also in their sights. It will no longer be possible to have delicious chinks of local baked bread alongside your meal when eating out. Instead said bread must be wrapped in individual, sealed packets so that by the time it is unwrapped it has become soft and squashy.

 Is that it? No. Water. In French restaurants it is customary to serve bottles or pitchers of chilled tap water at every meal, in fact it is enshrined in law that if fresh water is demanded it must be provided. Sorry, but from now on that tradition is being done away with as all water served at tables must be in sealed, labelled containers.

 Thankfully it was made known that these proposals will not be implemented - yet - but are being reconsidered as to how they may be best implemented.

 What's next? Will all meals have to be served in individually sealed portions? I would like a bag of bouillabaisse please waiter, followed by a pot of cuisse de grenuoilles and a box of your best creme brulée.

 Jesus H on a bicycle in the park on a Siunday morning, has the EU machine nowt better to do I wonder?

French Frustration!

No matter where you live and no matter how idyllic that place may seem there are inevitably some things, however minor, which can become irksome.  I love France and the only way that I could return permanently to England is in the metaphorical box.  More correctly in my case a funerary urn as there is a very precious, spiritual place where I wish my mortal remains to be scattered.

Despite my love of this country and its people I occasionally despair of the way things work, or more often, do not work here.  French bureaucracy and red tape is legendary as is equally the general level and concept of customer service.

Bureaucracy for example;  When we exchanged our UK driving licences for French ones it was fairly straightforward as we had researched and found out exactly what documents were needed by the authorities.  At the sous-prefecture the lady behind the desk was polite and helpful, paperwork completed quickly, then came the fee.  We were told that it was €52 each, a cheque was acceptable so one was duly completed for the total of €104.  Oh no, that was not right said the fonctionnaire, it has to be two cheques, each for €52!  One cheque destroyed and the requested two duly completed and handed over in exchange for temporary licences.

On the recent May Day public holiday I needed to book a flight to and from Stansted for a few days.  Not a problem as RyanAir operates from our local airport at Bergerac, flights for which are booked online.  One significant difference between French and UK public holidays is that ,unlike Britain, here it is genuinely a holiday wherein shops, banks, businesses and public offices are closed for the day, it is impossible even to buy a carton of milk.  Having become accustomed to national habits such as this we obviously plan ahead.

Having logged on to the RyanAir website, chosen destination and dates, completed all required information, it was just a simple matter of completing the process with bank card details and clicking on the 'Purchase' button.  So far so good, a box appeared onscreen asking for my patience as the transaction might take up to one minute.

Time passed, after about a minute another onscreen box appeared stating that the transaction had been declined.  What?  My bank account held more than sufficient funds for the transaction, perhaps there was an error in my completed details that may have caused the rejection.  Nothing for it but to go through the whole booking process again.  The 'Purchase' button was duly clicked again, a slightly nervous wait ensued before more information appeared onscreen again - 'Transaction Declined'.

By this time minor panic was setting in, I tried to remain calm and not let the digital world upset my demeanour so the whole process was repeated slowly and deliberately.  Unfortunately hope did not triumph above stark reality as yet again my offer to do business with RyanAir was further thwarted.

Not to be outdone a further attempt was made but this time using both my wife's laptop and bank card.  Great idea in theory - however fortune was not with me rresulting  in a further declination.  By now I was becoming more than frustrated and grumpy not to mention puzzled as to why I had been unable to book a flight.

The following day a further attempt to secure a passage to England was made using my laptop and bank card, my heart was in my mouth as the details were completed, the 'Purchase' button pressed.  Waiting the requested time was similar to to being a victim in the dentist's waiting room, nerves were jangling, fingers drumming, suddenly a notice appeared saying 'Transaction Completed'.  With this great news I can assure you that I was considerably more relieved than Lady Smith ever was at Mafeking!

So what was the problem?  RyanAir's response to an enquiring email was couched in the terms of 'Well, it wasn't our fault'.  The next obvious step was to speak with the French bank which has the privilege of holding our accounts.  Their response was that the Wednesday was a public holiday, therefore why should the bank be working including their computer system.  There really is no logical answer to that  response apart from that I should have known better than to darn well ask!

Wifi Life in France

A little tale for your amusement ...

It all began when I bought my wife a laptop, Jane had finally decided that the time had come to venture fearfully into the twenty first century.  Naively I thought she would be the one to encounter difficulties with the latest in technological developments, oh how wrong I was.

At that time I was using my laptop connected with a cable to my broadband provider, a system that had worked well, apart from an occasional flaky connection, for several years with no need to consider changing it until then.  The initial problem arose in that for her laptop to be used my connection was unplugged and transferred to the new laptop, a simple enough arrangement.  There was the obvious snag that we could not be online simultaneously but as her usage would not be great but not of major import.  However within a few days the retaining clip on the RJ45 cable broke off.  This meant that constant attention had to be paid ensuring that the cable did not slip even one millimetre out of the socket resulting in a broken connection.  Three new cables later ...

Well, the obvious solution was to set up a local wifi network thus eliminating that wretched cable. A previous attempt had failed miserably because the configuration process was so complex that I gave up.  The obvious solution was to contact a local IT man who had been very helpful in resolving problems on a couple of occasions.  A phone call told me that his number was no longer available, both landline and mobile.  Perhaps an email would do the trick, my message was returned in a nano-second stating that the email address was no longer in use.  Bugger ...

At this point an explanation is needed as to how businesses operate in France.  Any new undertaking has to pay up front all taxes etc at startup assessed on what the taxman thinks that they may earn in the first year along with social charges.  After eighteen months, should that undertaking have survived then additional charges levied.  Ah, blessed fiscal relief for eighteen months after which even further charges are demanded, not based upon business activity but a standard charge at that point for all businesses.  Inability to pay is not tolerated, thus few new business ventures survive for more than three years, I therefore assume that my local tame IT man had obviously fallen into that particular black hole.

An advert was duly placed on two Anglo/French fora for expats seeking a reliable computer technician to come to my rescue.  I sat back and waited, and waited.  Eventually there was one reply from someone not too far away from us who had been the network manager for a very busy container port.

Several days on and this person visited us arriving with boxes, laptop and assorted bits of electrical string.  An hour or two later, with no success in getting his laptop connected via wifi he left stating that a little research need to be done.

Two weeks later and the silence concerning the need research was deafening ...

Time for Plan B.  A search of the local Pages Jaune (Yellow Pages) revealed that there were at least two dozen IT specialist in the are of Villeneuve-sur-Lot, one of two towns both about thirty minutes away from us.  Of this number at least did not have an email address &/or a website.  Oh well, that made a final selection easier.

A suitable email stating my requirements was carefully drafted and sent to what appeared to be the four most promising sources of aid, just sit back and wait.  Wait and wait, two weeks had passed without so much as a single reply.  It was at this stage I realised why so many French businesses fail due to a total lack of customer awareness and service.

By this time I was almost beginning to lose the will to live, it seemed that I was seeking the IT holy grail.  My personal frustration factor was rising daily, no, by the very minute as I vainly endeavoured to arrive at a suitable solution.  Chatting with my neighbour one afternoon provided a possible answer, he had a similar problem in configuring a router.  On a trip back to England he sought advice from PC World, something which I have always been loath to do, since, however, a trip was planned in the next few weeks that seemed an avenue for exploration.

A Saturday morning, bright and early, found me in PC World at Ashford, Kent.  Casting around I spotted their technical help corner where I was welcomed by a very pleasant middle aged man, that inspired a little confidence straightaway. Having explained my needs some questions were asked before he took me the router display.  Because I have broadband I wrongly assumed that I needed an ADSL router but was assured because of my setup what was need in fact was cable router.  A suitable device selected on his recommendation and duly purchased all in all a pleasant experience as he did noy try to sell the dearest one to me.

So, back to my little corner of La Belle France.  Having caught up with several days of emails; Twitter and Facebook I summoned my courage in both hands and connected the router as directed in the instructions.  What a pleasant surprise, the whole thing was virtually just Plug'n'Play, no configuration need just set a password and all was up and running!  Next task to do the same with my wife's laptop, in under a minute the local network was detected and up and running!  What a simple thing to do this time!

So, thanks to sound advice from any anonymous man in Maidstone PC World all is peace and calm in my own little IT world despite the best endeavours of Gallic entrepreneurship ...

Sometimes folk ask what do we do all day

Had a very productive day today.  Drove thirty minutes to a large gardening type shop this morning in search of a cover for my wife's miniature greenhouse.  Spent ages wandering about before finding a helpful employee who kindly informed us that they are out of stock.  Asked if any other branches had them in stock she helpfully checked the computer, returned some five or so minutes later and said 'No'.  Asked when new stock would be available she went off to check the computer again.  Upon her return she smiled and said 'Next spring'.

Retreated  home for a light lunch and a lie-down in a darkened room after which we sallied forth again in the opposite direction, another thirty minute drive to a truly vast garden centre in the noble quest for said cover.  Having expended much energy and shoe rubber (well, hardly anyone has leather these days, do they) wandering around acres (sorry hectares) with a singular lack of success amongst every conceivable item even remotely related to gardening unsuccesfuuly.  We decided that an approach to the information desk might prove fruitful.  Our enquiry as to where the desired item could be found was initially fielded with 'I'll ask my manager'.  Ten minutes later the messenger returned to inform us that new supplies used to be delivered every spring but now there is no demand for them.

Dear Deity above, whoever and wherever you are, please protect us from what passes for French style customer service ...

The Air Travellers Prayer

Generally my Blogroll is all my own work (5% inspiration, 20% frustration, 50% perspiration and last but not least 25% total rubbish).  This gem is an exception as I have blatantly lifted it from someone rejoicing in the nom-de-plume of Miss Funnyfanny - find her at wp.me/p1KRv9-iy


Dear God/Allah/Shiva/Buddha/Richard Branson/Michael O'Leary - (delete as applicable),

Please see to it that my flight isn’t the one delayed 14 hours when I made a special effort to be at the airport 2 pointless hours early. Come on God, you know we talked about this last time – if you want me to sit for more than 4 straight hours in one building, I either need to be getting paid for it or facing a free bar.
Please grant me the strength not to strangle the cretin ahead of me in the line for security checks, who waits until the very last possible moment to search their hand luggage for their 27 bottles of lotions and potions, seeming surprised that they then need to fit these into the thoroughly well advertised teeny plastic bag.

Dear deity/Sir Richard, bestow upon me a will of iron so I don’t smack them round the back of the head with my laptop (removed from its case well ahead of reaching the conveyor belt) as they struggle and fumble to remove theirs from the depths of their carry-on suitcase and then cause the line another 10 minute delay as they have to be prompted by the bulldog-esque female security staff member to remove their belt, their Mr T style neck adornments, chain mail vest and suit of armour prior to entering the metal detector.

Please grace the security bulldog with tender hands while she frisks me, and seriously, would it be too much to ask that she at least buy me drinks and dinner before checking my inner thigh and bra underwire quite so thoroughly?

Dear spiritual being, when they start to call people forward for boarding, can you please add me to one of these “priority” groups? It seems to me that you’ve been granting this wish to a lot of people and it’s getting out of hand. “Ladies and gentlemen, now calling forward for boarding all passengers with wheelchairs or who have access issues” – sensible. “Now calling forward all passengers with business class tickets” – fine. “Now calling forward all passengers with small children” – ok. “Now calling all people in rows 17 through 20” – bit random but ok, carry on. “Now calling forward all passengers with a slight lisp and who are afraid of bees” – seriously?!

Dear sweet lord above (or wherever you are Mr Branson), please don’t screw me over in the seating lottery. You know what I mean. Don’t give me a seat next to a snorer, a fidgeter, an arm rest stealer, a laugh-out-loud-at-films-er, a seven foot tall-needs-your-leg-room-too-er, a constant need to pee-er, and seriously, for the love of all that is airborne, please don’t sit me within 10 rows of the screaming brat who will be using the entire plane’s oxygen supply to pierce their neighbours’ eardrums through the excruciating 10 hour flight, while their 5 year old sibling tests the bounciness of their shoe on the back of the seat before them.

May the films be current and not talked through by the overly chatty member of flight crew who is clearly very excited about being promoted to chief announcement maker and number 1 microphone wrangler. May the entertainment system function for the entire duration of the flight and if it doesn’t, please, oh chosen figure of worship, at least ensure that the drinks trolley wheels are well oiled so that the boozy goods are free of flow and free-er of price.

Please bless me with the ability to distinguish three different coloured blobs of congealed matter from each other as the meals are handed out. It doesn’t mean the food will taste any better but it helps to trick the mouth into opening and accepting said congealed globules, if the brain can tell it roughly which of three food groups it’s meant to be; carbs, baby food or boiled dog. Oh, and when the tea/coffee comes around, please can you bless us all with a pocket of turbulence, as having those utterly interchangeable hot brown liquids poured all over our immobilized crotches is immensely preferable to actually drinking them.

Dear deity, please can you explain to me why when the plane lands, everyone rushes out of their seats to stand uncomfortably, cramped and crooked necked, clutching their heavy bags of duty free in the aisle for the 20 minutes it takes the crew to release the plane doors? If it’s their penance for getting on your priority boarding list (they do look a little afraid of bees) then that’s only fair and I’ll skip the priority thing after all, thanks.

Please find it in your almighty power to see that my luggage comes out onto the carousel in one piece. I would ask for you to make sure that it comes out first, so I can escape the vile tourist melee that is the arrivals hall as quickly as possible, without getting my ankles rammed by a child-driven luggage trolley, but really, I’ll just settle for it to appear at all, full stop. Actually, scrap that, I want it to appear without half my soiled undercrackers spewing forth from a freshly broken zip and without a mystery liquid trickling out of one bruised corner. Thanks.

May passport control be swift and may the customs officials have a very blind eye to the 800 cigarettes and 17 litres of mysterious local liquor swinging from my paws, and may the taxis be as bountiful as an air stewardess’s make-up.

Dear God/Allah/Shiva/Buddha/Richard Branson, if you could see your way to hooking me up with all these humble requests, while keeping a huge metal tube up in the atmosphere and not plummeting us all to a deathy doom, that would super. Just one thing, I don’t actually believe in you and I never will… UNTIL I GET A FREE UPGRADE!

The End Of The World Is Nigh

Just eaten a superb breakfast of eggs 'n' bacon, beans and fried mashed potato, first time in a month.  Really, really enjoyed it!  Now for the bad news - that was the last of our bacon :-((

A serious decision has to shortly be made as to how and when to re-stock the freezer with proper English bacon as without further supplies morale will begin to fall, something that is definitely not a desirable thing especially with the onset of winter only six weeks or so away.

There are three possible scenarios, well four if the zero option can be considered as such:  1) return shopping expedition to UK involving a round trip of at least 1600 miles;  2) travel to an English family business who cure their own English style bacon and associated product ( a round trip of some five to six hours and then only on a Wednesday or Friday morning as that is when the shop is open), 3) wait until friends are visiting UK who hopefully will act as a re-supply mission.

Due deliberation will commence shortly but there are no known friends visiting the UK within the next few months so that reduces the available options.  Possible aids to the final decision will probably include the odd drop of wine or two, a splash of Pineau de Charente and ultimately even a sniff of the Armagnac bottle.

Such decision is not to be lightly nor hastily undertaken and ultimately will be effected by the Domestic Victuals sub-committee in due course.

Here for a rest

Have two good friends arriving today for a short break during their motorcycle tour of Western Europe, the break from riding will probably be very welcomed.  Break did I say?  Well, there are a few things that they would like to do in the next few days ...

Tonight we are off out to a typical and good but inexpensive French restaurant for dinner.  Tomorrow morning visit our local market and have a coffee or two after a look round, afternoon probably go to a huge and very impressive 13th century chateau then in the evening there is the hugely spectacular son et lumiére of the Battle of Castillon.  That was the last battle of the Hundred Years War which finally saw the English kicked out of Aquitaine, there is a cast of over six hundred local people, eighty horses and just so much more<;  The show starts at 2230 hrs (allegedly) but is invariably at least half an hour late (well, this France after all) lasting for two and a half hours - should be back home around three o'clock-ish!

Sunday morning off to a monthly custom and classic car meet in Bergerac, after lunch a leisurely afternoon at our local lake and beach.  Cooking a typical French menu for dinner in the evening of Jambon and Melon, tartiflette and haricots vert, cheese and green salad followed by tarte tatin and coffee - all washed down with a drop of wine or two!

Monday - visit Laparade which is an old bastide perched on a two hundred metre high cliff overlooking the Lot valley with spectacular panoramic views, on a good day the Pyrenées can be seen in the far distance.  Thence onto le Temple-sur-Lot which is a superbly restored Crusader castle (now a restaurant), return home via Casseneuil which is a wonderfully unspoilt medieaeval village hardly disturbed by the twenty first century.

Return home for lunch, lazy afternoon the to the weekly summer night market in Villeréal.  Villeréal is an old bastide town built by the French circa 1420 to keep the English forces at bay during the Hundred Years War, not very successfully as it changed hands at least four times.  The centre of the town is a covered market hall of the same period open on the sides where locl growers and producers offer their wares for consumption under the halle where tables and chairs are set out.  It is possible to have an excellent meal there as all manner of products are on sale, lamb cutlets and kebabs, escargots, moules mariniére, jambon (local dried ham a la Parma), foie gras, duck, pizzas, various cheeses, variety of sausages, bread, salad stuffs, assorted patisseries and of course an excellent selection of wine.  There is a strict rule that all of the stallholders must be local and nod their produce too from within a radius of twenty kilometres so the produce is all very local indeed.

Come Tuesday morning the lads will probably be grateful to be back on the road for a rest ...

Coming home

This meaningless phrase has oft been repeated of late in reference to football, usually by fifth rate journalists and so called pundits, so much so that it has become more than a little trite and wearisome.

So what does it mean? It could be assumed that it has been away somewhere, not in my experience because every single news bulletin that I see or hear has some reference to the so called 'beautiful game', in fact it seems to have been increasingly evident of late in the alleged closed season.

Perhaps someone could enlighten me as to the meaning of the phrase. As for 'coming home' that, thankfully,  is just one thing it will never do in our house.

More odd happenings

Some of you may be aware from previous posts on my Blogroll that when asked about such matters I describe myself as a spiritual sort of person.  This because many things have happened in my lifetime for which there seems to me to be no other explanation – should you wish to read these old posts then have a ferret around in the first few months of posts.  During the last couple of months I seem to have been more receptive than usual to odd happenings and things not easily explained away.

Often when I go to the middle floor of our home but nowhere else I smell Golden Virginia tobacco smoke which is a little odd as neither of us smoke at all.  That however was the tobacco of choice for my late father which he smoked for many years.  From what I have been told by several very spiritual friends he is there, I find it very reassuring and comforting particularly in times of stress.

Recently I sensed that my mother was around for several days, that is very unusual because she hardly ever does so but I was more than concerned about a close friend that I was unable to contact.  Her presence was to tell me that everything was alright and no need to be concerned, suddenly one morning just after I had got up mother had gone.  Two hours later and much to my relief I received an email from my friend saying that she had been away for a few days.  Since then Mum has been around several times for a day or so with no particular intent but just being here.

Several weeks ago I knew that another very close friend had made a decision that would greatly affect his life.  He had not told about this because it was two days before it happened with him!  Not only was I aware of that but also knew who the other person involved was, somewhat remarkable as there was nothing between them before this that would have given me any clue.  Having thought long and hard about it there was no reason at all for me to think such a thing.  Within the past week I have had a further premonition that a certain event will happen for them but have no idea as to when.

There is the question, I suppose, that does this dubious ability bother me in any way to which the answer is a resounding ‘No’ because I am comfortable with it and often comforted by it.  It is reassuring to know that there are guardian angels who have my well being at heart often to the point that I am unable to pursue a desired course of action.  Example, quite a few times I have been bidding for an item on ebay, my usual ploy is not to bid almost until the very last moment because I do not want to inflate bids unnecessarily, a tactic known as sniping.  Sometimes I know that I should not really be contemplating a purchase as it is a luxury or that I should not be spending resources wastefully, come the last minute or so before the auction ends having placed a hopefully winning bid  the Internet has crashed or there was a power cut frustrating my intent.  Happened too many times to be just a coincidence ...

On several other occasions I have been planning to do things perhaps such as going on a short trip when every single possible obstacle has been placed in my way to frustrate me.  One particular instance was outstanding when I was intending to go away for a weekend that I could not really afford at the time.  Having booked and paid by cheque for two nights at a hotel the day after the cheque cleared my grandmother was taken ill, unfortunately she died two days later.  Her funeral was arranged, it was natural that I wished to be there.  When?  Ah yes, the second day of my trip.

The hotel was understanding allowing me to change my reservation for one a few days later.  On the evening prior to my envisaged jaunt my car was badly damaged whilst parked by a rather large truck, happily a good friend offered to lend me his for a few days.  Having collected the car from my generous donor I set off to return home late that evening only to be caught up in a police stop and check roadblock.  Requested documents were produced for inspection by the police officer, unfortunately for me the MoT certificate had expired by just one day.  The upshot of this was that I was to be charged for driving a vehicle without a current certificate whilst my friend would be done for aiding and abetting as well as permitting a vehicle to be used on the public highway without proper documentation.

Using phone a friend was pointless in the immediacy as I had charge of his only vehicle and that had been prohibited from use by the police until a legal MoT certificate was obtained.  My journey home perhaps could have been finished on foot or by public transport, the foot idea was not a brilliant one because I was about six miles from home, the public transport option was a non-starter because I had no loose change and my wallet was at home.

Deciding to risk parental wrath  I walked to the nearest public telephone box to phone my father who, it turned out, had just retired for the night.  He was not best pleased but agreed somewhat testily that he would come and rescue me particularly as by now it was raining heavily.

Well, that looked like the end of my proposed short break.  At breakfast the following morning I was offered for the first time ever use of the family car which I gratefully accepted.  Shortly afterwards I was on my way ...  This happy state of affairs however did not last very long, as I got to the end of the road the clutch cable broke.

I knew that I should not have arranged that trip, as I discovered through a spiritual minded friend a little later as did my late mother, she did not want me to go!

So, you see, apart from my previous encounters with the spirit world this left me little choice but to acknowledge such things because logically there were just too many coincidences on this occasion.  Over the years there have been many instances of outside unaccountable influences in my life, no doubt there will be more to come ...

Olympic cycle race

Settled down to watch this event this afternoon.  Good commentating team of Hugh Porter and Chris Boardman made to look absolute incompetent numpties by the computerised info system constantly crashing throughout the race.  From their studio commentary position they could only remark on what was being shown on screen live which was not very helpful - they had no access to times, gaps, group compositions or distances - what a feckin 'shambles.

The French managed to run a faultless info system at the recent Tour de France for three weeks, the Brits could not even manage it for five hours :-(

Then came the ultimate frustration for me - as the race passed Hampton Court Palace we had a tremendous local thunderstorm which totally interrupted satellite coverage of the race, not just for a few minutes but for well over half an hour only to return as the race winner was being interviewed.

On a more positive not there was an obvious difference in the actual race to that of the Tour de France, not the riders but that team radios are not permitted in the Olympic event denying any race information to the teams resulting much inaccurate guesswork concerning tactics.  There was a time when I disagreed with radios as I thought that it was unsporting but having watched part of  a race without such technology it surely is time to introduce team radios for the 2016 Games.

Further passengering tales ...

Still in my first season, 1962, with Jim Spencely as my driver.  Having ‘signed’ an entry form as my ‘Parent/Guardian’ for the Easter Monday meeting at Crystal Palace we duly presented ourselves for signing on and the bike for scrutineering.  There was some debate between the scroots and ourselves as to whether the nuts and bolts securing the sidecar to the bike should be lockwired or not, neither Jim nor myself had ever heard of this before and naturally we objected, in the nicest possible way of course because upsetting scroots is not necessarily a good thing.

After much discussion and no resolution apparently in the offing the chief scrutineer eventually to see what was holding up the queue.  Our pet scroot ‘picturized’ as the Yanks say before we could get a word in on our behalf.  Further deliberation before the boss suggested that the ACU Handbook be consulted for a definitive answer.  Much page turning and hypothesising later it was decided that there was no mention of such anywhere in the rules and therefore our bike should be passed OK.  Further weight was added to our argument in that several other similar outfits had been passed by other scrutineers without comment, we were unlucky to have picked who had either got out of the wrong side of the bed that morning or who was naturally bolshy!

Off we went for practice, neither of us had been on the circuit before although I had marshalled there on a number of occasions.  At that time the paddock was between North and South Tower corners on the inside of the circuit, the start/finish line also between those two bends. First a slight left into the first right hander then swoop downhill through The Glade which was tree lined throughout its whole length and invariably a little slippery because of overhanging trees.  I was uncertain as to whether the straw bales in various places there were to protect the trees from the bikes or vice versa!

Near the end was a gentle right leading onto the straight opposite the athletics track and swimming pool before a fast well cambered right named Ramp Bend which invariably became flooded on the apex in heavy rain, onto the Annerley Ramp, an uphill fast run with a quick but slight left/right before the final corner.  It was only after practice when I walked to the bridge over the Ramp that I was horrified, the whole thing was like a roofless tunnel with steep banks either side and no run-off at all, the banks were faced with old railway sleepers all the way up, definitely not a place to have even a moment let alone an off!

Two races in the afternoon in reasonable weather for Easter, seem to recall that we ended up mid-field in both without any scares or mishaps.  From that day I just loved the Palace despite the obvious safety hazards, there was such a warm atmosphere in the paddock that I always enjoyed racing there so much so that it is still one of my favourite circuits.

Later in the year we did what I thought were some slightly odd races as Jim had this unaccountable wanderlust preferring to travel far afield rather than race at the usual southern circuits.  Bearing in mind that there were no motorways apart from the initial bit of the M6 travel was relatively slow as main trunk roads then passed through many towns with their associated congestion.  This lack of fast travel was not helped by our race transporter as it would be known today, a Bedford CA Dormobile van with the luxury of a three speed gearbox and accompanying trailer.

At that time it was naturally uncommon for many crews to travel far from their own areas to race with the exception of the well known National teams for National/International races.  We were an exception and travelled to places that I had never previously heard of such as Silloth (right up on the Cumberland coast), Llandow in deepest South Wales (before the first Severn Bridge was built), Perton or Purton somewhere in the Worcesteshire/Staffordshire region, Castle Combe and Cadwell Park.

Purton (sic) was a revelation to me, it was an old wartime RAF airfield which did not seem to have any maintenance or repairs done since the cessation of hostilities in 1945.  After just one meeting there my chest was black and blue from lying on the chair along the start/finish straight.  Well, I say straight in the loosest sense of the word as the post-war neglect had particularly left that part of the circuit liberally peppered with an assortment of potholes, ruts and bumps almost worthy of a motocross venue.  Drivers had two options on the ‘straight’, either hold a straight line risking possible structural damage to the bike as well as bodily harm to their passengers or attempt to weave between the obstacles  risking potential collisions with those pursuing similar tactics!

Towards the end of that season I was to marshal at a Silverstone Bemsee meet on the club circuit, as always I had slung leathers etc into my sidecar just in case someone needed a last minute passenger.  For those not familiar with the old Silverstone club circuit it was very simple in layout, startline, into Copse then the flat out left of Maggots into the acute Becketts then along the Club Straight, round Woodcote and start another lap. 

The only two corners of any merit for me were the two rights of Copse and Woodcote, especially the former as it was as demanding and sometimes scary as it ever is today.  One extra part was almost an essential on the bike, well actually in the sidecar nose for the Club circuit, that of an alarm clock to awaken the passenger at the end of the Club Straight which just seemed to go on for ever, a bit like the old Norwich Straight at Snetterton. 

I was about sign on in the marshal’s hut when I heard that a driver was unexpectedly short of a passenger so instead I took myself off to Race Control who tannoyed a message for that driver.  Only a few moments later an expectant looking face appeared in leathers and I was introduced to Steve from Dagenham.  Having bade my fellow marshals farewell I followed Steve to the paddock where I was introduced to his parents and sister, even more importantly to the outfit.  It was his first season of racing,  his bike was an ex Bill Boddice Manx framed machine of unknown vintage now fitted with a Triumph engine and BSA RR2T gearbox.

A good look around showed me one or two odd things about the bike particularly that there were obvious frame repairs in odd places but that did not overly bother me.  Another odd thing was a petrol tap of the lever variety at the bottom leading edge of the sidecar wheel arch but more of that shortly ...

Practice passed smoothly enough and showed me that Steve was one of the last of the late brakers but I remained undaunted.  Back in the paddock His mum provided breakfast, a truly magnificent assemblage for which she was justifiably renowned in the form of a huge chunk of French bread filled with eggs, bacon, tomatoes, sausage, fried bread and mushrooms, truly a magical feast!  

First race, full grid of thirty, flag dropped and away we went from about the third row.  We had dropped a couple of places into Copse, it seemed as though the entire grid had bunched up into an almost solid melée with much paint swapping and hasty avoiding action, all great stuff!  Safely through there I eased out for the flat out Maggots curve, back in again and over the back ready for Becketts.  As Steve changed down a couple of gears the bike spluttered and died, we pulled up safely off line.  Above the noise of passing outfits Steve was shouting something at me and gesticulating towards the sidecar wheel arch, suddenly the penny dropped.  Without realising it I had managed to catch the petrol tap with leathers somewhere around Maggots and turned the wretched thing off, hence our unexpected stop.

Tap on again, pull back onto compression, a few steps and back on board to rejoin the fray, miraculously we were still not stone cold last as we headed off own the Club Straight.  The trip down there this time was even longer because we had a standing start from Becketts so much so that the alarm clock was needed more than ever before.  

Next lap on the same straight I was down on the floor pondering the meaning of life when for no reason I glanced up to my right.  To my immense surprise and shock I actually saw the left top tube of the frame part somewhere near the middle, immediately I tapped my driver and pointed at the break.   He sort of shrugged, smiled and we continued on our merry way.  Having noticed several odd frame repairs earlier in the day it would be safe to say that my mind was not at any particular state of ease.

We continued on our way, chequered flag time and back to the paddock.  Steve seemed pleased with efforts, fuel tap issue notwithstanding and asked if I would step in for next season as his current ballast was retiring at the end of the season.  Having just witnessed a bike literally breaking up as we were racing the idea did not appeal to me remotely and I was just about decline his generous offer with the thought that it was little wonder that his regular passenger, Geoff, was retiring.  Before I could reply he added that he was having a new chassis built for next season, a JSR by the legendary character, welder and driver Jack Rooke.  That changed the whole offer so I agreed there and then.

This offer was very welcome as Jim had told me a few days before that he would be retiring at the end of the season due to a serious ear problem.  That he had any hearing or other aural problems was news to me, my enquiry as to the exact nature of this affliction was met with the response that his wife was insisting, even demanding, that he quit racing for good as she was not happy that her sitting and dining rooms had been stripped of wallpaper some five years previously and were still awaiting new wallpaper.  It is only fair to point out that Jim worked as a builder and decorator!

So that ended my first season of racing as a passenger still without my father’s knowledge.  Enjoyed?  No, absolutely loved it, the biggest buzz ever and the best thing that I had ever done.  Roll on next season ...

So What Happened Next?

My last sidecar racing blog ended with the comment ‘The rest, as they say, is history ...’ so I thought that you, dear reader, might like to know a little more.

The year is 1962, I’m still at school albeit my last year and increasingly barmy about sidecar racing.  Father still had his faithful Norton 16H/Streamline sidecar combination albeit about to be traded in for a blue BSA Golden Flash and matching Garrard Grand Prix chair, we had moved from Crouch End to Enfield where my parents have purchased a maisonette.  There are two garages in the garden one of which is rented out a neighbour a few doors away with a Triumph Thunderbird/Watsonian sidecar combination who just happens to be the secretary of the Epping Forest branch of the Triumph Owners Motorcycle Club.

Naturally it was not long before Dad, Ron and I became friends due to the bike interest.  Those of you from the southern part of England will not need reminding that the Epping Forest branch of TOMCC of which Ron was the secretary, was involved in racing both providing marshals for BMCRC and the Brands Hatch Combine as well as latterly running their own club race meetings at the newly opened Lydden Hill circuit.  

Just before the beginning of the season he asked if I would like to join their marshals, naturally I accepted eagerly because it meant that I could not only get much closer to the racing but that paddock access would no longer be a problem.  The very first meeting of their calendar was a big one, the BMCRC Hutchinson 100 at Silverstone which at that time was a two day international with all of the usual works teams there with many riders from the World Championships and Continental Circus.  What an introduction that was to top flight racing for me!

Shortly after this I saw an advert in the Motorcycle News racing small ads, someone fairly local to me was looking for a passenger.  As was often the case I too could not afford to race on my own account but as a passenger I might be able to do so.  After a few days thought I replied which brought a letter almost by return of post asking to meet me.  It was not long before I met the advertiser, Jim Spencely, at his home one evening, the outcome was that he agreed to give me a try.

Jim took me down to his workshop, well, I say workshop but in reality it was brick built garden shed of very small proportions – so small that the only way that the outfit could be got in there was by having a detachable sidecar which stood on end against a wall.  The bike was alongside and with the two there was barely room for even one person in there which meant that any work on the bike had to be done outside.  It was just as well that the chair was detachable because access to the back garden was via a covered archway between the two adjoining houses. 

The outfit had been built by Jim a year ago with the help of Mike Purdy and Ken Langley, the latter had also passengered for Jim that year but now wished to pursue a solo racing path.  The basis was the well known route of a Norton Featherbed wideline frame suitably modified, the front forks were used as the basis of a set of leading links.  The sidecar chassis was of Reynolds 531 tubing brazed up, the 12” sidecar wheel was from a Zundapp Bella scooter, the whole was bolted to the bike frame for ease of detachment.

Power was by Triumph either 500 or 650cc with a Bonneville head, E3134 cams, lightened rockers, polished and balanced crankshaft, sparks provided by a Lucas competition magneto.  Transmission was through a BSA RR2T Gold Star gearbox and a Norton clutch assembly.  Some meetings at that time had both a 500cc class for sidecars as well as another of 501cc to 1300cc.  Sometimes it was possible to get extra rides by entering both classes achieved by quick engine changes and hot fingers between races hence the two different engines.

One fine Wednesday spring morning saw us on our way to Brands Hatch for a practice day which would be my passengering baptism.  We arrived and having parked up the first thing after unloading the bike was to sign on.  Having changed into my second hand set of Lewis Leathers and spent several minutes lacing up my brand new wrestling boots we set to starting the bike.  Fortunately we had parked near the top of the paddock which was on a slope which made starting much easier.

The motor fired up fairly quickly, I almost fell onto the chair and off we went for a gentle chunter around the paddock.  Returning to our van, an ancient Bedford CA Dormobile, I was delegated as chief engine warmer-upper taking the revs to no more than 5,000rpm.  After some minutes Jim killed the engine so that the spark plugs could be changed to colder ones.  Almost immediately it was time for the first sidecar session of twenty minutes, having donned helmet, gloves and goggles we push started again and went to the paddock top gate where we sat for a few minutes whilst the solos from the previous session dribbled back in to the paddock.

Off we went via the ambulance gate at the top of Paddock Hill Bend, positioning myself over the back of the bike the first impression was one of total noise (we were running on straight pipes then) swiftly followed by a feeling of fear and exhilaration accompanied by a dry throat.  Stayed over the back ready for Druids then eased out for the left of Bottom Bend which was much sharper and deeper than today.  Along the Bottom Straight which was a true straight then, out again for the left of Kidney Bend and Immediately over the back for the second part remaining over the back for Clearways before lying on the floor trying not to scrape my toes on the tarmac.

Up over the back again for Paddock, this time fast into it, felt the bump on the apex then the hand pressing in my back at the bottom of Paddock Hill as I lay on the floor before moving for Druids again. My ears were ringing, with the engine vibration it sounded as though every nut and bolt was loose and frantically jangling, I just hoped that was not so!

Several laps later the chequered flag was shown signalling the end of our session so we completed another a little more slowly before returning to the paddock.  When I had taken of my helmet and gloves I spoke to Jim but nothing happened apart from a dry little croak because my mouth and throat was so dry, Jim’s wife Jill handed me some water which was very welcome.

Jim asked me what I thought, I said that it was just so fast and exhilarating yet sort of frightening.  To my total astonishment he said that we had been cruising with the engine not going over 5,500 rpm and the next session it would the full 7,600 rpm!  This dispelled my idea that we had been shifting at race speed and I wondered what the next session would be like, would I be able to hang on and not chicken out.

There were a few jobs to be done on the bike, the main one was to seal an oil leak from the timing cover, well it was a Triumph after all!  Lunch time, tea and sandwiches then check everything again before our next outing.

First lap out we went fairly gently before stretching the throttle cables coming out of Clearways.  Looking through the chair nose I was trying to judge when to get up for Paddock, obviously earlier than before as we were now seriously shifting.  Feeling a tap on my right shoulder I only just made it for the entrance to Paddock but we got round OK.  My driver was right about this time being much faster than our previous session, initially I was having a little difficulty in timing my moves through Kidney Bend but after several laps it was getting easier.

Soon, too soon for me, the session ended.  Back in the paddock I felt completely exhilarated, on an absolute high with a big silly grin on my face that I had actually done it.  Jim seemed reasonably happy with my efforts and gave me a little advice saying that he was happy to have me aboard for the season.

That was the icing on the cake to the perfect day but there was a potential problem looming up.  At that time the legal age of consent was twenty one which I would not be for another two years, entry forms for those who were technically still minors had to be countersigned by a parent or guardian giving their permission.  Father was unaware of my day out today as a virgin passenger, despite his enjoyment of racing I was certain that he would never sign an entry form allowing me to race.  Could I, or did I want to wait until my majority?  Hell no, the obvious decision was that I must forge his signature which is what I did for a forthcoming race at Brands Hatch.

Several weeks later I was in a high state of excitement and nerves as we arrived at Brands Hatch for a Saturday race meeting.  Practice passed without any problems except that I felt quite sick before we went out due to nerves, something that I hoped would soon pass with experience but unfortunately it never did.  Right until my final race a good few years later I was in the same state about fifteen minutes or so before going on track generally spending much of that time in the toilets, friends use to remark that I had shares in a toilet paper company.

Race time, we made our way out through the ambulance gate with the rest of a full grid, drove around the circuit before forming up on the start line.  Engines cut, pull bike back on compression, pull goggles down, try to control breathing and nerves, the eerie thing was that there was total silence then, watch the starter, flag dropped and push, count five steps and Jim would drop the clutch, take two more steps then leap aboard and fling myself onto the sidecar floor.

The first noise of which I was aware after the flag dropped was the pattering sound of about  some fifty pairs of feet followed a few seconds by the spluttering of the first engine to fire, then there was an absolute crescendo of noise as we all got away.  To the side and in front of me there were bikes jostling for position into the first bend, it seemed so close that I was sure that at least some would touch going into Paddock Bend.  We were safely round then the battle for position at the hairpin began with bikes taking all manner of lines on the approach.

Safely round again after we actually passed someone then onwards, ever onwards in a mad rush of noise, wind and exhaust fumes.  Eventually we saw the chequered flag, as we went back through the ambulance gate a friend held up ten fingers and thumbs indicating that we had finished tenth, I could not believe that we had done so well!

Came our second race of the day, we started middle of the grid, away we went but something was not right as we were being left behind by most of the others.  There was a nasty graunching noise coming from the gearbox, it seemed as though there was some sort of selection or clutch problem.  Eventually Jim found a gear and we accelerated away in pursuit of everyone.  Again there were  problems, this time changing down for the hairpin, we scratched round there in a heap and headed downhill towards Bottom Bend still losing ground.

Into second gear, no problems, ease out for the left as the change to third was made.  More graunching noises and revving of the engine due to false neutrals.  We were now approaching the corner too quickly for a bike that would not drive.  Suddenly I was shocked to see the track disappearing away to my left before I looked ahead to see that we were not going to make that bend.  At that time Bottom Bend was much sharper than today, thankfully no Armco on the outside but instead there was quite a steep drop of some twenty feet or so – suddenly we were airborne flying through the air with greatest of ease!

It is often said that at times like these everything goes into slow motion and it did.  I was totally aware of everything around me in crystal sharp detail as I wondered whether to get back in, stay where I was or abandon ship.  The decision was made for me as the bike landed upright with a tremendous thump, Jim eventually bringing it to a stop without further misadventure.  The engine died, we got off, I had twisted my back on landing and it was a little uncomfortable, my driver had banged both knees on the front edge of the kneeler trays but apart from that we were both alright.

It was then that I realised that we had been lucky especially as Dad did not know what I was up to, the parental wrath should I have been hospitalised was best left to my imagination!  We were towed ignominiously back to the paddock where investigation eventually revealed that the clutch centre nut had come loose hence the grinding of gears and false neutrals.

End of a truly fabulous day for me and it would take several more for me to come down from the high of my first race.  From initially having been filled with trepidation I was eagerly looking forward to our next race in a few weeks time.  But more of that later ...

The holiday season is here – again

The holiday season has begun here in France beginning today the fourteenth of July, know in the UK as Bastille Day it is a national French holiday.  The annual French holiday season is unlike Great Britain is very short, just six weeks from mid-July until the end of August.  During this period there is a mass migration from cities and towns all across the country on the fourteenth to coastal and mountain resorts in a lemming-like madness.  Many towns become almost ghost towns as people escape for their annual vacation.

This first weekend of the season sees the biggest traffic jams of the year with queues anything up to twenty kilometres at autoroute toll booths, sadly this weekend sees also the greatest number of road deaths each year.

The area where we live in deepest southwest France is very picturesque with many ancient villages and towns, beautiful scenery and steeped in history.  Naturally many visitors come here to enjoy a holiday, when I say many I mean in their thousands – one nearby village has a normal population of some fifteen hundred which swells at the summer peak to seven to eight thousand!  

Naturally all local businesses welcome this annual influx because generally  it is the one and only chance to make any money throughout the whole year so, of course, prices go up in cafés and bars, restaurants, many shops and tourist attractions as well as hotels, camp sites and other tourist centred features.  This is the time of year when the local people do not eat out nor have coffee or drinks out, it’s no great hardship because it is only for six weeks of the year, we have the other forty six all to ourselves!

Of course shops etc become very crowded, it is difficult if not almost impossible to eat out should we have to without a reservation but without our annual visitors the economy would suffer badly.  The département in which we live, Lot-et-Garonne, is officially the third poorest in the whole of France, the main economic activity being farming (cattle, plums for prunes, hazelnuts) and tourism so any additional income is most welcome.

Am I complaining?  No, not really.  Yes there are the extra long queues in the shops and possibly a little traffic congestion but not much to speak of.  Probably the most dangerous result is from drivers who do not know the local area or are complete strangers to the country because the French system of road markings, roundabouts and the give way to other traffic rules are so varied and in some places very complex.

For example a local roundabout has just three roads leading onto it so in British eyes that should be very straightforward.  Not the case – one road at the roundabout there is a stop line which means exactly that.  Taking the first exit presents no problem, if, however, you wish to take the second exit there is another stop line halfway across the roundabout where traffic entering has precedence.  

Traffic from the right at that point may take the next exit without any problem but if wishing to take the second exit then there is another stop line again halfway across the roundabout where traffic from the right entering the hazard must be accorded right of way.  The next problem arises because that traffic that has right of way to take the first or second exit.  

There is a certain amount of entertainment then to be had observing the antics of ones fellow road users at this roundabout which most locals during the holiday season treat with great circumspection.  Probably the best and safest policy is should there be any uncertainty as to another drivers possible antics then stop and let them have right of passage!  As may be imagined there are a considerable number of minor collisions at this site during the summer, perhaps the local body repair shop would attract much business of they had a representative present handing out business cards!

All of the foregoing may sound like reasons not live here but the benefits far outweigh the disadvantages, believe me.  Would we choose to live anywhere else?  Emphatically not!

How it all began ....

How it all began - my passion for sidecar racing that is.

My parents and I were living in Crouch End, North London, in 1956.  As was common at that time few families had their own personal transport relying on public transport to get about.  Father was working as a bakery roundsman for the London Co-operative Society from their depot in Palmers Green a journey of about an hour each way with a change of buses at Muswell Hill Broadway six days each week.

He finally decided that it was time to invest in his own transport rather than rely on buses.  On returning home from school one afternoon I noticed a motorcycle and sidecar combination outside our home.  This puzzled me as none of my father’s friends as that I knew owned such a machine.  Once indoors my father greeted me and asked me had I noticed anything different so I said that there was a sidecar outside our house.  

Dad could contain himself no longer telling me that it was ours and that we could now go wherever we wanted whenever we wished to do so.  I was quite thrilled by this as until several years ago we always had a car, a 1932 Austin Ten, in which every summer Sunday we would go for days out to the Essex, Kent or Sussex coast.  Those trips were very special to me and the envy of many of friends whose parents could not afford such luxuries.

Father had kept in touch over the years with one his particular school friends, Percy Lester, well more than a friend as they had grown up together living in adjacent houses in Edmonton.  The first memories I have of Percy was at about seven years old when he was a roundsman for a local family run bakery driving a small electric powered Brush three wheeled delivery van with calls in our road.  Occasionally he would let me drive this between calls, naturally I was thrilled to be allowed such an illegal privilege!  

One particular day I had been to work with Dad on his sidecar, instead of heading home we went in the totally opposite direction to a parade of shops in Upper Edmonton where Father’s friend Percy had recently opened a motorcycle shop.  Well, I say a motorcycle shop but in reality it was a workshop selling motorcycle related bits and pieces as well.  Pride of place was given to a sidecar outfit, not just any ordinary beast of the time but a sleek silver machine on which the name Norton was proudly emblazoned on the petrol tank with a fairing and a strange platform for a sidecar.  My gaze was rivetted on this machine as my mind was trying to guess exactly what it was – then the penny dropped.  What gave the game away were the black numbers on oval backgrounds on the front and side of the bike and on the sidecar wheel cover, it just had to be a racing sidecar, the first time I had encountered such a thing.  Little did I know at that moment exactly how this almost chance encounter would influence much of my adult life.

Never before had I seen such a machine nor, as I recall, even heard of such a thing, but in front of my eyes there stood an item of great interest and wonderment to me.  Percy asked would I like to sit on it, now that was a really silly question to ask almost any twelve year old lad so I climbed aboard!  Reaching for the handlebars I could only just manage to reach the footrests so I naturally fell into a good impression of a racing crouch, being only just able to lift my head sufficiently to see where I was going, assuming of course that I was going anywhere such was the febrile imagination of a twelve year old mind.  All of this was of course accompanied by lots of Brrrrmmm Brrrrmmm type noises.

Soon Dad said it was time to go but first I had to prised away from this dream machine, reluctantly climbing off we said our farewells to return home. What I did not know that during my exciting yet imaginary ride to race fame and glory was that Percy had told Father something that was to be kept secret from me until the end of the following week.

Good Friday 1956 – unusually Dad did not go to work that day as he had arranged a couple of days holiday over the Easter weekend, I say unusually because bread deliveries were always at that time made six days a week.  In fact that is the first occasion that I can ever recall him having any time off over the Easter period.  Breakfast over and done with, sandwiches and flasks prepared for a day out so off we went on the ex RAC Norton 16H and Streamline child/adult sidecar. Where we were going was still unknown to me as we headed via Finsbury Park, Islington, London Bridge then into almost for me unknown territory south of Southwark.

The London suburbs gradually gave way to more open aspects then to green countryside as we continued on our way. Suddenly I saw a sign that read ‘Brands Hatch’, I knew that car racing happened there but did not think for a moment that would be our destination but that we were en route somewhere to the Kent coast.  The outfit began to slow, from my seat in the sidecar I could see more signs proclaiming this time that this was indeed Brands Hatch.  We turned into circuit, paid for our entry and programme then parked near the main grandstand.

There were solos out on the track, it was apparently practice preparatory for the afternoon’s racing. The speed and daring of the riders astonished me as I wondered how they could manage to stay on around the corners whilst leaning over so far.  Where we were watching from, near the top of Paddock Hill Bend was a good vantage point because virtually all of the circuit was visible from there.  An added bonus was that the riders left and returned to the paddock via the ambulance gate which was only a few feet from where we stood giving me a good look at everyone and the bikes as passed slowly by.

More solos came and went then the public address system announced that next to practice would be the sidecars, or barrow boys as they were then often known.  My interest and excitement grew rapidly as the outfits began trickling out onto the circuit.  Father particularly pointed out one machine to me saying that it was his friend Percy so I paid particular attention as he and his passenger were circulating.  The whole thing was just so fantastic, the sight of machines rushing round, the noise, the smell, the death defying antics of the passengers, so much so that I think that it was then that I had my first ever sidecar racing adrenalin rush! 

Competitors that I remember taking part were Bill Boddice, Cyril Smith, Dave Read, Fred Wells, Ted Young, the others regrettably remain a complete blur!

End of the session, all returned past us back to the paddock.  Now, I imagined that the paddock would be a inner sanctum where only competitors and the ultra privileged were permitted, I was fervently wishing that we could go there and see Percy and his Norton.  Dad started to walk away asking if was I coming.  Naturally I asked where as I did not wish to relinquish my excellent viewpoint, the reply was that we were going to the paddock.  Had I not had sufficient excitement already for one day? Apparently not, so we wended our way eventually finding my new found hero.

In the paddock there was just so much noise and activity, bikes being started, ridden around, machinery being warmed  up, motorcycles being fettled all in a atmosphere that was vibrant and exciting.  Something I had never smelt before however was the aroma of a hot bike fresh from the track, a wonderful smell of hot Castrol R and engines mixed with petrol fumes, it was a very heady cocktail to me. Around us were a number of other sidecars their crews still in leathers  many of whom were chatting and relating their own individual races.  Percy came over to speak with me and Dad, I listened in utter fascination yet almost lost in a dream world.  For me it was too soon when we went back to our erstwhile vantage point to watch more racing, I would have given anything to stay where the real heart of racing was.

 

Later, much later in the afternoon, it was the turn of the chairs again.  As they slowly drove through the ambulance gate onto the track both Percy and his passenger waved to me, now that really made my day to actually be acknowledged by a motorcycle racer!  Little of the race remains with me because I was so absorbed in the sheer spectacle of men wrestling with machines around Paddock Bend with much opposite lock and drifting as well as the sheer cacophony of finely tuned racing engines on open exhausts.

Race over, I saw the bikes for the last time that day as they returned to the paddock.  What a fantastic and memorable day that had been for me, something to day dream about for the future.  Little did I know but there was more to come soon, very soon ...

Easter Monday morning – had breakfast, sandwiches and flasks were prepared again, soon we were on the road again heading initially on the same route as Good Friday.  My parents had not told me where we were going again but that was not unusual for the time as children were brought up to do as they were told.  When we had passed through Southwark instead of turning onto the Old Kent Road which led eventually to Brands Hatch we headed for Herne Hill according to traffic signs.  Having passed through Herne Hill we were then following signs for Crystal Palace, I was still none the wiser.

Shortly we arrived at the Palace, it was only then that I saw signs advertising motorcycle racing there for Easter Monday – suddenly I was very excited again at the prospect of hopefully seeing more sidecar racing!  Soon I found myself on the terraces alongside the old start finish straight between North and South Tower Corners watching some solo races and becoming impatient to see the sidecars again.  All in good time they appeared much to my delight.  Regrettably I do not recall much of that meeting at all except that I enjoyed it immensely and could not wait to go racing again.

That evening over dinner I told my father that when old enough I was going to take up sidecar racing, his reply was that I would never be able to afford to do so.  For those of you that know me fairly well that was a challenge, albeit possibly a long term one.  The rest, as it is said, is history ...