Sunday's spotlight - Summer Holidays

BY GUEST BLOGGER PETE

As a child, August meant only one thing for me. Holidays! Freedom from the restrictions of the formal state education that was enforced upon all children of my age. Six weeks of doing absolutely what ever you wanted to do. Well, not quite everything.

After just a few days at home, spent in the company of my friends, my mother and I set forth for the vast dark expanses of North Yorkshire. Goodbye any North Yorkshire readers of this blog.   It is not going to be as bad as you fear so stick with it if you can and, if you feel like it, defend your county by sending in a comment.

My destination in North Yorkshire was the market town of Stokesley. I must have been a big shock to my parents when my mother discovered she was expecting me. My sister is 10 years older than me and five years younger than my brother and so they, my Mum and Dad suddenly found themselves with another son.  

 

Our Yorkshire trip to Stokesley was so that we could spend four and a half weeks with my brother and his wife. They ran a cafe and catering business in the town. I have an everlasting memory of endless Saturday afternoon weddings in various village halls all around the district and the hours I spent washing up. If I was lucky, there just might be a jelly fruit salad left over from the guests that I could finish off.

It was my brother who introduced me to speedway racing. The Middlesbrough team had their track halfway between Middlesborough and Stockton. I forget which night they had their meetings on but I do remember that Bill, my brother, and I were regular visitors there. When we returned to Southampton I visited the speedway there each week, going with a friend of my sister's. This lady was a real fanatical speedway follower. The only rider whose name I can remember now was a chap called Split Waterman. In those days I used to wonder what kind of parents he must have had who would christen him "Split"!

I used to borrow my brothers father-in-law's bicycle after trips to Middlesborough speedway. There was a long and dusty pathway leading to a farm off Stokesley Lane and I could practice my back wheel skid there to my heart's content.  Pity about the tyres, though!

The photos included here are all of Stokesley.

Sunday's spotlight - Abnormality

By guest blogger Pete.

Things are settling down again and the normality of everyday living has returned. It's September. The children have returned to school so it's possible to visit the city and not have to walk sideways through the crowds. First timers at their new schools, shaking in their shoes (and this refers to new teachers as well!) have taken the step over the threshold that might well be the start of something great - i.e. becoming Prime Minister or a position of some similar ilk. Poor little devils! Clubs of various sorts are reopening again all over the city and Adult Education class are in full swing. (For "adult" read someone who needs an academic qualification. At one time you could learn French for fun but our city fathers have decreed that you cannot enjoy education because you must take an exam at the end of the course).


But if September marks a return to normality what does it say about August? Is August an abnormal month? My father died during the war and my childhood Augusts were spent with my brother (15 years my senior) and his wife in the smallish Yorkshire market town of Stokesley. If you're in that area keep on the bypass! During those August months I managed to purloin his father-in-law's bike and cycled for miles around the district. One of my favourite places was 2 or 3 miles from Stokesley, a village called Great Ayton. This place has a very attractive village green with a "beck" running through the middle of it. The ideal place to go to avoid having to run errands in Stokesley and, on a hot summer's day, a great location to lay in the grass and read a "Biggles" adventure of the "Just William" book borrowed from the Stokesley library on my brother's ticket.


Tuesday evening's were special during those Augusts. Then my brother and I would make the 12 mile or so journey into Middlesborough and visit the local speedway. I used to be enthralled by the noise of those bikes and the general atmosphere around the track. I was impressed by the bravery of the riders as they went into skidding turns around the bends, sometimes secretly enjoying the odd accident especially if it involved one of the visiting riders. If WE'D beaten the opposition I'd go back to Stokesley "on top of the moon".


Back in Southampton, where I lived, my sister, 10 years older than me, arranged for a friend of hers to take me to the Southampton Speedway on a Thursday evening. Here I found the same magic that I had first encountered at Middlesborough. I can picture that track now but can remember the name of only one of those dare devil riders. That name is Jim Bason. Why I should remember it I don't know. He wasn't anywhere near an idol of mine and his skills never did impress me.


Speedway as a sport was copied my many of my teenage peers in the Southampton area. Any waste piece of ground was quickly adapted into a cycle speedway track, complete with dusty bends so that the riders, with the help of brakes, could go into breath taking slides (even though such skidding slowed them down considerably). Cycle speedway teams grew up all around the city. 'Silly girls' weren't allowed to ride but on occasions when a match had been arranged with another team they could come and cheer us on. If they wanted any of us to speak to them during the following week then it was imperative for them to come and support us. Intense rivalry grew up between the teams but I can recall no occasion when fisticuffs resulted. That intense rivalry was all part of the sport and everyone enjoyed it. It could give you "boasting" rights until the return match had been arranged. If you lost a match then there was always a more than plausible excuse; your best rider's parents had decided, at short notice, to emigrate to Siberia and he had had to go with them.


August an abnormal month? Not really! It was just a different month.

Sunday's spotlight - "Oh I do like to be beside the seaside"

By guest blogger Pete

On Friday of this week - and for you, dear reader, LAST Friday - I am due to take the annual school leavers service for the pupils at St Peter at Gowts School. These leavers will not be finishing their education then but moving on from Primary School to the "Bigggggggg school". We have a lot of Eastern European children at St Peter's and this makes communication quite difficult at times, both with the pupils and also with their parents. Children do pick up English but whilst doing so there is a real danger of them falling behind in other subjects. St Peter's School serves a more deprived area of Lincoln and many of the pupils receive free school lunches and also free breakfasts. But before the move to the big school there is a 6 week summer holiday and no free meals available to any pupil.


As a youngster I lived in Southampton and each school holiday, my mother and I took the long trek from there up to northern Yorkshire to spend this holiday with my brother and his wife in the small market town of Stokesley.
Me and my brother Bill

Now Stokesley had - and still HAS - very little to offer anyone of any age. As a boy I can remember a dark little cinema - rather a flea pit - that showed old films about twice a week, Middlesbrough was about 12 miles away and occasionally there were visits to Ayresome Park to see Middlesbrough Football Club and its star players Wilf Mannion, Geoff Hardstaff (or it could be Hardcastle!) and their Italian goalkeeper, who rejoiced in the unusual name of Ugolini. More frequently, my brother - 15 years older than me - took me to see the Middlesbrough Speedway team in action.

Gradually I acquired "summer friends" at Stokesley and, when we'd saved sufficient pocket money, we'd beg a packed lunch and catch the bus to the seaside. Redcar and Saltburn were to two choices of destination we could head for.

Redcar was a rather run down resort - maybe it still is but I haven't been there for decades so can't say - and not our favourite. It could best be described as "Kiss me quick" hats and candy floss. I remember once going there with the family and my brother's mother-in-law expressed a before hidden delight in paying to be a passenger on a 20 minute rowing boat (quite large "rowing boat") ride from the shore and back again. Fortunately we didn't have to row for this was done by four or more burly fishermen. But then the final demand came out - the weather had to be bad and the water rough. It was both that day and, in my innocence, I was the only one in the group who said I'd go with her. I ended up having to travel the 1 hour bus journey back to Stokesley dripping wet. My cheerful mother told me that she wouldn't be at all surprised if the bus driver refused to take me, Take about Job's wife!!!!!!!


Saltburn was more upmarket. The town stands at the top of a tall cliff and so hasn't interfered with the sandy beach down below. It's a lovely beach there and, despite the fact that it was 1 1/2 hours by bus from Stokesley and therefore more expensive to get to, it was our favourite. Here we could play games and indulge in other beach activities, find an ice cream (if we were rich enough) and, providing we got the times of the tide right, could walk along the beach to nearby Marske and then back along the cliff top to Saltburn.


Despite all this, it was good to get back to Southampton, even if that meant a return to the drudgery of school.
Bill

Keep taking the sea air - if nothing else it helps the hair to grow.