Open Writing

By late June 1957 I was beginning to savour a cycling holiday in France, my first time out of the UK. Johnny Williams, a likeable Geordie from Chester-le-Street in Durham, had been cycling with me and a number of others on the station to various locations in Suffolk and Essex. I had mentioned my intended holiday to him in conversation over a pint one evening and he had expressed an interest.

So it came to pass that on a mid-July morning we lifted our bikes on to the small ferryboat across the River Orwell, rode to Felixstowe Railway Station and caught a train to London. Some hours later we arrived in Dover. I cannot recall the short journey to Calais. I can only presume it went smoothly otherwise it would be etched into my memory.

My first time in a non-English speaking environment. Not particularly common for a twenty-year-old in the 40s and 50s, unlike today when a person of similar age will be able to boast a dozen or more such visits. Such has been the explosion in travel during the past half century.

We boarded a train for the Gare de Nord in Paris. I was awestruck by the marked contrast in the design of the railway carriages in the two countries.

The constant sound of a language which I did not understand left me bewildered. One or two fellow passengers made comments to me which left me petrified. Johnny later said I should have seen my face when I was spoken to in French.

A ride across Paris, my first experience of riding on the 'wrong' side of the road. The Gare St Lazare was our destination. A train journey down to Lyon saw us commence our ride down the Rhone Valley to Nice. After a few days sunning ourselves on the beaches of the Mediterranean we turned our wheels northwards into the Alps.

WE climbed some of the cols made famous by the Tour de France, which have subsequently acquired a mystical status since the inception of worldwide television coverage of the race. Descending out of the mountains we returned to Lyon then on to Paris by train where we spent a few days, a trip up the Eiffel Tower being the highlight. Then back to Bawdsey to be faced with fire piquet duty over the Bank Holiday weekend.

It did, however, give me the chance to write an article on the holiday for publication in my cycling club magazine back in Nottingham. Very few cyclists went abroad in the 1950s so such a read had quite a lot of appeal.

By late summer 1957 I was beginning to get demob happy. Although I had only been in the service about twenty months, I shall always remember it as an extremely large chunk of my life, despite some pleasant experiences mixed in with the dire.

Any break from routine speeded up the passage of time. Luck came my way when I was detailed to accompany a corporal from stores and a driver to take a consignment of rifles and bren guns to RAF Stafford. Rising at 0500 hours we were on the road by 0600 hours. Following the A45 through Cambridge we soon picked up the A5 and followed it all the way to the station. After unloading the armaments we had the rest of the day free and went to see Jayne Mansfield in 'The Girl Can't Help It' at the station cinema. An uneventful return journey rounded off a pleasant trip.

On another occasion I was encouraged to go along to RAF Felixstowe to lend support to our table tennis team. As if to underline how keen our officers were to get us to attend the tournament, a lorry was laid on to take us. We beat Felixstowe 9 matches to 1, a resounding victory.

January 1958 and I had less than a month to my demob date. On the final weekend I took a trip down to London. I stayed at the Union Jack Club, good bed and food and cheap as well, strictly for military personnel only. My diary states that I visited the Apollo Theatre to see 'For Amusement Only', but for the life of me I can't remember anything about it. On the Sunday I visited Madame Tussaud's in the morning and the Imperial War Museum in the afternoon before catching a train back to Felixstowe.

My penultimate day in uniform was spent returning most of my equipment to stores. I have retained most of my uniform to this day. My greatcoat I cannot speak of too highly. It has been, without question the best over-garment I have ever possessed. My kitbag complete with uniform interned within it remained forgotten in my loft for decades until, in 2004 the garments were taken out and placed on hangers once again and given the privilege of wardrobe space.

My last evening was spent in the Ferry Boat Inn taking a final drink with my soon-to-be ex-mates; such is service life.

My demob day I clearly remember. It was around teatime as I climbed the steps up from the platform at Nottingham Midland Station with my kitbag and holdall.

Suddenly a surge of humanity descended towards me, shouting and singing and displaying clear signs of intoxication - West Bromwich Albion supporters. Their team had just knocked Nottingham Forest out of the FA Cup in the Fourth Round. We got our revenge. Forest won the Cup the following year. They have never won it since.