ROAM FREE!

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Roam Free!

This memory takes me back to the time I had my
first 'real' bike given to me. It was my welcome home
present from my Mum and Dad after being away
for a couple of weeks at my eldest sister Mary's
house in Tongham, Nr Aldershot, Surrey. I suppose
I was eight or nine years old at the time.

It was a bad time as my Mum had to go into hospital
and have an operation to remove a lung. Myself, and
my younger brother and sister, Billy and Sally, were
'barracked' out for two weeks in a really 'hot' summer.
Adventuring was very high on the agenda, and thanks
to a neighbours boy who was just a couple of years
older than me, I got plenty to think about.

From playing down at the 'rickety' railway bridge,
where we used to invade some poor chaps spinach
patch, and playing 'chicken' with the steam trains.
(Ashamedly). To messing in the orchards and hop-
fields that were rife in the area at that time. An old
deserted 'oast-house' in the village was one of our
favourite spots for just 'hanging out'.

It was the time of Tizer and Jubblies. Two things
we'd not experienced back home in leafy Wargrave,
so that in itself seemed like we were 'big-time'. As
for bed-time, we had to share beds with my sister
Mary's other four kids in a three-bedroomed house.

My sister Sally naturally shared with our niece
Valerie in her bedroom. But in the boys room there
was my brother Billy and Me. Little Ray, Tony, and
baby Graham who were of course our nephews.
Do you think much sleeping went on? Not a lot.

Those two weeks seemed to last forever, and even
today, I can't believe we could have crammed so
much adventuring into two weeks.


Anyway, when we got back home, we'd all three
been bought something 'special' as our reward for
having to be away from home, and as I said earlier,
mine was a bike. It was a girls bike. 'Pink', and a bit
on the big side. It was our neighbours' daughters' old
bike that she'd grown out of, but that didn't worry me,
I was now independant to the point I could go any-
where I wanted, when I wanted, and I did.


A few weeks later, and I was really starting to miss
the friends I'd made in Tongham where we'd spent
the summer, and I got to conspiring with a good
friend at the bottom of our road, Bob goddard. His
dad used to drive a huge lorry, and Bob would often
go out with his Dad on long lorry trips, so knew his
way about our part of the country well.

I asked him if he knew how to get to Aldershot,
and he did. I asked him if he fancied doing a bike-
ride there on the Saturday, and he did. So we
managed to get a few bits and bobs to eat along
the way and a couple of bottles of water. Then on
the Saturday morning we both sloped off in the
general direction of Aldershot.

I mentioned earlier that it was a particularly 'hot'
summer, and this day seemed to be the hottest. We
thought we'd been going for miles when we ran out
of water, but infact, we'd only gone four or five in the
'right' direction, as Bob had taken us on a rather
longer route than we'd needed to go. He was
following the route that his Dad used to take in his
lorry, but his Dad delivered grain from the BB&O
depot in Twyford, and of course went 'round-robin'
as it were. I know at one point we were pushing
our bikes up Bix-Hill on the north side of Henley-
on-Thames. Completely in the wrong direction.

We stopped at a little shop in Spencers Wood to
tell the shopkeeper there our plight, and hope for
some sympathy, (which we got). Thankfully in the
shape of some Smith's Crisps and a bottle of
Corona Lemonade. This helped us get the rest
of the way to Aldershot, and from there I knew
my way to Tongham and my sister's house.

Sadly, it was now gone two o'clock in the after-
noon. It had taken us 'far' longer than we'd hoped,
and to cap it all, there was no-one in at my sister's.
Our hearts sank as we sat there wondering what
to do. The whole estate seemed deserted, there
didn't seem to be anyone around.

Then a neighbour from accross the way, who I'd
not met before came over to us. Said she recog-
nised me and that my sister and the family were
over the park playing 'Stool-ball'. (Apparently like
rounders but with slightly different rules). My
sister was in the team and it seemed like the
whole village had turned out to watch this 'mom-
entous event'.

We made our way over the park and caught about
half an hour of the game. Enough to see Mary
batting away and running for all she was worth.
(I'd never seen her so active). When she finished
and came over to see Me and Bob who were
sitting with 'Big Ray' (her hubby) and the kids, she
was absolutely flabberghasted, she couldn't
believe we'd made so much effort to get over to
see them on such a hot day.

We got taken back to the house naturally, and got
fed and watered. But there was only time to have
a little natter before we had to start making our
way back home to Wargrave. Only 'this' time,
Big-Ray drew us some directions to follow so that
we'd get home a lot quicker than it had taken us
to get there.

I suppose it was a sign of the times back then, that
our Mum's and Dad's never even missed us. Just
asked if we'd had a good time. Great stuff!

Although we never got to meet the friends I was
originally missing, that day is 'so' ingrained in my
memory that I consider it one of my 'treasures'.

I wonder if old Bob Goddard still remembers?
Or even if he's still around? So many friends now
dropping off the perch, you begin to wonder.

Catch you later.

Pete.

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THE £15- CANVAS CANOE.

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The £15- canvas canoe.

My love of the river outweighed my swimming ability, because although I loved the river and everything about it, I was never a strong swimmer.

I’m sure this was based on the fact that I had an awesome ‘respect’ for it. I’d seen the swirling underwater currents where the River Loddon met the River Thames at Wargrave. I’d known of people previously regarded as strong swimmers, drowning in innocent looking water. So although I loved being on top of the water, I was always rather fearful of being out of my depth in it.

My first so-called boat was the proverbial car tyre innertube. Every kids best friend in the river. The next move up was the ‘li-lo’. I felt pretty safe on that thing until one day a swan jumped on my back and started pecking my bum. (Aged about eight or nine then). When I eventually got to the riverbank, PC Float, our local bobbie was there, ready to tear me off a strip for being so stupid. Hmmmmm?

Anyway, that scared me off using the li-lo for river crossings. So, best mate at the time, Stan Povey and I went searching the cherry pits in the area for dumped five gallon drums and a load of wood. We were going to build the best ‘Huckleberry Finn’ raft you ever saw. (And we did). It took us a while, but we got there eventually. Got it out on the river and away we went. GREAT!!

We kept our raft moored down at the ‘Free Ferry’. (The back end of Woodclyffe House.) However, we didn’t bargain on the jealousy of others, and found our beloved raft had been vandalised with holes being punctured into the drums. Not that we noticed until we launched it, and it started to sink in the middle of the river. Stan was a useless swimmer, and I wasn’t much better, but somehow we got ourselves back to the riverbank.
(Another great plan scuppered).

UNTIL……as we were going to Saturday Morning Pictures at Henley, and I read a card in a newsagents window; ‘Canoe for sale £15-‘.
Never mind the pictures, I was round to the house like a shot to see if it was still going. It was, but there was a problem……I didn’t have enough money. I only had the two-bob in my pocket to cover the mornings entertainment at the pictures.

Anyway, the man was a very gentlemanly, kind fellow, and could see I really wanted the canoe, so he asked if I though I could pay him a pound a week for it. Well, I wasn’t sure, but I told him I could, and knew that if I used my noddle I could get the £1- a week needed. I came back later in the week after I’d raised my first £1- doing odd jobs for people in the village, and after convincing the gentleman that I was going to put it in the guards train to get it home, he let me take it.

This was about 7pm in the summer, and I put the canoe on the saddle and handlebars of my little bike and set off down St Andrews Rd towards the station. But here was the dilemma; I didn’t have any more money. I’d planned to walk the canoe, on my bike the whole 3 miles along the very hilly, windy road that links Henley on Thames with Wargrave. Those that know this road will know how steep those hills are.

As I was climbing Johnson’s hill, it was starting to get dark, I was getting very tired, and the canoe slipped off my bike. It was a canvas canoe and I really thought I’d messed it up. But after I eventually got it home at about 10.30pm that night, I inspected it to find I’d only broken ONE of it’s ribs. (Easily mended).

My pride and joy was placed just below my bedroom window so that I could get up at night, (just to make sure it was OK, and still there).

It was a two-seater, so I used it as a ferry to help finance itself. It was fairly easy to take from my house to the river each day, so there was no chance of ‘IT’ being vandalised. Many happy days were had from my old faithful canoe. I paid every instalment on time every Saturday as I went to the Saturday morning pictures, and needless to say, I was extremely proud of my first MAJOR possession, as it brought a whole lot of joy to so many of us kids who couldn’t otherwise enjoy the pleasures of the river. As boats of any kind were generally considered the ‘playthings’ of the Rich who lived down by the Wargrave riverbank itself.

The Wargrave Adventure Playground. ‘Utopia’.

Catch you later,

Pete.

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THE WARGRAVE PENNY FERRY.

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The Wargrave Penny-Ferry.
From as young as four or five years old, my Mum would take us over the river on the ‘Penny Ferry’ to go splashing about in the river on the hot summer days.

We’d all pack our trunks and costumes with just the one towel between the lot of us, along with some old lemonade bottles filled with water. (Our picnic). Then we’d head off down to the front of The St George and Dragon hotel where we’d catch the ‘Penny Ferry’ to the other side of the river Thames where the water was clear and shallow. Where we could be with a whole load of other Mum’s and their kids having a whale of a time in relative safety.

I can still remember the river being a very light green. You could see the sand ripples caused by the passing boats creating a sort of artificial tide. Half buried in that soft, rippling sand were hundreds of 'freshwater mussels’. They were very common then, but you hardly ever see them now.
(Occasionally I’ve seen the odd one while walking along the Prom’ at Henley-On-Thames recently.)

One other memory of those days (especially the first one) that is still VERY vivid in my mind was the shock I got when I found out that the swimming trunks my Mum had ‘knitted’ me especially so that I could go in for a splash, would slip unceremoniously to my feet when they got wet. Undeterred I would still splash about for hours with one hand holding on to my trunks as if my life depended on it.

Mum’s Eh? The things they’ll do to make their kids happy.

The ‘Penny Ferry’ operated by the boat builders who had their yard adjacent to the St George and Dragon, Val Wyatts, is no longer there. Swancraft took it on after Val Wyatts sold up to them, but the owners of the Hotel in cahoots with the farm owner over the other side of the Thames, were determined to ‘spoil’ the spirit that WAS wargrave.

The land that the Ferry used to moor at was owned by the hotel, and when the big conglomerate (which I shan’t name) took over the George & Dragon, it decided to maintain it’s philosophy of ‘Greed is best’, and excluded all of the ‘locals’ who had used the land, along with the mooring green at the front. They took away the swing, flower beds etc, leaving it a baron wasteland, only good for mooring boats, (But only if you were a paying customer of course).

Even the car park had some twerp permanently ‘on guard’ there incase any of the ‘lower-life’ locals showed up and only wanted a pint. “Parking is for ‘eating’ customers only Sir”.

Wargrave holds many beautiful memories for me. The St George and Dragon was one. Sadly, it now plays a large part in the ‘demise’ of the ‘spirit’ of Wargrave. I haven’t been there for a couple of years now. Why bother?
Though I did drive past the other day and saw that access to the river-front had been permanently blocked off.

Hopefully, someone will tell me one day that some other enterprise has taken over the hotel, and the spirit has been restored. (I won’t hold my breath though). But I will forever have the memories of some great times had at what was the prettiest and friendliest little riverside pub/hotel to be found anywhere.

Catch you later,

Pete.

PS. Check out some old Wargrave 'past' photo's here;

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The Wargrave River Bank.

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The Wargrave River bank.

It has to be said that the Wargrave riverbank has
had a positive effect on the whole of my life, but
particularly my years up until the age of thirteen.

My very first memory is of the time when I was
just eighteen months old. My three older sisters,
Linda, Bev and Mary had decided to take me for
a walk down ‘the bottom end’ of Wargrave village.
To the winding river Thames that is still it’s jewel
in the crown. It was a hot, sunny day, and we were
walking across the fields as a short-cut.

We were some way across this field when suddenly
Linda grabbed my hand and virtually dragged me
across the rest of the field, screaming that the bull
was chasing us and we had to run for our lives.

Obviously we escaped the charging bull and carried
on our way to ‘the bottom end’ where we eventually
ended up at ‘the dirty water’. A little spot along the
side of the main Henley Rd just past
‘The St George & Dragon’ hotel.

We spent what seemed like forever there, sinking
jam jars on string to try and catch minnows.
I remember I was absolutely fascinated by these
little silver fish, which we took back home with us,
(though not across that field).

I grew up loving ‘the dirty water’ spot, and as I got
older I progressed to a fishing net, which our local
barber and neighbour Alf Beckford gave me.
(He also sold fishing tackle from his barbers shop
in Wargrave High St) This made catching those
minnows a whole lot easier.

At age seven or eight my older brother George
showed me how to catch the ‘really big fish’ that
I could see gliding through the deeper water.
This was done with a bit of old hawthorn tree,
(Nice and springy) with a length of string, a
safety pin and squashed bread for bait.
(Yes, we did catch fish that way, back in the day).

I don’t know about BIG fish, but we did catch some
gudgeon, dace and roach there using this basic
fishing rod. Out-fishing some of the Dad’s that used
to pride themselves and their expensive ‘split-cane’
rods and all the latest equipment imaginable.

Remember, the river end of the village at Wargrave
was (and still is) the posh end, but ‘the dirty water’
used to attract me like a magnet that I couldn’t
resist, and I would find myself often just sitting there
in wonderment of the place, hoping I’d catch the
kingfishers and dragonflies speeding past.

Believe it or not, I was at least nine years old before
I was told that it wasn’t ‘the dirty water’ at all, it was
‘Camps Pool’. Somehow, that name never sat very
well with me, and still doesn’t to this day. It will always
be ‘the dirty water’ as far as I’m concerned, and
although the main stretch of the River Thames at
Wargrave has been desecrated by the greed of
local landowners and the owners of ‘The St George
and Dragon’ hotel, ‘the dirty water’ remains almost
as it was over fifty years ago.

If ever you’re lucky enough to visit the ‘chocolate
box pretty’ village of Wargrave, Berkshire.
Stop by Camps Pool for a while and enjoy the
beauty that remains to this day. Look over your
shoulder there and you may well be lucky enough
to see the deer herd grazing on the front lawn of
Wargrave Manor.
The home of the Sultan of Oman.

Check this short video of Camps pool, (The Dirty water).

Turn your speakers up and listen to the birds competing and 'WINNING' the war of sound with the passing cars.



Wargrave Manor?
Now there’s a place that’s featured significantly
in my days at the village, and stories involving
the magnificent manor will feature later as this
blog progresses.

Catch you later,

Pete.

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The Henley Royal Regatta Fair.

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The Henley Royal Regatta Fair.

When you’re a youngster, the fair is a magical, mystical wonderland.
(At least it was for us in the 50’s and 60’s.)

The problem was though, that money was very scarce in most working-class
families back then. But the lure of the fair was SO powerful it just
couldn’t be resisted.

At the Royal Henley Regatta, in the 50’s and 60’s the fair used to be
almost directly behind the ‘Finish Line’ of the boat races, in the field
that they now use as the ‘hospitality’ area.

Between races the fair would get ‘swamped’ with the ‘Hooray’s’ who would
push, shove and bully their way onto the rides so that we mere mortals could
hardly get a look in.

Now….as a kid of 8 or 9 I was pretty resourceful. I would walk the three
mile to Henley so that I could be at the fair for early afternoon. The most
popular ride for the Hooray’s was the bumper cars (of course), they ran
amok every time each session stopped, hogging the cars for themselves
each time.

I could see the ‘respectable’ folk looking totally dismayed and frustrated
that they couldn’t get a look in.
Seeing this, I realised that being quite small, tough and hardy, I’d get to
at least One of the cars before the marauders. This I’d do, (most times).
Then I’d catch the eye of someone who’d missed out and beckon them over.
I’d get out letting them take the car, telling them I’d saved it especially
for them.
The look of gratitude on their faces said all I needed to know then.
While the ride ran it’s course, I’d stand on the edge making sure I’d make
eye contact now and again, with a little smile as they got ‘shunted’.

Now I’m not saying that I had a 100% conversion rate, but most of those I
saved a car for would come to me afterwards and thank me, saying they’d had
a great time etc. But more to the point. The people who visited the
Royal Henley Regatta then, were generally pretty well off. I would usually
get a couple of pennies, threepenny-joey, or a tanner handed to me for my consideration.

Occasionally I’d catch the eye of a single rider, and then more often than
not, they’d invite me along for the ride. (No cost of course). So my wily
little plan got me the best of both worlds, and due to the 'greed' and 'slovenliness' of the ‘Hooray’s’, I was able to repeat my little ruse
on other rides at the fair as well.

Did I used to enjoy Henley Royal Regatta week? You bet I did. For several
years on the trot, until they moved the fair OUT of the regatta grounds.

The Hooray’s and the well-off didn’t fancy the long trek to the fair, so it
was left to those with just enough for themselves.

Yep...US....The working class.

Ahhhh…..Those were the days…………

Pete.

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The Royal Henley Regatta..Henley-On-thames.

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Royal Henley Regatta..Henley-On-Thames.

I was laid in the bath today, thinking about the next
few months and what might be happening.
Then from out of nowhere, memories started flooding
back to my childhood visits to 'the most glorious'
event I could ever remember.

Yes, the 'Royal Henley Regatta' was viewed as 'the'
most important event in our small village of Wargrave's
calendar. Henley-on-Thames being just three miles
along a very hilly, windy road, it was right on our door-
step. Our village was 'almost' Royal for a couple of
weeks a year, thanks to the Royal Henley Regatta.

Now Wargrave was generally a sleepy little village
for most of the time, with nothing much happening at all.
Maybe the odd fete, the march on remembrance day,
and the odd sighting of a few of the very famous
residents we had smattered around the place. The
most familiar I suppose was Robert Morley, the rotund
actor of many a comedy and farce.

BUT!….Usually in May, the village would be descended
upon by several removal lorries filled with bedding,
beds, chairs, luggage, catering equipment of every
size and dimension, and a whole load of GIANTS!

Well, as kids, that’s what they looked like to us.
They were of course rowers, preparing for the annual
Royal Regatta. Not just any old rowers mind. These were
the boys from ‘The Thames Rowing Club’
(based in Putney as I remember).

OK you say, a memorable annual event for the entertainment-
starved population of Wargrave, but.....“what else”?

I’ll tell you what else…..’Money!’….Yep, sorry for lowering
the tone here, but the arrival of the ‘Thames Rowers’ meant
the family funds suddenly got a boost!

My Mum knew the ‘main-man’. The co-ordinator of the whole
military operation, on whose broad shoulders it fell to make
sure that these GIANTS had their every whim catered for.

They needed digs, they needed feeding, they needed cleaning
up after, and they needed errands run.
They were also pretty well financed, so guess who used to be
the second-in-command to ‘the main man’?

You guessed right. My Mum……..and her little private army of
deed-doers. Me and my brothers and sisters of course. We were
the cleaner-uppers, the tidy-uppers, and the message-runners
extreme. To top it all, we were very well paid for our few
weeks of hard graft. We got paid by ‘the main-man’. We also
got paid by the GIANTS, who all seemed to have too much money
for their own good anyway.

Does it still happen these days?
Remember….This was in the 1950’s….
When children were FREE human beings.
Allowed to get dirty, cut and bruised.
Who were allowed to use their own imagination and resources
to get by the best way they could, with VERY little in the way
of resources. (Except their wits).

These days, the parents would be hauled before the courts.
The children would be GIVEN their human rights, even though
they don’t want or need them.
The ‘main-man’ would likely be imprisoned for using child labour.


Is it TOO LATE to turn the tide?
This post continues with….
‘What happened at the Regatta Fair’ later.

Cheers,

Pete.

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