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Memory Lane

1/9/2014

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Although not about the same subject, it's an interesting coincidence that this blog should have a connection to the previous one; and that connection is that I've just returned after spending a couple of days in the area where my profile photo was taken and this blog is intended to be a photo-album of that visit.

The main reason for the trip was to attend a concert my elder son, Lloyd, was giving in the region where my wife was born and bred. Unfortunately, however, I had fractured my ankle (see below) ;so, instead of me driving my wife up from our home in the southern counties whilst our younger son, Adam, stayed behind to (amongst other things) look after our parrot, we decided to hire a camper-van and he would dive us north (including the parrot - see below)....

Photos can be enlarged by 'clicking' on them.
It was a Bank Holiday Monday when we left; so, the roads (in particular the M25) were extremely busy and the experience was made even less enjoyable by atrocious weather conditions throughout the journey.

We had planned for my wife to stay with one of her cousins for the first night whilst another cousin had arranged for us to park behind his local (below - left) which was near the venue (also below). However, Although there was room for four to sleep in the camper-van, Adam was extremely tired after the drive; so, we managed to get him a proper bed in the hotel for the night and I kept the parrot company in the van. Her name's Ellie, by the way.
On the following day, we woke to much nicer weather; and, after satisfying our curiosity by having a look at the rather posh hotel Lloyd was booked into for a couple of nights, Adam and I had breakfast in a wonderful greasy-spoon cafe. Later, we collected my wife and her cousin (below - left) in time to meet up for lunch with Lloyd and another cousin and his family (below - right). On this occasion, the pub car-park was full; so Adam had to park in the car-park outside the local museum (above - right).

Later that evening, after one of the best of his concerts we've ever been to (above - centre), Lloyd joined us and some fans for drinks in 'our' pub. Later still, my wife and her cousin retired to a room we had booked for them and Adam decided he would prefer to spend another night in the comfort of a real bed. So, I hobbled off to join Ellie alone again.

On the following morning, after breakfast, we took my wife's cousin back to her home not far from Oldham town centre; which had changed a lot - not least by the introduction of trams (below - centre).


Something else which had changed since the 1960s was the decline in the indigenous population; and, in this respect, it was somewhat alarming to see a flag flying on a private house (below - left) which bore a striking resemblance to some I have seen frequently on TV, in recent times (below - right).
After saying, "Goodbye" to my wife's cousin, we headed back to Saddleworth and it was intriguing that the further we drove away from the town centre, the more we seemed to be stepping back in time. Having said that, there were occasional signs of new houses behind the old terraces; however, it was clear some thought had been put into retaining the character of the area.

An interesting - but paradoxical - example of retaining the 'old' can be seen in the canal-side cottages shown below (top left). One of them is currently on the market for a figure approaching £200,000.00 and what is paradoxical about them is that, in 1939, they were declared "unfit for human habitation" and the occupants were re-housed into new properties (bottom centre- below).
My wife - shown feeding some ducks in the canal (above) - was particularly interested in visiting both of the aforementioned properties because she was born in what were (and still are) known as Wharf Cottages six months before they were condemned and her family was moved to the new house.

Later, we spent some time driving around the area shown above, called on a couple of old friends, and visited a local pub I frequented as a young man in the 1950s (bottom right - above). In those days, by the way, it was unusual for a young lady to go into a public house.
From Saddleworth, we headed towards The Peak District and had afternoon tea in an appropriately-named cafe on Chapel-en-le-Frith market place; the stocks can be see to the rear of the camper-van (top left - above). Later, whilst I had a look round our old home; now converted into apartments (top right), my wife and Adam visited our old neighbours (bottom left).

By the time we had finished the reunion, it was a little too late to politely call on other friends in the village; so, we headed off for an evening meal at a favourite chippie on Buxton market place. Adam had a double helping (see above); which goes some way towards explaining why he is now somewhat larger than our old neighbours would have remembered him fifty years ago.


Returning to the camper-van after our meal, I tripped and fell quite awkwardly and my ankle swelled quite alarmingly. It soon became obvious that it would make sense to abort our plans to visit a few more friends in The Peak District on the following day; so, we headed for home instead.
On the journey north on Monday, shortly after leaving the M25, we caught sight of a sign for the famous model village in Beaconsfield. During the past quarter of a century or so we had driven past it dozens of times and I had visited it during my first holiday after WW2 in 1948. So, we had (sort of) promised my wife that we would call there on our way back - which we did!

My ankle prevented me from reaching every corner of the village, myself, but I managed to call at the places which mattered (see above); and it was a nice way to bring our adventure to a conclusion - despite the disappointment of having to shorten it by a day or so.
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Memory Lane

19/8/2014

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As has been mentioned elsewhere, I have changed the photograph which I've used as a profile photo for as long as I've dabbled in the world wide web. The previous photo (below left) was the nearest I could find, at the time, to the bus in which I had taken my PSV test in 1961 and it also seemed appropriate for my username of Omnibusologist. However, although I had driven Guy buses in the past and although I took the photo myself, I was never entirely at ease with it as my profile photo. The position of the headlights, for example, or the colou-scheme wasn't quite right.

Photos can be enlarged by 'clicking' on them.
Imagine my delight, therefore, when David Beilby of Saddleworth Buses gave me permission to use the photo on the right (above); because, not only was it identical to the bus I drove in the aforementioned PSV test, it was a vehicle I had actually driven on several occasions in the sixties. Equally appealing is the fact that the photograph was taken at the bus-stop at the bottom of the road where my family had lived in the fifties.
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Memory Lane

10/8/2014

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After deciding to insert this particular blog into the Memory Lane category, I was reminded just how long Memory Lanes can be (especially at my age); because, having convinced myself that what I'm about to describe happened fourteen or fifteen years ago, more careful examination revealed that it had actually been ten years earlier.

In the very early nineties, whilst visiting my elder son and his wife in New York I paid a visit to the headquarters of The Academy coach company in Hoboken to discuss the possibilty of me driving for them in what might become a series of exchange visits between some of their own drivers and Greenline, the company I worked for in the UK.

Intriguingly, apart from the fact that I really did  have the meeting, all I can recall with any clarity (and I wasn't inebriated or taking substances at the time) was catching a bus at a Manhattan bus station and crossing the Hudson river. I also remember that it was decided that my British PSV license would be valid; and because I was a day-trip driver taking (mainly) tourists from London to Stonehenge and Bath, for example, they would probably use me for Casino Trips to Atlantic City.

When I returned to work in the UK, I had a meeting with the managing director who was quite happy for me to take leave of absence and there was even mention of seeking a grant from a government department to cover travel and accommodation expenses. I can't remember which ministry it would have been; but there was a suggestion that I might have had to give an occasional lecture together with a detailed account of my experience.

In the event, much though I would have relished the opportunity of an all expenses paid summer with my son and his wife, I was appointed manager of Guildford bus station and the prospect of a nine-to-five job proved irresistible. Furthermore, a few years later, I was lucky enough to enjoy a coast-to-coast drive across the USA; and, later still, I took on a part-time job deliveing buses and coaches after I retired.



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Memory Lane.

25/7/2014

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I've just stumbled across this which brought back fond memories of the first car I ever owned. There is an interesting story attached to it; in that I was just a temporary custodian of the vehicle when I was stationed at The Dale military camp near Chester in 1957. I bought it from a chap who was leaving the unit and when my turn came to move on, I sold it to another soldier who was remaining at the camp.
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Memory Lane

12/9/2012

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In these days when rules and regulations have become such an integral part of everyday life, it seems strange to reflect that in 1961, elf 'n safety hadn't been 'invented'. Incredibly (by today's standards), for example, there was nothing to prevent almost anyone from starting a driving school; all that was required was a current driving license.

My own experience is a typical example of how things were in those days.

There are, however, a couple of interesting sub-plots.
Picture
Firstly, a driving school proprietor, whilst rejecting my application to work for him, suggested that an additional driving qualification (such as an HGV license, for example) might have strengthened my case; and, by an interesting coincidence, a local bus company were recruiting new drivers.

At that time, almost anyone could present themselves at a bus garage and receive thorough training from experienced instructors; thereafter, they could take a PSV (nowadays known as PCV) driving test and, if successful, be offered employment by the company. Without blowing my own trumpet too loudly, having driven a variety of large vehicles during my national service, driving a bus didn't present too much of a problem and I passed the test (in the bus shown above) and worked for the bus company for a little over six moths before re-presenting myself at the aforementioned driving school; leaving the owner (in his words) with little option other than to offer me a job.


The significance of this sub-plot is that, firstly, it explains the origins of my username and the video which inspired it, secondly, a suggestion that I looked far too young to be a driving instructor was instrumental in my decision to grow a beard.

Returning to the elf 'n safety issue, having become a driving instructor in the early sixties, the only independent organisation offering instructors - and, therefore, the public - some form of regulation was The Royal Automobile Club (to whom I'm grateful for the photos shown below, BTW); who, in addition to providing useful literature for learner drivers, operated a system of examination. Those who were successful were entered into a register and, as a consequence, were entitled to display these plates on their vehicle.........
                                                RAC Reg - get it?

Eventually, towards the end of the sixties, the Ministry of Transport (as it was then known) decided to regulate driving instructors by introducing a system of examination. Those who were already employed as instructors were allowed a period of three-years grace before registration became compulsory; however, I was amongst the very first group who passed the examination at the earliest possible opportunity. Somewhere or another, I still have the certificate I received. When/if I find it, I'll add it to this blog.
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Memory Lane

4/9/2012

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Picture
For many, the building in the background of the photograph shown on the left evokes an instantly recognisable image of Liverpool. Known locally as "Paddy's Wigwam", it is actually the city's Roman Catholic cathedral; and the significance of it from the point of view of this blog is that it was taken from the bedroom window of the hotel in which I stayed during a recent reunion of nuclear test veterans.

I had ridden up on Trixie, on Tuesday, and was lucky enough to have enjoyed good weather during the journey. Less fortunately, however, although I received assurances that a corner would be set aside for her in an underground car-park, that facility had closed a few weeks previously; so Trixie had to suffer the indignity of being shoved into the corner of the rubbish-strewn trade's entrance at the rear (see below left - click photos to enlarge) which didn't compare too favourably with the front of the hotel (below right).  In the event, it wasn't quite as bad as it might have been because I could keep an eye on her from my room from time to time.

When I heard about the reunion, I passed on the information to the small group which consisted of those with whom I had shared a tent on Christmas Island in the fifties. Three of them planned to attend and I had arranged to meet up with one of them, Barry Hands, for dinner. For whatever reason, the buffet-style meal was disaster; many people (including Barry) queued for over half-an-hour. For my part, I had eaten a decent-sized salad at a motorway service station on the journey north; so, I avoided the queue by settling for a (rather large) pudding.

After breakfast on Wednesday morning, the veterans were invited to assemble in the banqueting suite - which offered us the opportunity to look for former comrades and Barry and I met some ex-Royal Navy chaps who were at the Port Camp at the same time as us.; we also saw one of our former tent-mates - along with his good lady.

Barry and I left before lunch because a Scouse former DUKW driver we had met at a previous reunion had offered to take us on a tour of Liverpool (below - centre) followed by a lovely lunch provided by his wife. Later, on the way back to the hotel, we drove through the area where I was born and visited the actual house (below - left). I hadn't seen the place since 1946.

Later, back at the hotel, we met up with another of our tent-mates, Spud Murphy, who had decided to come up from his home in Kent a day after the rest of us. In doing so he had missed the turmoil of the previous evening and, after an afternoon tea, we decided to pay a little extra to have our evening meal in a more secluded restaurant (below - right).
On a previous reunion, I had managed to get complimentary tickets for our group on the London DUKW tour and their Liverpool equivalent were happy to match their southern colleague's generosity; and, along with four other veterans, I enjoyed an interesting amphibious tour of the city centre and the waterfront area (see below).
During the previous night, I suffered from a rather nasty tummy problem; so opted to miss breakfast in an effort to make sure I could make the DUKW tour; and it seemed to have worked. However, bearing in mind I wanted to be sure to be fit enough to attend a Gala Dinner in the evening, I felt it might be pushing my luck to join Barry and Spud in a visit to the assorted museums in and around the Albert Dock area and decided to spend the afternoon in my room with a bottle of Pepto-Bismol.

In the event, I not only attended the dinner - but managed to eat almost everything which was put in front of me. The only drawback was that I had chosen to sit at the table next to the DJ's music equipment and, as a consequence, Barry, Spud, and I elected to get a breath of fresh air after the meal by going outside to stroll around the perimeter of the hotel. When we got back, a live group had started to perform - which was even louder than the CD stuff; so, we spent some time in a comfortable lounge area - thereby (allegedly) incurring the wrath of others who had remained behind.

On Friday morning, most of the veterans were going home. I, however, had arranged to remain for an extra night in order to visit the area of Liverpool where my family lived after my mother and I returned from north Wales at the end of WW2. So, after saying my goodbyes, I boarded a bus which took me within a short walk of my old school - where I was given the most thorough tour by the school's Development Manager.

It was nice to see the old place (below) and interesting to see how many academic buildings and sports facilities had been added in the very nearly sixty years since I left. However, it was sad to see that the house in which I boarded after my family moved from the Liverpool area has been demolished and replaced by some tennis courts and the tower (below - left) seems to need some work done to it.
From the school, I walked the route I took each day to and from the house I lived in before becoming a boarder. Incredibly, the girl who lived next-door, in those days (below left; with 'our' old house in the background), still lives there and she spent some time bringing me up-to-date with the lives of former friends and neighbours.

We didn't chat for too long, however, because the incredibly helpful Paddy Hoey, with whom I had become friendly on Twiiter, collected me in his car and drove me around the area. A previous blog outlines my reaction to the experience; and, to sum it up, I was surprised by how much had changed; however, my primary school (below - lower left) had retained parts which I could still remember. Rather less recognisable, though, were the off-shore wind turbines and the controversial 100 figures dotted around Crosby beach (below right).
Although the tour of Crosby was memorable, the bus journey back to Liverpool city centre had an ever greater impact on me (as outlined in the aforementioned blog) because of the enormous changes which have occurred since I left. I wouldn't have missed the experience, though, and my nostalgic visit to Liverpool was well-worth the effort and I'm so much indebted to Paddy for his input.
On Saturday morning, after, checking out of the hotel and rescuing Trixie from her unpleasant surroundings, I exited Liverpool through The Mersey Tunnel (above) and headed towards north Wales; where I planned to visit my aunt in the rest-home.

On the way, I caught sight of a sign to The Dale Military Camp on the outskirts of Chester. I was stationed there in 1956; so, headed towards the guardroom; where, despite the overly-pedantic attitude of the former-Gurkha security staff, a young soldier checked with a superior officer and was given permission to escort me around the camp. Hardly surprisingly, it had changed almost beyond recognition; however, I was able to work out where our wooden hut accommodation used to be.

Later, after a brief visit to my aunt, I headed towards Snowdonia and home; stopping on the way to take a picture of one of my wife's favourite spots. I had taken a photo of her sitting on the rock in the background during our honeymoon and, in the spirit of first time experiences, that photo (below left) is the first one I've ever taken with a mobile phone. I suspect I might have to take some measures to clean the lens at some time. In the meantime, somewhat appropriately (bearing in mind where the first photo in this blog was taken) the final photograph was taken from the bedroom window of a charming riverside inn I stayed at on Saturday night on the banks of the River Severn.

The final leg home of Sunday was pleasant - but uneventful.
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Memory Lane

5/4/2012

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This was, originally, posted on facebook; however, it occurred to me that it was an appropriate candidate for the Memory Lane blog:


After reading this article, I recalled that when I first started to receive pocket-money, after the end of WW2, my father devised what was, in effect, a Weekly Work Sheet which listed and valued various household chores. Washing-up or drying-up, for example, earned me one (old) penny and going to the shops was worth tuppence - and so on. My mother was required to initial each task I had completed and, on an average week, I might earn around a shilling. However, if I fancied buying a new Dinky toy, I would set the table for every meal each day and clean just about every pair of shoes in the house and, as a consequenece, end up with as much as half-a-crown. I believe it was a very good system for installing some sort of work ethic at a very early age and I don't think it did me any harm.
 
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Memory Lane

4/4/2012

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Facebook are trying to encourage subscribers to convert to something called Time Line and, although I don't suppose I'll contribute towards it because this web-site contains all that's relevant to me, there was an invitation to introduce an appropriate photograph as a background to the new set-up. This is the one I chose.........
Picture

It's a particular favourite lake of mine because it's quite close to the part of north Wales where I was raised during WW2 and just upstream from another one reputed to be associated with the legend of King Arthur and assorted Welsh princes. Mount Snowdon is situated just behind the hill on the left.


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Memory Lane

19/3/2012

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I thought I had lost this photo. It was taken when the company I drove for, at the time, lent me a double-decker bus to take a group of friends and workmates to a Commotions gig in Brighton. I think it was taken in 1989 and, believe it or not, Lloyd put everyone on the Guest List.

Picture

I have been reminded that a similar photo to this one appears in 'People & Places'.

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Memory Lane

1/3/2012

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In an earlier blog, I mentioned that I had been been asked to write a few words for a book which is being published to celebrate the centenary of The golf Club Stewards' Association. Yesterday, I had the pleasure of meeting the chap who is compiling it - and, having mulled over old times, I was reminded of a couple of amusing anecdotes from when I was a steward myself in the seventies.

Quite often, golf club stewards took their wives with them when they went to their tournaments and, whilst the husbands were on the golf course, the host stewardess might show the other wives around local places of interest (usually the local shops). Afterwards, they would join the golfers and their guests at the presentation dinner in the evening.

After one of these occasions, one of the stewards drove home to his own golf club the north west of England and, when he arrived, his son enquired where his mother was.

Evidently, *** had forgotten that he had taken his wife along.

Fortunately, however, another steward gave her a lift home and when she walked into their living room (allegedly, with steam coming out of her ears) *** confronted his wife - saying, "And where do you think you've been 'till this time?"



                                                                                                 

            
On another occasion, on the morning after an especially convivial golf club stewards' tournament in the north west of England, I was telephoned by a fellow steward who asked if I could drive around to his club to help him look for something he had lost during the previous evening.

"You've got a car." I told him, "Why don't you go and look yourself?"

"It's the car, we'll be looking for." my friend replied.



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