Post: Please note that Charlie has left a gap from his previous piece, due to a works accident, I seem to remember that about this time he got a bootful of hot metal at the foundry where he worked. But he doesn’t complain too much, he just set about trying to make up for lost time.
Sunday, August 23 Around Peckforton
‘O to mount again where erst I haunted,
‘Where the old red hills are bird enchanted,
‘And the low green meadows bright with sward.
How absolutely true, word for word are these lines! A gap will be noticed between the last date and this entered herein, and no-one will, I am sure, accuse me of falling off the dear, great game. The fact is, that three days after the Lancashire Road Club 12 hour event, I was unfortunate enough to receive the overflow from a ladle of molten metal, which I was carrying, in my left boot, and, of course had to ‘lay off’, with the said foot stuck on a chair for 3 weeks, and another week besides had to be spent in carefully hobbling about. [Charlie worked all his life in metal foundries]. Ah! how one misses those ultra-alluring weekends when one is unavoidably held away from them. How the long days dragged! How the Road tugged and pulled, how I longed to see those ‘old red hills’, how I longed to mount again, on that wonderful little lightweight of mine and roam at will along the bylanes that I so love, and hear the seemingly endless welcome twittering of the birds. I wanted to feel the pedals gain speed as I dropped over a ridge to the ‘low green meadows’, I wanted to feel the hill in front and know the fierce joy of ‘getting ‘em round’ on some level main road.
What would I not give to be up at some unearthly hour and travel the Road in the gathering light, which makes everything seem mystically beautiful, meeting Tom forty miles away before most people are up and about, and heading for those beloved mountains. A metal burn as a rule (of the kind I had incurred) takes many weeks to heal, but I lavished every care on it, did the best for it, and owing to that and – here I make no boast for myself, only for the great game – the healthy condition which cycling has given me, it progressed in great strides, and now, after over four weeks the doctor says I “may knock about a bit”. I saw my chance and wrote to Tom Idle to meet me Sunday dinner time at Beeston Smithy, which, as is well known, lies hard by the ‘old red hills’.
Needless to say, I had a short preliminary run to loosen my joints a bit, and I can hardly say how good it felt to be awheel again. ‘Joe’ of the Bolton Wheelers promised to come along too, though I gave him warning that as far as I am concerned there would be no ‘blind and stop’. I know Joe of old! At 7.30 on this much heralded morning, Joe and I kicked off, I being on a freewheel so as to give the foot an occasional rest. Although I had sworn to potter, the machine simply wouldn’t, and the result was an ever increasing pace. At Glazebury we stopped for half an hour whilst Joe chatted with some of his clubmates who were participating or watching the Leigh Clarion ‘50’.
Just across Warburton Bridge, Joe spotted some blackberry bushes. That tore it! It took nearly three hours to reach High Legh, twenty miles away. On the Budworth road we stopped again, and I soon began to see that we were going to have to speed a bit to make time up. Now for my part, I do not eat blackberries from the bush because I have seen grubs and worms in them, and it has turned me against them, but Joe is a gormandiser when it comes to stuff of that ilk, and I could not tear him away. At last I saw that he had made his mind up to fill himself so I helped him, giving him many handfuls. He soon had enough then. After that we kept steadily going via Great Budworth and Comberbach and on the main road towards Northwich, turning in the valley at the huge works of Brunner, Mond and Co, and joining Chester road at Hartford. A charabanc came up, and Joe went after it, blinding out of sight behind it. I let him go, for I knew he would wait, as he did, just at the Whitegate turn. In these lanes there were no chara’s, so that we managed to keep together. This route from Warburton is far from being flat, but it is not bad, and I was surprised to hear Joe say that it was hilly and that these bylanes were rough and dirty. Oh, these Bolton Wheelers make me sick! They are parasites of the main roads, and can’t see the superior beauty of the byways and paths – indeed they can’t see any beauty at all, all they go for is to get right there, then get home again.
Just beyond Oulton Park we stopped at a pump for a drink, and to our surprise Tom came up. We carried on then past that lake and whereon is a fine swan. Tom said he saw a rose-coloured swan, and pointed it out to us, but it was not until after an incredulous search that we discovered the joke. Roses are often white! Eaton had not lost any of its charms, neither had the fine ruins of Beeston Castle, seen to much advantage on the descent of Beeston Brook. Climbing up to the Smithy, we stopped here for lunch, which was had in a shed with five members of the Stretford Wheelers and a host of wasps, three of which we accounted for.
The sky had cleared, and the sun was blazing forth when we made a start at the foot of the ‘old red hills’. Should we go over Peckforton Gap and through the woods? It would show Joe that Cheshire has hills to be reckoned with, and can also provide a bit of rough riding. So we passed through Peckforton and by the old world houses that have such large elaborate chimneys and multi-coloured gardens, with green fields on one hand and brown (or red) sun-bathed slopes on the other. We also noticed with much righteous indignation that trees were being felled on the hillsides. Oh, the perfidy of man! Now we turned into a sandy lane that led into the hills – into the trees. Joe spotted more blackberry bushes, stopping of course, Tom started to gather sprigs of heather, and I closely examined some whinberry bushes. I extracted two berries therefrom!
Joe nearly saw red on the climb up the gap. He said it was a terror for Cheshire. It certainly is stiff – about one in three and a half. We rested awhile on the summit, watching the heat-sizzled lowlands and listening to the distant heat-thunder. Then the ride through the woods of the estate! Again Joe had words of complaint “If you brought my club along here”, he said, “you would get slaughtered”! Poor club! what they miss! We stopped at the other end, laughing and joking over the rough ride and lost in admiration of the:
‘Majestic silence of the deep woods’.
Back to Beeston Smithy and the old castle walls, pausing first to admire three stags, erect specimens, with their antlers and graceful bearings, then to gaze on the sheer face of Beeston Hill. When we reached Tarporley, a change had taken place, black clouds were coming over from the north, and thunder barked like cannon. On the wooded road to Cotebrook we found ourselves in a gloomy, brooding world, queerly silent. The Delamere lane had barely been embarked on when amidst an extra heavy thunder clap it started to rain – not the common kind either: just one solid mass of water. The capes came out quick-sticks, we sat on our haunches with capes over our heads, and pressed our bodies against the low wall. In a few moments the road became a running river, ankle deep.
How we enjoyed it!, we laughed and sang songs and joked over the humorous position we were in, Tom took a photograph under difficulties. After twenty minutes there was no sign of a decrease and the water was running swiftly over our shoe tops, so we decided that the best course was to mount our bikes. It was a sight too, to see the steep lane three inches deep in water and to see a cataract pouring out of a side lane, and as we rode along in the deluge to see miserable shuddering motorists. The thunder reverberated continually, lightening played across the sky and shot down to the road with a noise like the crack of a whip.
At the Abbey Arms on Chester road, it eased, and settled down to a steady drizzle. Now Delamere and Norley, down to Crowton and Acton Bridge we splashed, then the steep, drenched lane up to Little Leigh and undulating lanes via Comberbach, with a very narrow escape at the Budworth cross-roads. Whilst crossing the main road after giving a warning at about 16 mph, I saw a motor bearing down upon me travelling at least 20 mph. The only way was for me to try and get across first, there being no time to stop, and in the race I won by inches, passing in front so near that I felt the splash from his wheel ! We had tea at Great Budworth, where it gave over raining, and returned the same way, ending the ride from Atherton with a party of the Bolton Wheelers. Thus passed a ride that, after being laid up, demonstrated to me more plainly than ever that the cycle is ‘The Best Way’. 93 miles
