Saturday, 13 September 1924 Wrightington

A steady drizzle was falling when I started for the BeeHive Hotel at 2.15 this afternoon, and to all appearances, we were booked for a day in it.  Five of us started, a poor turnout, even for this type of day, but there was a carnival on in town, and I think that some had strayed to attend.  Anything approaching a crowd keeps me away, for someway I cannot mingle with people.  I would far rather spend a full day in a heavy snowstorm, or in fog, or rain, than go to a wedding, for I always feel ill at ease and uncomfortable.  Perhaps the clothing has something to do with it!  Once I used to dress up, especially on Sunday, but now, my ‘best clothes’ are a pair of comfortable cycling knickers and a much worn sports coat, and a pair of comfortable cycling shoes which have not been cleaned since I got them!  Utility and comfort, be hanged to style or convention, is my motto, for which, I suspect, I am looked upon at home and round home as a ragamuffin.  I am called a hopeless case by the parson! And certain church-going, town parading models of clothing perfection and milk sop mannerisms or etiquette, are held up to me as examples of British manhood.  If this is British manhood, then let me be a tramp (I often envy a tramp).  They can call me a ‘Vagabond’, a ‘Hedgehog’ or a ‘Tramp on wheels’, I revel in those names:-

“You can write me down among the worst lot-“

Anyway, I’ll get on with the run.  From Horwich, we splashed along, over the setts to Adlington, where we turned left, and after many rough miles via Coppull, we rode through a park (where is a fine disused windmill), coming to Standish.  Then over Shevington Moor to the cross roads, where we swung right, at length reaching Wrightington.  From the edge of these hills, was a wonderful view – the rain had ceased – and the sky though stormy, had broken.  The sea from the Ribble to Liverpool was quite clear, the Wirral, and the Welsh mountains, with Moel Fammau dominating all, and reminding me of that July run.  We tumbled downhill, along a terribly rough road, coming to our teaplace, a bungalow.  Tea was soon ready, and afterwards four of us made a long detour via Mawdesley to Croston, Eccleston etc, two of us taking the bylanes from Chorley.  At Heath Charnock, we stood watching an amazing sunset.  The whole sky was suffused with ever changing colour, extremes of bright and black, marking the western sky.  Near the Millstone Inn, we discovered an old pair of stocks, none of us hitherto suspecting their presence, though passing the spot many times.  We returned home along the New road, talking the while of ancient legends and folk-lore.                                                                                56 miles

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