Riding a bicycle

     I believe I was either ten or eleven years old and had never owned a bicycle. Living on a busy main road, it certainly would not have been safe to learn to cycle outside my childhood home, and I had to make do as a child with a scooter or pedal car in the garden.

     For reasons that I am unclear of, I went to stay for a couple of weeks in the summer with my cousin, Diane, who lived in Northern Ireland. She was eleven months older than me and more like a sister than a cousin as we were 'double cousins', her mother being my mother's sister and her father being my father's brother. She was the eldest of a family of five.

     It was a glorious summer and she and I and her two younger siblings played outside every day. The house, a bungalow, was situated on a very quiet crescent, well away from busy roads with no through traffic. We congregated in the garage, playing music on a portable radio. One day, Diane had acquired some bottles of Coca-Cola. I tasted it for the very first time and detested it, but sipped it slowly, pretending I liked it. To this day, I cannot drink Coca-Cola.

      There were several bicycles in the garage.  Each day I would take one out to the road and attempt to ride it, wobbling precariously. I was a bit embarrassed at not knowing how to cycle, and did not let my aunt and uncle know what I was trying to do, but they had probably glanced out the window and seen the red faced determined girl in shorts , T-shirt and hand knitted cardigan, struggling again and again to balance on the bicycle.

      We would attach old playing cards to the spokes of the wheels, secured by wooden clothes pegs. No need for a bell to announce our presence as the wheels made a pleasantly addictive whirring noise, alerting pedestrians, as we cycled by on the pavement.

     One memorable morning, I climbed on the bicycle and began to pedal. A slight wobble as I sat on the saddle, and then away I went, passing all the neat gardens, up the gentle slope, and then with the wind in my hair, freewheeled down the other side of the hill to arrive back at the house with a big grin on my face. It was almost as if I had added another dimension to my life; a skill to add to the milestones achieved during childhood. The next challenge was to learn to swim, and I did not achieve that until I was more than twenty years old!

Smugglers Cave

My passion from the time that I left school was for caving. My classmate Jim and I met up almost every weekend to pursue this hobby. We did not spend our earnings in the pub like most of the lads at that time, but on ropes and gear for caving.

The thrill of finding a new cave system and knowing that no one had ever stepped foot there before was akin to an addiction. On the weekends when the weather was too inclement, we would pour over old maps, eagerly planning the next trip.

We heard an old folk tale about a smugglers cave in Devon, where kegs of whiskey and other contraband used to be stored, but the exact location was no longer known. This was a challenge which we embraced gladly. We read old newspapers dating from the early 1800s and examined ancient maps. We identified a cove where smugglers boats had been known to land and knew that this would be our starting point.

We chose a Bank holiday weekend for our search to allow us extra time, packing our tents, provisions and gear well in advance in order to make an early start. The weather was glorious, cloudless skies, bright sunshine and a hint of a sea breeze. Arriving at the location we set up camp and commenced searching among the craggy rocks above the secluded cove.

Our first find was of a sink hole, far too small to enter, but on dropping a stone down, we heard the splash of water far, far below. There was definitely a cave system underlying the sloping cliff surface. Then I heard Jim call excitedly from 100 yards or so to my right. He had found the entrance to a cave, narrow but passable.

We geared up with our ropes and head lamps and I went first, squeezing my way through the opening. I had to crawl on my hands and knees for some distance until the passageway began to open up. The ground underfoot was dry and sloped quite steeply as it widened out eventually into a large cavern.

We stood together and marvelled at the large space. Several chinks of light played on the floor of the otherwise dark cavern. There was an ink black small pool in the centre, but the perimeter was dry and there were natural rock ledges on one side which would have been perfect for storage of wooden boxes or kegs. The roof and walls were solid and there was no evidence of any recent rock fall.

We continued to stand, playing our headlamps around the walls and roof until we both intuitively moved to the perimeter, examining the rock and looking for clues as to the possibility that this was the smugglers cave. Jim walked around the dark pool and began to explore an additional small chamber. I thought I saw something glinting in a pile of stones and went over to investigate it more closely.

I put my hand down and picked up a silver coin, dated 1850. As I turned it over in my hand, I suddenly felt as if there was a presence beside me and turned to see a shadowy figure in the gloom; a tall, wiry man in a rough leather coat, with his long lanky hair tied in a ponytail. He seemed to look at me before very quickly disappearing from view. Instinctively I did not shout for Jim as this seemed to be a private,personal experience which I did not want to share. There was an overpowering aroma of wet tweed mixed with sweat which lingered for a minute or so.

I put the coin in a pocket, determined not to show it to anyone. As we clambered out into the sunshine again, I wondered if I had imagined the figure in the cave, but the coin was very real. To this day Jim is unaware of my find. Sometimes I pick up the coin again and turn it over slowly in my hand, and can still smell that intriguing, unpleasant aroma briefly.

 

CPJan2014