M.G.S. Magazine - December 1961

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MGS Magazine 1961
More articles written by pupils


The Market-a world of its own where noise and chatter are the rulers. Its towns are stalls which are packed together like sardines in a tin; its inhabitants are the stall keepers, shouting out their wares, and the shoppers who buy them.

Early in the morning, the stall keepers arrive and set up their stalls, and from then on there is no peace. Stall keepers rival each other with their shouts, lost children scream for their mothers, harassed mothers call for their children, dogs yelp and bark, and above all this cacophony there is the roar of the traffic.

At mid-day, women flock to the market to buy provisions for dinner, and this makes the crowd even greater. Huge women with little baskets, and little women with huge baskets, push and shove their way around like bull-dozers. Toes are trodden on, hats are knocked over eyes, and elbows are poked into every part of one's anatomy.

The market is like a magnet-it draws everyone to it. Over-full buses make their weary way to this hive of activity, people come in cars and cause traffic jams by parking in unusual positions, and the people who live nearby-walk.

By five o'clock the market prepares for another onslaught. Housewives, office workers, workers of all denominations, and even school children, pounce on the market. Oh, the noise! Oh, the crush! and Oh, the rush! At one corner there is a man playing a barrel organ (as if there wasn't enough noise), the tune of which mingles with the shouts, screams, bangs, clatters and crashes around it.

At last it is time for the stall keepers to pack away their goods and go home for a well earned rest.

The market place is quiet now, and the framework of the stalls is silhouetted against the night sky. Everything is still now that the people have left.

What was that strange noise? It was only a starling singing his croaky little song. He had been singing all day, but there had been so much noise that he had not been heard. The wind rustles amongst the paper littered on, under and around the stalls-and blows it about. An old tom cat picks his way between squashed tomatoes, pulped bananas and cabbage leaves, then he jumps on to a stall and begins to sing a mournful serenade to his lady love.

All the traffic has gone now and everything is quiet and peaceful. It seems as if the whole world is asleep. The starling has flown away, the tom cat has finished his "lullaby" and everyone is in bed.

Peace, perfect peace!



For many years the old oak tree had stood in that meadow. When the rain fell the cattle would shelter under its gnarled branches, and when the sun shone the blackbirds would perch on its highest branch and pour forth their trilling songs.

One hot summer evening, the blackbirds left its branches and all became very still. There was not a breath of wind and the air was stifling. It seemed as if the world had suddenly died. Not a thing moved . . . but wait. Here came a small boy, hurrying and glancing anxiously at the big grey clouds overhead. His little dog followed at his heels. They made straight for the tree and the boy sat on the grass, underneath its sheltering branches. The dog whined as if it sensed something that was to come.

There came a menacing rumbling in the clouds. It grew louder. Lightning flashed and jagged forks of light rent the grey sky. Again the thunder rolled and the earth shook. The little boy gazed at the sky, wondering. The dog whined and retreated from under the tree, trying to draw the boy with him. He ignored the dog, thinking it wanted to play, and gazed around him. He noted that the tree was the highest point for about half a mile around, because it stood on a hill.

The storm was now directly overhead. Some of the largest forks of lightning reached from one horizon to the other. The boy thought it must be the worst storm for many years. Just then he sensed that something was wrong. The dog stood tense and then, with a sudden yelp, bolted in terror. He rose to follow. Then it came. A huge fork of lightning flashed down from the sky. It struck the tree. There was a blue flash, a terrific rumble of thunder, and the storm was past.

The oak tree's shrivelled leaves rustled and fell in the rising wind. It sighed throughout its branches. Then came a different sound and huge drops of rain began to fall, their number gradually increasing. The dog returned, whining, and licked the boy's hand as he lay under the tree.

The oak tree still stands in the meadow, for its roots are deep and still hold it firm, even though it is dead. The cattle now shelter under a hawthorn hedge, planted a few weeks after the storm. In the hedge some blackbirds sing, descendants of those that sung in the old oak tree that fatal evening, and, when the air grows still and the thunder rumbles, an old dog totters towards the tree and sniffs the air, whining.



Just over a year ago I boarded a train at Bridlington. I was with my brother Joe, and we had just spent a week at Bridlington.

The train set off at half-past seven. It was nearly dark, since it was the first day of September. The train left the station and was soon out in the open country, going through rather low lying ground. Most of the fields were rectangular or square, with ditches and becks running at right-angles round the boundaries, either for drainage or irrigation.

The countryside seemed sparsely populated with about half a dozen houses, a level crossing and two roads round each station, and a couple of farmhouses in the distance. The stations themselves consisted of a line of buildings with waiting rooms and so on. A fence would be in front of these buildings with a garden filled with small, bright flowers, and a platform. The first station of size was Driffield, much the same as the others, only larger and a five minutes' longer stay.

The fields were filled with blackened wheat and oats and I reflected that the farmers must be careless to leave it out for any length of time and then cut more before it was taken in. But then I suppose that farmers couldn't be as stupid as all that, so they must have had a lot of rain to be unable to gather it.

It was dark when we reached Selby and it took Joe and me about quarter of an hour to puzzle out a row of lights. It turned out to be a sign over a paper mill. The train waited a long time in Selby because someone forgot where he was and decided to get off just as the train was pulling out.

As it was then very dark we started to pay more attention to our immediate surroundings. All the seats were facing the same way as we were travelling second class. I checked over the money I had left after our three weeks' holiday; I had thirteen and fourpence half-penny left from two pounds fourteen and six. I remember the amount exactly because I had saved two pounds myself and I had received ten shillings from my mother. My married sister had given me four and sixpence, not having five shillings change. I pushed the silver back in my pocket along with my handkerchief and the other odds and ends that schoolboys always collect. On finding all the trash in my pockets, I decided to clear them out. I fished out a crumpled paper bag with my last caramel inside. I pushed the caramel into my mouth in the usual foolish manner of my younger days. I then pushed the bag into the ashtray, as all schoolboys do.

After fishing all the sweet papers out of my pockets I decided to annoy Joe.

I got hold of the alarm chain and hunched up my shoulders as if I was going to give a mighty tug. This had no effect on Joe except a mumble of annoyance which sounded like: "Sit down, you flippin' nuisance." So I sat down and started twiddling my thumbs.

It is a strange characteristic of trains that however many windows are opened the atmosphere is still hot and stuffy. Maybe this is because of the small size of the windows, or perhaps the slipstream stops the air getting in.

The train roared on through the night, monotonously. I was glad when we reached Leeds, although I couldn't see the large block of flats on the outskirts.

When we boarded the next train and it started on its way, I began to feel drowsy, since the only amusement left was counting stations as they went past. Morley, Batley, Wellington Road, Ravensthorpe, Mirfield. Home at last and what a relief! It was now past ten o'clock, so we carried the luggage home and went straight to bed.



When I got Bob he was about six inches long (not counting a tiny tail) and so fat that he could not walk because his tummy touched the ground. He cost me ten shillings, half of which was paid by my sister, but later I made a take-over bid and bought her half. At first he must not have biscuits and meat, but had to have a sort of meal mixed with hot water. We made him a bed out of an old clothes-basket with an old blanket.

When he began to grow up, I thought that it was time to teach him some tricks. I had a book on training dogs, and found out from it that the first thing to do was to teach him to walk on a lead. He soon learned how to do this, and soon we were teaching him how to keep to heel when off the lead. Then we taught him how to fetch a ball or stick when it was thrown to him, and later how to beg for biscuits. He had some difficulty in balancing when doing this, and had to put a paw on the knee of the person from whom he was begging. Now that he was getting older, he could have biscuits, tinned dog-foods (his favourite is "Lassie") and raw minced meat. Sometimes he had scraps from the table, or fish.

He grew larger and larger, but soon, when he was about two feet high he stopped growing.

However, he needed a new bed, and I saw an offer in a newspaper of ex-army foldable officers' baths, so I sent for one. (There was a picture with the advertisement). When ours arrived, it turned out to be a sort of round paddling-pool, not the blow-up sort, but of a very thick material, and about three feet in diameter. My grandmother had just bought a new rug for her lounge, so I asked her if I could have her old one instead of Bob's blanket, which he had pulled about, and was getting to be rather thin in places where it was not already torn.

Now Bob is two years old and has his second dog-licence. He is very lively and always wanting a game of ball. At the week-ends when we are gardening his favourite occupation is licking and chewing stones. (Why?)—He licks every one we dig up or, when he finds one he likes, goes around with it propping his jaw open. When he finds a suitable place, he drops it with great difficulty, puts his paws on it, and with one heave scrapes between his hind legs. This he does several times until it is very soily. Then he licks it. He must like the taste of soil!

I think that he is a very fine dog, with a tail that never stops wagging, and he certainly makes a good watch-dog.



At home we have two goldfish which I gave to my sister on her tenth birthday.

They have recently been given a fish tank to swim in and they seem to enjoy swimming rectangular and rectangular in a rectangular fish tank after swimming round and round in a round fish bowl. The fish tank seems to take a lot of cleaning out and when the operation is on, usually after Sunday School in the morning, I am almost expected, by my sister, Mary, to help. The process consists of spooning out the water (with a spoon) and then cleaning the gravel (very awkward). Before all this is done, the goldfish are transferred to a large glass jar.

Recently, the fish, named Samson and Samilla (by my sister), must have had rather a fright. A cat, one who lives round here, wandered through our front door, which we had open during a spell of warm weather, and found its way into the playroom where the goldfish are kept. My mother, on hearing a pitter-patter of small paws, went into the playroom and saw the cat on top of the table, about to make a spring onto the cupboard on top of which the fish tank was placed. Mummy managed to catch the cat before it sprang and, after a struggle, during which my sister and I assisted, managed to shoo the cat outside.

The fish are now swimming about in their tank, occasionally coming up to the surface to blow a bubble or two, or nosing about under the pebbles for a bit of left-over food. They are fed once a day in summer and once every two days in winter. They seem to be quite happy and contented and I hope we shall enjoy their silent company for, at least, another year.

RUTH TYSON (2 Alpha)


As we enter the door, caps are stuffed vigorously into pockets. "Two in a cubicle. Don't run."

Inside the cubicles, satchels and cases or bags are thrown on to the seat and the footboard is kicked into the centre of the floor. As you undress you shiver with excitement.

The showers are turned on and you timidly step under the cold water. The numbing shock takes your breath away and you gasp for air. As you wait for the order to dive in you are shivering. "All right, dive in and practise swimming on your back."

At last you can dive in and get warmed up by swimming a breadth or two. Splash! everything is silent. You swim as far as you can under the water and then break the surface of the water, gasping for breath.

After two breadths of crawl you start swimming on your back. After painful experiences you learn to look and see if anybody else is setting off opposite you at the other side of the bath.

The people at the shallow end, the non-swimmers, are walking up and down practising their arm exercises. An odd one or two are waving their arms and kicking their legs frantically, trying to reach the other side of the bath.

People on the balcony who are unable to go into the water for some reason or other watch you swimming back and forth across the bath.

"All out!" Everybody races for the steps and clambers out of the water.

In the cubicles there is a shuffling, shivering and mumbling as shoes are pushed onto feet, and soon we are waiting for the bus to come and take us back to school.



The Smith family were seated around the fire when young Jim piped up, "Mam, can a put t' telly on?"

"No, tha munt, ar Mary's doin 'er hoamwark," replied Mum.

"Weel, she can do it wi' it on," argued Jim.

"She's doin' Domestic Science an' she doant want that mixin' wi' Waggin Train," counteracted Mum.

"What's Domestic Science?" inquired Jim.

"Weel, cookery ter thee," explained Mum.

"I' that case she could do wi' it on, an' tak' a lesson thru Wooster i' makin' stew an' coffee, instead o' that muck shu brings hoam. Huh! Spaghetti wi' cheese an tomata. A wor fare progged after that lot," said Jim.

"It saved mi summat on thi suppa, anyroad," replied Mum.

"Aye! an it nearly saved thi summat on mi breakfast an orl. A noticed yar Mary dint ate much on it. Spoil 'er figure," cracked Jim.

At this point Mary broke in, "Pur it on. A can wark wi' that easier than listenin' to thee chowin' t' fat."



(A lot of something, mainly about nothing)

Some time ago I was asked to contribute to an annual publication, known (in polite circles) as the "Mirfield Grammar School Magazine." However, since these contributions (perhaps the reader could think of a better word) usually consist of a collection of not-so-funny jokes, heard on the wireless, whilst doing a French homework or trying to decide what Henry VIII did in his spare time, I would rather not bother.

And now, if the reader will permit, let us forget about school magazines, and discuss a most interesting topic-the art of doing nothing. To most people, it may seem to be just another way of wasting time, but this, I assure you, is not the case. For example, most people, when asked how they spent last Saturday evening, offer a wan smile, and meekly reply-"I wasn't . . . I didn't, I went nowhere . . . did nothing, and do not remember the title of the big picture." From this, it certainly seems obvious that going nowhere, to do nothing, is certainly a most interesting and preoccupying pastime.

The noble art may also be apparent in different forms, the vocal chords often playing a major role, as in-rouge, noir, or I'll back the numbers!

"Nothing" is not easily definable, the possession of it being undesirable, the loss of it advisable, the size of it immeasurable, the authenticity of it questionable, and the doing of it paradoxical. It will now be assumed that the reader has a clear picture of nothing, and will not do nothing that will make the picture of nothing not no more. (May it be pointed out, for the reader's benefit that the last sentence, i.e. the sentence before this, does not mean "nothing," but is a clear example of applied nothingness, applied to "nothing").

After reading the above paragraph, it is assumed that the reader may appreciate a small diversion. The following is suggested:

Take one good quality, chrome-plated, sharp, brass pin, and a sheet of polythene. The object of the diversion is to push the pin through the polythene sheet, remove the pin, and stretch the sheet. At this point, the observant reader may observe a hole in the sheet, thus demonstrating acute powers of observation, and creative ability.

Anyone still reading, should do so with extreme caution, and will, I trust, not need reminding that people who laugh at nothing, are eligible for board and lodging -for nothing!



In Albert Hitchen we have, among our Old Grammarians, an outstanding racing cyclist. We have followed his career with admiration, and are greatly indebted to Mr. Laurie Armitage for the following contribution.

ALBERT HITCHEN started road racing at the age of 16. He rode three races; was second twice and won his third. The second race was the Yorkshire .Junior Road Championship in which he was beaten by a length after his lone breakaway had been stopped by a runaway cow; the delay enabled the eventual winner to catch up and beat Albert in the sprint. The event which he won was the last of the season, and he only managed to scrape in as the last rider on the reserve list, being able to join in the race a bare minute before it was started.

The following year he won practically every junior road race in Yorkshire, including the Junior Championship. Again, the next season, when he joined the senior ranks on his 18th birthday, in July, he surprised a first class field by riding away from them and winning by a clear 3½ minutes.

Throughout his amateur career he dominated Yorkshire road racing and in the 117 miles Manx International road race, at the age of 19, he was the only club team rider left in the winning breakaway on the last lap, being in co1npany with two Belgians, two Frenchmen and two England "A" team riders. He was the only English rider able to match the four foreigners for speed on the flat roads between Creg Willeys and Ramsey, and in fact sacrificed any prospects he had of being in at the finishing sprint by repeatedly dropping back to pace Billy Holmes of Hull, an Olympic rider, up to the. breakaway.

Dropped on the mountain as was expected (the distance was 40 miles further than he had ever previously raced) he finished 12th. That was on the Thursday. The following Saturday, at Aintree, he was again the only Englishman fast enough to go with the Frenchmen in the breakaway; again this distance was beyond his development and he lost contact in the closing miles but held on to finish fourth.

These rides earned him selection for the British Amateur Team for the Tour of East Germany, but this 14 days event was well beyond his capabilities and set him back for the rest of the season. (This matter of pushing promising riders into events beyond their capabilities is a woeful failing in British cycle sport, which keeps Britain a second-class cycle racing country).

The following year Hitchen turned part-time professional and spent most of the season finding his feet in this tougher racing. Again, his youth (19-20) was a handicap in that he lacked stamina for the longer distances (up to 160 miles).

But last year he was the top independent professional in Britain, winning in 23 races out of a season's total of about 30. (An independent professional is a rider who races part-time—more like an amateur taking his prizes in cash). He won the British Independent Points Championship in this year.

Last season Hitchen was again in winning vein, his earlier successes culminating in his winning the London-Holyhead, 260 miles, road race. In this race he improved each day and was riding with the leaders at the end.

This was followed by inclusion in the British team for the Tour de France-a race well above the capabilities of any rider who has not had at least two seasons' riding in the top class continental circus of full-time professionals and after a couple of days Hitchen wisely withdrew. He intends to spend next year racing full-time abroad.
Although not yet in the same class as Brian Robinson, Hitchen is outstandingly the best of the home-based British professionals. He has great prospects if he can only afford to spend the necessary time on the Continent. There is no sponsorship for British cyclists going abroad until they have well and truly proved themselves and even then only a mere twenty or so in the world make a full-time living out of the sport. British riders must save up sufficient to stake themselves for their first season. If they haven't covered their living costs in that time, it's just too bad.

School Trips


Once again, after a rest of one year, we are going to inflict ourselves upon the helpless and unprotesting Continental hoteliers. Next August we are going to the Bernese Oberland, which is ideally situated with plenty of things to do, even if it is only climbing mountains and eating German sausages.

The language difficulty will be not too great, for me, at any rate, as the deciphering of the work of 5A puts one in the position of being fully conversant with many languages.

The water of the lakes in Switzerland is very cold. This is due to the fact that the source of the swiftly flowing rivers and mountain streams is above the "snowline." In fact all the fresh water fish eaten there is "fresh frozen."

The trains in Switzerland go where it is impossible for trains to go, and they have even built a railway inside a mountain. We shall be travelling up this line, inside the Jungfrau, the mountain which dominates Interlaken. The stations on this line are almost as dark as those of British Railways and at the top there is a glacier, ice caves, and husky dogs, which is not surprising as the cold does affect your throat. But most times, ropes are hung between mountain tops and cable cars complete the crossing, much to the delight of budding William Tells, who aim for the cable.

The main sport in winter is skiing, pronounced she-ing, not to be confused with another popular sport of the same name in England. Here one risks death by hurtling down a mountain side riding two planks about six feet long and manoeuvring around trees so big that they have dogs to go with them. These are known as St. Bernards and are faithful animals, each one carrying a barrel hanging from its collar to help travellers who are "dog" tired. On the mountains they are, of course, high spirited dogs.

We hope that things will go off as well as they have done on previous excursions and that the weather will be kind. We have a safeguard in that, at Berne, there are bear pits into which we can deposit any unruly members of our party. However, I am sure that this will not be necessary and that we shall come back with happy memories of Switzerland and, more important, leave behind happy memories of Mirfield Grammar School.



At 8-30 a.m. on Wednesday, 26th April, a party of nine Geologists left Mirfield in Ward's Mini-Bus to study the Geology of the North and Mid Craven Faults. This was a form of transport tried for the first time on a Geological Excursion; it proved to be a great success.

Followed by ominous weather reports, we were to proceed to Grassington, and thence by various roundabout routes to Malham, Stainforth and Austwick. The annual competition for the most casually dressed hiker was held and duly won for the third year running by the party comic. Much to the amusement of the remainder, he was wearing black Italian pointed shoes, green nylon stockings, khaki shorts, fawn cardigan, black "pac-a-mac" and green flat cap. Surprisingly, he completed the rough course just as easily as the most conventionally dressed hiker, indeed he was often out in front leading the way. After this humorous beginning the party set out in fine spirits, refusing to be daunted by the rude remarks of local limestone workers.

The first day was highlighted by the dangerous descent of Gordale Scar. Mr. Jessop confessed afterwards that he had never seen so much water cascading down the many waterfalls and rapids. The descent was made more dangerous by the fact that parts of the usual track had been washed away. Ably led by mountaineer Smith, the party cautiously picked their way first down the loose screes and then the slippery rock face. At one point we had to jump across a gap, flanked on one side by the crashing water and flying spray of one waterfall and on the other side by another waterfall dropping forty feet onto the rocks below. The tricky descent was ended by a jump of some fifteen feet into the safe arms of Mr. Jessop, who was compensated for the knocks he received, as large boys landed on him, by the relief he showed when everyone reached the bottom with nothing more than bruises and scratches. And I might say that he was by no means the only one who looked relieved, although it was afterwards agreed by all that it had been a very exciting experience.

On the second day we stopped to have a look in Victoria Cave. Four of the more adventurous members of the party went inside to explore the interior, although the remaining five still insist that they were the more stupid element of the party for the interior was made unpleasant by dripping water and the oozy, sticky clay of the floor of the cave.

On the last day some time was spent exploring Austwick Beck Head and as there was some time to spare before the bus arrived to take us back home, it was spent jumping streams. Much to the delight of several members of the group, Mr. Jessop demonstrated the wrong method of how to cross, although I must admit that he was "slightly" put off by a lad from Denby Dale who rather got in his way.

Do not get the idea, however, that all the time was spent "larking about," for a great deal of hard work was done, tramping from one point of interest to another to make an extensive study of the area. In this we were ably led by Mr. Jessop, and on behalf of the party I should like to thank him for a very interesting excursion.



The annual excursions to mountainous regions, expertly organised by Mr. Evans, have earned a reputation for good walking, better than average food, and maximum enjoyment for all concerned. This year was no exception, the terrain being magnificent, the baked beans delicious, and living quarters comfortable, if not altogether luxurious.

The party was conveyed from Mirfield to the village of Nant Gwynant by ultra-modern luxury coach (bus), the journey taking about six hours, including an hour at Chester for lunch. Nant Gwynant was reached in the early afternoon and, after hurriedly unpacking, a preliminary exploration occupied the remaining few hours before the evening meal. Bryn Dinas was found to be excellently situated, Snowdon towering above to the North, with Llyn Dinas and Llyn Gwynant near at hand.

The day after our arrival, Saturday, was hot and sunny. Cloaks and mackintoshes were packed away in rucksacks, and open necked shirts and short shorts predominated. The first walk consisted of limbering-up on Cnicht, a long ridge South of Nant Gwynant. The ascent was gentle, the descent precipitous!

Sunday was designated as a rest day. Sunbathing, by Llyn Dinas or Llyn Gwynant, seemed to be the most popular pastime, with perhaps blister prodding, and flea hunting close second and third. About the latter pastime, it may be said that a "Ban the Bug" campaign was duly organised. On Sunday afternoon a small party of the more adventurous boys (the hardmen), climbed Snowdon.

On Monday, a mass assault was made on Snowdon Summit. Failure resulted, heavy rain and mist being victors. Monday afternoon was spent wandering, lost, in Beddgelert Forest.

Tuesday began early for two members of the party, who crept out at two o'clock in the morning. Sunrise was observed from a point near the Summit of Snowdon. After they had feasted on cold beans and sardines, the mountain was duly conquered, in time to be back for a hearty breakfast. The remainder of Tuesday was spent visiting the Swallow Falls and Fairy Glen, at Bettws-y-Coed. Historians had a thrill, as both Harlech and Dolwyddelan castles were visited.

On Wednesday, determined not to be beaten, a final successful attempt to climb Snowdon was made by a reduced party. The hardmen, out in force, completed the Snowdon Horseshoe, while yet another party, under the leadership of Mr. Barker, climbed the invincible Moel Hebog.

The final day, Thursday, was spent in tourist fashion. Portmadoc was explored Criccieth visited (some went for a paddle), and later, in the afternoon, every nook and cranny in Caernarvon Castle was investigated.

Unfortunately, all good things come to an end, but the memory of a wonderful holiday remains for ever, thanks to three members of staff, to whom we are ever grateful.



At twelve o'clock on Friday, 28th April, a bus drew up at our School, to take a party of forty-three boys and masters on a week-end visit to London.

We set off on our journey to Wakefield, and then on to Doncaster, Newark, Grantham, Stamford and then on to Bedford where we had tea at the Granada Restaurant. After our meal, at 6-15 p.m. we returned to the bus for the remainder of our journey to London. By 8 o'clock we were almost in London, and at quarter to nine we were at the "Rodney Hotel." After we'd found our room and left our bags we were allowed out until a quarter to ten. We then returned and went to bed.

It was half past seven, when we were eating breakfast that I really awoke. After breakfast we went to the Zoo at Regents Park.

After a very enjoyable morning we went to our hotel for lunch, but soon after 1 o'clock we were on our way to Wembley for the Schoolboy International Football Match, between England and Wales. We were there by half past two, and, after a sing-song, the match started. It was a very good match, in which England won 8-1.

After the game we sailed down the River Thames past Cleopatra's Needle and other great sights. After the cruise, back to our hotel, and to bed until seven o'clock next morning. We had breakfast at half-past seven and then we went to London Airport for the morning. After an enjoyable tour round we were allowed up on to the Queen's Building at London Airport where we had a very good view of all the big aeroplanes.

At a quarter to twelve we went on to Windsor for lunch and had half an hour to do what we liked.

After a very enjoyable lunch we carried on home through Northampton along the M1 for sixty miles and on to Leicester for tea. After tea home via Doncaster and Wakefield.

A most enjoyable weekend for all.