Better Smeg than Dead.
May 9th 10th 11th. 1997.
Having shaken the snow off the Trike following last weeks journey up through
the Cotswolds, I stocked up with food and headed off along the M6 towards this new A 14 that has opened up. This bit of road certainly makes the trip down towards Harwich a lot easier for us Black Country souls. It may be a boring dual carriageway but it does the job, so to speak. I arrived at the Wheatsheaf, a jolly little Pub on the A 603, just this side of Cambridge. The field, which was about 100 foot by 100 foot, seemed rather small for the 150 or so people who had pre-booked. This was going to be a set up camp & park the Trike up by the Pub, if I wanted to get out again. Luckily the mobile dog kennel has back up batteries fitted inside so I did not need to park next
to it. This could have been a problem if I had been staying for longer as the batteries will only last about 3 or 4 hours.
The Wheatsheaf plays host to a resident Folk music club on Friday nights. I
quite enjoyed the various renditions of well known tunes being murdered by well intentioned musicians. These people were playing for the sheer enjoyment of it. A sentiment I can well understand. If I had known this was happening on Friday night I would have packed my flute and joined in the musical massacre.
Musical malpractice of a far worse nature was taking part in the marquee. A
devilish form of cacophonic torture known as Karaoke was taking place. I listened with horror before I wimped out and went to bed.
Saturday saw a bunch of us heading off towards Peterborough. The roads in
this part of the world are very flat & straight. If only I could have rigged up some sort of sail to catch the gale force wind, I'm sure the land speed record would have been in danger. The weather decided to play another very cruel trick. It rained. This is an
understatement. It pissed it down. This, combined with the wind, made sure that every part of the body got a good soaking. Just to rub salt in to the wounds, there had been lovely sunshine all day at the Rally site.
By the time we returned to the site there were tents in every available space.
This was what you call "compact & bijou camping". The silly games were well under way. Much use was being made of industrial strength water pistols. For us, this was a little pointless, as we could not get much wetter. Still, after a good feed and a good drying out, we hit the pub. After hitting the pub, we hit the marquee. After hitting the marquee, we hit the floor. Literally. The best rally game in the world is trying to walk back to your tent when surrounded by a sea of tents, all with savage guy lines that deliberately trip you up. The feral tents fought bravely but we managed to get to bed in the end.
There seemed little point in getting up early on Sunday as non of our club
could leave until most of the other folks had packed up & gone. What a shame. Forced to have a lie in.
It seems this was the first rally to be held at the Wheatsheaf & the landlord was
a little uncertain about having bikers there. I only hope he looks on us a little more kindly now.
This was a rally that I enjoyed. My only gripe was the small size of the field,
but that's me, a moaning old git at the best of time.
Anyroad, roll on the next one.