Smeggin B.C.
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.
Cheers.
^..^
Lone Wolf.