Welcome to Henry's Triumphant Entry Blog. Travelling the UK on his Triumph Bonneville 60 to research Tudor life for this website.


26th November 2011.
took this picture whilst in Texas last month, lost it and found it again. I call it "Dangerous Car" see if you agree.



20th November 2011.
UFO
It takes more than the sight of a dead bird to rattle my cage, or so I thought. Whilst walking round the huge chimney at India Mill in Darwen, Lancashire I decided to take a near vertical photograph showing the top disappearing into the morning mist. However, as I studied the view vertically before setting up my camera I noticed a spiralling object falling towards me from the top of the chimney some 91 metres up. Expecting to be flattened by a brick or something just as dangerous, I did a near perfect Olympic backwards jump nearly knocking over the Triumph in the process. I know Newton’s apple told us that all objects fall at the same speed in a vacuum, and I expected the fall to be about 5 seconds, but no it took 15 seconds as it was spiralling and trying to fly. What landed only a couple of feet from me was no stone or brick, but half a bird, a large pigeon in fact, still bleeding and minus its head, upper body and legs. All that remained were the feathery wings, and the lower half of the body with some organs showing and no sign of decay, actually the blood was still flowing. I had to investigate further, this old mill and chimney were originally on my plan for the day as living proof of the transition from water power to atmospheric engine to full blown steam engine, but what I got as well was proof of the inhabitants at the top.
Peregrine Falcons live that the top of this chimney and feed upon the poor unsuspecting passing pigeons, they have been seen for many years since 1989 but never photographed. Now here they are dropping their leftovers over the edge and onto the top of my head, nearly that is. I was almost a privilege. Here’s the story I was after and some pictures including the half pigeon.



India Mill Chimney.
The cotton King of Lancashire created many mills up and down the rivers using the water power to drive their waterwheels and turn the axles of many a loom and spinning machine. It was the ascending half of the cotton trade graph and smaller mills were beginning to be phased out for the more mechanised large mills. However their position at the bottom of valleys where the flowing rivers accumulate the volume necessary soon became a problem, as steam driven atmospheric engines soon came on the scene to lift the water into reservoirs with potential energy stored in their position above the mills. The onset of reciprocating steam engines not only began powered transportation, it also created a more reliable on-off power system for the mills, but caused the problem of fuel emissions from t he burning of coal fired fire boxes. This smoking environment created black stone walls on churches, houses and blackened the lungs of the people to an even earlier grave than they had previously suffered. So tagged onto the end of the larger mills the engine room was built and a chimney erected to take the smoke up into the sky and away from the locality. However if the mill is in a town at the bottom of a narrow but deep valley, the chimney had to be high enough to clear the tops and reach the passing air currents. A town with this problem is Darwen in Lancashire. The India Mill had need of a very tall chimney and the owners decided to make it look good too, so they chose the eminent architects Ernest Bates of Manchester who followed instructions and designed the chimney around Italian proportions as seen on the 10th century tower of St Marks Campanile in Venice. It would take 53 men one year to build it, finishing December 1868 with a party, some say at the top but actually in the local pub the Crown Inn. There was however a great problem of financing the project and the owners soon realised that the chimney build would soon bankrupt them unless a solution could be found. It came in the form of a business deal with a local man who funded the rest of the chimney and registered it as a separate business. This meant the mill was invoiced for smoke passing up the chimey!
The need for cast iron and safety caused the top cast iron crown to be removed in 1943 thus reducing the structure by 20 feet to its present height of 279 feet and a home to nesting peregrine falcons.



High Smoker
By Henry Tudor

To clear the hills and spread the filth afar
A great height to build towards the star.
Darwen’s wealth needs steam to raise
But dirty smoke will kill not praise.
Ninety yards up into the air
Creating magnificence for all to stare.
But cost high too and cannot pay
Until a fellow claims build, now here today.
He’ll finish stack and rent the hole
Now steam can raise with help of coal.
King of thread now gone from town
The Mill is dead, the stack the crown.
Known to all as Darwen’s best
Now a Peregrine family’s nest.


20th November 2011.


7th November 2011.
Freckleton’s Broken Heart.
By Henry Tudor



Needless to say that due to Wartime security, the secret of Freckleton’s Air Disaster has remained within the confines of the Village and the hearts of the local population. There is a mass grave in the cemetery and a plague at the scene of the crash, but the buildings have been rebuilt in other formats and the locals have tried to carry on with their lives carrying the memory in their broken hearts. I met two gentlemen who clearly were local experts in their village history, even as children going to the school at the centre of the disaster, they were emotional having grown up in a village which had lost so many of their generation. Even survivors of the crash were affected by the catastrophic events of 23th August 1944, suffering stress induced illnesses. Here’s the story and I thank “Knackered Sailor” and his mate for bringing it alive again for me.



Backing up D-day with waves of bombers was the secret plan which cloaked the incident, a long row of ready-to-go American Bombers were lined up on the American airbase Depot 2, near Lytham, now called Warton BAe. Two refurbished B-24 Liberators took off to test their airworthiness. A violent storm came in from the Irish sea causing flash floods in Southport and St.Annes, the controllers at the airfield radioed the two bombers to return to base as soon as possible. Heavy with fuel they turned and headed back East to turn and approach runway 08 in formation. The pilot of B-24H-20CF Liberator “Classy Chassis II” Lt. John Bloemendal radioed that he was aborting the landing and would go round again. A bolt of lightning hit the plane and the plane dropped close to the ground, still trying to stay in the air the plane’s wings now nearly vertical and very close to the ground hit a tree with the wing tip. This lowered the fuselage and it then hit the roofs of three houses and cut through a wooden cafe called “Sad Sack Snack Bar”, a place where American servicemen gathered for recreational free time. The wing was ripped off and burst into flames, the fuselage skidded across the road and ploughed into Freckleton Holy Trinity Primary School, demolishing the Infants wing and bursting into flames fuelled by the full tanks. The scene was one from hell, the heat burnt faces of witnesses, the children inside with their teacher never stood a chance and died instantly or due to horrific burns.



In one of the two classrooms, the clock stopped at 10.47, this is the time the villagers hearts were broken. The roll of the dead was so shocking for this ancient Romanesque village as it lost its heart, a generation of children disappeared, teachers, local key people disappeared too and the country did not hear them cry as the whole tragedy was kept secret to preserve both morale and the plan for D-day bombing.



38 children died, along with their 2 teachers and staff. 14 were killed in the snack bar of which 7 were Americans, 4 were British Airmen and 3 civilians. The 3 man crew of the bomber died after trying so hard with the impossible task of missing the village from so low an altitude and lack of airspeed. 61 people died that dreadful day, a village still in mourning.



The official report stated that the exact cause of the crash was unknown but concluded that the American pilot was unaware of the possible violent nature of an incoming storm in Britain from the sea and so decided to train all airmen to be aware of the danger in the future.
Three survivors from the infant school rooms, badly burnt and being treated in hospital were visited by Bing Crosby who had heard of the tragedy and wanted to help in some way. He was so broken hearted and emotional at the sight in the ward he could only sing to them all from the corridor.
“One day not long after the disaster we were told to expect a special visitor, and then in walked Bing Crosby......” Ruby Currell.
Thanks to BBC Inside Out, HM Gov and the two Gentlemen of Freckleton.

A collection of pictures from the internet, words cannot express these scenes.






18th October 2011, Somewhere in Texas.



Henry’s Opinion of Battery Cars.
Not to put too big a dampener on it, but Electric cars are not green.
Before you fall off your critics armchair, let me tell you that my pre-Henry-pre-Teacher careers I was a designer for a major battery company and I worked directly on the future of Electric vehicles. Here are the problems that nobody seems to understand and tend to ignore.
1. One battery costs more carbon dioxide to build than a petrol engine can generate in half its lifetime.
2. The environment is poisoned more by the production of the battery and the use of exotic metals than by the burning of the fuel and its extraction from the oil wells.
3. There are 20 million cars in Britain, now imagine the number of new power stations needed to charge them all if they were battery electric.
4. Now what kind of trip would you consider by battery electric car with a 4 hour charge mid journey and problems getting up the long hills in between.
5. Now whose going to buy your three year old car with a half used battery knowing it’s going to cost the earth the replace it.
6. How many pedestrians are going to get knocked down by the silent approaching heavy weight battery car.
7. How many extra cars are going to get stolen just for their battery on a new-battery black market.
Please don’t think I am a lover of the internal combustion engine, I’m not. But, I want a green car that is a true green car, one that separates water into its two elements then joins them together again to power the car and exhausts the water again. The Hydrogen fuel cell seems to me the way to go, mass production would surely reduce the running costs, increase the refueling stations and take the place of the convenient fossil fuelled car as we know it today.
OR why not allow small windmills and solar cell charging at home with set up costs to be tax free or connected to the grid and offset costs by selling tax free the power not used. Then the car could be reversed hybrid where there is a small 100cc engine for emergency recharging on the road whilst the most power source is the battery made from easy to get materials.
What’s wrong with a highly geared diesel mini-sized car with stop-start ignition and delivering 90 mpg from a gallon of recycled chip cooking oil. Sounds like common sense to me.
Here are some pictures of the Nissan Leaf, using the notion that leaves are green, well now it’s Autumnal so that means it’s turning brown.



16th August 2011, one week off line.

Donald MacLeod
By Henry Tudor

Work hard and show respect, your Laird MacKay does expect
Pay your share, keep his land well, run to Kirk do not dwell.
The Clan chief is your King whose praise you must now sing
Do as you are told or you will not grow old, retaliation ten fold.

The enforcer will call if you are slack, one warning then he’ll come back
Donald MacLeod a name to fear, hide somewhere when he comes near.
Nineteen have disappeared over devil falls, Smoo cave hidden walls
Crushed under water force, this is how MacLeod his power enforce.

He is regarded with great esteem, he is the leader of the punishment team
Nobody can claim malcontent, your life is theirs your freedom spent.
Bow as MacLeod passes by, take off your cap respect you imply
MacKay will know if you dissent, gossip rules, kowtow and so prevent.

One day MacLeod will be dead, then you can sleep soundly in your bed
As long as you take flowers to his stone grave, respect the man you deprave.
Life is hard in these highland Clan land, rules by the hardest of hand
Accept your lot, keep what you have got, MacLeod a friend not.







Mickeyland, Northwest coast of Scotland.
Anybody who has seen any of Jack Dee’s comedy acts, knows what a miserable man is. But I have come across a real “Jack Dee” misery guts of a man who serves up the most expensive fuel on the British mainland, £1.57 for a litre of petrol and £1.61 for a litre of diesel, hey that’s £7.41 per gallon you miserable so and so. Why he isn’t laughing at the poor suckers who pay it, I do not know. So I asked him. Place Mickey’s garage, Mickeyland. Watch out for the number of Mickeys’s, they are all over the place and fill the ancient cemetery too.
“Why is this fuel so expensive?” The next garage is thirty miles away was the miserable answer.
“Do I put it in the tank or do you?” Oh dear god don’t ask me to do it I only get moaned at for spilling any.
“No wonder at this price, spillage must be worth something!” Not if it’s spilled.
“Is this the centre of the village?” Twice today I’ve been asked that question, don’t you bikers talk to each other, mind you he was a German and going the other way. I think it is the centre, but I’ve never measured it. Who cares anyhow.
“The bill’s £12.49p, here’s £12.50p, keep the change.” Mmm, thanks you miserable so and so.

With that finalisation of the fuel deal I powered up the Bonneville and headed out of the miserable village, away from Mickey’s garage, past Mickey’s hotel and the tiny Ivy infested church full of Mickey’s from the past.
I am not taking the Mickey, the real names have been changed to protect the guilty, a sort of Clan-destine type of reporting.
here!

15th August 2011. Been off the grid for a week now in the far north of Scotland and the Isles. Wifi!!!!


7th August 2011
Remember Culloden
By Henry Tudor

Having now been submerged in books and visitor centre technology for two days in the search of the story of the Battle of Culloden, I have come to the conclusion that both sides had secret agenda’s as well as the most popular known one of the Jacobites trying to get rid of the Hanover monarchy and put the Stuarts back on the throne. But there was more to the fight for than that.
First of all it was not a fight between the Scottish and the English and not solely about Protestantism and Catholicism though that was a spark to ignite the calm cloud of change into a raging storm. The facts speak clearly for themselves. The British elected Parliament of the day, decided that only Protestant rulers need apply for any forthcoming vacancy because of the chaos and death that changing back and forth from Catholic to Protestant had caused in the recent past. We even lost our Kingdom title when Oliver Cromwell created the Republic. Moving on, when Queen Anne died without issue, her second cousin George of Hanover was the nearest Royal Protestant and so it began.
If King George had spent the proceeds of our successful Empire more wisely and included Scottish highland clans in the prosperity, then maybe they would not have wanted a King James Stuart back, hence the name Jacobite and a new rebel factor was born.
With the son of James II, James III living the easy life in Italy and not welcome back in his own country he seemed to have settled down to a more conducive lifestyle and not be bothered to fight for the throne. However his Italian born son Charles Edward Stuart didn’t see that as his option and wanted to be King one day and even to be referred as Prince of Wales with his father on the throne. Impatient was Charles, this would turn out to be one of his greater characteristics which would cause big problems in a slow moving world.
Let us look at Charles, not big in stature, pale faced, powdered and sporting an Italian/English accent. Oh sure he was good looking, some say Bonnie, but definitely not the rough, tough and ready, strongman the clans wanted as their ultimate leader of leaders.
Now let us look at the Scottish clan system. It has been said before in this website that the clan system of man management got in the way in the Battle of Flodden Hill, where the clansmen only took orders from their clan chief. The clan chief was consulted by the King and then the chief decided what to instruct his clan. It is an obvious fault in the system of fighting battles. The northern clans were jealous of the lowland clan’s wealth and prosperity under the new Hanoverian regime and would undertake risings against the crown, making incursions into Royalist regions to steal their wealth. Scotland was a real mixture of loyalties, so the more isolated the clan the more it tended towards the Stuart way, unless they were so far isolated that it didn’t matter who was on the throne as they ruled their little clan-dom with complete authority.
Impatient Charles decided to go it alone and set sail for Scotland to raise an army and take back Britain for his family the Stuarts, mainly for himself really. An encounter with a British ship caused both one of his two ships and the British ship to limp back to the nearest safe haven for repairs. Charles should now have waited for the repair of the ship and the rest of his men, but true to character he carried on regardless and landed on the island of Eriskay in the Outer Hebrides. This was one of those remote places and their clan chief told him to go away. Charles could not believe that he would be treated this way, after-all he was a Stuart, but look at this from the Clan Chief’s viewpoint. Here comes a softly spoken, gentleman from Italy and asks for help to invade the British mainland and fight to put him on the throne 600 miles south, would you have risked the way of life you have managed for your people? I think not.
Charles, let’s call him Charlie to give him a Scottish friendly name, a sort of propaganda for the clans to endear to this stranger bearing the promise of ridding the monarchy and pledging a brighter future to his followers. Sorry! Drifted off somewhat from the plot.
Charles then left without support and headed for the upper highlands where clans are closer together and were happy to see him though disappointed that he only turned up with a few men instead of the promised two thousand. He would have blamed that on the British navy for attacking his two ships in the channel, but in reality the other ship only had less than 100 men also.
Momentum gathers speed thanks to Charlie’s charisma and impatience, the clan leaders also rushed to keep in good stead with their potential new King. They rose and started the march south to London. They took all cities in their way though they moved West when they heard the British army was marching north from the East, speed was the key factor with Charlie, the element of surprise and to fight unguarded enemies, hoping to gain recruits they did not ruin much nor kill many, but recruits were thin on the ground. Again that old status quo thing happened, “Why help a pretender when we are doing alright with the ones we have?” Not much in the way of real loyalty, more like accepting the monarch as a stabilising factor and benefactor. The fact that they were from Hanover meant nothing to a citizen who read about Romans, Danish, Germans and Normans, then the Scottish ones who messed it all up.
All the way down to Derby which is only 150 miles from the gates of London and at their speed of marching a mere only one week away from victory and the throne of Britain. But, as there was no instant news nor telecommunications, to decide how many would be in the defence of the city relied upon hearsay, and hearsay said there would be a substantial army to meet them with no short way back home. The clan leaders were adamant that they should now stop and return to their own soil now they have bloodied the British nose, except of course Charlie who wanted to do the final thing and take London. The clan leaders ignored this pretender and the decision was made to return, not retreat but to leave now they had left their message of intent hoping that King George would view their place in society higher than previously. Except Charlie of course.
On October 1st 1745 King George II ordered an 11,000 strong army of cavalry and infantry to march towards Scotland and encamp in Newcastle on the East coast. A further 10,700 men were sent to Chester to block any westerly approaching Jacobite threat. The King then appointed his son, William Augustus the Duke of Cumberland to take command. Cumberland was seen as a decisive man with the energy and foresight to rid Britain of the Jacobite threat once and for all, he also had a grudge to repay because he was trounced at the battle of Fontenoy and needed to get his reputation back on track. Remember everything moves very slowly in the mid 1700’s especially if thousands of soldiers are involved who are on foot and need food and clothing, so it was December that the Jacobites were marching back home just ahead of the British who were marching to war. Here is proof of the movement, a small garrison of Jacobites were left in Carlisle to provide a base for the eventual return back south, only 10 days later the British captured this garrison after a siege. This is short term in Georgian days. By 20th December Charlie’s army had crossed their border and it was a Christmas in Glasgow for the rebels after which they decided to besiege the impenetrable Stirling Castle, another clan bad decision. This siege brought new recruits to the rebel cause and their numbers grew up to nearly 9,000 strong. The Government forces still moving north began to recruit from the lowlands and also from the highlands. The two armies met at Falkirk, just south of Stirling Castle from where the rebels had been encamped in the siege. The rebels won the battle but their enemy leaders escaped and retreated to Edinburgh where they regrouped. Now the success was under their belt the clan chiefs met again and decided to return home, regroup and return for a full invasion of England in the spring, Charlie was of course ignored as he pleaded to chase the British and finish them off.
Charlie had organised a fresh set of supplies and money by sending his only ship “Le Prince Charles” back to France but upon on its return voyage back up to Inverness it was taken again by the British Navy and sacked. This left Charlie and his Jacobite troops with very little money, weaponry and food. At this stage the Jacobites decided to print their own money and issue Stuart notes to their people, these were credit notes and when in power they promised to pay the bearer etc, etc. (I bet these notes are worth a lot of money these days to a collector!)
Now up in Inverness a tired Jacobite army took up their battle position on Drummossie Moor at Culloden, the British with Cumberland in command entered the port town of Nairn and set up camp. It was 15th April and the Jacobite army took up battle position in two lines with their blue flags. But the British did not turn up, they were still in Nairn! Now all you history lovers, let us look at the birthday of the King’s son The Duke of Cumberland, born 15th April 1721, and the expected battle date being 15th April 1746. The King’s son was having a birthday party and did not want to fight!
The inpatient Charlie talked his clan leaders into marching overnight to Nairn and killing the British as they slept with their hangovers, this they agreed. So all the rebel army marched overnight to Nairn, but Cumberland was not a stupid man, only is generals were at his party and his men were getting a good night sleep ready for a battle the following day, the rebels made no surprise attack and when they saw that their army was tired and the British were not they turned around and virtually ran back to Culloden.
At Culloden therefore were two completely different armies.
1. The Jacobites, tired after marching all night and morning, controlled by a haphazard chain of clan command for a leader with no fighting ability.
2. The British were well trained and disciplined, with battle strategy and more resources, some of which were taken from the enemy’s ship.
Then there was the important forgery note made by the British to look like it was from the Rebel leadership, in simple language “take no prisoners” this was passed around the British to incite a bloody revenge in the aftermath of any victory. Cumberland well deserves his terrible nickname “The Butcher”.

700 Rebels died in the one hour battle, another 700 died in the bloody reprisal aftermath by bayonet and scabbard. Only 50 British died in the battle. It was a slaughter not forgotten after all these years, but definitely not a battle between the English and the Scots. The Scots were 2 two thirds Upper highland clansmen, plus lowlanders and English a few French and Irish. The British were English, Scottish and Welsh. It was really a civil war battle.
The victor Cumberland, returned to London a hero until his tactics were found out and then he was hated by all as the Butcher of Culloden.
Charlie escaped back to the North Western Islands where the famous lady Flora MacDonald smuggled him, disguised as a woman called Betty Burke, “over the sea to Skye” and then he escaped back to his home in Rome having given up all hope of sitting on the British throne for ever.
Energetic reprisals were undertaken by the Monarchy, led of course by Cumberland, executions, imprisonments and even slavery in the West Indies, many Scots on the run left Britain for America and this could be seen as the great Scottish world “peppering” of our colonies. Cumberland died young at 44 years, trying most of his later life trying shake off the “Butcher” title he had earned.





3rd August 2011.

J.M.Barrie. Playwright, Author, Journalist and Story teller.

I love to listen to a good story teller, because I empathise with their skill. To capture an audience with a tale and keep their attention with their participation is what a great teacher is made of. I have watched many great teachers in my past career and have learnt how to develop my own “verbal act”, but writing a book or play that will capture a much larger audience remotely can only be described as genius. J.M. Barrie was a genius, he captured London in a short time as author, playwright, public speaker, this simple man from a family of linen weavers with 10 children in a two up two down terraced house in Angus, Scotland will live forever in his tales. Peter Pan has enthralled, scared and captured children’s imaginations for nearly 100 years and will go on doing so.
Today it was a privilege to visit J.M. Barrie’s little birthplace in Kirriemuir, Angus, to see his shared bedroom, living room, scullery, garden and workshop shed. Then to visit his donated Cricket pavilion with a central Camera Obscurer for “...people who don’t like cricket.” Then to visit his grave in the adjoining church cemetery, to see just how many Barrie’s are buried there, remember 10 children produce a lot of family tree. I must say from a casual note that people up here in this cemetery seem to have lived longer than the ones I saw a few weeks ago in Slaidburn, Lancashire. Must be the clean air and better local food in the last couple of centuries.
Here’s a collage of my pictures, I do recommend a visit to this place.



2nd August 2011.
2nd August 2011
Ticking the Smokey Box.
Just how many folk out there love watching that great documentary series “Coast”? I keep on meeting them in conversations of "..why have you come here to this isolated cliff or unknown to the tourist harbour." There must be millions who have planned their holidays around Neil Oliver’s unscripted dialogue. Well, I’m a victim too, but not about seeing the sights, more about eating the fish.
In a third repeated viewing of the series, I always wait for Neil to get to Staiths in Yorkshire, because I love the little steep road and the scenery, but lately I have been transfixed with Arbroath and the smokehouse. When he ate that white fleshed Smokey I knew I had to have one, and suddenly it was added to my tick-boxes as something to do before I snuff it. I’m not being morbid, but when you reach 60 you notice that in only 20 years you’ll be 80, and 20 years is nothing. Get your tick-boxes sorted now is the message I tell everyone.
In this tour of Scotland I decided to drive up the East coastal road and visit Arbroath and buy a freshly smoked herring, the Arboath Smokey. But finding a campsite became impossible and I ended up in Forfar, not far, but far enough, sorry no more farfar jokes. Then it started raining. This morning the pitch on which the RV was camped was flooded and so I paddled to the office to change pitches, still raining. The move was successful but left me soaked, and then the fuse blew in the RV due to my use of too many appliances whilst cooking my English breakfast in Scotland. Frustration crept in, so I put on my waterproofs and walked around the Forfar “loch” which was an hour of lovely sights, smells and wild flowers. Feeling much better I decided to keep the waterproofs on and ride the Bonneville over to Arbroath to buy and eat a Smokey.
Would you believe it! As I pulled up outside the first smokehouse I found, the owner came out and locked up to go home. Must say, they do seem to close early here in Scotland and 4pm seems a little early to me, but then what do I know? Round the corner my dream came true, there was another smoke-house and the lights were still on, I could see them cleaning the counters, so I rushed it to find a stack of fresh Smokeys being put ready for the next day. The un-Scottish Polish lady served me with a pair of fish tied at the tail end so they can be hung over the racks in the smoker. I took the package and carefully placed them in the bike's pannier, still raining and the ride back to the RV in Forfar was quit far, but not so far as to stink the pannier from the smoked fish. Sorry, far far too much.
Now here is the conclusion for you now you’ve got this far!

The Arbroath Smokey is superb, I cannot eat two, everything smells smoky, but they are a fish lover’s dream taste. I do recommend that you add it to your tick-boxes. But be warned, every burp reminds you of the taste.
Tomorrow I plan to go to J M Barries birthplace and a Camera Obscurer, not too far!
I can still smell the fish.



"It's a lot harder to photograph a flying seagull than a dead fish!"
Henry Tudor 2011.

31st July 2011.



Everywhere we go a Triumph fan stops and talks, usually ex-riders from the 1960/70's and not all men either.
Stories to come.

First stop Northumbria.

Alnwick Castle.
I knew Alnwick Castle held a great secret antiquity regarding Tudor history. Evidence of why Anne Boleyn hated Cardinal Wolsey with such a passion.
Anne was in love with her betrothed from the house of Percy, still young and very precocious she saw herself as a future Percy high on the hill in their Northumbrian Castle of Alnwick. Young Percy also loved Anne Boleyn and her parents agreed to the match. However, with the Percy’s being of such high blood and the greatest power in the North East, Henry was advised by Wolsey that this match is too low for the Percy’s and it would bring a Howard relative into the already powerful family. Northumberland held back the Scots, and acted like a small country of its own, even one of their expert historians on site call it a Mafia-like rule.
Wolsey forbade the marriage and Anne never forgave him to his death. Poor old Percy too lost his love and was forced to marry the choice offered by the council chaired by Wolsey himself.
And what is the evidence I hear you say, locked away from public view?
It was Anne Boleyn’s Book of Prayer, leather bound, encased in a carved box. She gave it to her lost love to remember her by. Today, only very special people get a private viewing, no touching and only the resident historian can hold it with white gloves. It is very good condition even at 500 years old. I think there must be secret messages in that book from Anne to her lost love.
Don’t you?



Then there was Preston Tower.

If you want to see inside a real lifestyle medieval castle tower, then this is a must. Also see the inside of a weight clock.







10th July 2011.
Slaidburn
By Henry Tudor

I rode out on the Triumph in a dull and cloudy sky, passed through a storm and flooded A59 then up the hills of Bowland to end up in a sunny Slaidburn and a great meal at the riverside cafe where the older end of the biker world seem to meet. The walk up the hill to the village centre was to walk off the food and search for a story to tell, I found three story themes although two were about the dead. The third was a lucky find, a wall in the air with virtually no support, waiting to fall.
To gain knowledge of how long people lived the best place to find it is an old church and go read the gravestones. But be prepared for a sad reflection of life in the past, because they were burying lots of children. In the church graveyard of Slaidburn, Forest of Bowland, Lancashire you will find not a single grave without a young person amongst the family interred there. Then there are the “infant” titles for children who had died before being christened, as well as whole families of young children listed. One couple had nine children, seven died 15 years or younger, whilst the surviving two never got past forty. The era of this part of the graveyard is 1800 to 1900, so the industrial revolution was at its height, but Slaidburn is in the middle of farming land and nine miles from the town of Clitheroe which itself cannot be called industrialised. So why was the life expectancy of this community so low? The answer is easy. Hard work, poor health care, no money and no access to medicine and with no emergency help within two hours of travel. Children caught colds which Developed into flu, then into pneumonia then they died.
Then there was the problem of community isolation!
If we are healthy we have internal immunity to various bugs such as Flu, this is developed over our lifetime from being exposed to a high variety of bug strains and we are still ill but we recover. Unless of course we are already sick or getting on a bit in age. How many bug do are children encounter from a nursery school! But 150 years ago the communities were only resistant to their own village strain an when they came into contact with another variant of the bug they succumbed to it easily. A fine example of this ws the travels of Captain Cooke in the south seas. His ships company took their bugs with them and finished off many an islander without knowing, and they also encountered the islanders strains and died.
So the answer to that niggling question “why did they died so young?” is that they were poor and isolated without medical care.
The memorial to the fallen in World War One in the middle of Slaidburn shows twenty two deaths in the conflict. From the millions who died, twenty two does not seem a lot, but the population of this village is so small it actually is a great number, now consider that farming communities were required to keep the first born boy at home to farm the land and only sons from the second onward were drafted into the army, this number is frighteningly high.
An arch with a central keystone is part of all historical masonry where an opening occurs in the design. But what if nature takes its toll and the stones begin to fall, what happens to the structures integrity? See this picture of the floating stone!
The Forest of Bowland is the favourite of our Queen Elizabeth II, who has spoken of wanting to live there in her latter years, I can see why because this place is glorious.





I did get into conversation with a local who pointed out that most of the village houses were leased from one family, not kept in good order and repairs were mostly botched! Not the same impression a visitor gets, but then one should not take too much notice of first impressions should one.

Love the cat waiting for the birds on their table.

4th July 2011.
Stone Deaf
By Henry Tudor
But Mum! I want to work just like my Dad
Diggin’ tin from hard rock lode.
He is the strongest man around
Admired and respected, so I’m told.

Just wait and see ‘cos when you’re eight
You’ll follow him through that mine gate.
Be his help in that deep hole
Drill for the blast, ‘cos that’s your fate.

Now son it’s time for you to work
Being eight means your old enough.
Lose some of that puppy fat and grow strong
Build up your muscles, means getting tough.

Dad, sometimes cannot hear
Especially his turn to buy the beer.
He says “It’s just being stone deaf”
Stone deaf! Now that’s my new fear.

Day one, child eight, team three
Drill the stone for blasting that’s me.
Steel chisel held tight my eyes closed
Dad slams the top, one two, three
Bold.

The ringing in my ears of those fearsome blows
Brought streams of snot down my nose.
My eyes went blurred, my skin turned white
I hear a ringing from inside with fright.

Don’t worry son it will soon pass
After a while the sound gets less.
Just burp a bit and pass some gas
That’s why they call it “stone deaf” I guess.

Geevor Tin Mine, Cornwall.
By Henry Tudor
The ride from St.Mawes to that glorious road from St. Ives to St. Just was made much better by riding the Bonneville on one of the sunniest hot days of the year so far. The planned route was to eat a pasty lunch in front of the Tate gallery overlooking the beach of St. Ives. Then, climb out of the resort and head for the Tin mines of Geevor and Levant, though Levant being National Trust I expected it to be either late opening or shut. A hint of sarcasm, sorry.
Not only did I get that pasty, I also managed to park the Bonneville right in front of the Tate gallery, plan working so far, but too early to judge.
I passed the Geevor gates to see Levant first as Geevor has a mine tour and so I wanted to leave more time for it. Levant was shut, should I say something? Say no more. Mind you, I bumped into a lovely couple with Aussie accents and it turned out the lady’s grandfather had worked at the mine.
Back tracking a couple of miles to Geevor I was taken by the splendid condition of the toilets and car parking, these two items always set the tone of any visit. The lady in reception took care of my biker gear and fitted me with a hard hat for the duration of the visit. I do have a big head but she was diplomatic in guiding me to the blues ones. I thought it was going to be a mock up, pictures and video’s and a cluster of old rusty engineering remnants. It was at first, but it also had the real working mine there too and staffed by impressive people who not only know what they were talking about but oozed enthusiasm for their subject. I always remember my maths teacher from fifty years ago, Henry Shuker, he enthused maths into my brain and I thank him to this day for giving me the same mind sight. The shaking tables, where ore rich granules are separated from the rest, were all in great condition and a gentleman was there to show me how they worked, panning the crushed ore to release the tin rich heavy dark mud which when refined produced the tin on a 24/6.5 working week. He knew his stuff, it was music to my ears and the disappointment of the NT mine was soon forgotten.
Next shed we were now in six in number we were dressed in colour coded working dust jackets, red being the boss’s colour, mine black being the fattest. The mine at Geevor is flooded and cannot be entered safely, but right next door is Wheal Mexico, which means a place of work called Mexico, I did ask why and the answer was simple. Mexico was known as a place of rich metals, so we called it the Mexico mine, sounds okay to me. Only to a depth of about 50 feet, but I must have knocked that safety helmet at least once per foot, I must say this tour is outstanding because the guide is outstanding. I have been on mine tours in South Africa (Welcome Platts) Platinum, Knickers Grove lead mine in Derbyshire and even the old coal mine in Warrington before it closed down. All were real, all were fascinating, but only Geevor tells you the way it was. “This land is poisoned because of this mine working, arsenic, lead, tin, copper and iron have left their mark and the land will never recover. But, it fed the people of Cornwall and was a major player in the wealth of this country.” My nod was obvious.
I was the only biker on this route something that really surprised me considering how wonderful the roads are and how breathtaking the scenery is. Hopefully some biker readers will want to try it themselves. My advice to you all is go to Geevor Tin Mine, spend the afternoon there, listen to these enthusiastic people and you will come away a much better person knowing you don’t have to work in the Tine mine to survive, but thank God someone did for you.



Tin
By Henry Tudor
Just mixing Tin with Copper yield
Made swords of Bronze, to win the field.
To cast in stone a sword so long
Needed Tin to thin the smelt so strong.

The dark ages shine on the Cornish Tin mine
Arthur knows well the Romans did tell.
With Copper, and Tin, with Iron within
With Romans now gone, he’d be the one.

Take over the land with metals and sand
Cornwall he did view his plan soon came true.
From Wales he did sail, Camelot his tale
Sword from the stone, miner become.

Gone now today, to mine tin far away
Leaving old stacks for tourists and hacks.
One day maybe, a new tin mine to see
The cost of this Tin, danger within.


27th June 2011
I let our family’s National Trust membership drop a couple of years ago because it annoyed me that as a member, these houses are shut more days than they are open and then only for up to 4 hours can I get access to the inside of the house. Why?
So in a forgiving mood I renewed the membership as a long Scottish trip is in the near future and they let English members into their houses.
Yesterday, I thought I would visit a local National Trust house, Gawthorpe Hall in Lancashire, on my Triumph and take some pictures and write about their treasures. But it was shut. Opening at 1pm until 4pm brought back memories of frustration. I decided as it was 11.15 am that I will wait but in the comfort of their restaurant/café and have an early lunch. But it was shut until 12.30pm. How can the gates be open, the teahouse be shut and the house shut, why do they treat the public like this?
So, I took pictures of the house from the outside, difficult as the Porche owners club were filling the front and showing off their overpriced dream cars. Then I left convinced that I had made a mistake in renewing the membership.
National Trust please read this.
Why are you not open all the year round from 10.00am to 5.00pm especially on a Sunday?
Why do you provide volunteer guides who do not know the history and who work for a bowl of soup? Pay them and train them so the quality rises.
Why are camera’s banned which have no flash and so sell overpriced guide books to members?
In these days of austerity, where membership fees are high and people want value for money, why are you sitting on your high horses, sheltered from reality and ignoring the market? Mmmmm!
Now then there’s the English Heritage, what a welcomed relief that someone out there considers the public high on their agenda. High quality service and knowledgeable staff, camera’s allowed.
I will use this new NT card for the Scottish trip, as they are a separate group and welcome visitors without a “putting up with them” attitude. But renewal is not going to happen.
Now to the rest of the day. Again I rode off to Slaidburn in the Bowland Forest for the best bacon barm cake in the North and to meet up with a few of my Biker buddies. To site next to the flowing river in the most wonderful scenery with a hot barmcake and large mug of coffee is approaching heaven for me.
The trip back home over the hills past Newton and Waddington was fantastic as was calling at Pendle View Trout farm where I purchased three large rainbow trout for supper.
A frustrating day turned upside down to become a memorable outing.


19th June 2011.
Sawley Abbey.

Call me a sucker for punishment, but in my quest of the perfect report I bought a bullet video camera to be fitted to the indicator stem of the Bonneville. So I could upload video's as well as stills, or so I thought. I even read the handbook! I tested the gadget in the house and it was perfect, I went out last night to test for vibration control on the running bike, again perfect. So I rode out today for Sawley Abbey in Lancashire (even this is a sore point because it was in Yorkshire until being squeezed into Lancshire by a boundary change). In fact the old Yorkshire sign is still there in the hedge by the road.
Next Friday I am the guest speaker at the Abbey on their open day. So I thought the I'd kill two birds with one stone and visit for a fact finding tour plus make a video on the bullet-cam.
But! I've got this page in simple mode and the video won't run unless it's in creative mode! Now I've given myself yet another job to do to convert it all. Rats.



You'll have to wait for the video.
Now as you will have become aware I seem to notice unusual things and ask radical questions. Not that this is a bad thing, but it can be awkward especially if these awkward questions are asked to the audience of locals near the Abbey who consider themselves to be local historians too. But not being a shy, retiring person I will mention them here and see what happens.

AQ1 (Awkward question 1):
If the Abbey was built in a low flood plain next to the River Ribble on purpose, why did the Abbott moan about the swamp and lack of growing land?

AQ2: If the old archway was in the way when Sawley got a road, why did they not bend the road around the archway?

AQ3: If the decision to move the archway and rebuild it was a sound one, why did they not keep the direction the same and put the stones back in the right order?

AQ4: If locals were upset at Henry dissolving their Abbey, why did they buy the best stones and build them into their property?

4th June 2011.
Ravenscar in the fog
By Henry Tudor on tour of East Yorkshire 2011.

How can one day be so different from the day before? Yesterday I was sunburnt on all exposed skin whilst riding the Triumph Bonneville, my wrists, my neck and even the open patch on my head when walking with a baseball cap. I am definitely not a sun worshipper because of ginger hair and freckles I tend to head for the shadows or hide under long sleeves and hats with big brims. Now twenty four hours later it’s raining, foggy and cold. Britain at its confusing best.
I had already planned the day on the bike, picture of the Abbey at Whitby from an angle and position not possible in a car thanks to restricted access, then off to Robin Hoods Bay to find some Red Shale as used by the Tudors to make Alum in the next seaside town of Ravenscar, which was going to be the last port of call before heading back for the Lancashire Hotpot I had prepared earlier in the slow cooker. Good plan if the weather was clear and warm, but it wasn’t.
The Abbey picture was lucky as the fog had cleared for a short while and I managed to take two great shots before the tour bus driver moaned at me for blocking his way, the passengers were more interested in the Triumph than the Abbey anyhow. Then off to Robin Hood Bay and forced parking with the other tourist at the top of the twisting 200 foot hill. Down at the foot of the hill I earmarked the cafe where lunch would be purchased but only after taking successful shots of the Red layers. Is it not true that nothing stays the same, not even beaches. Five years ago I found the outcrop of Red Shale and so I assumed I could walk straight up to it today. Not so. Sand has been added to the stony beach, the soft cliffs have eroded still further and seaweed has returned to cover up the rest. I wandered about, zig-zagging for about twenty minutes, but I was successful by finding the outcrop in totally different places I had imagined they would be. See the picture of the red shale lying over the black shale, a clear indication of extended heat and pressure in the prehistoric times. As you will know from my files about Alum production, it was the red shale and the seaweed plus the stale urine which became Henry’s crowning glory in the new industrial landscape still in the seeds before erupting in the Industrial revolution. Lunch was great, the 200 feet walk up the hill was not.
At the top of the hill the bike was surrounded by old classic Honda C50’s, everybody had one in the 1970’s, me too.
Fog had descended again but this time with rain, not to be beated I headed the 5 miles to Ravenscar along the cliff top roads. Cold, wet and slow is the best description of the journey. Soon the National Trust Visitors centre at Ravenscar appeared in the mist and I parked the steaming Triumph on the roadside before jumping the verge and clambering across the wet grass to the welcoming front door.
King Henry VIII’s picture welcomed me in, a rusting cast iron Tudor cannon and an enthusiastic gentleman behind the desk who turned out to have run a pub not two miles from my house, small world eh. He was a most knowledgeable historian and we talked about the Alum days of the site, the access to the sea for the “urine” barrels, the railway cutting into the rocks for the mules and trucks and the seaweed collecting for the potassium. Could not see any of these things as the fog now had come in thick and fast, not going to wander off down five hundred feet cliff in a fog, do I sound stupid?
Got some pictures and had a warming cup of coffee, shook my new friend’s hand and we parted. Now being twenty miles from the RV, in a cold, windy, wet fog this will take a while, and it certainly did, nearly one hour in third gear to be precise. All worth it as I not have a great record of the Alum works of Henry. Plus a bonus, yesterday I happened upon the potash mine near Staithes and found out that though still operating, it became prominent because of depletion of the seaweed in the Potassium making process. As you know Potash is Potassium and a natural source as well as from hardwood fire embers.
All in all a great day and more understanding of the world of Henry.



Now, what was that cannon for?
Answer: To keep the pier where loading and unloading of Urine, seaweed, potassium and finally the precious Alum Flour (Aluminium Sulphate), safe. Away from those nasty papists.


1st May 2011.
Wroxeter the Roman City, Shropshire. 83 miles from my base.

The potential cross winds today caused some cautious reduction in Bike speed, especially on the M6 motorway whilst crossing the ship canal on Baton Bridge. I was virtually leaning over to go straight, and still HGV’s and cars past me!
By the time I reached the A49 off the M56, I was exhausted and need to rest my aching arms. The rest of the journey through Cheshire and Shropshire to find the Roman City of Wroxeter near Shrewsbury was wonderful, no side winds and no rain. I did however become part of a huge swarm of bikers in their leathers upon fast race bikes heading for Oulton Park of a May day race. But suddenly alone again as I passed the entrance road to the track the ride became mine again. Lunch at the Two Henries pub in Shrewsbury and then off to the Roman excavations about a further ten miles.
A great day out for the Triumph, weather good by mid day and lots of great Shropshire roads.
Here is a collage of the Roman Ruins.
Much was learnt about drainage, brickwork and roofing. Clever these Roman’s.
Here are some pictures of how the city could have been like in the Roman period, then a collage of how it is today.








A must see for all history lovers, and a great bike ride.


12th April 2011.
Anybody with a modern digital camera will fire away at anything with interest, then dump to keep the best ones. I’m just the same but I always try over and over to get perfect sunset pictures. Here is my favourite one, taken on the beach at Harlech in West Wales two evenings ago. Beautiful.



The Triumph has been working hard lately, taking me around all the places I’ve marked on my research map, some are hard to find and most are hard to park near, so the bike was a perfect vehicle of choice.
So you may have noticed that I’ve been away again, some may say holidaying, some may say gadding-about, but I have been on a research tour planned to discover new facts and stories to tell. Things happen by chance, but most things should be planned and then chance can add value.
Here’s where I’ve been and what I’ve been up to these past two weeks.
1. See the reality of news reports about the Cumbrian Floods.
2. Find a Boulder stone rolled down from Scotland by the Glaciers.
3. Find dry stone walling with small inherited fields.
4. How a portcullis, double/triple gateway works.
5. How ships were built on the bed of a river between spring tides.
6. How the sea has diminished and left castles high and dry.
7. How ink was made from iron impregnated wood fossils.
8. How iron was made and the tools used.
9. How slates were mined and cut for house roofs.
10. How copper was extracted from its ore in Tudor days.

Then there were the website pictures for effect.

11. How to take a picture of a castle to look like the paintings.
12. Boat building on the river bed.
13. Catching a flag in the wind.
Then there are the lucky chances because you were there at the right time.
14. The end of a Dolphin’s life.
15. Crows on the Castle tower.
16. Looks great at night, but this is the latrines lit up by lights!

Latrines at night


Latrines by day.


It was a comment from a fellow photographer next to me in the lit up evening. "How does the stone colour so well at night?"
It was all I could to to stop laughing, "It's not the stone Sir, it's the Medieval S---". Hehehe. I love my job.

30th March 2011.
Hurray! Success at last with the transporting of the Triumph behind the RV. The MotoLug folding trailer is a huge success.
I had a great two days in Cumbria last week with the Triumph to take me locally to the places withing my research plan.
The Plan:
1. Find out more about Tudor Copper production
2. Find out about Slate dressing
3. Find a glacier boulder
4. See how Cumbria has survived the terrible floods.



Firstly the floods.

Scary eh!

Rest to follow

22nd March 2011.

Always looking for an interesting ride on the Bonnie, I was taken by the sheer lack of real news on our local evening BBC offering. The theme of a long drawn out article about nothing was "where is Morecambe's centre?" Mind you with all the horrible news these days at least this ten minutes of nothing would take my mind of the normal tears and heartbreak of modern living. And it did.
I decided to test the theory and ride up to Morecambe to find the Centre. It took more than the journey time to actually discover that there is no actual town centre, but there is definately a spiritual one, not religious spirit I might add, but a spirit of hope.
The town has been upgraded on the sea-front, a wonderful piece of engingeering has built a sea defence which attracts people by the thousand to walk the walk and view the view.
Halfway down the walk and view, there is a bronze statue in its own little garden, overlooking the bay and Cumbria. This statue brings in many people just to smile and have there picture taken next to it, in fact I had to queue up just to take my picture. No other thing in Morecambe centres all the visitors like this statue. So I declare that Morecambe does have a centre, Not a town centre, but a centre of hope.
Eric, Eric Morecambe.

So here's a poem wot I wrote!

Morecambe
By Henry Tudor
My God! It’s true, Morecambe is without a real centre
This media marvel has brought in a vast crowd
Searching up close as soon as they enter
Not found, not there, they all shout aloud.

Don’t count the market within its hidden clad shell
Don’t count the white Midland, again a hotel
Don’t count the front shops with their candy floss smell
Don’t count the new beach as each tide tries to swell.

It’s not the new jetty with glorious sea view
It’s not the new lifeboat to save me and you
It’s not the bird sculptures aloft the stone block
It’s not the fresh gardens where visitors flock.

Not even the tower in green Polo attire
Not even the church with middling spire
Not even the bowling could cause me to yen
Not even the old station, now eat two for ten.

I found it! Not hidden, not disguised, not submerged
I needed a solution, a new view here was urged
Think lateral, think straight, think where could it be?
This elusive town centre was straight in front of me.

A centre of gravity need not be a middle
A centre of hope need not be in stone
A centre of past joy need only be in thought
He stands there to greet you, stands there alone.

One leg in prone position to bring on the smile
His glasses so crooked, it’s him by a mile
He left us too early, but back with a trick
Our bronze new town centre, our beloved Eric.





25th February 2011

It seems I’m reminiscing to a slowly reducing audience as my age group seem to be “passing on” as I have heard about two deaths of my past workmates and it makes me feel fairly vunerable, noticing the aches and pains of age, leaving the golf course at the 14th to reduce the backache etc.
Back to reminiscing, can you oldies out there remember your Meccano set? How many of you became Engineers from the background knowledge gained from those small square nuts and brass screws? Well I certainly was one, and not alone too. I can remember being 10 years old and saving up my pocket money to get the number 38 red bus into Manchester, head directly for the basement of Lewis’s store and purr over there sales collection of Meccano specials. Specials like universal joints, large blue three-spoke steering wheels and extra long angled iron beams. I was not alone, there was always a large crowd of boys and men, never any females. I spent all my money on Meccano.
Eventually the Beatles and girls took all my money, but Meccano has stayed in my brain, lost in practice but savoured in memory.
Now when searching for a Motorbike trailer with special effects, I came across the Motolug folding trailer, as made in Bacup and described in the previous article. It arrived today in three boxes, heavy and unassuming, a mystery to my wife and a fresh back ache when I shifted them to my side patio for inspection.
Getting all the necessary tools together was easy, meccano sets train the user to keep all tools separate from bits and separate bits into sections. This trailer was a giant meccano set, I cancelled my planned day out, and set about assembling this masterpiece of engineering out in the cool damp air with just a kneeling cushion to protect my aching limbs from the hard brick drive.
I rarely read instructions as a meccano brain can see the assembly in their heads, it seemed easy at first until I had to disassemble in order to fit bits I hade forgotten. Now came out the instructions. Start again.
Two hours later the trailer was complete. Once assembled it can be stripped into two halves, the axle assembly and the main chassis assembly to allow easy storage in both my brick garage and the RV rear garage. Reassembly is now just about 10 minutes.
Here are a few pictures taken whilst having recovery breather’s.
But I hope you all agree, what a great trailer, how it hold the Triumph, how it folds and hides in the garage, must have been an ex-meccano “designer” who thought this one up. I wonder if he was in the crowd at Lewis’s.
If you want the details of the trailer go see www.motolug.com




4th February 2011.
Don't mention trailers.
Ok, we all make mistakes and trailers are now haunting me.

Y'see, the bike does fit into the RV garage but no space is left for holiday parafinalia, like table, chairs, BBQ etc. And boy have I been reminded of it. So in a couple of weeks I'm having a towbar fitted and viewing a new folding bike trailer. The cost I'l whisper £xxxxx, shhh!
But hopefully now this year's travelling holiday will be so fabulous that all will be forgotten.Here's a little ditty which explains how much fun I'm having with the Triumph.

Born Again
By Henry Tudor

Kick back the side stand, the weight now all mine
Lift up the clear visor, the air to refine.
Turn on the ignition, press the final tab
Fire up the engine, give gearbox a jab.
Look in all four directions, now let out the clutch
Rev up the power, but never too much.
Balanced now and moving, the air drifting in
Close down the front visor, protecting my chin.
Speed up now to second, third, fourth then to top
Fast now, but not speeding, no intention to stop.
Corner now appearing, must lean well and bank
Tighten knee grip and shoulders, grab polished fuel tank.
Down gear then go back up, to correct the past curve
Reduced my speed slightly, from slight loss of nerve.
It’s all quite exciting, just riding this bike
Back now to the old days, to transport I most like.
My Triumph I called Bonnie, has brightened my life
“Will cost you a fortune”, soon tutted my wife.
Not really, not actually, not plainly a joke
Don’t smoke nor drink gallons, a quite boring bloke.
Need something to fight for, now family have all gone
That gleaming new model, I knew was the one.
I could not resist it, the thought of new two wheel
My deposit secured it, the excitement so real.
I waited for ages for my prize bike to come
And now that I have got it, we’ve morphed into one.
So when you see us passing, out for a spin
Under that sealed-off clear visor, there’s a huge stupid grin.

I will never moan out loud about reversing the RV with a trailer hidden behind it, why supply ammunition?


20th August 2010.
Back again in England after 15 glorious days around Holland and Germany.
With castles on the agenda anything else would be an extra bonus, such as the greatest collection of motorbikes I have ever seen on the road and the largest bike ever!
Here it is with some of the smaller ones. It's a Honda by the way.


A visit to Cochem Castle revealed a medieval faire and these pictures of a blacksmith at work. I bought four nails for the theatre set.



Nails
By Henry Tudor
Holding the world together brings problems close to hand
Keeping the wheel a turning from axle and rim, to the land.
The Blacksmith solves these worries, he creates things made of steel
From horse-shoes up to armour, what he makes is hard and real.

His fire is made of charcoal, ignited then blown with air
He raises the metal up gently, to red heat and beyond, don’t stare.
He pounds the now hot, soft target, to the shape he see’s in his mind
Sparks and scales fly out wildly, too close and then you are blind.

He forms the basic of products, which everyone uses without fail
To hold together their household possessions he makes the square tapered nail.
But nails were so expensive, they would be used over and over again
Except in doors of large sizes, when deformed to stop movement of stem.

This would annoy the user if products, as nails should never be lost
But bent, crushed old door fastenings is a one-off purchasing cost.
The stress and strain in the metal would cause the old iron to fail
So, throw away the old forgings, they’re as dead as a door nail.


18th July 2010.

Parallel world.
Yes it is true, Britain is changing away from its Engineering roots and grasping at service industries with worldwide sourcing of mechanical parts. It’s rare these days to actually meet an Engineer when not that long ago we were all over the place. This saddens me greatly, apprenticeships of more than ten minutes, “Bloggs and Son” now with sellable non person names and if successful the son has gone into property sales or banking. Passing on your Engineering business to your children is now not the norm, the kids want their own way away from the parents. So when I meet my parallel self over the motorbike park it is refreshing to find the old world again where design is by knowledge and skill without the exactness of computer files. New ideas, lateral thinking and human beings solving small household problems without a trolley at B&Q. Parallel world it certainly was, this biker had a unique four/three wheeler mid engine, chain driven, carbon fibre bodied machine. He also ran a Bonneville from his stable of motoring icons. Lifting his lateral car into its storage place is by electric winches, much the same as my system to load the bike into the RV. He is a retired Design Engineer, like me. He became a manager of an Engineering concern, like me. He even became a teacher, like me. Both in our sixties we had never met before yet we worked parallel in Bolton with the same kids. Now it’s getting spooky, I sent the kids in my school system to the skill centre he was director of, we never knew each other as our paths were parallel until we both broke the route and rode to Rivington barn this wet rainy morning where we crossed paths. He saw my Bonnie, I saw his strange car/bike. Funny old world.
The rain did not put me off, keeping the new bike clean is not on my agenda, it is there to ride and if I wear my waterproofs then the rain will definitely not stop me. It gave me the opportunity to test my new fly screen angle and see if the rain would be flung over my head from about 50 MPH, it did. So off I headed for the sun, seen over the coast from the hill of the Pennines and Southport became my day out. Only two Triumphs amongst a flurry of Harley’s at the Pier, same friendly faces, same coffee and same interesting conversations. The 11 year old Triumph Sprint was a credit to its owner, it looked new and the all black paintwork made it look very modern, it felt an honour to park the Bonnie next to his machine. This biker has an old Norton at home and that was the love of his bike world, another guy with a stable! I wonder if I should get a second bike and grow a stable, hmm that would be pushing my luck with Mrs biker.
Learned a couple of things today.
1. Get a lockable fuel tank cap as sugar will kill an engine if a spiteful person wants to cause you ill.
2. Fit a bar across your machine to stop side scratches if you fall off, or some idiot motorist pops out unexpectedly.
Gave out a bit of info.
1. Small fly-screens do work and do not create steering wobble. They can be adjusted to suit the speed when turbulence becomes annoying. Also can be had for an astonishing £22 from the internet, see www.getgeared.co.uk/Motorcycle_Parts/Motorcycle_Screens
And it works, I did expect as flimsy bit of perspex but was delighted to receive a well moulded, strong product in polycarbonate or maybe SAN. Definitely a good buy.
2. Auto chain oilers do work and are reasonably easy to fit for the Engineer. Triumph Bonneville mechanics told me to turn the central rear wheel bolt round to stop the feeder nozzle interfering. Listen to Engineers they solve problems.

16th July 2010.
Stone the Crows it costs £5 to drive in Tatton Park on a motorbike!

Stone the Crows.
By Henry Tudor
Crows were an acceptable meal in my day. But there were laws of ownership for their nesting places. If the nest was in your land they belonged to you, if you rented the land they belonged to the landlord. The high trees on the edge of a wood or forest is the favourite place for a crow to build a nest, it give them access to crops in the adjoining fields and any predator birds cannot swoop easily with open sides and a cluster of taller trees on the opposite side. So the positioning is quite clever and ends up as on the outer edges of woods or down tree lined roads. Catching the crows is the expertise of poachers who would smear glue on the branches whilst the birds are out hunting, catching them as they get stuck on their return. Getting them down would be the act of throwing stones or using a slingshot so as not to be seen in the act of stealing the Manor’s crows.
On the other negative side, the Crows devastated crops such as corn and various designs of scarecrow were developed by each Manor to keep their losses to a minimum. Here are some scarecrow designs. Can you make a modern technology scarecrow?



Scarecrows
By Henry Tudor
Get out of my field you pesky Crow
Back to your tree for a stone to throw.
Leave this corn for my master’s meal
It is for him to eat, not for you to steal.

I would chase you if not made of wood
Old cloth draped, carrot face not really good.
Try to scare you, to keep you away
Windy days flap and you are at bay.

But sunny and calm I’m totally still
Now you come in and eat ‘til to your fill.
My master’s view is I’m not pulling my weight
Another scarecrow replaces me, sorry too late.

Having a toxic eye for detail, what is wrong about these scarecrows from a Tudor period point of view?

1. No red, too expensive a pigment and no fixing agent.
2. A Scottish cap? No way Jimmy.
3. Cotton? not yet on the market!
4. The clothes are clean, better than what the peasants wear, they would get stolen.
5. Buttons! What is a button?

As the Crow meat was favoured, the use of a scarecrow wold be rare, more like a trap to catch them would be used such as criss-crossing string over the crops to tangle the swooping bird.
See how deep you have to look to see the truth!

12th July 2010.
The Nod
By Henry Tudor
A nod's as good as a wink! Rubbish.
You wink at a stranger in my part of the world, there is one of two outcomes about to come your way. Either a black eye or a date, no orientation unaccounted for.
But in my world, there is a nod for motor-homer’s and a nod for motor-biker’s. Both are different and depend which side of the road your country drives on.
Motor-homers come in three categories, they begin with caravanettes with rising roofs, moving to built on chassis with original cab front, then ending up with A-class machines built from the chassis up with no identity of motor-van shown. The acknowledgement to passing motor-homes in the opposite direction is the wave of the fingers from the top of the steering wheel usually followed by a large hand wave from their wife in the next seat. “Hey look we spent all our money as well”, “Like you we don’t care about causing traffic jams”, “On the road again, not working, not caring”. These are the unheard thoughts between the two drivers, OR “why did he not reply to my wave”, “I’m not a saddo. So don’t expect a wave”
It’s a sort of club, a member of the same clique, fellow followers.
Biker’s are different. Bikes are available for all kinds of riders, I never stop wandering how all bikes look different and have been added to, changed and adapted to the style of the owner, it really is a true world of individualism. Now one cannot wave as letting go of the handlebar is quite dangerous, nodding up and down with an aerodynamic helmet on looks stupid, so there is a standard nod for passing bikers. In left hand side roads we nod with a right slant towards the oncoming biker, left if in right-hand roads systems. This nod is significant it is saying only one thing and cannot be misinterpreted. “I love biking and it’s worth the risk”, a thought in all the heads of the avid rider. BUT, beware bikers out there, nod at a scooter, a small moped and you will not get a reply except maybe a hand signal. Now here’s a problem, what if there is a party of biker’s passing, do you nod at all of them or will the first initial nod be enough to satisfy the party? A world level problem if ever there was one. Nod at the first biker, a slow middle nod to spread amongst the group then nod at the last biker but don’t be upset if some miss nodding back as they don’t know who you are nodding at.
Now, when not to nod. Whatever you do on the road changes dramatically when in a biker showroom. A nod in there buys you something. For example, I took the Bonnie in for its 500 mile first free service. The salesman saw me coming, “what about a Scott Oiler for that chain maintenance, I nodded.” What about a central stand for added stability in the garage.” Again I nodded. Lastly, “What about a diagnostic system to look after the bikes electronics.” Mmmm I thought nodding approval.
Three hours later the bike’s oil changed, timing adjusted and all the nodded accessories added I rode home after paying £450 for the free service, too skint to nod to oncoming biker’s who seemed to understand. Too scared of asking how much a fly screen would cost and allowing the wind to buffet me instead.
Now today, I told my story to my new mates in the biker world whilst watching new bikes ride into the Rivington barn carpark, they nodded as they remembered their last visit to a bike dealer and still stroke the carrier, the back rest in their minds. Like them this is the path we chose and intend to ride it to the end, nodding all the way.
My nod to myself whilst riding, is the empty country lane, sunny day, no rush and the bike purring. The forward view has lower boundary of speedo and rev counter clocks with a shiny chrome headlight top. There is no greater feeling of freedom and I cannot stop a mental nod, “This is what it’s all about.”

5th June 2010.



Today it begins in earnest, Triumphant Entry Blog. My historical research recorded in diary format.
Here is the collection and first trail run of the new Triumph Bonneville 60. Enjoy.

The first ever ride out was planned for many weeks, must be the cafe on the beginning of Southport Pier, the North of England's Ace Cafe.
I parks gingerly next to another Bonneville T100 and met its rider, a great bloke from nearby Ainsdale. You would never believe his name was Henry, another History buff!

Here are the two Bonneville Buddies.






Footnote:

Pre-delivery of new Triumph Bonneville

The following articles summed up my 3 months of frustrating wait for the delivery of my new motorbike, still had to work but not on the wheels of choice.




A Triumphant beginning

History is all around us here in the UK, houses, castles, factories, mines and even Roman leftovers from their prompt departure back to defend their crumbling Empire. We forget and ignore our heritage in our normal run of the mill working lives, how many times have you looked out the car or bus window and thought “....my that’s an old house I really must try and go and see how it was built and figure out what kind of people lived there?” Nobody. Well that’s not really true there are the History buffs out there who are always on the lookout for a new gem to bore everyone with when they get to work or home, anoraks and I am definitely proud to be one of them.
However I’m not boring because I live history, I am King Henry VIII in the disguise of a 60 year old in 2010. I have purchased a motorcycle specifically aimed at the transport for me to engage in history hunting. Not just any old bike, but a limited edition retro Triumph Bonneville 900 which is designated the Bonneville 60 after the 1969 model it is designed around. Grey and blue, piped leather seating and wire wheels set this bike off from the modern variety of speed machine. Not being a fast bike but a very powerfully torque tuned cruiser, just the ticket for a sad old man to wander the lanes with his camera and netbook to produce a weekly commentary for the King website, www.Henrytudor.co.uk


Issue 1. Goodbye Vespa, hello Bonnie.



I have owned my Vespa for 9 years now, loved it to bits and kept it in the most immaculate condition in a dry garage. I’ve taken it all over Europe and the UK in the back of my RV to provide transport for trips out from caravan sites. Sad to see it go but looking forward to the new Triumph 60. The new bike has not been made yet, Triumph are numbering each sale in brass on the headstock out of a total 120 machines, very limited really and so I expect it to keep its value if I keep it in great condition. This has happened to the Vespa, keeping its purchase value for 9 years is something you never see, lots of interest in the sale on Ebay and offers already making it a sale in another 8 days time.
Here is my plan for this new column:
A new idea in travel documentation and research. I have always been a good researcher and look for depth in all I view, stories of old lives are much easier to find by being there and recreating scenes in ones mind. This sort of knowledge is indispensible when delivering a talk or answering a history question from a personal angle with accurate feelings. I intend to use the bike, take video and still pictures and have the bike in the foreground to give the whole column a themed style.
Triumph Entry is a pun on King Henry VIII entering his Palaces but actually will mean a report from the saddle of the Triumph Bonneville 60.
Not due to be delivered until April, this new column will begin next with the collection of the bike, to be named for the purpose of story lines, “Maggie” after Henry’s grandmother Margaret Beaufort who carried the Tudors into power with her charm and charisma but most of all with her strong low down negotiations, talk (torque).
Here’s the pictures of the outgoing and the incoming bikes.
Vespa PX 200
Truimph Bonneville 60 Limited edition.
Keep watching this space.

My planned 10 research areas for this year. Not in any order.
1. Margaret Beaufort, her plans and her successes.
2. Katherine Parr, Kendal Castle
3. Waterwheels in Tudor times.
4. Shepherd sticks, Tudor timekeeping and monastery technologists.
5. Hunting birds.
6. Paper making.
7. Mordants, Yorkshire.
8. Ink production, Norfolk.
9. Building methods, Cumbria.
10. Propaganda from Arthur Pendragon to Arthur Tudor, via Merlin’s Bridge.
11. Another visit to the Castle of Kleves in Germany
12. House construction. Various smaller visits.

Issue 2. Goodbye Vespa.

It’s gone!
The Vespa has left the building.

Thanks to Ebay and the enthusiastic Vespa world out there the blue PX 200 which has been my mistress for the past nine years has moved on. I delivered the Vespa to its new owner, Chris, in Bradford yesterday. This man loves Vespa’s so I know this bike will live for many years yet if not decades, he lives scooters and is a member of the Vespa club, so I will keep an eye on their website for the old girl.
Now please don’t laugh. Stop thinking “get a life”, keeping a bit of your youth alive and kicking is a good thing, it is somewhere to return to when the modern world gets a bit hectic. I would get on the Vespa is a stressed mood, tired and frustrated with life in general. I would get off the bike an hour later, with a broad grin, no stress in my head and ready to give the old machine a clean and polish, my way of thanking the bike for the privilege of the journey.

I never had a journey on the Vespa, it was always an adventure.
It wasn’t you Vespa, it was me! I fell for the charms of a Triumph rebirth.



Sad eh! Well wouldn't you too? Come in Number 1 your time is just beginning.

Now it’s time to move on and I will decide today just what accessories the new bike will have.
Ideas so far:

Not a rear rack nor a rear box and this will lengthen the bike too much to get it into the RV, so side panniers. Not solid, plastic lockable panniers as they look too modern on a retro bike. So leather with two buckles and Triumph emblazoned on their sides.

Now if you remember my little thought some months ago when the idea of a new bike was swilling around my head, the notion of getting it passed “her in the Palace” came up. I now have to convince the Queen to ride the new bike and not be scared off by the shape or size of the machine. So, a backrest (Triumph called them "sissy bars") fitted especially for her as she claims they make her feel there is something behind her for protection. Mind you there are two to choose from Triumph, a low and a high one. The high one will look ridiculous when riding solo so I will make sure it’s the low one as the compromise.

I have weighed the bike by trying to get the dealers demonstration Bonneville into the RV. It is 100 Lbs heavier than the Vespa which was difficult enough at 400 Lbs to push up the ramp into the on-board garage. Now a 500 Lb machine will break my back and roll backwards over my body leaving a great looking tyre tread up my face. So I need a solution to this problem for the future success of this enterprise. To this end I have already ordered a new folding ramp which is longer and wider than the one I already have. The existing ramp will be fixed to the garage floor as a guide to take the bike to the end without someone holding the handle bars. Clever eh! Then here comes the lateral thinking, I will buy and fix a 12 volt winch on the RV garage ceiling to pull the bike in whilst I hold it upright at the back. Up the ramp and up to the end wall. Starting and stopping the winch will be solved by buying one with a remote control.



Drums roll, trumpets blast, the dream is created, the past is past.

Now must get to work converting the RV ready for April.

Issue 3. Winch me up before you go go.

It’s one of those Good news and Bad news moments.
Good news:
I have ordered both the cissy-bar with backrest and the side panniers for the new Triumph. I ordered and received the very next day the 2,000 lbs capacity winch and found the cleverest device ever for such an enterprise, a jumpstarter.
The jumpstarter is a self contained 17ah battery, with charger which can be charged from both the mains or the cigar lighter in the RV, connect the red and black crocodile clips to the winch’s remote control and wallah the winch works. This is a huge bonus because the unit is actuall cheaper than buying the 17ah battery on its own! It can also be used for powering the computers via its 12volt output socket and to start the RV if the vehicle battery is flat. All this for £35 bargain. The winch was £54 with delivery so the cost is within my original thinking of about £200 for the whole job. Bought some wire and connection box now to fit the design.
One always has a change of direction when the design becomes a reality, I hade planned originally to mount the winch at ceiling level, but this will raise the front suspension when pulling the bike in, now mounting the winch at the floor will lower the front spring when pulling the bike in, this will aid the clearance of the brake handles upon entry from the doorway top.



Now for the bad news: The delivery of all these 120 limited edition Bonnevilles is June not April. JUNE, how will I cope without a bike, nothing to polish, purr over!
It took me a total of two hours to sort out the winch and fit it all together into the garage of the RV. Here is a picture of the final installation, boy am I pleased with the outcome and the low cost overall, £110 in total, bargain. It makes a great engineering noise when operating and will pull the 500 lb bike easily into place. Now the next design is the holding of the bike in situ whilst driving the RV. Have some ideas but am favouring the use of hinged tubes holding the handle bars horizontally and the old ramp to be screwed in place to the garage floor to guide the bike the distance unaided.
Great project, as I love gadgets.

Adding to the list of research targets this year, I am going back to Kleves in Germany this August and have decided to extend the trip to include a trip through the mountains to Colditz Castle and a tour around the WW2 prisoner's quarter, also visiting the town of the Pied Piper of Hamling. Should some great stories for the website.

Not wanting to undertake any of the research trips without the new bike, I really cannot wait until June before new sections are written, so I have decided to undertake the Kendal Castle topic by car. First in the agenda being just where was Katherine Parr born, was it Kendal Castle or Blackfriars in London. We will see.

Issue 4. Astley Hall Gatehouse construction. Chorley, Lancashire.

Many stories in this Hall, but wander down the grounds away from the actual hall and you will find a lovely timber framed gatehouse. Renovated due to a flooding many years ago from the fast flowing stream in its front garden, this house shows how the Tudor builders overcame problems of strength and heat dissipation. A timber assembly needs adjustment in the design of jointing, cold winters, hot summers will loosen a mortise and tennon joint and so a wedge system is needed to allow a tightening with a hammer blow. Then there is the problem of chimneys overheating from open wood fires. Whilst it was a sign of wealth to actually have a chimney in the first place, it was also a problem to stop brick cracking under intense heat. The solution was to pattern the chimney which showed off the wealth even more but mainly provided an increase in surface area for heat transfer into the atmosphere. Here are the pictures taken on this expedition, alas without the Bonneville which is still in the manufacturing state in the factory, see the stream, see the chimney and see the jointing wedges. I have drawn a section to show how the wedges tighten the joints.
Other things to notice about this house are the roofing stones, the smallish wattle panels and the positioning on the stream which indicated that this house was rich.









More to follow.

Next week I have found some valuable time off calendar and on the road to the Lake District. Targeting Kendal castle and Dove Cottage in Grasmere. The Castle hopefully will convince me of the actual birthplace of Katherine Parr, Dove cottage to find one of the first fridges.
Fridge? Well not exactly a big white box with Freon racing around transferring heat from the storage, but an earlier version of the technology. The food storage room was built over a fast flowing stream, stone slabs were used for the floor and the effect was to produce a cold room. Is that fascinating? Not today in 2010, but now go back to the days of the owner, William Wordsworth and you are describing the top end technology of a very rich man. To keep your food cool has always been the technology of the super rich, from Tudor Ice houses next to lakes to moving water under buildings. Super cool!
Mind you, Wordsworth did cut costs a bit with his woodwork, he had pitch pine coloured with pigs blood to resemble mahogany!
Pictures and story to follow by next Friday.

Dove Cottage.
How many motorists believe that if you are driving a Honda Jazz, you must be old and senile? Well stop flashing your headlights or using your horn when I’m driving my wife’s Jazz. Just because you live your life at 100 mph does not mean other people would like to smell the roses too as they travel. Nonses. I passed the speeding black sports car as the driver was being booked by a motorway cop, the grin on my face was hurting and my cheeks nearly enveloped my entire head as I nodded approval. My wife, silently nodding and telepathically letting me know her disapproval at my childish antics, did not spoil the moment for me as I drove to Grasmere in Cumbria to visit Dove cottage. The sole intention of my visit was to understand the engineering involved in building a house with a cold room nearly three hundred years ago. No camera’s allowed in the house makes my blood curdle as I know from experience that the new digital flashes do no damage the pigments in paintings and the window in the room is more potent. But never mind they obviously want to sell a guide book and a camera without flash must not be in their minds.
Boy am I grumpy today!



Here is the technology for the cold room, though it did have a serious downside. It also cooled down the bedroom above the Buttery and Mrs Wordsworth papered the walls withhold copies of the Times to try and warm it up. I can hear William now, “must keep the ale cold, wrap up warm kids.”



Yes Butter would have been stored in the Buttery, Butt, sorry But it was named after the storage of Butts of Ale.
A one hour delay on the M6 on the return trip was in fact due to an unmanned road works and an unmanned bridge not being painted. Must be in England eh!
No Butts!

The International Motorbike Show G-Mex in Manchester.
I did most of my courting some 45 years ago on the saddle of my powder blue Vespa 150. My girlfriend, now my wife, put up with this machine as it was all the rage then and I didn’t have a car. Her poor knee’s were bright red after a trip on the pillion, cold wet and wind strewn, she hung on to dear life to be with me. For this I love her dearly. Then came the marriage, the mortgage and the kids which transformed the motoring into mass movement of objects and children with their accompanying prams and push chairs. You can never get the motorbike out of your system, the simple fact that a small frame with an engine strapped in between two wheels is the nearest a person can get to a Knight in shining armour on his or her horse. So then various commuter bikes entered my life as soon as my wife got her driving licence, the best excuse ever to buy a new bike is to tell her, “It’s so you can have the car dear!”
I cannot use that excuse these days as I drive around in the RV to and from gigs all over the UK and parts of Europe. But buying an RV with a large “garage” was a clear inspiration as it gave the opportunity to plant a bike in it for local transport from campsites. This has worked well and my wife, now a granny 6 times over, and I love buzzing around the country in far flung places without the need to actually ride there and find a tent. The ultimate bike of my dreams has always been a Triumph Bonneville and I have had to wait these 45 years from the day I got my licence, to be able to afford one and justify it to myself. Not a “born again biker”, just an “always been a biker but had to wait for the best”. I know there’s BMW and Harley fans out there who are now jumping up and down about their two wheel love affairs, but simple and powerful, strong and safe is how I look at my bikes. 68 BHP with lots of torque, smooth and steady with thick steel and leather, now that’s what I call heaven.
Here we both are, after a terrible sardine trip on a dirty train from town to city to visit the international Bike show at G-Mex in Manchester, I knew the shop where I ordered my bike would be there so I was going to remind them that June delivery was screwing with my head and could they try to speed it up. The show was great, clothing at half price so a pair of gloves and a tee shirt entered my carrier bag and a warm wet burger fed us both thanks to the water to help get it digested. How can a rider put a bike on the top of a van with one jump, then spin round on the front wheel and jump off again? The skills of the display rider Steve Colley are so high they are an art form. I’m just happy I can hold a bike upright at the traffic lights, this guy could do it without putting his foot down. Brilliant.
We rode back home, sat down separately on a full but not bursting, dirty train, high with enthusiasm about the thought that the Bonnie I sat on at the show fit me perfectly and we were going to have one in June. So you see, June is still the date. Here are some pictures taken before the camera battery drained, thanks to forgetting to charge it before we left home that morning. Still got some excellent shots though, but the memory of just sitting there on the display stand, a green and gold Bonnie T100 between my knees and that beautiful view of tank, clocks and chromed levers in front will stay with me forever.



Did the day inspire the usual corny poetry in my head? Sure did.

Re-Enter My World
By Henry Tudor

She’s been here before in youthful day
We married and loved, together we stay.
We rode our blue bike to places away
Until family ties, made our direction sway.

Now with age and position we live out our life
Grandad and Nanna, the man and his wife.
Their home is now big for two people to dwell
The family have left to find their own well.

We relive out our past life on bike after bike
It’s the freedom of self, the power we like.
She cuddles up close as the wind rushes by
My pillion granny with wind tears, now dry.

I care not what you think about us on two wheel
Not born again, but forever, this bike makes us feel.
We are young again when riding, together always
My wife is my best friend, real love always stays.

New machine on show.


Old machines still in their glory.


A great place for a day out on your motorbike/car is Carsington lake in Derbyshire. Great facilities and art, take the 8.5 mile stroll around and see the woodwork!


Met another RV biker today, he was about 70 years old and had a trials converted Triumph Tiger Cub in the back of his van. He and his wife travel over the UK for competitions and were on their way back from Scotland. My kind of people, living their dream and quietly getting on with it. Brrm.