of the workshops discipline and the foreman's jaundice eye, we were free to explore our own proclivities for a couple of days. Having changed we said cheerio to our parents, puzzled as always about our coming and going but happy for our opportunity.
The bus to Bingley brought us to a popular pub, especially Friday nights when the boys and girls start their ghostly
promenade to see who will score. Its always struck me as strange that the girls, certainly in those days of the mini
skirt and tight clinging sweater who convention, backed up by the law, placed a do not touch sign over their sexuality and yet went out of their way to invite one in !!
Anyway we were inoculated from them as we sat next to our rucksacks, precious coils of rope laid across the sack. Our clothing was as far removed from the smart Burton suits milling around on the periphery of the girls, we had our boots and three quarter length alpine style climbing cords on whilst the top half was encased in a thick greasy, egg stained jumper. A small group of eight guys, 18 years old, full of anticipation for the couple of days ahead we amplified the distance between ourselves and the night outers, we were on an expedition and felt superior.
Our first beer finished was the sign for the two to leave the pub moving out onto the wet street to begin to hitch hike to our destination The Lake District. Roughly 60 miles away we relied entirely on the charity of any motorist heading up towards the Lakes and it is a measure of the generosity and the spirit of those times that within an hour we would all be on or way. Cramped up in the back of Ford Popular or laid back in the spaciousness of a Humber Snipe we chatted to the driver,"where were we going what were we going to do, what he did and his plans for the weekend". The miles rolled away in pleasantries or in-depth conversation,was he going as far as Kendal, no only to Settle. Out at Settle we waited again for another good Samaritan to keep us on track. Sometimes a car would pass with a shout and a cheer it was the last of our friends luckier with a ride all the way there. Occasionally the cars break lights would come on and we would hurry up the road to squeeze in with our mates. I often wonder about the nature of the generosity of the drivers in those days to accommodate the young people like ourselves and enter into the adventure.
Within a few years things had changed the hitch-hiker had become demonised simply because of the sheer numbers turning out on the road side. The Channel Ports had que's of young people, Hippy Types all trying to get a lift somewhere and it was the scale that put the motorist off. We were so lucky to be the forerunners, our oddness made us interesting, people wanted to chat and find out where this stream of nonconformists were from and where they were going.
Much of my life has been as if I was on the lip of a wave ploughing my own furrow just enough ahead of the crowd to be acknowledged as an individual and not cast as a menace.
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