1992 Hanworth—York: Gerry Dyer's Travel Diary

By Joyce Wiltshire

Like most children, I used to keep a diary full of mundane happenings, which seemed so important at the time but are now lost forever.

By the time I was a teenager, the futility of these little jottings became obvious, and I dropped the habit. After all, even though it was wartime, there were other things to do—nights out with the boys from the company, a vague interest in the female species and a large interest in consuming many pints of whatever ghastly brew was available in the local hostelries. Cycling was the thing in those days. One’s most treasured possession was a highly polished cycle kept in the peak of condition by much elbow grease. This was your mobile release from the dull suburbs to the open country. Petrol was nonexistent for the private motorist and, in any case, those could afford a car. Later, when the war was over and a small basic ration was available, some of my friends did manage to purchase motorbikes. The post war years saw the roads to the West Country packed with intrepid motorcyclists, all in their protective gear, basing down the twisty roads to the places that had been denied to us for all those wearisome war years.

By this time, I was going steady with Beryl, and partly through parental pressure, I never did own a motorbike. My parents thought that riding a motorbike was tantamount to signing your own death warrant. Perhaps, they were right. Anyway, I stuck to my cycle. In 1944, I had my first holiday away from my parents, and Beryl and I cycled the 110 miles to Wells in Somerset. This, in memory, is one of the most precious weeks in all my life. The weather was fine and hot. We cycled all over the place, fell in love with the noble beauty of Wells Cathedral, visited Cheddar before the motor coach invasion commenced, and enjoyed a week of sheer bliss. On the way home, I remember resting in a field near Westbury in Wiltshire, and suddenly, the tears streamed down my face my throat felt as if it would choke. My wise little Beryl knew what was wrong; it was the thought of leaving the blessed peace of Somerset and the end of our first wonderful joyous holiday together. Many glorious holidays have come since. The first all those years ago is still remembered with a clarity that transcends time.

What’s all this got to do with a diary? Patience. All will be revealed in this book.



- Gerry Dyer

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jan 31, 2019
• ISBN: 9781728382074

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© 2019 JOYCE WILTSHIRE All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse  12/22/2018

ISBN: 978-1-7283-8205-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-8207-4 (e)

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

A Little About Gerry Dyer

Preface

1992 August – Hanworth To Yorkshire

Friday 14th August – York

August 15th – York To Ravenstonedale

Sunday August 16th Ravenstonedale

Monday August 17th – Ravenstonedale

Tuesday August 18th At Ravenstonedale

Wednesday August 29th At Ravenstonedale

Thursday August 20th – Ravenstonedale

Friday 21st August At Ravenstonedale

Saturday August 22nd – Ravenstonedale – Hanworth

A LITTLE ABOUT GERRY DYER

The first time I knew Gerry was when he married my cousin Beryl and I was one of their little bridesmaids way back in 1947.

Over the years we had many lovely times together and when they retired to Williton in Somerset in 1999, Christine, a dear friend and I, visited as often as we could. Sadly Gerry passed away some 7–8 weeks after their move so he never did get to enjoy his beloved Somerset in the way he had hoped during retirement.

During visits to Williton, Beryl would often mention Gerry’s holiday diaries (which he wrote more as a narrative as events unfolded) and expressed the hope that they would be typed and published. Christine and I both had a go with the tapes but that was a fruitless task so I decided that, in memory of both Gerry and Beryl, I would give the tapes a miss and enter all the handwritten diaries onto my laptop.

From 1974 to 1993 there are some 16 diaries ready for publication, with many more to be done.

Joyce

PREFACE

Like most children I used to keep a diary, full of mundane happenings which seemed so important at the time but are now lost forever.

By the time I was a teenager the futility of these little jottings became obvious and I dropped the habit, after all even though it was wartime, there were other things to do, nights out with the boys from the company, a vague interest in the female species and a large interest in consuming many pints of whatever ghastly brew was available in the local hostelries. Cycling was the thing in those days, ones most treasured possession was a highly polished cycle kept in the peak of condition by much elbow grease, this was your mobile release from the dull suburbs to the open country. Petrol was non-existent for the private motorist and in any case who could afford a car. Later when the war was over and a small basic ration was available some of my friends did manage to purchase motor bikes and the post war years saw the roads to the West Country packed with intrepid motor cyclists, all in their protective gear basing down the twisty roads to the places that had been denies to us for all those wearisome war years.

By this time I was ‘going steady’ with Beryl and partly through parental pressure I never did own a motor bike. My parents thought that riding a motor bike was tantamount to signing your own death warrant. Perhaps they were right, anyway I stuck to my cycle. In 1944 I had my first holiday away from my parents and Beryl and I cycled the 110 miles to Wells in Somerset. This in memory is one of the most precious weeks in all my life. The weather was fine and hot, we cycled all over the place, fell in love with the noble beauty of Wells Cathedral, visited Cheddar before the motor coach invasion commenced and enjoyed a week of sheer bliss. On the way home I remember resting in a field near Westbury in Wiltshire and suddenly the tears streamed down my face and my throat felt as if it would choke. My wise little Beryl knew what was wrong, it was the thought of leaving the blessed peace of Somerset and the end of our first wonderful joyous holiday together. Many glorious holidays have come since, the first all those years ago is still remembered with a clarity that transcends time.

What’s all this got to do with a diary? Patience, all will be revealed.

Roughly 20 years after that un-chronicled week in Wells I did start to keep a diary again but only for holidays – Why? Well, two reasons, firstly Beryl and her mother can never agree on what year we went where and recourse to the evidence of the diary settles much useless argument. Secondly I began to realise that the memory can only retain so much, the rest is forgotten. Even events that are so unique that you say ‘I will never forget that as long as I live’ are consigned to the attic of the mind and become ghosts. One Christmas I had a little green motorists diary given to me an as we were going abroad that year I decided to take it with me and fill in brief details of the journey, how many miles we had driven, where we bought petrol or lunched, the places we had seen and so on. At first these entries were brief, almost terse plain statements of fact. The small format of the book almost dictated this, eventually it became full and I bought a larger one and the entries became longer and more details. Unconsciously I was discovering the joy of writing and putting thoughts on to paper. Now there are several books of all shapes and sizes and the time has come to rewrite this mass of memories into one volume before one irreplaceable little book gets lost.

I am not, thank God, conceited enough to think that anyone outside m y immediate family circle will ever want to read these sometimes rambling accounts of dear sweet days, spent on holiday when the cares of work slide from the shoulders for a brief spell. The entries have been written for my own personal enjoyment and for Beryl and nobody else. So stranger, if you should pick up this book do not think that you