93rd Entry R

93rd Entry R.A.F.Halton

Members Contributions

John B Wray

Visiting a friend in Lincoln last July, I got talked into an 11 mile hike on the Lincolnshire Wolds. There was about a dozen of us brave souls and I found myself talking to all of them during the walk. One fellow about twenty years older than me was striding out purposefully but mostly on his own. Our conversation turned up the fact that we were both ex brats. He was John R Craddock (Joe) from the 39^th entry and now living in Beckingham, Lincolnshire. His RAF number was 575771 and he lied about his age to get in. He saw the war years out and ended up in India for a spell. When his contract was up he went into Civvy without any hesitation and never looked back. He told me he did not particularly enjoy his RAF career and when he left he did not want anything to do with the establishment. He did try and contact a few buddies quite recently but was told they were either dead or had dementia.

He started up a commercial kitchen appliance manufacturing and sales business in Lincoln and the first years were damned hard work. He was nearly insolvent. Anyway he got a couple of breaks on the way and things started to get brighter, as they often do. Then an American company bought the company and he retained several million shares and sits on the Board. OK so I was walking with an un-assuming multi-millionaire!

He finished the walk in better shape than I did and explained that he usually did not walk such a long distance but he walked every week without fail. He would not stay for a cup of tea because he had left his wife at home and she was in a wheel chair and needed care. He explained that his walks were his only outing now and kept him fit. He gave me a date of 19^th January 1939 but I am not sure whether that was his joining or graduation day. He also wrote his contact details in my little book.

Well Joe brightened my afternoon up and I forgot all about my aching bones in the time I spent with him. There was a good old fashioned afternoon tea spread in the church hall by walkers partners and club patrons. I had put away five cups of tea and had my fill of cakes etc, when my joints seized up. I was still feeling the effects of that walk several weeks later. I trust that Joe got home safely and slept soundly that night.

From: Neville Ward

Date: 07/13/05 22:42:37

No more hills ??

I'm not quite sure how it all started, but before I knew quite what was involved, I found myself nodding agreement to a proposed sponsored walk in aid of the Myosotis Trust. What I should really have done, was to make some believable excuse that unfortunately I was already committed to some alternative activity, such as polishing the inside of my lawnmower or inspecting the bottom of the pond !!

Backing out at a late stage seemed a reasonable thing to suggest, but when threatened with both physical and verbal abuse from my fellow walkers (Janet Wastell and Denise Harding), I took the cowards way out. Hence, some weeks later I found myself thundering up the M1/M6 surrounded by various walking implements and paraphernalia heading for the start point of St Bees in Cumbria, for the Coast to Coast walk across the country (all the way across !!!) to Robin Hoods Bay in Yorkshire.

On arrival, it all seemed very pleasant, a nice B&B with a lovely Landlady, the weather was glorious and the local pub was a mere stones throw away, all of a sudden things didn't look too bad at all, the second pint possibly had a positive influence, as did the third !

So to bed to dream of gentle rolling countryside, flora and fauna and a longish walk, mostly downhill. WRONG !!! The first day out of St Bees not only severely assaulted both my chalky white legs, but rearranged the positioning of my lungs, they should have been in my chest, but I had to keep poking them back down my throat. On top of this, Mr Wainwright's map directions took us of in a Northerly direction, when any fool knows that Yorkshire is due East, a mere quirk the narrative explained, so that the intrepid walker can better appreciate the countryside. My appreciation took a severe nosedive when about three hours later, when we were finally starting to move in an Easterly direction, we saw a road sign indicating that our starting point in St Bees was all of two miles away !!

The countryside did actually start to flatten out, and the sun was shining and conversations were struck up with the Cumbrian sheep (they do tend to bleat on about things ) and confidence began to return, especially since our brilliant support vehicle manned by Derek Harding (Denise's husband) brought news of good accommodation in a pub.

Derek was our one man support team, he looked after us like a motherly sheepdog, he sorted out the accommodation, moved the bags and popped up in the most unlikely places with the all important camping stove and kettle to make a very very welcome cup of tea. His encouragement was superb.

The second day started with a small discussion, 'were we to take the Low route through the Lake District, or should we ensure our last will and testaments were in order, and take the High Route, common sense prevailed and we opted for the Low one. That was until we reached the decision point, when the lovely ladies said, Naaahh, we can't miss this opportunity, lets give the High Route a go !!!!!!!!!!!! At this point I really should have twisted an ankle, or at least made a reasonable attempt at convincing them that I had. Soooooo, we started climbing, and climbing, and climbing. We met various groups of other folk going in roughly the same direction, some being given mouth to mouth resuscitation, others being read the last rights, all had the elastoplast smile fixed on their lips and were gasping things like, 'isn't the, cough splutter, view,gasp, super, splutter gasp.

The top was finally reached, and in fact the view was superb with both sides of the lakes glittering in the sunshine, however this was only the first top, it was followed by two more tops, each getting higher as we staggered on. Decent back into the valley came as a relief, especially as we made our way towards our nights accommodation we realized that we had been walking for a full twelve hours that day, never did a pint taste so good, nor a bed so soft.

The third day in the Lakes was one of mixed fortunes, based upon our heavy requirement for re-hydrating the previous day, I opted to take extra fluid in my pack and only take lightweight wet weather clothing, big mistake. The climb up to Kirksty Pike went reasonably well, then things went rapidly wrong. The weather changed in minutes from sunshine to driving rain and impenetrable mist,we had little option but to plod on, unfortunately we climbed too high in the mist and came to the edge of then crag with a drop down of about 1000 metres. At this stage we were very wet and very very cold, however we did manage to find a track going in the right direction and very slowly started down. By this time Janet had started to resemble an ice lolly, but fortunately Denise was able to produce a space blanket and wrap it around her to help retain her body heat. As we got lower the rain started to ease and the mist cleared, and humour started to creep back into the conversation, mostly centered on the tin foiled apparition walking beside us, Janet gained a new name that day, Russell. The three B's couldn't come quickly enough that night, Bath, Beer and Bed.

The following day took us across the M6, a point that took us out of the Lakes and into The Yorkshire Dales, a totally different scenery, but with it's own charm and beauty.

Yorkshire began to unfold with it's gentle charm and rolling moors, the only problem being that the moors, wherever you looked, rolled upwards, and upwards and upwards !!! In fact it became quite noticeable that the local sheep had legs of different lengths just to cope with the incline.

A couple of days later we were looking for our accommodation in Keld, not realising that in fact it was located about 3 miles (Derek maintains that it was a mere mile and a bit!) further on from where the official route ran. Hence we had to hobble on, hoping that our faithful support vehicle would pick us up, no such luck and despite flaunting various parts of our anatomy to passing motorists in the hope of getting a lift, all that seemed to happen was that they speeded up with worried glances in our direction.

After the nightstop in our outlying hotel we asked if there was any way of rejoining the Coast to Coast route without going back the 3 miles (Derek's mile and a bit!), the cheerful answer was 'no problem' (where have I heard that before ), you can join just down the road. Technically the answer was correct, unfortunately we of a non technical bent and an even worse sense of direction chose the wrong hill to follow, I'm sure it was the ladies that led me astray. Suffice to say, after about an hour of puffing up yet another non existent hill we discovered that the river that should have been on our left, somehow seemed to appear on our right, and a small in depth discussion seemed to indicate that we were not quite where we should have been.

There now were two options, either retrace our steps back to where we started, or take the more direct route straight down the side of the rather steep hill to cross the river and then claw our way back up the other side to bring us back on the correct route. Gritting our teeth in true 'Brit.' style we hurled ourselves over the side and tried to emulate a pregnant ewe with bunions. It was steep, it was loose scree and most of all it was very scary, however I overheard a comment from one of my colleagues behind me saying that she didn't fancy carrying on, to which the other replied, 'well I'm not flipping going back up ! This was the first time that the technical term describing the fear factor was used, this was deemed to be a (BC) gradient, the characters denoting Buttock Clenching.

Hey ho, and up the other side, lungs pleasantly lodged in the windpipe, and heart beat moving up into triple figures, not to worry we were back on the right track, Mr Wainwright was in sight. The only downside was a signpost indicating that we were a mere mile beyond the original start point, and this was after three hours of BC'ing exertions.

The further we moved into Yorkshire, the more scenic the countryside, lots of long walks through lush overgrown woodlands with the dappled sunlight playing on the becks and streams. To date we had (apart from the scary day in the Lakes) had good weather, either sunshine or at least dry overcast weather. Our luck couldn't last, and sure enough we had a day of horizontal 'stair rod' rain and wind, this occurred as we scaled the Kirby Craggs, and after a couple of hours it was tempting to shed our clothes as we were wetter on the inside than on the outside, however we thought the sheep would probably lodge a complaint with the European Union, so resisted the urge.

As our goal started to get closer our spirits began to pick up, however our pace began to slow down, this in part due to various parts of of our anatomy beginning to wilt/ fall off and generally go into decline. Janet struggled on womanfully with a badly damaged tendon, Denise struggled to steady her trembling thighs, whilst I considered hiring a sturdy local with a comfortable wheel barrow fitted with a waterbed.

Robin Hood's Bay, we made it, just down the hill and full tilt into the sea, followed by a brilliant bottle of bubbly supplied by a concerned wonderful wife, never did wet feet feel so good. It took us 13 days of pleasant strolling (I lie like Harold Wilson) but it was worth it, both in terms of achievement and also for the funds that we hope to raise for the charity.

Would I do it again, NNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOO, well..........maybe ****!.

Dennis and Janet Williams enjoying a day with the Red Arrows at R.A.F.Scampton.

From Trevor Rowe

An excerpt from one of the chapters in my book "Another Day, Another Dog". Details are on my web site at www.trevor-rowe.com

The Faith Healer

Of all the good things about the house sitting “business”, the chance to stay in a wide variety of other peoples’ houses and to share their magnificent gardens, outlooks and views was the most interesting. As we love the countryside and its history, it gave us a real chance to explore other parts of the country. One particular house in the Yorkshire Dales was among the best in this respect. One balmy July evening we sat on the patio looking south over the river Ure, which meandered gracefully through the valley below towards the old market town of Middleham and its historic castle. We marvelled at the fact that it was not costing us a penny to be there. Similar accommodation would have cost the earth if we had rented it on holiday.

This particular time we were on another five-week “assignment” while the owners were away on a trip to Australia. Our charges were an ageing Labrador called Ben, a young Labrador named Josie, a sort of wire haired Jack Russell and two cats. Oh, I must not forget the fish. A small stream ran down one side of the garden and had been cleverly diverted through a pond in which lived some sizeable gold fish. The garden was enclosed on three sides by a traditional dry-stone wall, built by the son of the owner.

From the garden we could see the gallops on the tops of hills far across the Ure valley where, often just after dawn, we would see strings of horses from the famous stables of Middleham exercising in the early morning mists.

Each day during our stay we took the dogs for walks along the banks of the river. Whilst Ben would walk slowly and with some difficulty behind us, Josie, full of the excitement and energy of youth, would chase rabbits and hurtle in and out of the river after ducks and other water birds. Sand Martins dive-bombed us as we disturbed their natural habitat and water rats scurried back into their holes as we passed.

It was always difficult to exercise young and old dogs together. So, on occasion, as we did at other locations with dogs of vastly differing ages, we would leave old Ben behind in order to let Josie have a real run and a much longer walk.

Ben the Labrador had advanced cancer and was in quite a bad way. He was on medication and had had several bad turns. His condition was so serious that his owners did not expect him to survive during their absence. In addition to the usual telephone numbers left for us, i.e. vet, plumber etc, we also had the number to ring if Ben died so that he could be buried in the right spot on their property.

A bit daunting really, but we’d seen nearly everything before (or so we thought) so we took it all in our stride and waved the family goodbye. We could tell by the tears, particularly from the children, that they really did not expect to see Ben again.

Along with the medication, some of it homeopathic and the strict diet and exercise instructions, we had been amazed to receive a request to take Ben (a Labrador, remember) to a faith healer twice during our stay. Remembering Jason, my twelve and a half year old Labrador who eventually had to take the one-way trip to the vet some years ago, I could sympathise with the “try anything” attitude of Ben’s owners. Still, it did seem rather strange, particularly as Ben’s owner was a vet, and we looked forward to the appointed day with great interest.

In the meantime we followed Ben’s owners’ instructions to the letter, took him for limited exercise and showered him with all the care and attention due to a respected senior citizen. We were glad to see that his condition did not deteriorate and, indeed, some days after our arrival his coat improved, he was walking with less discomfort and he was generally more cheerful. He was always pleased to see us and, increasingly, he enjoyed his food.

As his owners had told us that he had had a bad spell after his last visit to the faith healer (I shall call her Madame X) we were more than apprehensive that his next visit might do the same.

The day came. We helped Ben into the car and set off further up into the Dales for his treatment. We drove northwards down winding lanes through the beautiful Yorkshire countryside in the height of summer. Away to the right we could see the coast with the sun sparkling off the sea and the commercial buildings and chimneys of Teesside. Only the distance involved softened the harsh views of the nuclear power station and other heavy industrial plants of this stretch of coastline.

To our left, the Dales rose away eastward into the distance. This was real James Herriot country. Dry-stone walls marched across the rolling fields as far as the eye could see, punctuated only by the occasional stone-built barn and solid looking farmhouse built to withstand the strong cold winds of winter that raked across this, often bleak, landscape. It all looked as though this had been the scene here for hundreds of years with little change. It probably had.

Hardy, hefted sheep dotted the sloping windswept fields providing a good measure of contrast with the green of the grass, the grey stonework and the deep blue sky. There are not many places on earth that match the quiet beauty of the Yorkshire Dales and I include the countryside of Africa, New Zealand, North America and even Scotland in my comparison.

Not that I am from these parts. Far from it. I was born a man of Kent or a Kentish man - I can never remember which. Maidstone was nearer my place of birth than Gillingham, if that means anything to those well versed in Kentish folklore. Perhaps someone will let me know.

I digress. We found our destination with little trouble and learned that Madame X provided her services in an upstairs flat in a large and beautiful old country house surrounded by mature gardens. Next door was a village cricket pitch and a quiet patch of woodland.

We had to park outside the garden gates, as there was only a green footpath leading up to the house, no drive.

Madame X ushered us into her consulting room as if Ben’s visit was quite a normal procedure and as though she had been treating dogs all her life. There were the obligatory reference books, colourful curtains, oriental rugs on the floor, crystals in the window and Madame X herself was dressed in flowing robes and earrings. In the corner was a couch obviously for the use of her clients.

Trying to be helpful, as ever, I offered to lift Ben on to the couch for his “consultation”. She glanced at me, gave me a withering, scornful look, reserved no doubt for the unbelievers, and said that, “Ben would be all right on the floor, thank you very much”.

Sue did not help the situation by asking, “Do you do people too?”

“I do people,” she said, haughtily.

Suitably chastened, Sue and I sat down. This was a whole new experience for us.

“You are quite welcome to stay in the room”, Madame X said, “but please do not interrupt, whatever happens. Ben must have absolute peace and quiet and be as relaxed as possible.”

“OK,” we mumbled and sat as still and as quiet as we could, on some very uncomfortable wooden, three legged stools, I might add, while Madame X started her “treatment”. It began with several minutes of meditation whilst Ben simply lay quite still on the floor, breathed heavily and slipped off into a deep sleep. Well, when you are the human equivalent of about ninety-ten years old, you’ve had your pills and a good breakfast, a walk, an hour’s drive in the car on a warm summer’s day and you’ve been invited to take a lie down you would, wouldn’t you?

The meditation over, Madame X gently laid her hands on Ben’s head for a few minutes and then on his swollen stomach where the cancer was quite evident. The old dog did not stir.

Next, she held her hands palms down about an inch or two above Ben’s head and moved them slowly, without making contact with his coat, down the full length of his body. Then carefully and with a definitely artistic, demonstrative flourish she slowly wrung her hands in the air behind Ben’s rear end.

Being relatively astute people, we realised immediately that this was getting rid of the evil demons in Ben’s body and that it must be well worth the money and the travelling to have this carried out every two weeks.

This exercise was repeated several times and she crossed her hands occasionally with different degrees of artistic hand movement and “rinsing”. You could almost feel the pressure building and I was sure something magical was about to occur.

Sure enough, it did. Ben gave a big sigh and let out a huge, satisfied fart.

Sue looked at me as if to say (remember, we were sworn to silence) “Was that you?”

I shook my head violently and we both had great difficulty in suppressing guffaws of laughter. Madame X appeared not to have heard and carried on as though either nothing had happened, or that this was a perfectly normal occurrence. We had the feeling that, indeed, it must have happened before.

Still dead to the world and, seemingly with a smile on his face, Ben passed wind again but our unmovable practitioner carried on oblivious to the sounds, and the odour!

At last, the session came to an end and we took our leave. Madame X asked us if we were going to pay for Ben’s sessions but we responded that we had not been asked to do so by his owners. Madame X would therefore have to submit her bill to them on their return. During this exchange we found out how much she charged for her services and we realised immediately that if we ever became really hard up we had found a new career that we were now fully qualified upon which to embark!

Ben didn’t seem any worse, or better, for his experience and as we walked through the garden to the car I said, perhaps a little too loudly, “What a load of mumbo jumbo.”

Not that I have anything against faith healers for people you understand. I just think that for dogs…. Well, surely you know what I mean!

On the way home we stopped by a stream for Ben to do what old male dogs often have to do and we were delighted to see that he was strong enough to go into the water and actually swim around for a while. Maybe there was something in faith healing for dogs after all.

On our next visit to Madame X two weeks later I was politely asked whether I would care to remain in the garden during the treatment! She even offered me a spade to do some digging, “If I felt like it.”

Politely, I declined the offer and spent a very pleasant half hour sitting in the sunshine soaking up the atmosphere in that beautiful country house garden. Breathing the pure north Yorkshire air, listening to the birds and the insects humming I thought, as I often did, how much more pleasant this was compared to risking my life in the rush-hour traffic of Riyadh each day. Similarly, it certainly beat driving on the M25, that concrete car park that passes for the motorway surrounding London.

Sue was permitted to sit in at the second session, however, and later assured me that much the same thing had occurred as on our previous visit.

By the end of the five weeks Ben had improved markedly and was jumping up and running around almost like a puppy. He was walking longer distances and with greater ease. On their return, his owners were amazed and delighted at his improvement. Whether it was the faith healer, our care and attention during that five weeks or a combination of both, we’ll never know.

This all happened in the July of that year. Sadly, we had a call from Ben’s owners in September advising that he had died peacefully. On many occasions afterwards we stopped by Ben’s grave whilst walking the other dogs on subsequent visits and remembered with affection our brief acquaintance with a fine old dog – and the strange faith healer affair.