My father was a great bodger. This is not said in a derogatory manner because if he had not been gifted in this way there are many things we would have gone without.

I have already written about the treasured football he reconditioned for my first Christmas in the Nissen hut. The partitions he constructed, the doors he fabricated and the electrical wiring he installed in our converted dwelling. He went on to build garages and various outbuildings wherever we lived. Aesthetically, few of these would have scored highly, but practically they were more than adequate.

Before we had a car his only form of transport was a bicycle. It was blue with half-drop handlebars and a Sturmey Archer three-speed gear change. I was always begging him to let me have a ride on it. Obviously I was far too small but he would sit me on the saddle and push the bike around the nearby paths.

Eventually he must have got so fed up with my constant pleas he decided to build a bike for me. I am not absolutely sure where all the parts came from, probably begged and borrowed with a few found in the various rubbish tips and hedge rows around The Camp. He finally completed the project but there were two small problems; the brakes were not very efficient and it was a little too big for me. I was absolutely overjoyed and so excited to own a bicycle but the consequences of these shortcomings had future life threatening consequences for me.

Bicycle mishaps

I learnt very quickly how to ride a two-wheel bike. My first attempts I practised on the abundant grassy patches around The Camp. As I became more confident I became more reckless and it wasn't long before my first lucky escape occurred. I began cycling from the top of what is now Cawley Avenue. Going at a rate of knots I swung into Millwey Avenue then into 1st Avenue, down hill all the way to the main entrance opposite Cloakham Lodge.

Still pedalling furiously I flew past Hutching's shop before deciding to slow down. I yanked on both brakes which had very little effect on my speed. Consequently, I went flying across Chard Road, hit the wall on the opposite side, performed a couple of mid-air somersaults into the Lawns before landing in a heap on the grass. If there had been a car passing at that moment, I may not have been writing this. As it turned out I had only minor injuries and lost pride. My mother was absolutely furious at my father which I thought was quite unfair as I was the only one to blame. My father promptly set to assembling my bike again.

This didn't stop my cycling escapades and the second incident found me riding up the concrete ramp of the old inspection pit for the old hospital's transport vehicles. Having reached the top I decided to ride along one of the narrow piers either side of the pit. This was fine until I reached the end when, with sheer drops of five to six feet in front and either side of me, I had to get off my bike. I tried to put my right foot down but it didn't quite reach so I leant over to put my left foot down but with the same result. I rocked from foot to foot several times until the fateful moment my foot missed the edge of the pier and I fell head first onto the rubble below with my bike following.

The fall knocked me unconscious and my head was cut open. Willy Salter, who was with me, ran to our house informing my parents I was dead with "tomato sauce" all over my head. I was told later there was quite a panic. The doctor was called and I was rushed to Axminster Hospital where I was cleaned up, stitched up and spent the night under observation.

On this occasion not only did my father have my mother accusing him of trying to kill me but also Granny Tudor, who was staying with us, joining in for good measure. These accidents had very little effect as I rode miles on that old bike and as I grew inch by inch and with new brake blocks there were no more major incidents that I can remember.

Bicycle travels

I cycled miles to meet up with school friends who came from the surrounding villages. I can remember cycling to see the Frampton brothers who lived near Holditch to ride on the raft they'd built and sailed on the nearby river. Then having to cycle home soaking wet after falling off it.

My father eventually bought me newer style, second hand bike fitted with a three speed and drop handlebars. This didn't stop me 'modernising' it. I quickly replaced the handlebars with a length of straight tubing to give it a motor bike appearance. Then dressed in a leather flying jacket (bought at a local jumble sale) and jeans I could emulate the 'ton up kids' who often made the newspaper and cinema headlines, most times for the wrong reasons, though very inspirational to teenagers at the time.

The away games to various villages of the embryonic Millwey Rise FC always entailed a bike ride. When I played cricket for All Saints in my very early teens. I cycled there. It was the way I, as well as many others, got from a to b on roads with far less traffic to contend with than today's cyclists.

When the old converted dwellings of The Camp were being dismantled contractors would removed the roof and brick walls but leave the smooth concrete floor. Some of these would be at least 50 yards long and provided not only brilliant roller skating rinks but also speedway tracks where we raced against each other on our bikes. Most of us came off as our tyres skidded and slid on the slippery surface as we turned into the corners, but I never remember any serious injuries. We were really disappointed when they finally broke up the concrete to make way for the new houses.

I did have a run in with the law one night cycling back to Axminster from Seaton. Unfortunately, I didn't have lights on my bike but riding seemed far more preferable than walking with it. I had passed Musbury without any incident until a car overtook me and stopped with its blue light flashing. A policeman got out gave me a warning but nothing more.

Relieved, I waited until they had gone before once more mounting my bike. I rode for another mile or so then, as I came round a bend, they were waiting for me. I walked the rest of the way home pushing my bike to await the fine that followed.