Rowing Against the Tide - A career in sport and politics Read Online Free Page A

Charlie.
    I enjoyed the open air life the Group encouraged, and we camped as often as possible. We had a regular camp site on a farm near Ruislip, and I remember with pain the struggle to cycle with a pack on a small bike, up the Great West Road from where we lived on the borders of Chiswick. On one of our badge challenges, I as patrol Leader, and my number two, Derek Gidney, did a weekend trek, and camped on an old golf course that was available to scouts. The weather was awful, and we pitched a small “Itizer” low lying circular tent, and bedded down for the night. The rain was torrential, and one of the resident scout staff came to see we were OK, for all the rest had either been washed or blown away. We survived a few more hours, but in the end realised we would have to gather as much as we could, and get to the safety of the main building. With all our gear over our heads we made a beeline for the building, and it was just as well there was a great flash of lightening, for we found ourselves standing on the edge of a large bunker. In the dark, who knows what might have been the outcome, but all ended well, and we got our badge!
    On one occasion we camped on a high bluff close to Branscombe in Devon. The winding road down through the village lead to a bakery half way down, where the smell of fresh baked bread was just too great to resist. One morning we scrambled down to the beach to meet the early returning fisherman, and I have to say that fresh mackerel cooked over a wood fire, with fresh crusty bread, tasted far better than any haut cuisine can ever achieve.
    On an earlier camp when I was perhaps eleven or twelve, we found a site in a field alongside the rail track in Llandogo in Herefordshire. Two things from that camp remain in my memory forever. On the far side of the track was a steep well wooded hill, and a group of us set out to climb to the top, either to see if there was anything there, a house perhaps, but if not to see a wider view of the valley and town. When we reached the top, there was indeed a house, hidden away amongst the bushes and trees, and it had a run down but mysterious air about it. This mystery was heightened when an old lady came out to meet us, and I for one began to get the creeps, and thoughts of Hansel and Gretel ran through a few of our minds. She invited us in, and with much trepidation we followed her to find a home, dark, and to our young minds, quite foreboding, with a wide range of Chinese and other oriental collectables adding to the air of mystery. Frankly when she struck the giant brass gong in the main hall, I wasn’t the only one feeling the s****. In truth she welcomed our visit, for I suspect few in the village ever went up to see her, so we did get out alive. On returning to camp, the recounting of our brave climb sounded much braver and more entertaining than the reality had been.
    The other incident of that camp, applied to a border collie, and a bad attempt by one of the group to cook a meal from tinned meat and heaven knows what else. The dog always knew when the train was coming, and long before we did. He used to go to the far corner of the field away from the station, and as the train approached, he would race it to the station. On the night of the disastrous meal which no-one could eat, the “cook” scraped it onto a large plate and gave it all to the dog. Whilst he appeared to enjoy eating it, it did not agree with him, any more than it had with the rest of us, for it was two or three days before the dog tried to race the train again.
    This incident came to light again over forty years later when a group of colleagues went to Herefordshire to assist in the Monmouth By-election in the eighties. By happy chance I and a couple of other MPs were sent to Llandogo for a spot of canvassing, and we arranged to be picked up later that afternoon at a café overlooking that same field, and where the railway had run all those years ago. Chatting to a local over a cup of