There were probably two major challenges for a young married serviceman arriving at North Luffenham in the early 1950's - Housing and Transportation.
We had just arrived in Calgary in 1950 from south-west Saskatchewan and my father like most ex-servicemen after the war was scrambling to find steady income. During one of many job hunting pursuits, he passed the RCAF recruiting office in downtown Calgary and he filled out an application. Some weeks later, he encountered the recruiting Sergeant on the street, and was told that he had been accepted into the RCAF. My father's one stipulation, however, was that he remain in Calgary for a few years before a transfer, to which there was an agreement.
The letters from my father began to arrive shortly thereafter, newly posted, up to "Kittygazoo", in the Arctic Circle, near the mouth of the MacKenzie River.
Six months later, our next posting was to Calgary and then to North Luffenham.
We packed and took the train from Calgary to Montreal, boarded the Sythia to Le Harve and finally, after a week on the high seas, we docked in Southhampton. We took the train up to Aberdeen to be with my mother's family and soon we were brought down to Ketton where the four of us shared one room of a house with a retired employee of the Ketton quarry. Shortly, we again moved, into PMQ #13 and our accommodation problem had been solved.
Meanwhile, my father had been pedaling his bicycle back and forth each day from the base at North Luffenham to Ketton - up hill both ways, as he tells it. Finally, after leaving work and taking a short cut to Ketton, through the base, along the service road of the runway, late at night, in the fog.... He did eventually, arrive home, hours later, after getting turned around in the fog near the farm of Wytchley Warren, and pedaling back to Normanton.
It was shortly thereafter, we became the proud owners of an early 1930's Singer. It had spoke wheels, 12 HP, one drivers side wiper, no fuel pump, no water pump, and probably no heater, but it had that great smell of old wood and leather. The few times it reached any speed over 50 mph, generally downhill, there would be a major mechanical failure in the motor area. The last time this happened, we were in the middle of the Highlands, during our biannual trek up to Aberdeen.
Shortly after our return to Luff, my father answered an ad for a reconditioned ex-British Army Norton 500 motorcycle in London. The deal was done, and my father took the train down to London. He had included a request that the mechanic drive the Norton, with my father on the back, to the train station for the trip back. At Manton, he pushed it off onto the platform, and for the first time in his life, fired up the beast for what was now, only the second ride of his life on a motorcycle. Three minutes later at the top of Manton Hill, he ran out of petrol and arrived home, hours later, after pushing it the final 3 miles to Edith Weston. The next morning he was informed about the reserve tank that contained another gallon of fuel. A sidecar was added and our trips increased around England and Scotland as the Norton fairly flew down the byways and highways.
Eventually, however, the long wet cold trips, especially up to Aberdeen for Christmas, soon took their toll, but produced a brand new 1953 Vauxhall, to which my father added a huge sign on the back stating "Canada - Left Hand Drive". This arrangement meant, that when out for a drive, especially behind a big lorry, my mother was required to....
Well - that's another story.
One of the great liberators of an eight year old boy in the simpler times of 1950s England was learning to ride and the eventual ownership of a bicycle.
Weekends and the summer months were frequently spent feverishly pedaling up and down hill and dale on trips to South Luffenham, Wing and beyond. I never went down Gypsy Lane as it was well known that they ate small children.
However, if my excursions took me into the village of Edith Weston, my first challenge was to maneuver around a cow pile on the road. Twice a day, a young twenty year old would bring the herd in from the field for milking, stop by the water hole next to the cemetery, and then into the barn. I accepted this as part of country life. Today, he is one of only two Rutland born residents in the village. Most of the remaining houses have been refurbished and are self catering cottages or occupied by retired folk from outside the country.
Updated: August 10, 2003
