Bicycles And A Happy Hunting Ground.

A Memory of New Milton.

Being the offspring of parents otherwise engaged, and only partially supervised by a succession of Nannies, whose only concern was that we should be clean and respectably dressed when we got up to mischief, we were members of a local 'gang' called the Secret Army.
Our aim was to be a Secret Underground Army, so that in time of need we could go bush, and defend King and Country against all-comers.

We were mainly a holiday gang, and during daylight hours were subject to very little supervision, as long as Nanny knew roughly where we were going, so that the Police and Fire Brigade knew where to find us.

The beach was a favourite haunt, described elsewhere, but at times we wore out our welcome, and on such occasions, we headed for other hunting grounds. One of the aims of our Army was to be familiar with the countryside, and we explored voraciously.

One of our haunts was Moat Lane where the local Taxi Lady lived. (Mrs Sheppard?). We discovered an interesting Coppice, with earthworks, and complete with a rock built shelter we called the Hermits Cave. This was fairly old and surrounded by all sorts of earthworks, that as kids we thought was the remains of some secret Army Base. It therefore became one of our Secret Army Camps. We had cook-outs in the woods and we explored the earthworks without discovering much of interest. Our only finds were a brass buckle, an old acetalene bicycle lamp, and some expended 303 rifle cartridges. One summer, there was a University Professor camping in the woods digging up one of the mounds, but he didn't seem to know what he was looking for, but it might be a Manor House. He wasn't too keen on having our gang watching him work, so we moved elsewhere.

Initially this was to Southern Lane where a major housing estate was being built at the bottom of Moorlands avenue. Roads were being marked out, and services buried. As the houses were built and became occupied and we were out on after supper walks, we noted that new occupiers adjacent to an unoccupied house were busy moving the fence stakes, to enlargen their gardens. In response to our inevitable question of 'what you doing', we were told that the fools of builders had put the stakes in the wrong place. I wonder if anyone ever told them that?

In the winter we used to cycle up to Ballard Lake, that sometimes froze over. Enough to cause the bird life some problems but not enough to walk on. We used to look for old bird nests in the rushes. We found some deer tracks one morning and spent the day tracking it through Fernhill Girls School into the Ballard Estate, where rumour said there were man-traps and pitfalls, and definately a grumpy groundsman. The deer were more astute than we were.

During the long summer days, one of our favourite haunts was Wooton Bridge, where we used to picnic, having purchased large cheese rolls and a bottle of Corona from the Rising Sun. One week, the Advertiser published a photo of us in the stream, under the bridge, complete with dog, completely unreasonably dressed. Our parents were not too impressed, but I am not sure if it was because we had wandered so far into the forest, or because we had become 'untidy' and definately wet. Was it my sister with us? but she definitely had legs under a wet cotton dress against the reflected sunlight.

As we grew older and our survival skills became proven, we ventured furthur into the forest exploring Bashley and found an abandoned railway line at Burley, discovering interesting flint rocks, sleeper bolts and rail fishplates along the railbed.

On occasions we cycled to Lyndhurst, Brockenhurst or Lymington, and once spent a day exploring Holmsley airfield, where some gliders and a winch truck were operating.

On that particular day we broke the cardinal rule. It had gone sunset by the time we got home, and mother was home before us, and somewhat upset that we were not there. We got gated, and our bikes locked up. But there was always Chestnut Avenue and Farm Lane to attract us. In those days it was a gravel track and bounded by blackberry bushes.

One Christmas, at Ridgemont House on Barton Court Avenue, we were warned by our parents of fast moving traffic on our road which was getting very busy. As we laid in bed we counted the car headlights going past the house. During a whole hour, after we had listened to Jet Morgan's Journey into Space, we counted 11 cars going going past the house in a whole hour. It was indeed getting to be a very busy road.

A year later, I was run over by a car outside our house as I was crossing the road after getting off the bus. The driver broke his leg whilst braking, and rammed a tree outside the house. I sort of bounced off his mudguard and ended up sitting in a three inch deep puddle looking rather startled, but apart from a slight concussion, unhurt. The road was indeed getting rather busy and the cars were definately getting rather faster than our family Armstrong Siddely.

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