Phil & John''s Amazing Journey Part 3 Scouts Field Head And Further Afield

A Memory of Groby.

Heading out of the village, our next port of call is the Scout Hut.  Was it still there?  Well the old gravel path that we used to walk or cycle up was blocked by new buildings.  So back to the main road and a scramble up the grassy bank, through the small wooded area, and there it was.  As luck would have it, due to a children’s party, the hut was open, and we were welcomed in by Paul, the current Scout leader and his able assistant, Sean.  The old building was exactly as it had been when John and I were Sixer and Seconder respectively (he always was in charge) of the Otter Patrol, Leicester 73rd Scout Troop, circa 1970. If truth be known, I joined the Scouts purely on the premise that after meetings, a five-a-side football game usually broke out, sometimes for up to two hours.  I am glad I joined though as the camaraderie and feeling of being part of a group was great.  I loved building zip wires through the trees, the raucous singing around the camp fire and the swimming and canoeing in the old Lawn Wood quarry.  But best of all were the camping trips, usually to the Peak District, in the old Army lorry.  No health and safety regulations back then.  Sean and Paul had heard tales of “Bosun” driving the old vehicle here, there and everywhere with an entire troop of us lads hanging on for dear life in the back.  Seat belts ? No chance. Hang onto the tailgate and hope for the best.  Great  times.  As were the Scout disco’s.  Saturday nights spent trying to pluck up the courage to ask the local girls to dance to T Rex, Slade, Creedence Clearwater Revival and the various Motown acts of that era, were often interrupted by the forbidding entrance of rival gangs from New Parks and Glenfield.  Mayhem usually ensued.  Fun times nevertheless.  Thanking Paul and Sean, John and I set off on the short journey across the playing field (it was an ugly black slag heap back then) to take a look at Martinshaw School.

This was the third and final seat of learning we attended pre high school.  As the front gates were locked we could only view from afar.  John mentioned he had one stand out memory of our days here.  Three guesses.  “Passing the eleven plus surely”, I said.  After all, the thought of not being able to emulate our big sisters, Anne and Jane, and go to the Grammar School at Coalville didn’t bear thinking about.  “No, try again”, said John.  Honing our soccer skills with a tennis ball in the school playground or playing kiss chase with a feigned broken ankle?  No.  Ah, first interest in the opposite sex?  My feelings for a certain young lady were kept a tight secret, though I’m guessing in hindsight she may have had an inkling of my affections  - after all, she was the only girl I offered my lovehearts to (more goodies from the Post Office) whilst stammering with a crimson face!  As an aside, earlier in the day John and I had mused how music plays the backing track to our lives.  How certain songs can transport us back to an exact time and place.  Any early Rolling Stones number and I’m back on the Waltzers at the fair that used to come to the field behind Dr Smalls surgery at the top of Ratby Road.  I can recall the great excitement and expectation of a new single due to be released by the Beatles, Kinks, Hendrix  and  The Who.  Just the guitar intro to ‘Waterloo Sunset’, even before Ray Davies opens his mouth and I’m back in that classroom, trying in vain to be cool as I offer ‘her’ my confectionary.

But I digress, no Johns overriding memory of Martinshaw was us charging down the school hall full pelt, dropping onto our backsides and sliding right off the end of the highly polished floor, down the flight of steps and landing in a heap at the front entrance doors of the school.  The risk of performing this feat had to be weighed up against that of being caught by the lurking School Secretary, Mrs Morris, who would march us off by the ear to her even more feared husband, the headmaster.  But then what was a slap across the legs with a ruler compared to the unbridled joy of “the slide”?

Off next to the Field head, but time was against us.  There was less than an hour left before we were due to be picked up by John’s wife, Margaret, and taken off for some much needed sustenance.  We were still in Groby, and the plan was for the ‘tour’ to end in Markfield, a good three miles away.  As luck would have it, a bus arrived at that very moment, and off we went.  Lucky “chaps” we joked.  Having been dropped off outside John’s old family home, he stopped to chat to a couple of old neighbours as if he’d never left.  I went ahead, as any good scout would, to “get them in” at the Coach and Horses, Johns old local.  No sign of Arthur the old barman in his white jacket and black bowtie, or David Lane the landlord.  A friendly young barmaid served us with our pints of Tiger, just as those aforementioned gentlemen had years ago. She looked slightly bemused as two middle aged punters took photographs of each other in the bar, recreating poses from times past. She directed us to an old photograph of the pub from around a hundred years ago – I’m not sure just how old she thought we were! Margaret arrived to whisk us away to the Queens Head in Markfield, where we swiftly downed another pint, Pedigree this time, whilst chatting to some old footballing colleagues.  I think we’d still be there if we hadn’t previously booked a table at the Curry house where my wife Nikki and daughter Hannah were patiently waiting.

Having downed another couple of beverages and a splendid ‘Ruby’ (should that now be ‘Andy’?) and after watching Mo Farrar glide to gold in the Olympics 5000 metre final, we ended a perfect day.

As we were driven to our respective homes, it struck me that our celebratory tour had barely covered the first half of our 50 year friendship, leaving much scope for future expeditions,  maybe to the hotspots of such far flung places as Leicester and Coalville – maybe even Torquay, Benidorm and Lloret de Mar. All places we visited, along with our other great mates Roger and Nigel, purely for cultural and historic interest of course!  But that was for another day. I would thoroughly recommend to anyone looking to mark a milestone in their life to revisit some of the people and places who form the fabric of their history.

Thanks John, a true and loyal friend.  Here’s to the next 50 years!

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