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  Equally intriguing was the prurient interest in the North's washing line which was visible from a hosiery factory employing rough girls with something of a naughty reputation. It was said that the titillating display of Scott's underwear, pegged out and hanging on the washing line, caused a temporary drop in production as hordes of excited girls rushed over to the windows with leering eyes. On hearing this interesting and intriguing account, Brian, Danny and Dobba sadly reflected on the lesser impact of their own underpants having no power at all to disrupt a factory!

  No one had thought to ask about birthdays. It would have come as a surprise to all members of that particular quartet to find that at the start of July of 1960, they were all still fourteen years old, and all of them born within six days of each other. For all his bulges in all the right places and manly maturity, the tall athletic Scott was in fact the youngest of that group and two days younger than the twins who were born on the very day when the first ever atomic bomb was exploded in the New Mexico desert by the Americans. The flash on that day, which was seen 250 miles away, had cast a shadow over all their lives. The threat of nuclear annihilation was ever present with frightening TV images of a furious little fat bald-headed Nikita Khruschev banging the table at the United Nations with his shoe and threatening to 'bury' us! The prospect of dying a virgin was a constant worry to Dobba.

  But not a worry to the 1960 version of 'The Fonz', when one lazy Saturday afternoon he raced over to Stanley Common to pick up Dobba to accompany him on a cycle ride to Matlock Bath. Hurtling north along the (then quieter) A6, under the mottled glades of overhanging woods, eventually they reached the picturesque Swiss-like resort with its cheerful parade of gift shops and cafes. The lads took comfort and rest, slowly sipping hot steaming tea from old quaint cups. They sat in an ancient tea shop which had probably not changed in half a century, except for the radio, somewhere playing in the back kitchen. Simeon was savouring his tea, trying to catch fragments of lyrics, intermingled with pizzicato strings which enhanced the silvery tones and adolescent nasal sounds of Adam Faith -

  " ... but I can't, resist, the thought of being kissed by - someone else's baby ..."

  A beautiful tune which stayed dancing around his head for the whole of that day.

  They ended up in a rowing boat on the Derwent, deep down inside a heavily wooded green and dank rocky ravine in a soup of delicious air, thick with the scent of ramsons. Girlie giggles from aloft floated down through the sun glinting ferns causing them to look up to see two wenches giving friendly waves. Dobba, embarrassed and awkward was relieved when his companion, panting and struggling with oars, gave an appropriate 'Heanor style' response -

  "Ave got energy fa you dook, but not fa this!"

  High summer endured day after day and mid-July saw the same two friends on that same river just north of the Belper River Gardens. In that gentle, civilised, lost world of Kenneth Grahame, after the style of Rat and Mole, they drifted under the willows enjoying the mottled reflected sunshine under the riverside foliage and heard the friendly Derwent rhythmically lapping their little boat.

  Simeon Hogg was fully aware of the total magic and enchantment of that long summer and fully aware that it would not and could not last. It was all held together by Howitt. The friends and friendship and the stage upon which to perform. Like an ugly unknown blackness, leaving day was remorselessly approaching, followed by the chill wind of autumn. Soon Simeon would be unwillingly creeping away from school.

  Overhead, the occasional flash of white from magpies, and the dank nostalgic scent of tiny starred wild garlic from the bank. The passenger looked affectionately at the happy golden oarsman laughing and splashing and thought - "It will never get better than this!"

  And it never did.

  Chapter 6

  Journey to the Far North

  The approach to the end of term was tinged with sadness. Very soon the Howitt lads would be going their separate ways, into the big world, to work for a living. Responsibility and a harder discipline was not to their taste.

  Having failed to amuse them with yet another 'Silver', Dobba sat down with the twins, Rex and Scott who were somewhat downcast, idly sunning in the playground. It was the last day, Friday, July 22nd. None of them had found jobs and none of them had looked very hard but different possibilities were discussed. Ever teasing and mischievous, Brian said that Dobba would probably go far and achieve high status in a really important post -

  "Yo 'n be 'ead dustman, Dobba!"

  He went on to sing Lonnie Donegan's 'My Old Man's a Dustman', knowing how it irritated his pal since this inane ditty had quickly reached number one in the Hit Parade - overtaking Dobba's beloved 'Maybe Tomorrow' by Billy Fury - which, to his deep chagrin and disbelief had, at best, struggled to reach number 18!

  This banter was part of a mild cycle of teasing which they all enjoyed. Popular records were a principal part of the popular culture. Great loves and hates were formed and regularly disputed in passionate polemics such as when Brian, waving his 'New Musical Express', took malicious pleasure in telling Dobba that his much championed 'This Love I Have For You' by the young Lance Fortune was still languishing down the charts at number 26 - at the same time that the comedian, Ken Dodd, had just reached the dizzy heights of number eight with his (in Howittian terms) mawkish and mushy 'Love Is Like A Violin' - despised all the more by Dobba since hearing his Aunty Joyce sing it whilst pegging out clothes.

  Lonnie Donegan, far too old at the unforgivable age of 29 and Ken Dodd, even older at 31 did not fit Dobba's image of gorgeous young pop stars.

  When these acrimonious exchanges had subsided, Scott suggested that tomorrow he might have a ride up into the Peak and stay somewhere to be able to explore the area for a few days. Rex, who had once cycled up to Buxton [and back in one day] with Scott, immediately enthused about an expedition to the uncharted Far North. This self-invitation was accepted. Dobba was elated when Scott asked him if he and the twins were interested in coming as well. The mood had now become more hopeful.

  That last afternoon, lessons were abandoned and leaving Howittians were allowed to listen to popular records on the old school gramophone played in the canteen. People had little to say to each other. They were reflective and introspective. These last hours were sad with sweet, sensuous melancholia, as staff and pupils heard the nasal strains of Adam Faith singing 'From Now Until Forever' with pizzicato strings - a silver sound for a blue mood. It was played several times, echoing through that large long room: simple words with a simple message of love, hope, companionship and the passing of a lifetime.

  "As the years go rolling by, I'll turn to you and sigh ... "

  A portentous song of separation foreshadowing many divergent paths into the unknown.

  And then it came - the final dismissal.

  Reluctantly and slowly walking up to the bicycle wall, the four were receiving instructions from their leader regarding the Big Trip. Scott and the twins who lived in Heanor would pick up Rex who lived in Horsley Woodhouse two miles to the west -

  "Dobba ad betta be at Rex's ass [house], or we'll go we out 'im!" It made good sense, but, at that moment, a cultured voice chimed in with -

  "Have you given any thought to your accommodation?"

  This was the English master, Mr Matthewman who had over-heard bits of this proposed journey and, as an experienced scout and scoutmaster, was a little concerned about the inadequate planning. Five respectful faces turned to hear more. He pointed out that on the steep hills of the Peak, Brian, Danny and Simeon, inexperienced cyclists, would not find the ride as easy as the more beefy Rex and Scott.

  "What about the best route? Can you read a one inch OS map?"

  Five minutes later they were in the master's room poring over an old cloth map. During previous excursions into Derbyshire, Scott had always taken main routes by simply reading road directions. He was now intrigued by the alternative suggestions being offered involving canal paths, tiny back roads and footpaths through ravines
and dales which eliminated many of the steeper hills. These sensible, quiet, more interesting courses provided an exciting challenge to Scott in his new role as the navigator and avoided the motorcars, lorries and other dangers of the A6.

  'Digs' had not been considered. Mr Matthewman suggested a Youth Hostel but they were not members. He was then struck by an idea. Would they like to stay at a friendly farmhouse with dogs, cats, a sheep and a goat in a remote hamlet near Buxton? This welcome proposal was accepted by a spontaneous hearty cheer - tempered by an ominous silence when a ten shilling fee was mentioned -

  "Mr and Mrs Peirson are old friends of ours and Wellhead Farm is an excellent and interesting 16th century house. For a five course dinner, comfortable bed and substantial breakfast at half their usual terms, that is very good value indeed - not much more that you'd pay at a Youth Hostel. You couldn't expect them to do it for less. Don't forget that you'll need a little extra cash for drinks and small treats."

  This precipitated a short financial conference. The money was not a problem for Scott or Rex who had paper rounds. Simeon had generous parents who both worked. The Forrester twins, much less well off, were more concerned about the affordability of this short holiday on top of the annual August week at Skegness which was already spoken for.

  "A can go. I'll gerrit from me granddad!"

  This was a voice from outside the room, the voice of little 'Titch' Day standing in the doorway who had just invited himself to make the five - now six. Keith Matthewman was touched by the kind lack of dissent and immediate acceptance from the others -

  "You'd better come in here, Tom, if you're going to be one of the team."

  After a few very gentle but firm words about the need for good conduct in representing William Howitt Secondary Modern School and reminding Scott in particular of his special responsibilities as the leader, the schoolmaster disappeared to make a brief long distance telephone-call from Miss McLenin's office to book in six 'reliable well behaved' boys for the following night at Wellhead Farm.

  Mr Matthewman returned and wrote the name and address of their destination on the edge of the time-worn map which he handed to Scott.

  "No need to give it back, it's done good service here. You do understand the route I proposed?"

  "A think so, sir."

  "Good. Mrs Peirson is expecting you at about six - at the latest. You'll need to wash for dinner. Don't bother taking soap or towels, they provide that sort of thing. You all have saddle bags?"

  Six heads nodded. Apart from Scott's new bag, all were serviceable, if battered.

  "Good. Take a toothbrush and a change of clothes in case you get wet. The weather's settled, you should be OK. Puncture outfit and basic tools?"

  Again common assent which left little else but to dismiss the pupils with 'bon voyage' and good luck. He expected an excited dash out of the room but, once more, Keith Matthewman was pleasurably impressed by the way these kids, albeit in their rather rough way, remembered to thank him as best they could for his interest and help.

  Early the next day was bright indeed, sparkling and blue, if a touch cool, when Rex, Dobba and Titch were exhilarated at the sight of Scott and the twins speeding through the village of Horsley Woodhouse. There had been a question mark over the appearance of Brian and Danny, but even in straitened circumstances, money had been eked out to make this treat possible.

  After the four nightmarish, friendless years of Mundy Street, Simeon Hogg found the Forrester home simple, spartan, but diffused throughout with an ineffable quality of consideration, comradeship, caring and kindness. A cheerful atmosphere was presided over by the attractive Mrs Forrester looking more than a decade younger than her 36 years. Those good looks had descended to her twin sons who were not identical and further separated by subtle differences of personality.

  Both had a certain charm which defied analysis, both were buoyant and uplifting, both had fresh faces which were totally unblemished by any unkind or unworthy thoughts - but, the childlike innocence of Danny was not quite so apparent in Brian, whose round baby face and twinkling eyes seemed to mitigate the amiable teasing he so enjoyed. Simeon Hogg the man would often look back over the years and recall these minor pricks to his occasional pomposity. Wind-ups were delivered with Brian's characteristic mischievous grin and the quick sexy sliding out of the tongue - the face which ever haunted, the face which was never to age.

  Chapter 7

  Adventures Along the Cromford Canal

  Initial progress was swift. Six eager cyclists turned right at Four Lane Ends in Horsley Woodhouse, headlonged northwards down the narrow lane to cross Bottle Brook, through Denby Bottles and Smithy Houses into open countryside following the dead straight, old Roman road, Ryknild Street, known locally as Street Lane. Slower progress was made through the more interesting Upper Hartshay and Heage when an old melancholy windmill to the right was intriguing enough to stop them. Suddenly, behind them in creepy tones, a voice said -

  "Can ya still 'ear the creak and sweep of the sails?"

  This was followed by an un-nerving, if gentle chuckle from the old woman who continued -

  "Sometimes we see the ghost of the miller! Yes, ave seen 'im. 'E stands on t' brow o' t' hill watching ghosts of 'orse-drawn wagons, trundling along dusty lanes with sacks of grain to feed into the stone jaws of the 'ungry mill."

  Forcing an artificial laugh followed by a curt 'See ya then', Scott ordered his men to keep in close formation and expect two right turns in Nether Heage which were going to be tricky. Hurtling down a very steep hill, they quickly negotiated a knot of old quaint houses in this small nucleated back-water: too quickly for Simeon who was seeing this little gem for the first time. He felt a pang of sadness that such beauty had to be rushed instead of savoured and marvelled at the extraordinary diversity of landscape just a few miles from his home. Indeed, the cycling summers of 1959 and 1960 started his love affair with Derbyshire. It would make such a deep and lasting impression, that Simeon Hogg would attempt to re-visit his youth and repeat that experience by crossing the Atlantic Ocean 70 times to savour 35 English summers for the remaining years of that century.

  The peace of a hamlet called Ridgeway, briefly shattered by a short section of the busy Ambergate to Ripley road, was restored after they pedalled under the main Derby to Chesterfield railway line and up to a small community called Bulbridge. A narrow footpath on the left of another bridge over the Cromford Canal led them onto the tow path and into a magnificent wooded valley created by the River Derwent flowing southwards from the distant High Peak.

  Entering an attractive quiet nature reserve was a pleasant contrast to sharing a road with motor vehicles. Suddenly they were alone on this industrial through-way which had been disused and gently decaying since they were born. If slightly eerie at first, they soon soaked up the special canal atmosphere of ducks, coots and dabchicks nicely shielded by tall grasses, yellow flag and bulrushes - all illuminated by glittering, mottled sunshine reflected from the water and the deep blue sky.

  Titch squealed with excitement when he saw a water vole, Brian tried to persuade Dobba that an enormous dragonfly was, in fact, an ugly fairy but, he was more interested in a small island of assorted small sticks in the canal centre. Several tiny fluffy black faces were peeping out of the safety of soft downy feathers belonging to a mother moorhen sitting on her nest keeping her chicks warm and cosy. It was getting warmer and Rex, who tanned well, stuffed his shirt into the saddlebag.

  Suddenly they were transfixed with fascinated horror by an ancient rotting longboat, slowly, year on year, being consumed into deep black mud. It seemed sad and symbolic of a lost age, a vessel with many tales to tell of old Derbyshire - but must remain untold.

  The old fashioned dank smell of the canal mixed agreeably with pungent creamy meadowsweet which filled the morning air. It was late July and the ferns and meadowsweet were already higher than the mounted boys. Moving along, the lush foliage alternated between light and dark - mainly clinging dark ivy, sy
camore, oak and alder. Still waters littered with leaves were agitated when baby ducks and coots darted and tweeted around in search of morsels.

  Minutes later their progress was arrested by an old man with long shoulder-length white hair standing on the tow path. Scott had an urge to say 'Look, Ben Gunn!' but was restrained by a sudden foreboding that they were about to be reprimanded for trespassing on British Waterways property.

  "Nar then! Wot's all this? Where yo gooin'?"

  Scott gave a polite and respectful itinerary which seem to pacify the questioner. In his roughly spoken manner, the old gentleman gave them a brief summary of points of interest not to be missed along the way. It was one of those rare moments which made an impression and would always be remembered in the life of Simeon Hogg. With an extraordinary economy of words, this (apparent) local yokel gave an effective, if brief, history lesson, made all the more vivid and intelligible to the wide ability range before him by using clear plain language and simple analogy. In short he was a good, if unlettered, teacher.

  Hand dug by labourers with spades 166 years before, this artificial river was created for the purpose of making it easy for heavy goods to be pulled by horses between Cromford and Nottingham at a time when roads were generally much worse than the pathway upon which they were standing. There was a need to keep the waterway as level as possible. They should watch out for a point when the canal plunged straight into the bowels of the earth: a place called Gregory Tunnel.