Cars, Trains, Guns and things

[johnfilmer]

 Last year I had a letter delivered, which was not in itself unusual, but its circumstances were.

 
It was addressed (by hand) to me by my full name, and the address was of the house where we lived when I was aged 7-21. Not only that, the version of the address was the old one which had been changed in the mid 60s, as a "housename", London Road, Newington was pretty unfindable without local knowledge, especially as we were a mile from the village, and not actually on the A2.

 
Someone in the sorting office at Sittingbourne had wrote across it "Try Solomons" a reference to the old listed building Solomons Temple, nearby our present home. We also come under Sittingbourne sorting office and I wonder if my middle name – Filmer – had been the trigger, it also being my elder son's name, and he lived here for a couple of years.

 
It was delivered to me about 10days after being posted 2nd class from Ashford, so all praise to our local Posties.

 
Unfortunately it contained news of the death of a figure who influenced many of my interests that have gone recorded in this long waffle. This was Graham Clifford, who was the organist and choirmaster at St Mary, Newington when I first knew him.

 
He taught me to sing, to read music and perform in front of the congregation. His interest in railways chimed with mine, and he taught me about live steam locomotives, how to build them, and the use of the tools to do it, and how to drive them. I gave a little help in his new project to build a church organ at Herne Bay. His influence put me firmly on the engineering path, which in itself also took me into guns, a fascination with their mechanisms leading to many years of competitive target shooting.

 
My old choir Second and I were both remembered in his will, obviously because of the effort that the three of us put into that very special RSCM choir service at St Paul's in 1964.

 
I decided to spend his money on something train related, something still close to his heart as he left ten times my legacy to the KESR.

 
So, with an empty garage I decided to resurrect my old Hornby Dublo 3 Rail train set, and using some scrap bits of timber and board made a space for a test track.

 
A first requirement was for a controller, easily sourced over the internet, and one identical to that we used on my son's layout, a Gaugemaster, quickly appeared. A good service was needed for all the locomotives, and new brushes, brush springs and high output Neo magnets started the process to revitalise 60+year old toys.

 
I started buying job lots of track from eBay to replace and enhance that which I still had. I did some Utube research and found Julian Coles, a retired expat in France who was doing what I wanted to do, play with his childhood trains, but he had an added twist. He, as an electronics engineer, had applied modern control systems to his ancient trains. He also took it another step further, using miniature equipment that he could hide under the rails.

 
So I looked further into dcc (digital command control) and although I have had a fairly passing acquaintance with electronics over the years I am out of date beyond belief. So I joined MERG, Model Electronics Railway Group, and started to try and understand what felt like a foreign language.

 
I decided that my first project was to motorise my turntable, as Hornby never made a motorised 3 rail one. Merg did a kit for the electronics, which came as a bare printed circuit board and bag of bits. My soldering skills were extremely rusty, but it all went together and tested OK, thanks in a great part to a secondhand commercial grade Weller soldering iron that my younger son got me as a birthday present. So I dismantled the table, and came up with a cunning plan for the mechanical bits, machining an adaptor to connect the bridge of the turntable (the bit that goes round) to a stepper motor mounted underneath. It was not totally satisfactory and eventually I realised that the base of the turntable was distorted, and replacement was found.

 
Now I can select which of the exit "roads" that I want with a rotary switch, and which end of the bridge to use, press the go button, and it does it. It has acceleration (adjustable) and speed adjustment. All the setting up is done with the bridge travelling clockwise. The electronics determine the quickest way to the set position, and if this means rotating anti clockwise it overshoots then backs back to remove free play in the gearbox.

 
With the conventional DC control, you drive the track, varying the voltage to change the speed of the one loco that can be on that track. Dcc puts constant voltage onto that track but encodes commands within the signal, which are picked up by the locos, and the decoder on board reacts to signals intended for it alone to alter speed etc as commanded. Other locos do not take any notice, only if it is their code, so many locos can be run simultaneously by more than one operator. Many other accessories also operate vis the dcc signal, points, signals and any other bits of electrically driven scenery.

 
I have only converted one locomotive to dcc at the moment, as the global shortage of electronic components has even reached down to model trains. The slow speed running of a 65year old 4-6-2 loco is incredible and I am now testing its ability. Running slowly it can cross 7 points and 2 diamond crossovers, all within 2m end to end, without the need for the "Hand of God" to intervene.

 
So now I am building MERG point decoders and signal drivers to automate the basic running of a planned layout that I have started constructing around  a large part of the garage. Changing points and driving a loco using my iPad is strangely intuitive. It is all a massive work in progress, that will not have trees and grass, this will be as Hornby Dublo was marketed, just the basics, the rest is imagination.

 

[johnfilmer]

 The saga continues…

 
Almost two years ago I wrote that my Tiger kit car build was nearly complete. The various lockdowns had enabled me to work on the car, finishing the interior trim and generally working my way around the vehicle to ensure compliance for its IVA test.

 
Actually getting an IVA test was another matter, with commercial considerations understandably pushing amateur built vehicles further back down the queue. Also it seemed that the inspectors were now forbidden to help, or allow the presenter of the vehicle to adjust anything – headlights and speedo settings being common. Only one person was allowed to present the vehicle, remove covers when asked and manoeuvre it about the test area.

 
Here another harsh reality arrived. Getting into the car was easy, gravity is on your side, but I found getting out to be a major issue, especially if I might be needed to repeat this a few times.

 
I had thought to use my elder son, but he had no concept of the reasons behind many of my design tweaks, and almost certainly if I explained it all he would lose the will to live.

 
So I hung on, intending to send off the application early this year after a bit more of the dust had settled. Sod's Law intervened and the fuel pump howled but did not stop, which indicates that it is not actually pumping. If it was an outlet blockage it would react in the same way as the float chambers shutting off when full, and stop. So most likely the inlet filter, located under the nearside rear corner. These days of biofuel mixtures can encourage the growth of "Gorilla Snot" a very descriptive phrase for the gloop that can block filters.

 
I tried three times to just remove the filter, but I could not get myself into the right position to exert enough power to shift the retaining bolt. It had been fitted before the bodywork was in position and so came down from the top. My access was now from below only. The last straw was my wife, on entering the garage, found me almost unable to get out from under the car, basically doing the beetle on its back impression.

 
So with a heavy heart I advertised it for sale, and quickly got some interest, culminating in a sale to a guy who drove from near the Welsh border to collect it.

 
He had got badly caught in traffic and was running very late when they arrived to collect it. Such a lot of information that I thought that he should know, was never said, and they headed back off for the 200mile return trip.

 
I now had an empty garage. I eBayed the engine hoist and a few other large lumps and specialist bits. Tidied it all up and had a good sweep up, then shut the doors and went off to wonder, what next?

[MartinR]

(OT, none of this was in Kent)  Yup, I can remember hiking off to a scout camp with a sheath knife hanging from my belt on one side, and a hand axe on the other.  I learnt to use the "long tools": felling axe, sledge hammer and pick axe, useful skills to this day.  We also learnt to tie proper knots, and at home Dad took no prisoners (he was National Service Navy).  Last time I tied a bowline - earlier today.

[johnfilmer]

And another thing….


I have been thinking about some of things that we were allowed, or even encouraged, to do in our past which are no longer available, or even illegal for the later generations. Even little things, like pressing button B every time we went past an old red telephone box, and sometimes you actually got someone’s 4d, so off to the sweet shop!

 If reports are to be believed then there could be a reintroduction of the deposit on bottles. It certainly motivated many youngsters to collect them and get the deposits to be spent unwisely, usually in the sweet shop where the bottles had been taken. There were those who also mastered the art of collecting bottles from the rear of the shop then boldly marching round to the front to claim their reward.


In the Scouts we all carried at least a penknife. I still have a WW2 military one that I used to have hanging from the belt hook. However a sheath knife was far more desirable, and there is a photo of me at camp in Bedgebury, aged 11 with a such a knife on my belt.

 Lock knives were encouraged as being safer than other folding knives, as they could not fold up without pressing some sort of release catch. They are still advocated as such in gardening circles, but walk out into the big wide world with one in your pocket and in law you have an offensive weapon, no excuses.

 I use various axes (the joys of country living and foraging to feed a wood burner) and remember being taught in the Scouts how to carry and use both a hand and felling axe, then left to get on with it with just enough supervision from a more senior scout.


We had, and used, pea shooters and catapults. Most of my rural friends had an air rifle.


Obviously, talking weapons, my pistol shooting days are unrepeatable. I am pleased that I was able to teach both my sons to shoot, as I think that an appreciation of the weapon’s real life potential, rather than the screen portrayal is important. Luckily, in general, my generation has not had to learn this lesson the hard way from the wrong end of the barrel.


Back to the Scouts. The Bedgebury camp was on the private school part, and we went there and back in the back of a dropside lorry, sitting on our kitbags and tents. Seat belts? What seats!


I have always liked models that can do something to fire the imagination, even if it is only to float. I made a balsa wood boat at junior school, thin sheet over a frame to give a classic speedboat outline. This was painted once at home with a pale green gloss found in the garden shed.


After that, at school, I made a glider which successfully flew a couple of times but needed more push into the air. The plans showed two options, a catapult arrangement, or a Jetex motor. Give me a motor any day. A Jetex motor is a metal chamber less than half an inch diameter, with a spout end (like a single hole salt shaker) that unscrews. Mine took two pellets, again about half an inch long, and a piece of Jetex fuse was wound into a spiral, the end taken through a fine metal mesh which covered the pellets. The spout was screwed back on with the fuse protruding. The whole contraption clipped back into its holder on the glider, and the fuse lit, by an adult when at school. The chemical pellets burnt quickly but gave a short powerful push, all very jet-age in 1960.


A couple of landings soon showed up my flimsy workmanship and the glider was scrap.


However, at home I had an elastic band powered plane that didn’t go far. Jetex engine mounted to the top of the high winged monoplane, elastic wound up, fuse lit and it went like a bird. Tried it again to show parents, and the timing went awry, the elastic ran out a bit early and with the nose pointed down the Jetex cut in. The resulting spectacular crash was the undoing of that toy.


Mounted on the back of the speedboat the Jetex was amusing but difficult to deal with in a domestic bath!

 The fuse burnt in a satisfying cartoon (think Road Runner) fashion, like a flexible miniature sparkler. It was put to many uses over the years, most involving explosions, some by fireworks, one or three by home made potions.


The fuse and pellets were easily bought at Beaney’s(?) model shop by the bottom of Ufton Lane in Sittingbourne. They probably came under the same regulations as the caps for our toy pistols, also bought from the same place.


Fireworks were eagerly anticipated and were only generally available just before November. My father was a huge fan and there was a ritual going to the shop to choose the display, which we held, every year, in the back garden. A Guy was always made with one of Dad’s old work boiler suits, stuffed gloves for hands, someone’s old shoes tied on and a brightly coloured papier mache mask from the shop over an old pillow case sewn up to form a head. An old hat finished him off.

The actual fireworks would look very tame to modern eyes, as there were no display quality offerings. However, we would have pockets stuffed with penny bangers (or even some 3d ones) and Jumping Jacks, which were usually set off behind either elderly neighbours or sisters.

 Popping out from behind a tombstone with a torch pointing up under your face was a fairly common amusement at winter choir practice, but the added hiss of a lit banger, thrown by an accomplice, landing behind the victim was quite satisfying.


While I suspect that private model steam engine driving is still not a problem, I also suspect that the Safe and Elfty brigade would have kittens at the thought of a 12/13yr old spending hours hauling paying passengers as I did.


Three schoolfriends and I went on the Norfolk Broads for a week. We were only 18 and had a wonderful time. I can see why such bookings are now almost impossible.

The huge rate of attrition of young motorcyclists in the 1960s was quite understandable given the optional wearing of helmets, complete lack of formal tuition and a test procedure that I found at best comical. The tester told me to drive around the block (Bower Mount area of Maidstone) and on one of the roads he would step out with his clipboard held up, and I had to make an emergency stop as if a child had run out. I saw his feet under the parked cars, so when he appeared I had already slowed, and stopped so quickly, and so far from him, that he had to wave to me to come forward.


I had the pleasure, when recently punting around for car insurance renewal quotes, to be able to answer the nice young lady’s question of “how long have you held a full licence” with a simple “50years”. I checked, and the number of cars on the road has more than trebled in this time, which also goes a long way to explain the lack of parking. The convenience of pulling up outside the place that you wanted to go and being able to park there is long gone. Even as a university student only a year or two after passing my test I had learned to parallel park with the best of them, as by then pressure on parking in Birmingham was starting to bite, even if Sittingbourne was a little behind.


I could stop off at my sister’s house near Northampton on my way to and from Birmingham and remember giving her and her three children (all then under 6) a lift back to Kent. The three of them sat on the back seat, gloriously unrestrained, shouting “faster Uncle John” as we came down the M1. My Morris 1000 was unable to comply.

 Old cars have always held an attraction, and in the 1970s were mainly valued as usable and entertaining devices and not investments worth silly money. However many of the new vehicles of this period are now “classics”, even if their rarity is likely to be due their ability to rust into oblivion. Drive one now and rather than being transported (pun intended) back to those glorious days, many simply show how far we have come since then. Wipers that don’t lift off the screen at a modest speed, and effective washers rather than a hand held fairy liquid bottle out the open window for starters. Actually starters themselves. The clang of the inertia starter pinion hitting the ring gear on a Ford flywheel was quite distinctive!


Try a set of sealed beam headlamps instead of the halogen or LED ones now in use, they were dire. Of course these had replaced ordinary bulbed headlamps, and the 6volt versions were even worse. My father and grandfather both spoke in favour of the performance of pre-war acetylene lamps against the 1950s offerings.


Drum brakes, that would fade away when hot on a long descent. Servo assistance, well that would be along soon, but in the meantime your average family saloon did not stop well. The stopping distances in the Highway Code are quite long for today’s vehicles, but probably realistic back then. Although the Dunlop Maxaret aircraft anti lock braking system had been adapted for the Jensen Interceptor FF in the mid 60s, such was the cost and complexity that these systems remained out of reach to normal mortals for a couple of decades. When I went for a job interview at Girling in 1972 they were just getting into ABS research and development, obviously without major breakthrough as they were letting a bunch of freshly graduated engineers poke about and look all over their prototypes.

 Every car now has power steering. Drive even a small car from the an earlier era and the weight of the steering is so high, normally coupled to an enormous thin rimmed steering wheel. The free play in the steering boxes meant that many wandered about, and were not so much steered, but aimed in a general direction.


The early power steering units were often too light and direct giving no “feel” for what was happening to the front wheels. Hence our first year University project was to redesign the early XJ6 steering rack that was notoriously vague, and we were even helped and encouraged by its specialist manufacturers, Adwest.

 At the time I really had no idea how lucky I had been in my education. I have previously mentioned that my first school was in the barracks huts of an old anti-aircraft battery at the top of Bettescombe Road Rainham. However they pushed me to high standards despite the rather basic surroundings.


The post war baby boom meant that more children needed to be accommodated into the education system, and to some extent this meant building new schools or extending existing ones, but also quite large class sizes. At least 40 per class throughout my junior school.

I found the 11+ relatively easy, and became one of the 52 pupils admitted to the two first year forms at Borden Grammar School. Whilst I do not wish to get into a political debate on schools, I can merely observe that I found it a system that generally suited me, and with boys from hugely diverse backgrounds.


As with many schools it would seem, there was a lack of useful careers advice. It mainly consisted of a room full of old university prospectuses, military careers booklets and a few “Janet and John” level pamphlets of what was needed for actual job descriptions.


Actual careers advice, rather than what and where to study next, from a teacher who had done nothing other than train then teach, was a little thin. Even the selection of subjects to study, first at O Level, then A Level was a bit hit and miss. Time tabling was the first hurdle, as the core subjects for obvious combinations needed to be available. This also meant that taking some subjects excluded others. You could not do Physics and Art I remember, and I was quite good at Art.

 Although I wanted to be an engineer my science subjects curiously meant that I could not do Technical Drawing. Luckily my interest in model engineering had led me to learn how to read drawings, but did not prepare me for actually having to produce them at University. We were taught using free-standing drawing boards, that were angled up towards the rear. No parallel motion systems, just a Tee Square (I still have, and occasionally use, mine) and set squares. Knowing how to correctly sharpen the 2B pencils with a knife to get the proper line thickness was a black art.


Computer aided design? – the computers were all housed in air-conditioned rooms and were the size of a range of kitchen units.


Calculators were slide rules or log tables and a pencil and paper.


At school we went from using c.g.s. metric measurements where the base units were Centimetre, Gramme, Second, to m.k.s. which use Metre, Kilogramme, Second. Very confusing as certain important constants change magnitude between the two systems. Just to finish me off, when I got to university it changed over to S.I. (Systeme International) units. Thereafter the metric system and I have had a fairly shaky relationship.


I was probably not alone, a large picture of a be-wigged gentleman in a frock coat clutching a Thompson machine gun, posed as the famous photo of Churchill, was displayed in the Mechanical Engineering Students Common Room, captioned as “One Killer Newton”.


[Note - One Kilonewton (one thousand Newtons) is the SI unit of force equivalent to 224.81 pounds force, but you all knew that anyway…]


This picture was computer printed onto wide music lined paper from the line printer in the computer room, and consisted of characters that someone had programmed by punch card to produce the image.


Housing was simpler for most. In 1973 I joined a house share near Meopham, and when the leaseholder moved on for a job promotion I simply asked the agents if I could take it over from her. Having done so, as long as the rent was paid and the neighbours didn’t complain, we were left in peace. My sub-tenants came and went over the next four years without the agents having any knowledge of who they were. Now each occupant must be vetted (usually at a cost) before the agents will approve them, and then they will be added to the lease with equal rights and responsibilities as the original tenant.

 However, of the two tenants of the house in Gillingham that my sisters and I inherited from our grandfather, one was a Controlled Tenant, the other a Regulated Tenant. In practice this legal protection meant that we received a pittance in rent, which in turn meant that we had no money to make improvements, and because we could apply to have a new rent if we did improve the property, the tenants were quite happy with the status quo.

 Lastly, communications. If you have handwriting like mine, when at times even I don’t know what is written, then word processing is a dream. I have used various programs for work since 1984 and to be able to revise what has already been written would have altered my ability to provide legible history essays. This was a subject that fascinated me but because everything was driven by written essay style work I did not do well and lost interest in the subject at school.

 I found myself saying “answers on a postcard” the other day. Since when has any programme asked for written replies? It is all now so immediate, go online or text, and vote now…


A photo dated 1924 shows my grandfather at the wheel of his Bull-nosed Morris Oxford. On the back is written “The good old days”. I suspect that the warm glow of nostalgia makes us all think that way from whichever point the perspective is taken.

[johnfilmer]

 Other Things

 
Music

 
I have a vague memory of an early music lesson (aged 6ish) where we had a large sheet of symbols on the wall in the Hall of the Camp School in Rainham, and the appropriate drum, cymbal, triangle or other noise making thing to bang or shake were meant to be hit at the moment indicated. I always got the triangle, but really, really, wanted the drum. I have great sympathy for Baldrick in the opening credits of Blackadder 4.

 
My mother was a competent pianist and there was always a piano in the house, only superseded by an electronic organ when she moved back to Rainham to a small bungalow. Although I never learned to play I knew the keys.

 
At Barrow Grove school I learnt to play the recorder, and although I only ever played the descant recorder, once we had progressed other pupils were playing ones with lower registers. My first introduction to playing in harmony. I learnt to read music – crudely, but I could get by.

 
I joined the Church Choir at Newington, and although not a particularly strong voice, I could sing quite well. I went to a couple of RSCM (Royal School of Church Music) day courses in Canterbury, then on a week long residential course at their then headquarters at Addington Palace in Croydon. This took place during the first week of January 1963, so leisure activities consisted mainly of digging our way out to the road and snowball fights.

 
I went to another in the summer, that I remember best for a group of us sight-reading (singing something without any practice) the Hallelujah Chorus, just for fun.

 
Weddings were a useful source of income. Half a crown a time, sometimes twice some Saturdays, was very welcome boost to my pocket money.

 
Fashions in church matters in the 60s were best demonstrated by the binding of the couples hands in the wedding service (as in Princess Margaret's service) and, of course, the dropping of the "obey" promise. At Christmas the service of carols and lessons from Kings College was on the radio, then TV and copied everywhere. Inevitably this meant the unaccompanied singing of the first verse of  "Once in Royal David's City" by a single voice, from the back of the church before the whole choir began singing, now with the organ, as they walked in procession slowly up the aisle to their places.

 
Lance did the solos, but on the day he had flu. I get really nervous and self conscious, so not me then. However there was nobody else that I could con into doing it, so after a rather faltering start it was, as they say, alright on the night.

 
I occasionally played the recorder both as part of the choir, and soloist.

 
Because our choir was regularly involved in courses we were invited to send two choristers to the RSCM Festival. This was held at St Paul's Cathedral, and as I was now Head Chorister, I went with Lance, my Second. It was very inspiring, and not a little daunting, but with nearly 300 voices it was impressive, especially the echo! I still have my Order of Service and all the music.

 
Shortly afterwards my voice began to break and my choristers career as a treble was over.

 
When I first joined the choir, the organ was located in the South Chapel, which meant that the organist could see the choir through a mirror and even then only through some tracery, very unsatisfactory. Shortly after that the organ was rebuilt, and this time the console was sited remotely between the pews and the choir. Much better as the organist could then see directly what was happening in the chancel and could conduct the choir better. I made a scale model of this part of the organ that did well in both the school model competition and one in Rainham.

 
While the organ was in bits across the pews we all tried blowing the large wooden bass pipes and generally being a nuisance. I cannot recall the company of organ builders, but they must have been asked to remove the Sheerness Dockyard Church organ, and the choir went to "help" by carrying pipes out to the van. To us it was just a day out with sandwiches and lemonade.

 
I kept in touch with the organist and choirmaster as he was the builder of the steam locos, and who was teaching me basic metalwork to maintain his and then start to build my own. After a dispute with the then Vicar, he had resigned from Newington and was now organist at St Bartholomew's at Herne Bay. The catch was there was no proper organ.

 
An old tracker action (purely mechanical) organ was dismantled and removed from Hollingbourne church by professional organ builders, we were simply the labourers. Although the bellows had long ago been fed from an electric blower, the wooden hand pump lever was still in situ and could be used. On the panelling next to it was a carefully carved image of a WW2 fighter.

 
The organ was taken to Herne Bay and its rebuilding was started into the organ loft above the chancel of this 20^th Century church. The plan was to rebuild it as an electro-mechanical instrument. Every Saturday I picked Graham up in my Morris Minor and we went and spent the day working on the organ. Some pieces he could work on at home such as building pneumatic servos to operate the stops (ranks of pipes, each with a different sound). Some old wooden parts had paper gaskets between them with copperplate handwriting on it, recycling is not new!

 
There was now a basic organ that could be used. I was merrily sitting on top of the thing inserting pipes, wearing a boiler suit, hat, scarf and gloves because of the dust, when I glanced down the church. People! In response to my question as why they were there, Graham replied that there was a wedding at 3pm, but that was ages yet. No, his watch had stopped, it was five to three, so I took a bow off the top of the organ, and positioned myself next to the instrument. What we had not refitted were the servos for the stops, so I became them for the day. With an agreed code, I worked the few available stops (sliding boards that opened up that rank of pipes to air from the bellows if the key was pressed) while Graham played. It all seemed to go alright, he got paid, and I got a work out.

 
Tuning the beast was boring but very satisfying at the same time. The older pipes were tuned by expanding (belling out) their mouths to effectively shorten them, or closing them to make them longer. With soft lead alloy pipes this is relatively easy but also easy to crack the lead. Later pipes have sliding end pieces, much simpler. As the pipes had been moved, stored in the church, then moved up into the organ loft, atmospherics meant many were out of tune when first assembled. The first rank had been tuned from a single pipe, that was itself tuned to a tuning fork. Once that rank was stable it became easier. When two identical notes are not quite correctly tuned there will be beats (pulses of sound as the two frequencies clash), and tuning by ear is to remove these beats. Very time consuming.

 
I left him to it when I went off to University in 1969 , I have not been back, I really must.

 
I continued singing in the school choir, some major works were attempted, but by far the most enjoyable (on many levels) were the Gilbert & Sullivan operas that we did with the nearby Girls school. The great attraction was that all the rehearsals and performances were at the Girls school. Rehearsals started in the autumn term, then soloists were chosen who did even more rehearsal. By mid way through the spring term we could sing it all, from memory. By Easter we were on stage and starting to get the theatrical bits sorted. Once exams were passed in the summer much time was spent just getting it right, again and again.

 
The sets were designed and painted by the girls art classes. A couple of all day run throughs during the summer holidays, then at the start of the autumn term it was performed. The costumes were hired, we did a full dress rehearsal. after a few minor checks, then performed to a paying audience for three or four nights. I did four productions. The Mikado (chorus), Ruddigore (Old Adam), Iolanthe (Lord Mount Ararat) and Pirates of Penzance (Sergeant of Police). The last one meant me missing a couple of days of the University Freshers Week to come back and perform.

 
I have not sung in public since.

 
Music is still important, but I listen when the fancy takes me, to what I fancy listening to at the time. This could be Bach Toccata and Fugue in d minor on an organ, or the Sky version. Glenn Miller, some serious opera or Rock Music and any and everything in between.

 
Odds and Sods (various memories)

 
Going to our neighbours to watch a flickering little TV set with a magnifying glass device over the screen, and having to draw the heavy curtains at my Grandparent's house so we could watch Bill and Ben.

 
The joy when walking back home from school and realising that there was a TV aerial on the chimney of OUR house – 1957?

 
My Grandfather telling me about Trojan cars with solid tyres getting stuck in the tram lines – mind you he told me about quite a few things that Mr Google leads me to disbelieve!

 
Pre school age, sitting on the back doorstep with my mother sharing a pomegranate – as the daughter of a greengrocer she had eaten them as a special treat.

 
Waiting for "Listen with Mother" to come on the radio, with its distinctive "pinky-pong, pinky-pong" theme.

 
Watching the moon landing with my grandfather who was born 19years before the Wright Brothers hopped along in a biplane, and not expecting anything like that sort of advance in my lifetime, what else would we do?

 
One day while at Birmingham University (1970?), we Mechanical Engineering students were invited by the Maths department to attend a lecture being given by their guest speaker. He turned out to be Barnes Wallis. He appeared on stage greeting the applause with smiles, and then asked very nicely if there were “any gentlemen of the press” in the audience. There were, and his manner changed completely as he ordered them out. Now! He did not touch upon the Dambusters bouncing bomb, but instead referenced his earlier experiences with airships – his R100 worked, the R101 crashed. He thought that we should keep the connections with the old colonies such as Australia and South Africa by trading using modern versions of such craft.

 
He also was involved in swing wing aircraft design, a hot topic then as the F111 was in the news. He was quite disparaging - “they put a bloody tail on it” - as his own swing wing designs and models (film of them flying was shown) were all tail less, those tail functions apparently being dealt with by the swing wings themselves moving independently.
My eldest sister took her maths degree and went off to work with early computers on projects such as the Blue Streak missile. Her overall boss was… Barnes Wallis. Certainly by 1960 I had some computer programming punch cards to take to school. Ten years later and we still used them to run the Mech Eng department computer, and the University main computer a UK9 that my sister said was still a pile of wires and valves when she left the industry to have children.

 
Back in Birmingham, the two most popular shows in the Students Union TV room (in colour, circa1970) – The Magic Roundabout, and Star Trek, the latter to various (mostly amusing) comments, especially to the line "lock onto his co-ordinates".

 
Working on my Morris Minor, at home near Newington, one sunny summer day in 1968 and hearing the roar of aero engines, looked up to see many Spitfires and Hurricanes as the filming of The Battle of Britain went on overhead. Followed by going indoors to tell my mother, when the noise started again, "they're back" I cried, and a very solemn mother replied, "those aren't ours". A quick dash outside, and no they were not.

 
Later living near Headcorn we saw many historic aircraft, I think that we must have been under some flight path that they used. We were also treated to the annual visit by a WW2 fighter to display over the old Headcorn airfield (Egerton Forstal) in their tribute to the fallen. They would sometimes turn over us to return for another pass, you could almost count the rivets, and that spine tingling engine noise...

 
I was frequently mocked for running out into the garden because of some aero engine noise, especially if I thought it was a Merlin. One day I rushed out because there was more than one and was rewarded by my only glimpse of a flying Mosquito, possibly my favourite aeroplane.

 
We went to Duxford as a family, I had my 35mm camera, and used a whole 36exposures, hoping to relive the visit with my sons once the pictures were developed. I had spent the whole day snapping away and the film had never engaged, not a single picture. I do love digital!

 
Watching the Lancaster from the Battle of Britain flight heave itself around at very (to me) low level over the field behind our house as it turned for another run at Headcorn was impressive, even to my eldest son who is not really a plane person.

 
I am not good at heights (or boats for that matter) but gladly followed as a chase vehicle while my wife and her friend went up in a small hot air balloon from Headcorn, following them over past Staplehurst, and watching in awe of his control while the pilot kept it just a few feet off the ground while they got the farmer's permission to land.

 
This was not a commercial flight, the two brothers (both very practical farmers) who owned the balloon were well known to Sally's friend and they liked to have three or four people with them as ballast. A few weeks later and late on a Saturday Sally had a phone call, did she want to go up again tomorrow? And would I go as well, as the friend was otherwise busy. With some bravado I said yes, then spent a sleepless night regretting it. 6am at Headcorn and we took off in the misty dawn. Very impressive and enjoyable, and home for a late breakfast. Our pilot had heavily annotated maps (where to avoid because of angry farmers, livestock and temporary hazards such as cranes, spring to mind) a GPS to confirm his position, radio to the chase car with trailer, and another to the aerodrome.

 
We often saw the larger balloons such as that from Leeds Castle, some even landed in the field behind us, but I was never tempted again.

[johnfilmer]

 The Good Life

 
I grew up in a family that grew fruit and veg in the garden, and without a freezer (or even a fridge until the 60s) it was eaten seasonally or stored in the shed, bottled, pickled or made into jam. The smell of apples sat in trays in the shed roof is still with me today. It did mingle with the slightly "off" smell from the  silver paper, milk bottle tops and pie dishes, among other things that had been collected for the Guide Dogs for the Blind, that my mother did with the Townswomen's Guild (think WI but less Jerusalem).

 
I helped in the garden, partially out of interest, but once Dad was ill it became a necessity, certainly after he died. Therefore by my late teens, I had a reasonable idea about how to do things, and the techniques used.

 
Once I was away at University my mother soldiered on but after my Grandfather died (it was his house that the family lived in) she moved to a small bungalow back in Rainham. This had a small garden that she could easily manage.

 
I ended up, aged 22, living in a rented house in Culverstone, near Meopham. This I sublet to a variety of interesting characters over the next five years. One of these characters made the mistake of "hiding" his tall, green plants in the field. Unfortunately in summer 1976 the field died back to brown, leaving his well-tended, 6ft high plants very obvious. Good evening Officer.

 
Eventually we had a stable group, and we decided to grow some veg, and also kept a dozen chickens in one of the three Nissan huts in our large field.

 
Another of the huts was used as a temporary stable for a young horse that belonged to a local barmaid and girlfriend of a local (Pete) with whom we were good friends. It had a name, but because it was of Irish origin Pete would talk to it in a (bad) fake Irish accent and kept calling it Seamus. In a fairly short time the horse became known only as Seamus.

 
I got roped into helping get hay off the fields and into their barn, borrowing a dropside Transit from work. No problem until the next time when I was shown how to use a pitchfork to load bales onto a trailer. Lets just say that it is harder than it looks until you get the knack of it. I developed hay fever which has returned every year since.

 
When I bought my first house it had a small, terraced garden in which my dog reigned supreme, so nothing fancy grew. However, my girlfriend had bought a horse and this was kept as cheaply as possible in various locations around Snodland, then later on some ground just down the road with the other young horse she had now acquired.

 
Once we were living in the same house, the question of where to live next was starting to be asked. I had gone from needing a lodger to help pay the bills when I first bought the house, to seeing my wages rise as responsibility at work increased. She had worked in a pub to fund the animals (there was also her dog, and two cats...) but she also had an increasingly responsible job for SEGAS and for a brief period we were comfortable, even putting the horses into a livery.

 
After a few false starts we eventually found a small semi-detached cottage with an acre and a bit of grass and a few outbuildings. We cursed all those people who had bought these small houses, then extended the house out of our price range. What did we do ten years later? Oops.

 
The underlying soil was clay, such that when we first dug one border it was with a pickaxe. However over the years the application of well rotted manure, in industrial quantities, changed that completely.

 
Pete came down and gave us a hand. He had abandoned being an electrician and pump engineer and was now a self-employed gardening contractor. We cleared the field of brambles (with a chain saw!), ran a cultivator over the veg patch, and shifted some bulky feed bins in the back of his Standard Atlas pick up (remember them?). Then he emigrated to Australia to join the rest of his family.

 
We grew our own again.

 
Then parenthood. Our son was allergic to cows milk, and in 1981 alternatives did not fill the supermarket shelves. Sally's answer was typical, she brought home a goat. Unfortunately its name was the same as my business partner's wife-oh well, life goes on. Mandy was an Anglo-Nubian goat, a browser. Hedges are seen by most animals as a barrier, not to her – Lunch!

 
In order for goats (and cows) to produce milk they regularly need to have offspring to feed. Taking the goat to the billy was something that I never did, but I have driven with two goats in the back of a van, and they look out the back window like any other animal, the following vehicle's driver's expressions were "interesting".

 
Although I muttered about the effect that The Good Life as a TV programme had had on my wife in her formative years, we were able to do a more sensible version. More raised beds for vegetables, a fruit garden, a few chickens and more goats. We were able, and occasionally did, put a meal on the table that was completely ours, with wine (we don't talk about the parsnip...) except for the flour used to thicken the gravy.

 
Billy goat kids were never pets. What's that one's name? Was answered by "Freezer", and that's where they went, via an abattoir, as soon as they had horns and started to smell like a billy. We reckoned that they had a good life, well looked after, well fed and outside playing every day. They make a wonderful curry. The nanny kids were either reared on to replace or increase our herd, or sometimes sold on, but not to anyone we did not know.

 
Careful cross breeding had got Sally a herd of 12 milking nannies, all hand milked, and she was producing various milk products, soft cheese and yoghurt which we sold to my work colleagues and at the gate.

 
Sally was approached by a local farmer who was breeding a flock of expensive sheep. He had a couple of rejected lambs. These need colostrum which is in the early milk produced when the lamb, or goat is only up to a few days old. There was some available from one of her nannies, and we fed these little lambs until they were able to graze. Goat milk freezes well so it was straightforward to keep any excess early milk for future use. The farmer also happened to be butcher, so when happy, well fed lambs were given back to him ready to increase his flock, we were paid in meat, usually beef as we had pork.

 
What a good idea it was to keep a couple of pigs, I was told, get piglets, fatten them for a few weeks then off to the butcher and pork chops arrive. Now my idea of a piglet was about a foot to 18 inches long, how big could that get in 3 months? However... When they arrived they were already the size that I thought they would be at the end.

 
Anyway they hoovered up the surplus milk, and the ullage from the local pub, and the swill from the school kitchen and anything else put in their way.

 
They then had to be persuaded to board one of the company Astra vans. Getting one in is tricky, two nigh on impossible, but they went in eventually. They were taken to a local butcher where a swift and humane end was assured. The meat was excellent.

 
We did this a couple more times, asking for help to load them usually got refused the second time as the locals got wise. One piglet escaped when still small and a neighbour, not in the first flush of youth, lent a hand. I was at work, but by all accounts (and there were many witnesses) he got hold of a hind leg thinking that was that, until he was pulled, at some speed, through the adjacent brambles. To his credit he did not let go and the piglet was recaptured.

 
During this time the goats were often to be seen being walked up the road to other fields, just take the lead goat, and the others follow. There was even a registered herd name.

 
However, rules change and this semi-commercial milk production became impossible under new hygiene regulations. A while later the butcher stopped slaughtering as he found the new rules less humane in his environment.

 
Our last goat was kept as a pet, and when it died was buried (without full military honours) in the field. It needed a big hole!

 
We still kept growing our own.

 
During all this we had chickens, which, everytime I was left in charge, would be prey to the fox. So on one occasion when my wife was away I agreed to take a friends older hens as he wanted commercial production which is only from young birds, we were not so pressured. I went and picked them up (in a firm's Astra van, again) and was amused to watch in the mirror as they leaned into bends as I drove. So instead of there being fewer chickens there were twenty more.

 
Once we had got back to a sensible number of hens, we had a cockerel. He grew quite large, and was a splendid example who looked like many of those on a pub sign. He was called Rambo. Now what you should never do was get between Rambo and his ladies, or he would attack you. This is not to be taken lightly as he had large, sharp spurs and beak. Going to feed the chickens armed with a large plastic shovel was a wise precaution.

 
One evening we had forgotten to shut the birds away and after a commotion we found a couple of hens dead, and Rambo lying on his side, very still. While I was racing about with a powerful torch and shotgun, Rambo suddenly shook himself, jumped up and was back on guard. Cue "I say, I say, I say boy" impressions. Closer examination showed his spurs covered in blood, not his, he had attacked the fox. He was never quite the same after that, and with "Son of Rambo" who was smaller and more user-friendly the pair protected their flock for some time.

 
We eventually got some ducks instead of replacing the hens. These we could let wander the garden, being less destructive (no digging or dustbaths) yet still producing eggs.

 
Visitors were often startled by the other garden occupants, free range Guinea Pigs. They were surprisingly effective mowers, and their speed across the lawns was quite amazing. If you didn't expect them they usually made you jump, and immediately think rat! They also grew quite large, maybe almost twice as big as the average, caged, pig.

 
We concentrated more on growing higher value crops, and those that only taste as good a few minutes after picking. A greenhouse helped, and in it we grew the usual array of tomatoes and cucumbers, but also very early and very late peas. I started to count the cucumbers, growing over 90 from one plant, and over a hundred the next year. All visitors were given their obligatory cucumber, or two...

 
About six butternut squash seeds germinated, were potted on then put into the veg patch. The triffids then took over and shortly everyone had a squash to go with their cucumber. I took both to the local pub when visiting (regularly of course, got to keep up with local events) and they even raffled one as it was an "interesting" shape. A few more pounds in the charity box.

 
We continued in this way for a few more years, then moved, downsizing pending my retirement. Our new house came with a strip of land, long neglected, that has now sprouted a garage, many raised beds and fruit trees, some trained onto horizontal wires.

 
After we moved, Sally's ageing horse spent a couple of years stabled at her sister's then when they retired, he was moved to a field just up the road from us. She started growing veg there, using the readily available source of manure to help it all along. Sadly at 32 years old, the horse died, but we continue to have an "allotment" on the field that adds to our ability to grow our own. We also have free access to the adjacent small orchard of a wide selection of apples, mostly old varieties that are very tasty but would never be seen in a supermarket.

 
There is something most pleasing about popping out to the garden to pick fruit or veg for breakfast or dinner and knowing that it is both organic and as fresh as possible. Long may it continue.

 

 

 

[johnfilmer]

 Guns, Part 2As my firearm certificate renewal got ever closer, I contacted one of the organisers of the local pistol league, thinking to maybe just do a bit of pistol rather than the full-on everything that I had done a year or two before.As it happened, his club were off to Bisley that weekend, so, slightly reluctantly, I went. A few rounds at 600yds and I was hooked again, so I became a member of the Maidstone Home Guard (1944) Rifle Club. Ightham was also a club that came from the old Home Guard, practising and competing against each other. Early on in my time at Ightham the armoury was behind a shop in Ightham Village, where it had been since WW2. They even had their own version of Private Pike, who had shot as a lad in the Home Guard and still shot into the 1980s. When the Home Guard was stood down in 1944, many of the units continued to shoot and became the basis for rifle clubs post war. Maidstone HG shot indoors on a narrow 25m range at the Grammar School. Pistol was accommodated with a trestle erected at 20yds. Regular fullbore rifle at Bisley, and pistol at Stone Lodge resumed, but at a lower level, more casual shooting and just a few competitions. A year or two later and the club secretary resigned, having ceased to be a regular shooter some while before. The Secretary usually holds the club firearm certificate and has responsibility therefore for the weapons and ammunition, although club officers can transport them and supervise their use. Reluctantly I agreed to fill the vacant position. I therefore found room for another, substantial, gun cabinet and various weapons. I had earlier sold my Browning .22 pistol and upgraded to a Unique DES69, a French pistol designed for Olympic Standard Pistol. During my time with Maidstone I also acquired a Smith & Wesson Model 52. This was a 38special semi auto, designed specifically as a target weapon it would only chamber wadcutter (flat nosed, seated flush to the case) ammunition. This worked best with slightly more powerful loads than the revolver, there being some energy lost in operating the mechanism. Lastly I bought a Colt .45ACP Gold Cup semi auto. This was a target version of the famous military sidearm. It also required me to have additional reloading equipment to suit the different calibre. More fun with infinite variations of bullet, including fully jacketed, and slower burning powders. With these additions, as well as the club weapons, the local police firearms liaison “suggested” that I should have a decent alarm system to supplement our two German Shepherds. All the shooting gear (guns and ammo in steel boxes with serious locks) was in a small cupboard, which itself had a slightly reinforced door and a quality deadlock. It now had its own dedicated alarm circuit.
The .357 Magnum revolver remained my favourite for its simplicity and accuracy. Shooting at Stone Lodge one evening, I was just starting to pack up when I realised that I needed to shoot one more competition card. With a tad of bad grace, grumbling away as everybody else was getting ready to leave I put up the card. I had already put away my spotting scope, and to save time just left the bench flap (like a pub bar flap) up and shot the first five. With the naked eye there were nines, an eight and a seven - rubbish. It was late, I was tired, shooting in the dark under lights, so I just reloaded and fired the last five almost casually. Immediately I finished I started to pack up and someone else went and retrieved the card. When I was asked to sign it, I said just mark it and record it and lets get home. Then Andy suggested that I look again, and he witnessed it. Hmm that seven was an eight, the eight was a nine, and the rest were tens! 97 out of 100 my best pistol score ever – I still have the card somewhere, it used to live in a clip frame in my office, but the glass got broken. I also have the first rifle 100 that I shot, an external postal competition card, returned by the marker as a memento.
In the box of bits and pieces handed over from the previous secretary were a couple of journals. One detailed the early years of the Maidstone area small bore rifle society from the start of the first world war. The gentleman writing this was resident at Somerfield Terrace, now part of the Somerfield Hospital. The intention was to provide basic skill at arms before entry into the services and many additional ranges appeared, often attached to Pubs either physically or as homes for their teams. The usual give away is a long, low building. The two hobbies really should not meet.
A mention was made of shooting in the upper floor of what is now the Carriage Museum, and I have often thought to see if any evidence survives. The records continue into the inter war period, with full bore rifle shooting taking place in an old quarry at Tovil.The advent of the Home Guard effectively took over the sport. Post war there were Rifle clubs all over the place, in Maidstone there were clubs shooting at various Paper Mills, Rootes, Tilling-Stevens, Haynes and many others. I also became a member of GEC Rifle & Pistol Club, but although I rarely shot in their indoor range, I was a mid-week regular on the outdoor range. This was behind the main hanger of Rochester Airport, and accessed past Medway Aeronautical Preservation Society’s wonderful sheds. The range was 50m small bore rifle, shot from a covered slab of concrete – think bike shed without the racks. Very strange sensation to be halfway through a competition card and a plane, or the Air Ambulance would take off just above the sand bullet stop brick support wall in clear view above the barrel. Another one for the excuses list…
Excavated at a lower level was the 20m pistol range, for small and full bore pistols, complete with turning targets. As one was above the other, either rifle or pistol could be shot, but not together!
A constant theme had always been the occasional Fun Shoot, where no official competition took place. I have previously mentioned the disc breaking, and we did a pistol version, just once as the discs were about the size of a Polo Mint, and nobody could hit the darned things.
We had shot our .22 rifles at 200yds at Bisley one cold winter afternoon and found them to be surprisingly accurate. Another winter at Bisley saw Maidstone with an array of unusual weapons that we all had a try at. A Brown Bess Musket, hugely long and unwieldy, a couple of muzzle loading, black powder, Enfield 1853 pattern 0.577” rifles, that were surprisingly accurate, but slow to load. As well as a couple of 0.303 Lee-Enfield variants, an early one, still my favourite, and a WW2 number 5 Jungle Carbine that was, shall we say, best at short range. Previously we had been using the Gallery Ranges at Stone (I think our usual turning target bay had stopped turning) so there were other shooters mixed in with our lot. I had finished my card and was idly watching someone I had never met before shooting a flint lock pistol.  Realising my interest he showed me the piece, and after the targets were changed suggested that I might like to shoot it. Damn right I would!He loaded it, explaining his actions as he went, then went through the drill if it didn’t fire. No flash, just re-cock the gun and try again. If it happens again the flint needed adjusting. A flash but not firing (literally a flash in the pan), hold aim and wait in case there is a hang fire. If not, then the flash hole needed pricking out (to enable the flash from the pan to travel to the main charge) and the pan primed again. So I held this thing, with a grip like holding a walking stick, pulled the flint back to full cock (from the “safe” position of half cock) and squeezed the immensely heavy trigger. Click! Nothing happened. Recock it, try again, a flash, no bang, so I stood there for about 10 seconds holding aim, then he poked about a bit and reprimed the pan, and I tried again. A flash. Ah I thought here we go again, then with some delay a gentle woosh turned into a long steady push on my arm totally different from our usual sharp recoil, as it fired.The owner’s efforts had scattered shot holes around the target, I took great pride in hitting a Nine, thanked him and gave him the gun back. How on earth did we gain an Empire with weapons that tricky? I had a “slot” on my licence for a while that enabled me to buy a Black Powder pistol, but I never did. possibly put off by the gent at GEC who turned up, put on a disposable overall and gloves (with hood, as seen in all forensic investigations) shot his replica Colt pistol, then stripped off the overall and gloves into the bin and went home to an hour of gun cleaning. John Wayne never had that problem in any film that I saw! We once met a group of four young men from Gloucester who had decided the night before to come to Bisley to try each others guns, and literally had a Cortina boot full of just about everything. Full bore semi-auto rifles were still permitted, but to our amazement one of them produced a Bren gun. He had just bought it and this was the first chance he had to shoot it. When questioned as to how he had got this on his licence it seems that he simply listed it as a self loading rifle made by the Brno small arms company of Czechoslovakia. We were astounded. As the afternoon went on we continued chatting, and were offered a go with the Bren. It had the top mounted box magazine, and the simple instruction was to hang onto it as the action made it “walk” forward. It was rumoured to be very nice to shoot, and our brief encounter confirmed that, with good accuracy at 300yds. When we had finished, the owner showed us how good he was with it, then pointed out the catch that in military use gave fully automatic fire, which I believe also had a 3shot position. Either way, to demonstrate that it was disabled he flipped it over, took aim and fired. Luckily the range was by now fairly empty and nobody else appeared to have realised that it had just gone, briefly, full auto. It was hastily put back in its case and carted off to the car.
At Ightham, because of the shoulder to shoulder league, we knew many of the other local clubs, and on one occasion were invited to try some of the local TA equipment. This was literally enlightening with light intensifying telescopic sights we were shooting at targets in virtual darkness. They extended an invitation to a few clubs for their open day shoot at Milton Ranges. We were firing .22 training anti-tank guns, and the old 7.62 SLR rifles, the actions of which sound terribly tinny when wearing ear defenders. There was a “closest to the middle” competition onto a blank target at 200yds with the marker waving an arrow on a stick to show the fall of shot. The unkind tried to shoot the arrow, and were quickly dissuaded. With only minutes to go I held first place and our rifle captain second, but a TA Sergeant had to wrest some glory from the civvies and just managed to win at the very end.
A falling plate competition was the team event, where each rifle club, police and service unit had four or five shooters, each with a randomly allocated SLR with a full magazine. Against the clock who could knock over the metal targets scattered across the range quickest, two teams at a time. The trouble was the SLRs sights were all over the place and by the time you had worked out where to aim you had to be economical with the ammunition. If only we had taken our old bolt action rifles we could have shown them how to do it with ease. The Met Police won. Highlight of our year was the Pistol AD event (so called as it was Pistol 92, Pistol 93 etc.). This was held over a weekend at Bisley with huge numbers of competitions, exhibitions and what I can only describe as a shooting oriented cross between a boot fair and serious professional stalls, all set up on the half acre green space at the centre of the camp. If it was legal you could buy it, and although a pistol meet, the offerings covered every aspect of shooting.
However, many of us felt that there was becoming too great a move towards the “practical” disciplines, mainly pistol. At their worst they were almost like playing cowboys and indians with real guns – an exaggeration of course, but a bit too quick draw and moving about for my, Olympic based, tastes. However, when on a range, keeping your pistol with you in a holster was more about ensuring that no one else could pick it up, than playing Dirty Harry. One range officer was moaning about this as a “yoof” thing to one of our more senior members, who, as we got onto the firing point, removed his 38special revolver from his shoulder holster…
However, after the horrors of Dunblane the writing was on the wall. I will not dwell on the arguments for or against the pistol ban, it happened, it was politicians and civil servants taking what I saw as the easy route, and at a stroke many people lost a sport, a hobby and for others also a livelihood. Those included the leather worker who made pistol belts and holsters through all aspects of range operation, gunshops etc., mostly small, specialist businesses.
The consequence of the ban was the hand-in. Pistols were either surrendered for a generic (low) fixed fee, or against a suitable gunsmith’s valuation. There was a tariff for just about anything to do with the sport. Being organised by civil servants, probably with no knowledge of which they wrote, the other eligible items were full of anomalies. The simple concept was sound, if it could be used for other things or aspects of shooting, then it was not eligible. However with reloading equipment, unless it was “pistol specific” it was not included. The problem was that reloading rifle ammunition was a very niche hobby compared to the relatively huge numbers who reloaded pistol, and most of us preferred the safety and “feel” of stronger equipment which was capable of loading both. In common with many others, a group of us went for a last blast, shooting anything and everything that we had, trying each others guns and attempting to use up our ammunition. Some moved their guns to continental clubs rather than surrender them, and a regular Eurostar trip kept them happy. This did not appeal to me. Others faced a dilemma over historically significant or special weapons. Hand them in and argue for their value, have them de-activated (ruining them for what they were, and their value) or sell them, probably through a dealer to a collector abroad to keep them used and appreciated.
The actual hand-in was quite well organised. I went at the appointed time to one of the old Police Houses behind Maidstone HQ, and met two of the familiar firearms personnel. I had two because of the quantity of equipment that was involved with the club and my personal items. I went in my wife’s Land Rover 90 Station Wagon, the rear of which was filled to window level. I handed in 9 pistols, holsters, speed loaders for revolvers, magazines for the semi-autos, empty cases, bullets, reloading consumables and much more.
I kept my pistol belts, very thick (7mm) leather, lined and with sturdy brass buckles, they were intended to be worn over your normal belt and clipped to it, but with a couple of extra holes drilled through them they still hold my jeans up very effectively.
I subsequently had a serious spat with the Home Office who tried to cherry pick what to agree to accept and for how much. I had ended up travelling a fair distance to a dealer who was prepared to value my guns. The Unique was the problem as they were uncommon. It was valued at £710, but the Home Office wanted to give me the basic £150, while agreeing to the other valuations. A few letters later and slowly increasing offers, I was awarded the full amount. However my reloading gear was rejected, despite having adaptations specifically for pistol loading. Again a few more letters and I was partially successful as I got a simple reloading press with a fixed 38special case holder accepted for the basic compensation – which was more than I paid for it. My main reloading equipment was sold for a fraction of its worth to one of those going the continental route.
The aftermath was quite strange. I was seriously annoyed at what had gone on, a little lost without some of my sports and hobbies, but understanding of the concerns that prompted it all. A year or so later and I had a health issue that prevented me from shooting prone rifle for a while, and I resigned as Secretary, donated my .22 rifle to the club and sold the Enfield and my rather nice shooting jacket to another club member. I kept my firearms certificate open with a .22 semi automatic rifle for vermin shooting, but I’m not much of a hunter and eventually that was sold and in 2015, after 38years I did not renew my certificate.

[johnfilmer]

My Enfield T4 was chambered for the 7.62mm NATO cartridge, which was for many years the military standard.
In America it was also known as the Winchester 308, as it was 0.308". Very similar in performance to a 303 round if loaded in the same way, but the case design was fundamentally different. The 303 had a rim around the base of the cartridge, like most classic rounds, but the 7.62 was rimless, actually with a groove around the base for the extractor to get hold of. The rimmed case was usually chambered into the weapon against the rim, but the rimless chambered against the taper between the body of the case and the reduced diameter that held the projectile.
Both had about the same kick, and after shooting nice, tame, .22LR rifles could give a beginner a nasty surprise as well as a black eye if they had the sights too close.
When precision target shooting, a revolver was always shot single action to give a nice, consistent trigger pull and predictable release. Double action required a long steady pull, often without too much indication as to when it may release. However, shooting the more "practical" disciplines such as Police Pistol, required, in the last sequence, the shooter to fire two shots in 5seconds at a turning target 6m away. The shooter waited at the ready with his arm below 45degrees until the target turned, then up on aim and fire. The first shot would be single action, and usually quite accurate, the second with the long trigger pull, even using two hands, would be less reliable.
To slow down the very best shooters we often handicapped them by only allowing double action shots, even so one particular comrade could beat the rest of us, especially if there was beer to be paid for as a result.
My younger son, shooting my T4 at Bisley when he was about 14.

[MartinR]

Cowboy films are mainly wishful thinking.  Prior to 1854 revolvers were loaded with black powder, ball and percussion cap.  Even when metallic cartridges were introduced it was 1889 before the first double-action revolvers were available in the USA.  Until then the hammer needed to be cocked by hand for each shot,seriously limiting the rate of fire and reducing accuracy.

[Dave Smith]

MartinR. You're right about the Lee-Enfield recoil, that's what I fired first in the RAF.  .22 first, ok but .303, wow but we had been warned so success. The Bren was a different animal, great & very accurate; supposed to be good for 1600yds, although we only went up to 1200 I think, but very accurate at that range- if you had good eyesight of course! The Sten was a different animal again but the other way- when holding, keep your fingers well away from the magazine slot! I never knew revolvers had rifling, thought they were carbines like the Americans' used. We were always taught to fire a double shot as they weren't very accurate & you definitely had a better chance of hitting the enemy. The Western gunslingers must have had rifling & a long barrel methinks- or the cowboy films were just wishful thinking!

[MartinR]

We weren't allowed to join the ATC until the Upper Vth, so I had turned 15.  In those days we started with the Lee-Enfield .303  You certainly learnt how to hold a rifle firmly, those things had a kick like a mule.

[castle261]

Interesting johnfilmer - cant wait until ` things `.

All though I am of a great age - History will tell you - that the only gun I have ever held in my hand,
is a fairground rifle. I could have had a rifle in the Air Training Corp for training (too young at 14)
I could have had a rifle in the R.A.F. but that was not to be (medical) -
Air rifles were a menace in the hands of children - where I lived - shoot at anything.

[johnfilmer]

Guns and things part 1
I am part of the generation for whom Cowboys and Indians was the default game. At an early age I therefore had the hat (black, with yellow fringe) and a pair of revolvers in holsters and loose bullets in loops around the belt. A Winchester style rifle came next, although I think that Winchester didn’t make them with chrome barrels and white plastic fore ends and butts! Rolls of caps (bought in little round white cardboard boxes) could be consumed at a rate that my pocket money could not afford. The budding engineer in me was fascinated by the mechanisms involved in these and other weapons, especially bolt-action rifles and revolvers. I started to pick holes in the western films of the day, simple things like counting the shots fired. Still a worrying habit. I was definitely NOT allowed an air rifle or pistol. I was given a bow and arrow and target when our neighbours emigrated to Australia and decided not to pack them, but it was not really quite what I wanted.
At University there were rumours of the rifle club, but I was too busy with the motor club to investigate. I mentioned to Bob (my workmate and rally driver) that I found guns interesting, only to find that he had previously shot target rifle. We found a local club, nominally Ightham, but they actually shot at Borough Green, and joined.
Ightham Rifle and Pistol Club shot in a redundant quarry. The clubhouse was an old prefab divided into three. The club area was the largest, then there was a narrow room for the prone rifle firing points along the long side, with flaps cut out at low level, so that you shot from indoors to outside. A similar arrangement with stable doors at higher level served the pistol section, shooting at right angles to the direction of the rifles. The range was only suitable for .22LR rimfire weapons. The rifles were shot at 25, 50 & 100m, the pistols at 20m.
I have seen odd comments and question marks next to the existence of “Miniature Rifle Clubs” in some village histories. The members were shooting what are now referred to as small-bore rifles usually with a bore of 0.22inch. These were quite miniature when compared to some earlier military rifles of 0.45inch calibre, or even the later standard 0.303inch. These larger rifles are known as full-bore weapons.
The club’s own rifles were old BSA 12/15 Martini action, and quite small framed. They also had a later BSA Mk2 Martini, a much heavier and relatively modern weapon. After a while shooting the Mk2 under tuition I started to get the hang of it, and shot a series of 5 or 6 cards (each target card at 25m has 10 separate aiming marks) in order to obtain an average. Setting an average is effectively setting a handicap against which your actual score (gun score) is selected on an impressive chart (probably use an app on their phone these days!) which gives you your adjusted score. Therefore all levels of proficiency can shoot against each other using adjusted scores. The usual form of competition was by post. The members of a team would all shoot their cards by a specific date, and their competitors in that division of the league, would also send their cards to an independent marker. Marking can be done by eye, but a gauge is used (and sometimes a magnifying glass) to help judge the close ones. Rifle scores are outward gauging, so if you touch the line between, say, the 9 and the 8 rings, you score an 8. Pistol, by the way, is usually inward gauging, so you get the higher score. A gauge looks suspiciously like an unused pop rivet, it is put into the hole with as little pressure as possible and the skirt is the deciding factor. In the upper divisions appeals were quite common and argued loudly! 
Having a new, and rapidly improving, shooter in a team was a bonus. They will soon consistently shoot better than the average previously declared, and even after that season’s competition the average from that should still not really reflect their likely scores in the next one. All rifle competitions were shot with open sights, no magnification allowed except for prescription corrective lenses. The rear sight is a simple peep sight, a small hole the size of which was very much a personal choice. The foresight a choice between a post type or the usual ring type. These vary in the thickness of the ring as well as the aperture, some prefer to have a small, tight, fit to the aiming mark, others followed the alternative, allowing more light around the target. Coloured filters are used in the rear sight to give a sharper contrast, different colours for differing lights. We shot under floodlights on winter evenings and daylight in summer and Sunday mornings.
Our Rifle Captain not only entered me into a couple of postal competitions, but Eley (cartridge makers) were celebrating their 150^th anniversary in 1978, and they ran a huge series of competitions for the various disciplines for which they made ammunition. The early rounds were shot at 25m on a postal basis using adjusted score, and then the final was held at the NSRA Annual Shoot at Bisley at 50m and 100m. I made it to the final, but, totally unused to such types of competition, didn’t shine on the day. An excellent experience. I had shot at this final with the club’s Mk2 Martini as I was used to it, and for the weeks leading up to the final no one else was allowed to use it so my settings for the sights did not get messed about. I had, by this time, my own firearms certificate, and had bought a secondhand rifle, an Anshutz 1411 Match 54. An older style of this very successful single shot, bolt action, weapon, but as I had hardly shot with it, I left it at home and went with the BSA.
A couple of us started shooting pistol as well, which was not common, most shot either rifle or pistol, and some degree of rivalry and banter went on between them. I bought a Browning semi-automatic pistol and started to achieve reasonable scores.The usual pistol disciplines were “precision” which was a small target with quite close scoring rings, or “Standard Pistol” which was a discipline using three targets, best described as Slow, Timed and Rapid. Five shots were fired, twice in each sequence, in 150seconds, 20seconds and finally 10seconds. Targets were changed between each pair of sequences. Even 10seconds is long enough to fire five fairly controlled shots – or so I would tell a novice if I was coaching...
In my time at Ightham I would describe myself as a fair pistol shot, and a reasonable rifle shot. I once had a rifle average of nearly 98 for 25m where the whole focus is on taking every shot as exactly as the last, but I preferred the greater challenge of the longer distances, especially the 100m, but that was only shot in conjunction with 50m, although 50m was the Olympic distance. The combination of 20shots to count at both 50 and 100m is called a Dewar course of fire. The 50m target has two aiming marks, five shots on each, the 100m target is all 10 shots on a single aiming mark. A spare target is also provided to enable the shooter to sight in, especially important when changing distances, my Anshutz sights needed to come up 9 clicks of the adjuster from 25 to 50, but another 45 to 100m. Forget to check the sights and you are in for a surprise!
Prone rifle shooting is all about precision and speed does not really enter into it for this type of competition. I became a marker for a couple of divisions of the local league, and then a national one. Our postman must have been impressed as every two weeks I got a pile of A4 sized envelopes, one of which bore the House of Commons crest – yes there is a range underneath it!
Shoulder to shoulder competitions are when a team visits another range and the targets are shot together, quite literally shoulder to shoulder. Ightham shot in a local league and it was quite revealing to see other ranges that went from a glorified shed in the woods through a village hall that you approached on foot through a virtually unlit churchyard to some that were very nicely appointed. A certain workers club shot in their hall, the front of the stage swung up in sections to reveal the target holders, and you shot from the floor at the other end. The temptation to pop one through the piano was almost too much! Once a year there was the club Disc Breaking Competition. For this black painted boards were set up at 100m and 6 fragile white discs about 50mm diameter were hung on pins. It was shot in pairs, drawn randomly, as a knockout, the first one to clear their discs went through. There were some really competitive types around, using post foresights carefully sighted for ease of aim. However one gentleman always did well, it just suited him. He was, as usual, on course to win when he just could not clear the last disc, and a relative novice was set to beat him. At this point the whistle went to cease fire, and the reluctant disc was retrieved to show him that it was wood, and had been hit more than once. A re-shoot was a white wash and he went on to win – again.
The finals of some postal competitions were held at an open shoot at the end of the season. Major shoots have plain cards set back behind the targets, so that if someone shoots at the wrong target (easily done and quite common under the stress of competition) the angle of the cross shot will reveal the culprit, and which shot it was so that it can be removed from the scoring.
The usual rifle shooter’s excuses list revolve around The Wind, The Light and The Ammunition. Wind is a problem with low powered rifles over longer distances and a close eye has to be kept on the flags used as indicators. With light variations that is where filters and adjustable rear sights can help. Ammunition, you get what you pay for, so buy the best that you can afford if shooting competitively over longer distances. When shooting shoulder to shoulder and at open shoots, the excuses list is rapidly expanded to include interference from the shooter next to you, who may belch, fart, sneeze, swear and a whole lot of other distracting things. The old Mk2 Martini had a very powerful eject that if the spring loading was “helped” by a particularly sharp snap of the lever downwards, the case would fly out and bounce off the shooter at least two away. They can be quite warm.
At the end of one of these open competitions teams of three were asked for a sweepstake fun shoot. It turned out to be a disc breaking competition and with most never having done it before we trounced all comers, and all three claimed the last disc as we shot in unison. Happy days.Some of the more serious shooters also shot full bore pistol and full bore rifle. Pistol was shot at Stone Lodge at Dartford, an Olympic standard range for small bore rifle and pistol and full bore pistol. Some of the pistol ranges were equipped with two banks of turning targets, intended for the small bore rapid fire discipline. However it also enabled us to shoot properly timed sequences for Standard Pistol as well as Police Pistol (intended for revolvers) and Service Pistol (intended for semi-autos, but possible with a revolver).
To join in I bought a brand new Smith and Wesson Model 19. This was a 4inch barrelled, .357 Magnum revolver with target hammer (wider spur) and target trigger (wider). I opted for a .357 as it is stronger than the standard 38Special upon which it is based. Confusingly they are actually both the same calibre (0.357”) the magnum case being a little longer so that the greater potential power could not accidentally be loaded into a standard 38Special.
Generally we would shoot with lightly loaded 38special ammunition with “wadcutter” bullets, which are lead cylinders to punch a neat hole in the target. The base was usually funnel shaped to expand into the rifling of the barrel and get as much accuracy as possible. The light charges also went some way to help the soft bullet engage the rifling rather than being forced through it and stripping the lead away. Buying factory ammunition is not a cheap hobby, therefore most pistol shooters reloaded their own full bore ammunition. This is not without potential hazard, but with a rigid work method and routine the risks can be almost eliminated. It is a long winded process, of several small and repetitive steps. A loaded round of ammunition consists of four components. The case, usually brass, into the centre of the base is pressed the primer which is a very small explosive charge which when struck then ignites the propellant that burns very quickly producing gas at high pressure to force the actual bullet out of the case, along the barrel and onto the target. Using previously fired, empty, cases the first thing is to remove the spent primers. A reloading press holds the case and a hardened pin is pushed down through the hole in the base of the case (through which the ignition of the charge takes place) and pushes it out. At the same time the case enters a die that squeezes it back to its original diameter, as it will have expanded due to the internal pressure when fired. The case is then cleaned, the primer pocket by a small hand held wire brush, and the cases can be put in a vibrating container with a mild abrasive such as crushed walnut shells.A new primer is then pressed into place CAREFULLY, this is an explosive after all. Generally the case is then given a slight flare to its mouth so that the bullet will enter easily. Then the really sensitive bit, the propellant. Various powders are available, and they range in texture and the speed at which they burn. Therefore for an accurate target load a small quantity of a fast burning powder was used. Very careful measurement is needed, for instance I used to use between 2.8 and 3.2 grains of Bullseye powder in my target ammunition. One Grain weighs just under 85 milligrams, or one 7,000 of a pound. These minute weights are weighed on a small, but very accurate beam balance. In practice an automatic powder measure was used, a sort of sophisticated version of my mother’s tea measure from the sixties, which when adjusted correctly gave the precise amount required each time the lever was operated.
For peace of mind, and safety, I used trays that held 50 cases. Each case was picked up, the powder measured into it from the machine, and then replaced. Every ten the charge was weighed to check that nothing had changed. Once the tray was full it was carefully examined from oblique angles to check the level of powder, hoping to spot any double charges (not good!). As soon as that was done the bullets were lightly placed into the cases rather like stoppers.Back in the press, the bullets were seated to a set height, wadcutters flush with the case end, and a light crimp (the top of the case squeezed in) applied to grip the bullet. A quick wipe over and they were packed into boxes ready for use. With adequate supplies of tea, I regularly reloaded 400 rounds on a Saturday afternoon.
Bullets could be purchased commercially, or some other shooters cast their own using various mixtures of lead and similar metals, old printing type was highly prized. I often traded lead obtained from the day job for finished cast bullets. The heavier loads possible with the magnum cases used different powders and at the factory level of charge, semi-jacketed bullets. These have copper bases and part covered sides so that the heavy charge still makes them engage the rifling. Some larger calibres need fully jacketed ammunition, especially for semi-automatic pistols.
There was a saying that some shooters reloaded to shoot, but others shot to reload, such was the almost infinite variations of powder type, load, bullet type, weight and intended weapon that it was a hobby in itself.
An Enfield T4 rifle in 7.62mm NATO military calibre was bought secondhand in good condition. These rifles were built using Lee Enfield bolt actions (mine was dated 1949), but with target woodwork a heavyweight barrel and target sights. Mine was also fitted with a ten round 7.62 magazine which was slightly unusual.
Although we shot mainly for fun, there were internal competitions and the occasional more serious shoot. At short notice I filled a space shooting for Barclays Bank against the Navy, we won.
At my favourite distance of 600yds my average was 95-96. The bull at that distance is about a foot diameter.
Although we could hire a marker (most often teenage schoolboys) to work the target in the butts and signal the score, we usually did it ourselves, taking turns. The communication between firing point and butts was originally by ancient field telephone – the sort that you crank a handle to ring the other set. Also seen on daytime antique and collectable TV programmes. Due to the background noise (at both ends) there is a message code to save explanations. The most common one was message four – a shot has been fired but not marked. Two common reasons, either the marker was asleep/eating/drinking/talking or you shot at the wrong target! With over a hundred targets on Century Range cross shooting was so easy.
I never tried reloading full bore rifle ammunition even though my press could cope with the long cases. Although expensive, high quality British Army, Radway Green (RG) 7.62mm Sniper Grade (Green Spot) ammunition was always available and many cheaper options for less important shooting. Many serious competitions required you to use the issued ammunition.
We kept our fired full bore rifle cases, and small bore empties and every few months they would be taken to the scrap man along with any pistol cases that had split. I often did this as I already went with any scrap copper and brass from work. I had a phone call from Kent Police one morning at work, asking if I had been responsible for selling the company Granada that I used to drive. It turned out that the trader had fixed the engine, and sold it on to a Royal Engineers Officer. He gave it good clean and was startled to find a few empty rifle and pistol cases in the nooks and crannies of the boot. Now a serving officer would not only know what they were, he would also know that he is forbidden to possess even empty cases.
He therefore reported it and the information was passed to the police. Unfortunately for the trader, he was Irish (in 1981 the IRA were still very active), and someone added up 1 and 1 and made an awful lot more! An early morning raid followed, so by the time I was called he had been at the Police Station for a few hours. When I was asked if I knew about any cases (in a tone of voice that implied that of course I wouldn’t) I simply gave them my firearms certificate number, easily remembered as it was 33999, and an apologetic policeman made his excuses and rang off.
We still sold the trader cars, but I think the deals were probably not so good… At my busiest I was shooting at Ightham on Tuesday evenings and Sunday mornings. Then in the winter for the shoulder to shoulder league every two weeks on a Thursday evening. Once a month we had a Saturday afternoon at Stone Lodge for full bore pistol, and once a month down to Bisley to shoot full bore rifle and maybe a bit more pistol. When we started our own company, such was the need to concentrate on that, that I found that I was dropping out of competitions despite having taken over as Pistol Captain, and in the end faced a decision as to my future in shooting as my firearms certificate came close to its renewal date.

[AlanTH]

Saw many funny incidents there and some not so funny ones. Laughed one night where a yob was being loaded into a cops van for transport down to the nick on the Brook. His arms and legs were  outstretched and no way was he going peacefully.
Until the sergeant stepped in and belted him in the stomach causing him to quickly fold up and get loaded in.
Another time there was large crowd and from memory old Ma and Pa West had retired and someone else was running it. Along came a vehicle and crashed into the back of the van shunting it forward.
Apparently his brakes had failed at the last minute.
Standing around late one night we heard a loud crash and it came from up on the viaduct so several of us went up there and a little 1100 Morris/Austin was alight just where the cut joined the New Road. Fire engines arrived from under the viaduct very quick and they put it out and we could see a body in the front passenger seat. They levered open the door after the police doctor had certified it dead and let it roll out onto a canvas for transport to the hospital morgue I suppose.
Apparently the car had left the road hitting a kerb then slamming into a lamp post, spun around and caught fire and the passenger was trapped by his feet when the engine got shoved back into the passenger compartment.
Not a nice sight and I drove home very slowly that night.
Found out later it was an old mate of mine from Troy Town/Warren Wood schools.   
AlanH.

[castle261]

Alan H ----- There must be hundreds of stories about the coffee stall -
by the old fire station at New Cut - do the new members - have a tale to tell ?