A day at the races
Sid Bailey remembers a 1950s trip to a Bulbarrow motocross event and then to a Dorset that had barely changed in centuries
Published in September ’18
Brothers Derek and Don Rickman racing at Bulbarrow. Credit: Ron Custard Collection
To many people living and working in the rural counties of Dorset, Devon, Wiltshire and Hampshire, ‘a day at the races’ meant a day out at Salisbury, Wincanton or Taunton racecourses or a point-to-point at Badbury Rings. But not to me. As a keen young motorcyclist, a day at the races meant going to watch my motorcycling heroes riding in ‘scrambles’ (now called motocross), grasstrack and road races, all of which happened not too far away from my home of Christchurch.
One bright summer Sunday morning, I loaded up the boot of the sidecar attached to my trusty Triumph Thunderbird with food and a flask of tea and a suitcase belonging to my mother, who I was taking to an auntie for a few days’ holiday; the auntie lived in a cottage in Ansty with her husband, Bill Trask, who was a cowman for a farm in the village. My own destination for the day was Bulbarrow Hill, close by Ansty, to watch a scramble organised and run by the Blackmore Motorcycle Club. This was one of the many motorcycle clubs that ran highly successful race meetings across Great Britain to promote the sport to large numbers of amateurs and enthusiasts rather than for a profit, as most sport sadly seems to be run these days.
View from Bulbarrow as it is now
Once organised, we left Christchurch on roads very different from what they are today: no bypasses or ring roads but just the routes that had existed for many decades. The first place of note we came to was Canford village with its famous school and all its grand buildings and grounds before reaching the Willett Arms. Turning right, we travelled down the hill over the old railway bridge, then the stone bridge over the River Stour, into Wimborne. Here we passed to our right the then in-town cricket ground and rode over the small bridge that spans the River Allen. The throbbing notes of the powerful Triumph engine boomed off the shops and the side of the Minster as we arrived at the junction between the Green Man and the Minster Arms on opposing corners. Up the hill and past the ancient almshouses, then down again past Kingston Lacy estate. The house wasn’t really noticeable until going down the zig-zaggy road to pass on the left a gate and gatehouse that hinted at the existence of a grand house. Back then, a black-painted galvanised iron Nissan hut stood near the gate, evidence that the park had been used by the military in World War 2.
Travelling on through the magnificent avenue of trees which line either side of the switchback road, we swooped down the next hill past the True Lovers’ Knot and up again to have our first view of Blandford’s roofs and spires, in the midst of which we soon found ourselves. We were soon through the town centre and heading out towards Winterborne Stickland and Bulbarrow Hill.
Having deposited my mother at Ansty, I returned up the hill in order to watch the motorcycles racing up and down the steep hillside, but first had to make my way through a group of people of all ages and genders carrying boards protesting at the misuse of the Sabbath. They were members of the Lord’s Day Observance Society who must have hoped that we sinners might be encouraged to change our ways. I often wondered whether the younger members would have preferred to put down their placards and instead watch the exciting spectacle going on behind them.
I watched a good day’s racing, featuring many riders from across nearby counties, like Triss and Bryan Sharp from Parkstone, and Don and Derek Rickman from New Milton, all of whom went on to represent Britain on the worldwide motorcycle stage with great success. During the interval I enjoyed a bite to eat and drink bought from ‘Cherries’ – a well-known sight at many motorcycle events around the area – and at the end of a good day out, I joined the homeward-bound crowd leaving the hill and rode back to Ansty to an evening meal of good home-cooked and very local produce, prepared by my auntie.
After the meal and a chat, Bill went to check on the cows and, on returning, suggested I might like to help him with the cheese. So off we went down to a small, rough-built building with a tin roof and a wire door that he opened to reveal rows of big round cheeses on slatted wooden shelves on which they were laid to mature into proper Dorset cheeses. Having turned each one over, which took quite a while because of their weight, Bill suggested we went up to his local pub to have a drink with his fellow villagers.
It was a pleasant summer evening and we walked up the hill, surrounded by proper countryside, to the Fox. Inside, it was just a proper country pub for locals, with simple furniture and benches around the walls. I was introduced to all his mates, who sat on the benches drinking a nice golden-coloured liquid. They all said hello in broad Dorset dialect (as did Bill) which I found hard to understand – my auntie often had to translate for me when Bill spoke. I was asked what I would like to drink and I said I would have what they were having, but I was advised to have something less strong.
Having finished our drink, we returned to the cottage, then I said my goodbyes and returned by bike to Christchurch having had a definitely different Dorset day. I realise now, having read William Barnes’s poetry, that on that day I had witnessed the real Dorset language in use, a living language spoken by Bill Trask and his friends.
