Braiswick, when I was a child, was a quietly select sort of place. In reality it was no more than an extension of a road, Bergholt Road, that led out of Colchester going north through villages to Bures, towards Sudbury. Braiswick ran for about a mile along this road, until it reached the town boundary. There were about 80 houses, a golf club, a sports field and a bus stop – nothing more.
At least that’s what the casual passer-by would have thought. As with all small communities it had hidden depths. The houses were large, owned and occupied by the old elite of the town. The new bourgeoisie chose Lexden, to the west of the town, but in Braiswick the fading sophistication of Empire could still be found. Residents organised soirées, afternoon tea parties, whist and beetle drives and an annual fête, all for some charitable cause or in support of the local Conservative party.
These small events were part of the richness of my childhood, offering encouragement, particularly when I could beat a band of old biddies at partner whist, provided I had the right partner. These social occasions meant I knew, and was known, by everyone who lived nearby. That provided a measure of protection for a young boy, who did like to experiment with life.
On our side of the golf club entrance stood Achnacone, an empty manor house. I know nothing about its history, except that the Achnacone Stewarts are a branch of the Appin Stewarts, a noble Scottish family. In my day the house stood empty, in substantial grounds. It was a great place for a young boy to play, as I knew the house was obviously haunted, the deep undergrowth in the untended gardens provided wonderful places to hide, and the grand sweeping drives that circled round to the front of the house were the right place to learn to ride a bike.
I was desperate for a bike. I really needed a bike. It became an obsession. I dreamt about a bike. My old three-wheeler was far too small, and I’d exhausted all it possibilities. It had been a racing car, a tractor and trailer, a bus, and aeroplane. I’d ridden it backwards, fallen off on all the likely corners, could spin the back wheels round in a skid, but I had grown so much that I could no longer sit on the saddle and turn the pedals. I needed a proper bike.
My parents did not have much money. I was aware, even at that young age, that I couldn’t make too many demands upon their resources. That said I was desperate enough to broach the subject at breakfast one morning.
“Well, you can’t ride a bike. No point in having a bike if you can’t ride it, is there?”
“So, if I learn to ride a bike you’ll get one for me?”
“We’ll see.”
That was all I needed. It was holiday time and the only other child in Braiswick, John, was back from his boarding school, and he had a bike! That’s not strictly true, there was an old bike in the garden shed at his house. Eagerly we pulled it out from its hiding place, squirted oil over anything that looked as if it should move, pumped up the tyres, which mercifully stayed inflated, and pushed the bike over the road to Achnacone.
Taking turns to help each other we practised all morning, and got on so famously that by lunchtime I was able to wobble along on the bike to my home.
We lived at the top of a hill, the road bending away from our house down a steep hill. The road outside Achnacone was flat, and I managed to ride along steadily until I reached the slope that led down to our house. I’d never realised just how much of a slope there was along this stretch of road, but over that 150 yards I gathered speed, clutching at brakes that I now realised did not work. It flashed through my mind that if I was not able to stop but instead forced to go down the hill then certain death was inevitable, the speed would kill me. I just had to stop.
Outside the field beside our house was a big pile of sand, put there so it could be thrown across the road on frosty winter mornings. I headed for that pile of sand, crashing the bike into the heap and was hurled over the handlebars, but came to a stop, covered in sand, but safe.
I’d made it! I could ride a bike! Parents were dragged out to the drive, to witness my expertise.
A new bike was promised.
3 comments:
Very interesting and reminiscent of my childhood in the 1930's.
I was 10 when I got my first bike but it was a new one, something that my parents could ill afford. I was grateful thatit was not someone else'e cast off, even though it hadn't got a three speed gear.
George
Very interesting and reminiscent of my childhood in the 1930's. I was 10 when I got my first bike. It was a new one, something that my parents could ill afford. Iwas grateful that I didn't have to have someone else's cast off, even though it hadn't got a three speed gear. It was fussed over and polished in the manner that a new car gets treated.
My grandfather Samuel Andrew Mackenzie inherited Achnacone, he subdivided the property and gifted the land for the golf course.
He built Braiswick house, now demolished and a housing estate and later Mulberry cottage that still stands, that was home to my grandmother for many years, the mulberry tree still survives.
Braiswick house was later owned by the Buntings, the Nurserymen and we had fun learning to drive in the paddock at the back that ran down to Woods fan company.
Andrew Smith, acsmith54@gmail.com
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