DEAR BSH,
Into The Valley 2020 – Friday couldn’t come round soon enough for me just as, no doubt, for hundreds of fellow rally enthusiasts. The Yorkshire Wolds, with its patchwork quilt of multi-coloured fields that rise and fall endlessly into the horizon, and narrow, winding, hedge-lined roads that occasionally allow a glimpse over far distant fields to isolated villages, lend themselves to thrashing a bike along, throwing caution to the wind, but this weekend I’d be aboard a Honda vee-twin trike with a bright orange trailer tent behind. Oh well! I had ticket number 0001, and hoped there’d be a prize draw for a Sportster, and at the entrance the lady who checked my ticket said: “Ooo, you have ticket number one, you might win the raffle!”
The indoor bar area was full of shiny, happy people… well, maybe not quite so shiny, but definitely happy, and seemingly happier as the day progressed. Mid-afternoon, after finding a suitable table and chairs occupied with the former members of Girlschool, I sat watching the delights of the comedy show. Frank Ackroyd and his Whistling Ferrets, whose unusual sense of humour proved extremely popular, was my favourite. Later I found that MAG’d really pulled out all the stops with the bands – out walked Ian Gillan and the boys from Deep Purple (well, a tribute, Deepest Purple, from Cleckhuddersfax), and that night had a fitful sleep containing Girlschool, a portaloo, and ticket number 0001.
Next morning I was up with the lark and enjoyed a bracing ride, naked, into the local town of Driffield. Sorry, I meant minus my leather jacket – the sun was shining, and it was tan weather. The High Street resembled Main Street in Daytona Beach in early March, but I didn’t stay too long – after loading the trike with as many sausage rolls as possible, I headed back to the site for the custom show. The winners were deserving in every respect but, sadly, there was no award for ‘Best Orange Trailer Tent’.
That evening a communal bonfire’d been built – a chance to meet up with friends and acquaintances old and new. There’s always something special about kicking ashes into a fire and poking it with a large stick, isn’t there? I was looking forward to tonight’s headliners, an expected Led Zeppelin or Pink Floyd at the very least, and was quite happy that it was Girlschool (as were many others who stood with eyes ablaze and tongues hung to their chins, until the girlfriends cuffed them round the back of the ‘ead). Now for the raffle – the compere said: “Has anyone got number one?” I was about to erupt into a giddy fit when he added: “Well if you have, you came too soon, it’s number 0002.”
MAG’d really excelled this time, and I’ve tried several times to convince the authorities that the rally site was full of people enjoying a ‘normal’ biker weekend, but they keep shoving a copy of the Driffield Times in my face with the headline, ‘Solitary biker breaks lockdown in stately home’.
KEVIN KELD