The 81st Entry
RAF Halton Aircraft Apprentices
Sept 1955 - July 1958

I had been driving for less than a year when I started work with the GPO in 1974.

It was the practice of the firm to send those new starters with driving licenses out in a 3-ton vehicle to be assessed by one of their own driving instructors. So it was that I found myself one bright January morning in the cab of a Bedford TK, with another new starter and a GPO driving instructor. Viv, the other newbie, drove us out of the depot through the early morning traffic of Cardiff. It was obvious that he was an experienced and accomplished driver. We stopped at the GPO Main Sorting Office (they did the cheapest breakfasts in Cardiff so I was told) and the other two proceeded to order and then demolish 'The Full Monty' of a breakfast. I had a cup of tea. (Never did get used to the civvy way of having breakfast after getting to work)

Then it was my turn to drive. The only other vehicle that I had ever driven (other than the driving school's cars) was my Citroen Ami 8, (the next model up from a 2CV,) with a powerful (?) 602cc engine and a dash mounted gear lever. Sat high up in the cab, behind the huge wheel of the Bedford, with floor mounted gear stick, I felt somewhat uneasy. I drove carefully out of the Sorting Office car park. Thankfully the streets were quiet, and as we proceeded (slowly!) along I gained a measure of confidence. We headed north out of Cardiff, making our way towards the Rhondda Valley. As we went further into the hinterland the road narrowed as it threaded its way through the linear Valley towns. Then I became aware of hazards I hadn't encountered when learning to drive around Reading: Valley folk and Valley sheep!

Valley folk are the salt of the earth but they were/are prone to spend a lot of time gossiping when out shopping in the main street. That was the hazard; the talking was usually conducted IN the main street! I had to take much anti collision avoiding action; they seemed quite unconcerned as traffic swirled around them. Another hazard was that when following a delivery vehicle it would suddenly stop, no signals or anything, just the sudden flash of brake lights [if working] " I'm Evans/ Jones/Price the Milk/Veg/Bread (etc), all the valley knows I always stops by here on a Monday/Tuesday/Wednesday (etc). You must be from Cardiff, or some other foreign place, if you don't know that!"

Sheep to most people are white, fluffy, rather vapid creatures who wouldn't say boo to a goose and spend their time running away from things, anything. Not Valley sheep, who are big, rangy and mean. They have long , greasy, matted wool; malevolent eyes and a belligerent attitude. They are the Hells Angels of Woolly Back World. A gang of them (flock isn't the word to use for this breed) would come swaggering into town, kicking over dustbins and terrorising the local dogs. They went where they liked and liked where they went. Nothing vaguely edible would be left in garden or dustbin. Put a mob of these sheep on' One Man and his Dog 'and they would drive off the collies, round up the contestants, Phil Drabble et al, and pen the lot of them up in that gatey thing.

What with these extra hazards I was beginning to sweat, no power steering on the TK and the wheel took some turning as I tried to miss vehicles, people and sheep. Gradually we climbed up out of the towns and got free from chatting pedestrians, and kamikaze vehicles, though sheep still fixed me with baleful stares from the sides of the road and strutted along in front of me. The road narrowed still more as it twisted and turned, making its way up from the valley floor to the top of the ridge. By now I was sweating like a pig, sheer drops on one side, terrorist sheep on the other. The constant gear changes (graunch graunch!) and wheel turning was beginning to take its toll both on my stamina and my confidence.

Eventually we reached the ridge top and it became a little easier. The road ran across a slight plateau and was relatively straight and undulating , but there were still bands of marauding sheep to contend with.

We crested a slight ridge and the next valley was spread out below me like a map ......... GULP!! I could see a road, my road! snaking down the side of the mountain (or precipice as it looked to me) hairpin bend on hairpin bend.

LOW GEAR for 10 MILES!!! FALLING ROCKS!!! DANGEROUS BENDS!!!
The road signs screamed their warnings at me; silently I screamed back.

I gingerly started the descent. I was now sweating buckets. Sheep sneered at me as the camber of the road took me from craggy mountainside to perilous drop as I drove round hairpin bends that were not built for 3 ton trucks, especially driven by the likes of me. On one bend the camber was so steep that Viv, who was sitting alongside me, cannoned into me. I glanced at him and was amazed to see that he was sound asleep, a beatific smile on his face, as if he was still safely tucked up in his bed in Splott!! Confidence flooded into me like a warm wave; here was a man so sure of my driving skills that he went to sleep, safe in my capable hands. I would have kissed him but for three things:

• Viv really wasn't my type;
• Both my capable hands were clamped to the wheel in a death like grip;
• It was probably instant dismissal in those less tolerant days.

The rest of the drive down the mountain was a doddle. I no longer sweated cobs but merely glowed. I spun the driving wheel effortlessly around the bends, I changed gear smooth as silk, and swift as Stirling Moss, I thundered over narrow culverts, inches spare on each side, with scant disregard. I even ignored the sheep.

Once down into the valley we pulled up at a roadside cafe for lunch. I climbed down from the cab and swaggered proudly into the building I was ' Trucker'; 'A Big Wheel Man'; 'A Muncher of Yorkie Bars'!

I learnt later that Viv was renowned for being able to sleep anywhere any time. He had probably fallen asleep before we had even left the Sorting Office car park.