Nottingham Goose Fair.
Some time in the 80’s I decided to visit Nottingham Goose Fair, held in November. For the benefit of American readers this isn’t some bizarre ‘social introduction’ event where people go around ‘goosing’ each other, although the squeals indicate that this can sometimes happen on the ghost train or in the darkness at the top of the Ferris Wheel 
In medieval time it was just one of the traditional selling fairs where Geese were sold in their thousands, the flocks sometimes having been walked many miles over many days to get them there. As with all selling fairs it attracted a whole panoply of other entertainments, sideshows, etc.
Nowadays it is seen more as giant funfair, and is still one of the annual meeting places for gypsies as well as fairground folk. It is not unusual to see three or more vans next to each other, each with a beautifully painted sign claiming that the occupant is the ‘The One And Only Genuine Romany Gypsy Rose - Fortune Teller’.
There is always a motorcycle ‘Wall Of Death’ show, with at least one rider pacing up and down outside during the breaks, drumming up custom, and generally smoking incessantly. At peak times these chaps - and occasionally females - are doing a show nearly every thirty minutes so the adrenaline must be flowing almost constantly. I shudder to think of the downswing after that persistent high.
One of the prime reasons for the locals going there is to get their girlfriend or wife the traditional ‘Cock On A Stick’, which is just a lolly in the shape of a Cockerel’s head.
“Biggest cock on the fairground, darlin’. Come an’ get it now.” Some dark haired and dark eyed fairground lad flirting outrageously with the passing girls.
And next to him some gypsy lass - with flashing eyes and a bosom with enough ‘heave’ for a dozen Mills& Boon romances - is working the passing men.
“Come on, Sir. You know what your Little Lady’s waiting for. Don’t be tight, Sir, looking at they little cocks. Give her a bigun, Sir. Make 'er night for 'er. Biggest cocks on the fair!”
So I loaded up the box sidecar with tent and a few odds and ends and set off on the journey North.
It rained. It rained a lot, and then, just when I felt the sky must be empty, it rained some more. And then, like someone turning off a tap it stopped.
It was around midnight - The Witching Hour - a full moon lit the rain slick road and it was like riding a highway of silver. Or, perhaps more appropriately in view of the ‘Hard Rain’, Bob Dylan’s ‘Highway of Diamonds with nobody on it’. I had the old ‘A’ road mostly to myself, apart from the odd tanker lorry barrelling past as if speed limits hadn’t been invented. The route card taped to the fuel tank was a bit soggy but easily read by moonlight; it really was that bright.
It was cold, but I was warm enough in my waxed cotton biker gear even if slightly damp around the cuffs and the neck. I was having a lot of fun three wheel drifting around bends, something that the more timid ‘Charioteer’ never discovers. Nor deserves to!
You have to put in a lot of miles to earn nights like these, because they are few and far between and easily missed by those who are too fond of the home fire, or too easily seduced by the lure of a warm bed. But whilst the timid and domesticated are fast asleep, dreaming their little pink dreams, the wild ones are out there in the real world of stark silver and black, living more in a few hours - or sometimes even mere minutes - than many do in their whole lives.
At one point a walking copper in a town along the route flagged me down and asked where I was going. This was back in the days of regular night patrols, rather than sitting in a warm office and waiting to be called out. Night shift coppers were often bored and lonely, and just wanted to talk for a while.
“There’ll be some wild buggers there, Sir.” He warned on hearing of my destination. “I guess you’ll fit right in.”
A while later I found a small field with a camping sign on the outskirts of Nottingham and was soon snugged up in my sleeping bag. I surfaced around 10am, paid for two nights rent in advance, and went to find breakfast. This was before the days of the ubiquitous ‘Little Chef’ chain, and the place I found consisted of two old corrugated iron Nissen huts sat at right angles to each other in the middle of a large, bumpy, puddle filled gravel car park. The park was almost empty, apart from a few lorries with the curtains drawn around the cab.
The waitress was a cheerful old soul but they had just used the last of the baked beans from breakfast and weren’t ready for the lunch time rush. But she was used to feeding hungry men at short notice and she wasn’t going to let a minor detail like that stand in her way…
As the other ingredients of my grill shrivelled and bubbled on the hotplate she took a large container of frozen baked beans from a fridge, gouged out several chunks with a vicious looking chef’s knife (fortunately the vicious looking chef wasn’t there to take offence at her brutal treatment of the shining weapon) and slammed them into a saucepan.
“Won’t be a minute, Love.” She whacked the gas up full, the leaping blue flames reaching above the sides of pan, and began rattling the frozen lumps around with a hefty wooden spoon to stop them burning.
As I watched in awe-struck wonder another elderly waitress scooped the rest of my grill onto a plate whilst my gigantic mug of coffee was filling itself under a gleaming tap. Without even looking she reached across and turned it off at just the right time with her free hand as she flipped the last slice of bacon onto my plate.
As the bacon landed the other waitress, who had been attacking the rapidly thawing beans like a Moulinex mixer on High Speed turned and scooped the steaming bright orange paste onto the one remaining clear space on the plate.
Like mushy peas for texture the orange mountain sat there, supremely surreal, defying me to make any comment. I’ve never had a meal quite like it Mushy baked beans look foul, but they tasted great.
