FLY HIGH FREEBIRD!

A wonderful memory of friends on Harleys and a roaring Lynyrd Skynyrd gig

1997 was a busy year for me. (see Episode 35 of my autobiography)

In August of that year, I had just homed a black Groenendahl Belgian Shepherd puppy and named him Rasta. You can see him poking his head out of my basket in this photo.

And this is Rasta, at his cutest, sitting by the firepit in my back garden at that time.

One of my best, lifelong friends, Syd, invited me to ride pillion on his Harley Davidson journey from our UK Essex coastal town to Groningen in the very north of the Netherlands. He told me that we would be meeting up for a party with Dutch and German Hell’s Angels and going on to a Lynyrd Skynyrd gig in Utrecht.

Of course I jumped at the opportunity and searched out my leathers, boots, gloves and helmet to give them a revitalising polish. It had been years since I had been on a motorbike, but I had never parted with the necessary kit, just in case.

I had a friend lodging in my house so I asked him to look after Rasta for the week in exchange for his rent. He was delighted with the arrangement and I knew that Rasta would be very well cared for while I was away with Syd.

When the day arrived, at the end of August, I was bursting with excitement! I had packed a very few items of clothing and some toiletries in a waterproof backpack. My passport was dusted off for a rare outing and my heart was racing in my chest.

Syd was a very prosperous man and had four or five different Harleys at that time. He had selected his favourite, the 1996 blue Fatboy for this occasion.

The most direct route from our seaside town was to catch a ferry from nearby Harwich to the Hook of Holland. From there we rode north through the flattest land I had ever seen to Groningen. It took us about four hours and was spectacular for me, perched behind Syd. Groningen is a city and we avoided it, circling by and heading further north until we pulled into a large farm estate where we were greeted by a crowd of assembled bikers wearing Hell’s Angels colours from all over Germany and Holland. Everyone spoke English (thank goodness!) and the party which kicked off from that moment must have been absolutely brilliant because I barely remember a thing about it!

The following day was absolutely chaotic! More bikers arrived and everyone seemed to know Syd. He was the President of the Filthy Few and a long term member of the UK Harley Davidson club. He had frequently toured most countries in Europe over the previous decades. It was funny and flattering to be introduced to all and sundry as “M’Lady Fran” - Syd thoroughly enjoyed making a spectacle of me and his mischievous blue eyes glittered at my embarrassment.

For the first time in my five-foot six-inch life, I felt physically small. Everyone, even the women, towered over me! It was like being surrounded by boisterous Vikings! One of the women asked me if I was a ballet dancer because I seemed tiny to her and the dress I was wearing was short and flared like a tutu! They were all beautifully blonde and I stuck out noticeably with my long dark hair and sun tanned skin. I was treated like a special guest simply because I was with Syd.

Around 5pm we left all the motorbikes at the farm and all piled into a small convoy of cars and vans for the two and a half hour drive south to Utrecht.

At the gig we immediately crushed into a massive excited crowd. Everyone, bar none, was much taller than me! I could not see the stage at all! Syd was concerned that I would be trampled so he had a word with a massive, long haired, Viking lookalike security guy who hoisted me, unceremoniously, up into the air and plonked me onto a wide ledge to the right of the stage! From there I had an entirely uninterrupted view and room to jump up and down to the music. I was ecstatic!

The place went absolutely wild when Lynyrd Skynyrd appeared on stage and they played a full volume set which, of course, terminated with their most famous track, Free Bird.

The following is a rare film taken in Sweden during that particular European tour and gives you some idea of the atmosphere at the time.

After the gig Syd and his friends helped me down from my safe perch and we went onto a Hell’s Angels private venue in the city. Everyone was drinking copious amounts of lager and smoking huge joints. At about 3am one of Syd’s friends asked me if I could drive. He had noticed that I was not drinking alcohol and he should have been staying sober himself, but didn’t.

As a consequence, I drove a strange Dutch car on strange roads all the way back to Groningen! Being British, I had never driven on the right side of roads and had no experience of the drivers seat being on the left of the vehicle, with gear change on the right! Syd was assuring everyone that I had been a bus driver in the past and they could trust me. Then, to my horror, all my passengers were sound asleep and snoring throughout the journey! I had no-one to guide me and had to rely on keeping up with the convoy, which was negotiating the route at a very speedy pace!

We arrived back in Groningen for dawn and a hearty breakfast at a huge roadside café. I remember being absolutely famished. I wolfed an omelette and chips with mayonnaise.

The following day our host at the farm introduced me to his white German Shepherd dogs. They were a breeding pair and absolutely adorable. Then I met his kids who were accompanied everywhere by a very silent Rottweiler. That dog, a female, lunged forward and nipped me between the eyebrows as soon as I spoke to the kids. We could only assume that she did not recognise English and wanted to warn me off. She was most apologetic immediately afterwards and I forgave her completely with a hug. She was only doing her job, a little too enthusiastically perhaps. Her owner was livid with her, as he provided me with a tissue to mop the blood, but I begged him to be kind, saying that it was no big deal really. I still have a tiny scar from that event.

On the last day of our visit, Syd and I were taken to visit our host’s parents. I was very surprised to see that this hulking great Viking farmer had tiny little parents! Judging by their age, I worked out that they had lived through the Nazi occupation as children. I remembered that harsh wartime rationing had stunted the growth of my parents’ generation too. The traditional Frisian farm house was very old-fashioned, cosy, sweet and quite close to the sea.

As we rode the long straight roads back to the ferry, I marvelled at the neatness of the Netherlands. It was a completely flat patchwork quilt of colourful fertile fields in full summer sun. Nothing like most of England, which gently rolls and bucks around its narrow lanes, woods and high hedgerows.

Of course, it was raining when we travelled the final ten miles from Harwich to Clacton on Sea. A very typical and soggily British welcome home.