sloopjonb and family. The origins of this quaint festival lie not, as you might expect, with a wartime encampment of GIs and ensuing decades of transatlantic friendship, but with the shooting of scenes from a 1979 film in the area.
The pubs on Saturday night were packed as soldiers, sailors and airmen jived with women whose stockings were drawn on. Earlier in the day, we had seen a dead spit of General Patton, a (dummy) infant in a baby gas mask, and a Red Cross nurse walking two costumed Chihuahuas.
On Sunday we piled into the car for the parade of military vehicles, missed the start, met the parade coming the other way, nipped up a side street, doubled back and headed them off at the pass. Jeeps, motorcycles and Bedford lorries rolled across the hills, then pulled into a pub car park for photo opportunities:
As well as the Yanks, it was a weekend of cider, doggies, popping in to see an old friend in Manchester, and my first go on the M6 Toll. Action-packed!
